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The Nightmare
by C.S. Forester
Miriam's Miracle
Sturmbannfuehrer Schiller was a most conscientious and hard-working officer. He thought that on account of these qualities he fully merited promotion to a higher rank in the SS — his present rank was equivalent to that of major — but he did not allow the thought to make him discontented. Sooner or later his merits would attract the attention of the Reichsfuehrer, and promotion would be accorded to him as soon as that happened. Then he would become Obersturmbannfuehrer, Standartenfuehrer, even Brigadefuehrer — higher than that his modest ambition did not venture to soar. Until then he was content to do his work as thoroughly as he knew how, enjoying the satisfaction of the knowledge that he was engaged in work of momentous importance in the history of the Reich and of the race; it might well be termed a crusade, except that there had been an unfortunate religious motive urging on the original crusaders in their otherwise laudable enterprise, Nordics that they were, of exterminating the Semitics.
The present crusade of course had no religious nonsense about it, and that was all the more reason why it should be carried on conscientiously and efficiently. Not merely did this mean that Schiller should obey orders strictly and to the letter, but also it meant that he should devote thought to possible improvements, and that he should display a prompt and wise initiative, acting on his own inspiration if that did not conflict with the orders he received. That was the spirit of the Third Reich: loyalty, co-operation, and activity. Schiller was even careful not to admit to himself that his superior officer, Standartenfuehrer Merz, was a drunken, lazy and uneducated lout, quite unworthy of his present high position — that was one of those strange appointments which were so unaccountably noticeable here and there in the organization of the SS. Merz was supposed to exercise a general supervision over a whole group of concentration camps, of one of which Schiller was commandant, but actually his supervision was negligible. Merz was content to pass his days in swinish drunkenness, and to allow his camps to go on along the haphazard lines of their early institution, without thought of improvement. That did not suit Schiller, who sometimes had ideas. It was little use pressing these ideas on Merz, but luckily there were plenty of occasions when Schiller felt justified in acting on his own initiative, when he was sure that such action was not in contravention of standing orders. He wanted his own concentration camp to be a model of efficiency, and he was prepared to go to considerable lengths to achieve that ideal, for the sake of the Party, the race, the Reich, and the Fuehrer.
On one occasion he employed a day's leave to consult with his friend Fluss, who was manager of the Schultz Chemical Works just across the frontier in Silesia — they were going full blast, of course, on account of the war with Russia, and they made every kind of chemical one could think of. Fluss listened attentively to what Schiller had to say.
"I should have thought," was Fluss's comment at length, "that carbon monoxide, from what I know of it, would have done the job well enough."
"No," replied Schiller. "In theory it should be ideal, but in practice there are many difficulties, and with this new directive regarding building materials I do not want to have to build an entirely new hall. Besides, we were instructed a year ago to practice economy in gasoline, and it's surprising how many gallons of gasoline the motors consume for each operation."
"I see," said Fluss. "I'm no chemist myself, as you know, but I'll see what I can do."
And Fluss pressed his bell and barked an order at his secretary; the order brought into the office the head chemist of the establishment. He was a Czech, and until Czechoslovakia had been incorporated into the Reich he had been one of those intellectuals, wasting his time in idle speculation regarding the nature of the atom, and lecturing to students as idle as himself. The conquest had of course eradicated that plague-spot of dangerous talk and time-wasting discussion, but the Professor had been spared because he could be put to work usefully in the national task of rearmament — usefully as long as he was closely supervised, and stimulated by reminders as to what might happen to him if he were not useful.
The Herr Professor (they still called him that, in the Schultz Chemical Works, with amusing mock seriousness) was thin and aging. His worn face showed signs of the prolonged internal struggle he endured. He still felt burning shame at working for the enemies of his country, for the enemies of mankind. He felt burning shame at his weakness, about his fear regarding what might be done to him. One little taste of torture had been enough to make him docile. Since then he had worked well for his slave masters, proving surprisingly useful in the Schultz Works; but even in three years he had not reconciled himself to it. But he went on producing results for his masters, working hard with the utmost care — Fluss would interpret any slip as sabotage, and would hand him over to Schiller, and Schiller would order his friend Haupsturmfuehrer Braun and his Death's Head Unit to give him another taste of what he had already experienced, and the Professor could not bear the thought of that. So he listened carefully to what Schiller and Fluss asked of him, and he devoted his best thought to the problem.
