Touching the Wire Read Online Free PDF Page A

on
them. At least they’d stopped shivering and only a handful of the fourteen
hundred standing in front of the block had fainted.
    The SS officer, who’d begun
his inspection of the blocks when the rain stopped, placed his cane on the head
of the first woman in each row. ‘F ünf,   zehn , fünfzehn,   zwanzig…’
    He followed,
gesturing to the women behind the officer’s back. Stand straighter… Don’t lean
on the person next to you. One or two made the effort to obey. It was all he
could do. His strength in his position as a doctor lay in appearing to carry
out every command to the letter. Show compassion and he’d be replaced. Rebel
and he’d be executed. Dead, he was no use to anyone and there were other ways
to resist.
    The count
completed, the officer went along the front row pointing to those too sick to
stand or too weak to work. They neared the place where Miriam slumped between
her friends. He hadn’t watched over her all night to let her die now. He
gestured urgently. Stand straight, stand straight. He moved alongside, putting
himself between her and the officer, and pointed to the row of prostrate women.
‘The sick need tending. They should be in the infirmary.’
    The officer
stared where he pointed. ‘The sick will need nothing. I shall inspect the
women’s infirmary at two o’clock. We have a quota to fill.’ The uniformed
figure moved on, pointing randomly to several more women.
    His
shoulders sagged. Three of them had been in the infirmary until yesterday. He’d
managed to allow them rest and a little extra soup and, despite them being too
weak to work, had discharged them because patients who’d been in the infirmary
more than three weeks would make up part of today’s selection. Their faces
showed no emotion. Maybe knowing the hour of their death was a relief, a
welcome release.
    Orders rang
out and the chosen women were hustled naked to waiting trucks, the dead thrown
on top of the living. All that remained of them was a heap of divested rags and
a scatter of worn-out shoes.
    A marching
band struck up a tune and the survivors of the selections, marching in time,
singing in tune, went out to work under guard. Somehow, Miriam marched with
them: she should be in the infirmary but she’d probably be safer out there
today. Later, the band would play them in, exhausted, beaten, and again they’d
be forced to stand waiting to be counted. Maybe then Miriam would be allowed
rest and her ration of bread and soup. Maybe tonight some of the women would
get a dress that fitted better, or a pair of shoes that didn’t chafe, and there
would be nothing to show that the women sent to the gas had ever existed. Soon,
there would be no-one to remember their names.
    He forced
himself upright, tiredness and despair dragging every limb; he understood too
well the desire to touch the wire, for it all to end, but he had no right when
these women fought to survive with every breath in their frail bodies.
    Back in the
infirmary, diarrhoea was rife and the stench of excrement seeped from soiled
garments and bedding. Rain dripped through the holes in the roof and plinked
into bowls set to catch the precious drops. A young nurse used it to sluice
away blood, pus and fouling.
    He
straightened a blanket, automatically counting as he went: no matter the state
of the patients, rules decreed the infirmary must be clean and tidy, the
numbers tally. The blanket’s rough weave was wet, and his touch dislodged a
shower of lice.
    A girl
grasped his coat, her eyes wide. ‘Are we to die, today, doctor?’
    He held her
thin hand. ‘Not if I can help it.’ He beckoned the nurse. ‘There’s going to be
a selection. We have until two o’clock. Fetch the records.’ The nurse returned
with the records. He took them, scratching his head absently. ‘These four have
been here three weeks. They’re still not fit to leave. Change their admission
dates. I’ll discharge any who can put one foot in front of another. See if