OŚWIĘCIM
By Gabrielle Lawson
Julian Bashir couldn't keep his hands from shaking. Or his knees for that matter. He knew it wasn't just the cold. It was exhaustion. He guessed it was only noon. It was hard to tell because the smoke blocked out the sun. He had only been working for three or four hours, but already his muscles felt like they were going to explode from over-exertion. His arms ached terribly, especially the left. He knew he should not be moving it at all, but he didn't have a choice. The second SS, luckily, had not taken notice of the particular way he held it or of his bandaged hand. But Bashir knew if he ever did, he'd be counted unfit and killed. And despite the pain, the fatigue, and even the hunger, he still wanted to live. He wanted to see the Defiant and the station again. And he wanted to live long enough to see the changeling die, preferably by his own hand.
His eyes blurred because he felt dizzy, and it was hard to see the little wires he was twisting. His numb fingers frequently slipped off the tool he used. It would fall down between the bars of wire, and he would have to bend down farther to retrieve it, usually with his left hand. His right was too busy supporting his imbalanced weight. Picking up the tool was incredibly difficult since he couldn't get the crushed bones of his hand to work correctly, when they would work at all. And of course, all this would cause Heiler endless moments of entertainment, as she very effectively played the role of the SS officer. She also had to keep watch on the rest of the kommando, but whenever she came back around to him, she taunted him or pushed him down among the labyrinth of cold, black wire, just so she could watch him struggle to stand up again.
When she or her partner wasn't around, it was the kapo's job to keep the kommando working. He mostly just yelled at the other prisoners to work faster, but when the SS came into sight, he'd be more forceful, even to the point of violence. When the SS were gone, he would calm back down and return to verbal threats. Bashir noticed this and saw it as a kindness of sorts, perhaps as much as the kapo could afford under the circumstances. His verbal threats amounted to nothing so long as the SS were not around. But when the SS were watching, perhaps out of fear for his own life, he met their expectations for cruelty, showing himself worthy of his heightened position.
It was unfortunate then, that Bashir was the weakest link in the kommando. He couldn't work any faster or less clumsily, no matter how he tried. Though he tried hard not to dwell on them, his injuries were severe, even life-threatening should they become infected—and he expected they would become infected in due course from the lack of sanitation. They kept him from performing to higher standards, even though in his top form he would have found the work difficult given the long duration of labor without a break and the constant stress and fear meted out by the guards. He tried to concentrate instead on his work, not the whole job in general though—he didn't want to think about building a gas chamber—but the individual tasks: each small wire that he twisted around the rebar to form the mesh of reinforcement. Still, he was slow and clumsy, and the kapo spent most of the time, when the SS could see, focusing his attention on Bashir.
He was surprised then when the kapo called him over to him. The SS were at the other side of the site. Another prisoner was waiting there with the kapo, one Bashir had seen in the barracks or at the line for food. "Bring die Suppe," he said, speaking in German, though he didn't say it angrily. "Und beeil dich. Alle hier haben Hunger." The other man nodded and began to walk away. "Geh mit ihm," the kapo told Bashir, motioning with his hand that he should follow.
So Bashir turned and tried to hurry to catch the man. He had stopped a few meters away to wait for him. He didn't say anything when Bashir reached him, but he continued down the road. He walked quickly at first and it was difficult to keep up, but Bashir was relieved not to have to march double-time wherever they were going. After they had gone some distance from the site, the man slowed to a more leisurely stroll. He lifted his head to the smoke-covered sky and stretched his arms. "Parlez-vous français?" he asked, still looking at the sky.
Suddenly the walking was less difficult. It was amazing to Bashir how much a familiar word could bring him to life again, even if it only lasted a few minutes. "Oui," he answered excitedly. He even smiled.
"Vous ne comprenez pas l'allemand." The man hadn't asked if he understood the language. It was apparently obvious to the other prisoners that he didn't speak German.
Bashir shook his head. He was glad to have someone to talk to. "Où allons-nous?" he asked, wondering where the kapo had sent them.
"À la cuisine," the man answered, "pour la soupe."
The soup. It was time for the midday meal. Bashir had seen two men carry the soup onto the work site the day before. The soup came in a large can, close to a meter in height. It looked to be quite heavy.