"Something that can be cheaply produced," stressed Schiller, "a byproduct if possible, which would otherwise be wasted."
He prided himself on his familiarity with so technical a term and his broad grasp of the problem.
"Yes, of course," said the Professor. "Let me see."
He was struggling with an attack of sudden sickness, but it would never do to allow these men to notice it. He thought about the Death's Head SS, and although that made him even more sick for the moment it enabled him to compel his mind to work.
"None of the by-products here would be effective," he announced at length, and then, seeing the expression on others' faces, he went on hurriedly, "but we actually produce the right substance here at the works. A good deal is used in various metallic reduction processes."
"So?" said Schiller.
"That is good," said Fluss.
He of course was not a working chemist, but an official of the Party. The position of general manager of the Schultz Works had been the reward for devoted party service during the lean days before the Revolution.
"It would not call for much?" asked Schiller, conscientious as usual.
"Oh, no," replied the Professor. "Only a trifling amount compared to the quantities we manufacture for commercial use. It would hardly be missed. I could calculate the correct amount if you would tell me the size of the — of the — "
"Of the hall?"
"Yes."
Schiller told him, and the Professor lifted his face to the ceiling as he worked out a sum in multiplication and division, while the other two watched him. They were both of them aware that to do a similar sum they would need paper and pencil, with no guarantee even then of reaching the correct answer. To watch a member of an inferior race doing the sum in his head was like watching a performing seal balance a ball on his nose; they could not do that, either, but they were of a race equally superior to the seal, and it made a good exhibition.
"A single kilogram would be sufficient," announced the Professor. "One kilogram of each of the two substances to be mixed together."
"Only two kilograms?" said Fluss.
"You had better be sure about it," said Schiller.
"I am sure about it," said the Professor. "Great care would have to be employed in the operation, of course. But with simple precautions the method would be safe enough."
"Safe enough?"
"I mean safe enough for the operators. The instructions could be quite brief."
"Then go and make up a package for the Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," said Fluss, "and write out the instructions for its use."
When the Professor had gone — he could vomit when he was outside — Schiller thanked Fluss for his help.
"It is my duty to do all I can to aid the Party," replied Fluss, simply. "I suppose you will want a weekly supply?"
"I can make out a formal application and receipt for your files," offered Schiller.
"Not worth the trouble," said Fluss with an airy wave of the hand. "Books and files and receipts — what are they in these days of national effort?"
Schiller did not press the matter; he knew that a certain elasticity regarding files and receipts had been part of the reward for Fluss's services, as was the case with many of the party jobs, and it was not for him to question the infinite wisdom of the Fuehrer in permitting such an arrangement.
Meanwhile, Miriam was praying for a miracle. She had been praying for a miracle for days now, ever since the Einsatzkommando — the Extermination Squad — had seized her and a dozen others from her village and forced them on board the train: cattle trucks, already crammed with people. They were hungry and thirsty and some of the old people died each day of the journey, but each day more and more people were forced into the cattle trucks. They were jammed together; at the halts the dead were taken out and hastily buried, while the living drank from the puddles beside the tracks—terrified, desperate people who wept bitterly at the thought of their coming fate, while Miriam prayed for a miracle.
Not merely for a miracle that would save her life, but a miracle that would bring an end to the horrors that had descended on the world like an eternal night. No effort of man seemed capable of ending these horrors, and Miriam prayed for the intervention of God. She was young, and she ventured to pray not merely to the God of her fathers, who had brought down the walls of Jericho in ruins, but to the God who had filled Saint Elizabeth's apron with roses, and to the kindly Mother whose intercession had in other, less hateful centuries modified some of the dreadful things mankind had set out to do. She prayed, amid all the unspeakable horrors of that train journey, humbly; she knew that intellectually she was not very bright, and that with her harelip she was displeasing to men, but her faith told her that her prayers might be listened to even so.