The Frenchman seemed to know what he was thinking. "C'est difficile," he said, looking Bashir over, "mais c'est mieux que travailler. Nous puvons marcher lentement et il n'y a aucun SS. Heiler ne vous aime pas."
Bashir thought about it and had to agree. The walk to the kitchen would be worth the difficulty of the trip back. The SS had stayed with the kommando. The Frenchman and he were free to walk as slowly as they liked. And, no, Heiler certainly did not like him.
"Comment vous appellez-vous?" the Frenchman asked.
"Je m'appelle Bashir, Julian Bashir," Bashir introduced himself. He even held out his hand to the man.
The man smiled and took it, and it seemed for a moment like the world had returned to civility. "Henri," he said. "Henri Bresalier." He released Bashir's hand, but didn't let go of his own smile. "Vous êtes anglais."
Bashir nodded and wondered if the whole camp knew that he was English.
Henri stopped and motioned that Bashir should stop, too. "I," he began slowly, obviously thinking carefully before he spoke, "want"—he paused as he searched for the word—"learning this English." It was a valiant effort, at least in Bashir's eyes. He wasn't sure exactly why this man wanted to learn English here, but it seemed a good way for Bashir to make a friend, or at least an ally. "You learn to me?" the Frenchman continued.
Bashir opened his mouth to tell him that, of course, he would try to teach him English, but then he hit on an idea. "Où dormez-vous?" he asked. He was hoping that Henri occupied a bunk back in the barracks and had a little room to share. He didn't think he could take another sleepless night fighting rats on the floor.
Henri seemed to understand. His smile was gone, but his eyes showed sympathy. "Vous dormez sur le plancher avec les rats." He sighed and looked away, thinking. He started to walk again. "This is difficult," he said, trying his limited English again. Bashir appreciated that he tried. He would probably make a good student. "It is many people."
"How many people?" Bashir asked, trying to keep his words simple so that Henri would understand. "How many sleep with you?"
He considered his answer for a moment. "Hier," he began in French, "was six. One now is mort."
That left five. It was still crowded, but if they'd slept six in a bunk before, perhaps he could still have the recently vacated spot. But Henri didn't seem so sure. "Pourquoi voulez-vous apprendre l'anglais?"
"Après la guerre," Henri replied, "je voudrais habiter en Amérique. J'ai une sœur qui habite au Missouri."
Bashir had never been to Missouri, but it sounded like a wonderful place to be right about now. In the middle of America, away from the dangers of the war, and very far away from Auschwitz. He hoped Henri would live to see his sister again and have his chance to go to Missouri after the war. But it would be difficult. He had two more years to go before the war would end.
They walked a while longer without saying anything. Warehouses came into view. "C'est difficile," Henri repeated. "Maintenant, il y a cinq hommes dans le lit," he laughed a little at calling the bunk a bed.
"Mais, hier, il y avait six," Bashir countered. If there had been six yesterday, it would make no difference to have six again.
Henri shook his head. "Je ne sais pas.All is"—he gestured with his hands to try and be understood— "near. Serré."
Bashir didn't look at the Frenchman as they walked. Of course, five men was still crowded, but he was desperate. He was barely managing now, injured as he was. He would never survive if he stayed on the floor every night barely getting any sleep before the rats came. He would be exhausted before he ever got to roll call. And he'd get beaten at work for not being fast enough. Then he'd become weaker and weaker, and one day, he'd be too weak to fight the rats.
As he walked he had a thought. He was a doctor. He knew there wasn't much that he could do, but it might still be useful to someone to have a doctor nearby in this place. "Je suis médecin." He said it confidently, hoping that Henri would think it of as much importance as he pretended it was.
Henri stopped. "Vraiment?" he asked, looking not a little skeptical. "Pourquoi travaillez-vous ici? Là"—he pointed to the right where a smaller group of buildings stood—"c'est l'hôpital."
Hospital? Bashir thought. Here? He looked closer at the group of buildings, and then he looked down at his hand, still somewhat protected inside his shirt pocket.
Henri must have guessed what he was thinking. He shook his head. "C'est trés dangereux. Il y a beaucoup de selections là. Les malades sont gazés. Vous"—he paused to point a warning finger at Bashir—"vous serez gazé aussi."