But the miracle did not occur during the journey. The train reached its destination at a siding in a forest, and guards with whips and rifles forced everyone out and along a road cut amid the trees. Barbed wire hedged in the road on either side, and then they came to a clearing in the forest, where a double nine-foot fence of barbed wire surrounded a large collection of buildings. It was not very far from the railway siding to the gate in the fence; even the old and the sick were able to walk that distance, thanks to the whips of the guards. There were more guards at the gate, and at the angles of the fence there were lowers where guards were stationed with machine guns; guards in black uniforms with the Death's Head insignia that even Miriam knew about.
Inside the gate, in an open square, the shouts and blows of the guards halted the helpless mob. They stood still, a thousand of them, young and old, men, women, and children, clinging to each other; those on the outside could look down the radiating roads between the buildings, but they could see few people, for the inmates were all out at work in quarries and mines and factories. Then further orders were shouted. Some of the guards could speak the languages of the prisoners, a few words at least, and with blows from the whips and much pushing and dragging they formed up the prisoners into orderly lines with spaces between them. There were women among the guards, wearing the same uniform and insignia, and their whips hurt just as much. They helped to keep the lines under control; for in the process of forming the lines families and friends were divided, and children tried to run across from one line to another, to rejoin their mothers, and there were blows and screams as this was prevented. The prisoners stood in their lines as a young officer walked along with fountain pen and writing pad. He looked into each prisoner's face in turn and made a notation on the pad; it took a long time and some of the prisoners fainted as they stood. But when the others saw what happened to the first to faint they held their fainting neighbors up on their feet.
Where Miriam stood in line she found herself with people whose acquaintance she had not made on the journey; on one side of her was a middle-aged couple and on the other, a young mother with two small children. The middle-aged woman was sobbing hysterically, but the young mother was engaged in keeping her children quiet for fear of the whips. They had all glanced at Miriam but had not spoken to her; she was used to that — strangers did not readily enter into conversation with a girl with a harelip. She still prayed for a miracle, wildly, feverishly.
When the prisoners had been counted a new order was shouted along the lines.
"Clothes off ! Clothes off !"
It was repeated in all languages, but at first the prisoners could not believe that it was really meant. They were soon convinced of it, however. The guards had pistols at their belts as well as whips in their hands; one woman was singled out by a guard and the order was bawled at her several times, and when in her bewilderment she did not obey, the guard drew his pistol and shot her, twice. She fell down and only writhed a little. The prisoners who did not see the deed heard the shots, and heard the wail that passed down the lines — "He has shot her! He has shot her!"; and after that, in face of the menace of the drawn pistols of the guards, and with the order ceaselessly shouted at them, the prisoners obeyed. Men and women; mothers hastened to strip their children; with the threat of instant death before their eyes the prisoners overcame their shame and modesty. Naked they stood in their lines, with their pitiful heaps of rags at their feet. Miriam stood among them, among the women sick with shame, and like them she tried to cover herself with her hands. But perhaps she did not suffer as much as the others. She had spent her young lifetime ashamed to have people look at her face; and perhaps she was already coming to believe in the imminence of the miracle for which she prayed.
A small group of uniformed officers appeared on the square, and the young officer who had done the counting saluted them with the upraised hand of Nazism. He was proud to he able to report to Sturmbannfuehrer Schiller that there were nine hundred and seventy-four living prisoners. The manhunt had been most successful. Schiller received the report, and then, with the doddering old doctor beside him, and a group of guards following behind, he began to walk along the lines. The doctor looked over each prisoner in turn — a fleeting glance — and some he pointed out to the guards following with a nod of the head and jerk of the thumb. It was not a very high proportion that he selected in this way. A child might have guessed that he was picking out the able-bodied, the labor for the mines and factories, but the children there did not guess it. It was only the very best that he picked, the able-bodied men — not many of those — and the sturdy women, for the death rate among the slave labor was high even so, and it was not worthwhile bothering with inferior material.
The children beside Miriam screamed when their mother was taken from them, and tried to follow her, but the guards beat them back, and the aged people on the other side of them held them and tried to comfort them. Miriam could not do so, for the jerk of the doctor's thumb had singled her out as well, but when she started out of the line Schiller caught sight of her face (the doctor only looked at bodies) and thrust her back again. That sort of stuff was not worth preserving even for slave labor, and Miriam knew perfectly well the motives that actuated him.
Those whom the doctor indicated picked up their bundles of clothes, under the orders of the guards, and went off down the lines, the reluctant or the stupid helped on their way with well-aimed kicks, and at the far end of the square they formed another group, the lucky ones, who had been granted a longer life, some days or weeks or perhaps even months of toil and starvation. The ones left in the lines understood. Their fate, they knew, was to be the deathhouse, the awful institution that had been discussed in the villages and towns with shuddering fear ever since the Nazis had come bursting over their borders. There were many of them who stood shrieking with hysterical terror, directing their screams to the unresponsive sky to which they lifted their faces, but the others stood paralyzed and numb, amid the wailing of the children; cries which might be expected to be heard across the oceans.
The selection was finished and the lucky ones were already marched off to their barracks, when at Schiller's order the guards began to herd the others together and drive them slowly, after picking up their clothes, towards the long low buildings at the edge of the square. They went slowly enough, reluctantly, under the lash of the whips and the menace of the pistols. The pistols meant death this moment, and the journey to the shed meant a few minutes more of life, and so they went, with dragging steps, and screams of terror, their nakedness forgotten.
A painter of the Middle Ages, depicting lost souls being herded into Hell after the Last Judgment, would not have made use of those hideous drab surroundings, nor would he have included children among the damned, nor would he have clothed the devils in black nor armed them with whips and pistols. Nor would he have thought to include among the damned a young woman with a harelip.
Miriam went along with the others. Somehow, incredibly, she still had hope. She was still praying for a miracle. It still did not seem impossible to her that there should be one. Like the others, she looked up at the threatening autumn sky. If there was no sign of hope there as yet there still might be one. Then this awful procession would end, and then these pitiful victims would tread triumphant over the prostrate bodies of their tormentors.
But the miracle was long in coming. The head of the procession reached the door of the building. Here there was dreadful fear, and the leaders hung back pitifully, as the guards round the door made them deposit their clothes in a pile and then go in over the threshold. Blows and threats were necessary here. In the slaughter houses of Chicago they have a Judas goat to lead the sheep to the butcher; he goes free each time and apparently enjoys his work, but Schiller had not been ingenious enough to think of some similar device. The first among his victims had to be kicked and shoved with violence in through the door; and the others were driven in after them, pushing the leaders towards the far end of the building although they did not want to go there, but wanted to stay near the entrance. Slowly the crowd was driven in, old men and old women and children, the cripples and the diseased, more and more and more of them, packed tight. Miriam was in the center, with naked flesh pressed close against her naked flesh, but she was no more conscious of it than were the others. This would be the time; this would be the moment. Then the door was slammed shut, and the windowless building lost its faint light and became pitch dark inside; the instant coming of darkness was marked by a climax in the screaming within the building, and Schiller outside gave an order to the member of the Extermination Squad who stood by the machine.
That was when Miriam had her miracle. The screaming around her stopped, and the roof was torn wide open to reveal blue skies and streaming sunshine — sunshine so bright that momentarily it hurt her eyes. But only momentarily; she was in bliss. The people around her were laughing with the joy of it. The world had changed, and the horror and bestiality had vanished. When she put her hand to her face she was not surprised — although the absence of surprise did not diminish her joy — to find that her harelip was healed and she was as beautiful as the day. Outside Schiller heard the screaming stop. The Czech Professor had been right. Schiller ordered the door to be opened and glanced in.
"Give it plenty of time to ventilate," he warned the guards. Some of them were already handling the pincers and shears with which they harvested the rings and the gold teeth from the dead before they were taken to the crematorium next door.
"You won't find much this time," said Schiller. "They were a poor lot."