Bashir sighed and began walking again. Henri was right. He remembered hearing that now. The SS doctors would go to the hospital often for selections among the sick. And Bashir knew he could not hope to pass a selection. As much as he hated being obliged to the changeling, he had to admit that he'd been lucky last time. She had come for him before it started. He didn't know how often the selections were outside the hospital, but it would be taking too much of a chance inside. But then, that could be to his advantage, too. After all, if it was too dangerous to go to the hospital, wasn't it better to have a doctor right in your own barracks, or even your bunk? He told Henri this, and waited for a reaction.
He had to wait a while, but finally Henri spoke. "Je dois en discuter avec les autres."
Bashir thought that he was getting through to Henri. He only hoped Henri could convince the others, but he wouldn't know until they returned to the barracks that night. They didn't talk of it again. Instead they talked about "before the war." Bashir had been worried at first, but it turned out to be rather easy. He could talk about Paris and Palise, his ex-fiancee, as if it was only a few years ago and not several centuries in the future. He talked about his friends and England, too, and listened to Henri describe his family. Bashir knew he was winning Henri over when the Frenchman began telling him everything about his sister and how he should meet her.
They reached the kitchen at last, but Bashir thought it too soon. Though, of course, he was hungry, he hadn't wanted the almost leisurely walk to end. For that short time, he had felt some of his fear drop away. Now pain and exhaustion would replace it until they arrived back at the work site where terror would take over again. The can they had to carry was large and heavy. Henri politely told him to take the left side, so that he could carry it with his good arm, but it was still very difficult. Henri had trouble as well. They were both weakened from hunger and overwork, but somehow they got the can to move a few meters before setting it back down. A little bit of the watery swill slopped to the ground, and Bashir felt guilty for his clumsiness. He might have just cost someone his meal. Perhaps himself.
The walk back was longer and not nearly as pleasant as the walk to the kitchen had been. In fact, it was nearly as much torture as the work had been, though Bashir admitted there were no kapos or SS to beat them for being slow. At least not yet.
Max began to worry more when Vláďa stopped coming to the bunk at night. He always showed up before morning, and always with some extra food which he shared, but he averted his eyes and never spoke of where he'd been. If asked, he would change the subject. He always wanted to talk about after the war. He said that maybe he would go to England after the war. He would try to find Bashir's family and tell them that he was dead. Max tried to tell him that it would be very difficult to find one man's family. Bashir hadn't even said where he had lived there. In fact, he had said very little at all since neither of them spoke English. He suggested to Vláďa that he go back to Prague and try to find his own family. But the boy didn't want to talk about that either. He would turn away and disappear into the sea of striped uniforms. And Max would wonder if he was going back to the Blockälteste.
Tonight was like the others. Vláďa hung close to Max and seemed afraid to leave him. He sat very close to him while they ate. He talked a lot, about what he would do after the war, about what he thought England was like, about how far it was from Poland. America was even farther, or Australia. Maybe he would go there after the war. He talked quickly, like he was nervous and never saved any of his food for later, like Max advised him. Max need not have worried so much about food though. Vláďa actually seemed to be gaining weight. He was still thin, still hungry often, but not like the others. The Blockälteste was giving him good food, or at least better than what was given to the other zugänge, the camp word for the new inmates, like Max, who were still in quarantine and not expected to survive to be accepted into the main camp. Vláďa had learned all about that from his disappearings, though he never admitted that the Blockälteste had told him.
The main camp was worse, he said, because they would have to work all day long. But Max wasn't sure that was worse. Maybe it was no better, but it could hardly be worse than quarantine. The 'sport' was perhaps entertaining to the Blockälteste and his German commanders, but it was torture for the zugänge. Max had it a little easier than most of the others because Vláďa shared his extra food. But still, the vigorous exercises everyday were, to say the least, exhausting. For some, they were deadly. There hadn't been a day yet where someone—usually more than one—didn't die from the workout. And roll call always took a few more.
Vláďa fidgeted as he sat eating his tiny portion of sausage. "Zehn Minuten!" the Blockälteste called. Vláďa nearly jumped. He sighed hard and handed his bread to Max saying that he couldn't eat anymore.
"You don't have to go," Max said, sensing the boy's fear.
Vláďa looked up at him then, for the first time in weeks, and his eyes were filled with sadness and a pleading. He wished it was true. Then he climbed down off the bunk and disappeared in the direction of the Blockälteste's little room.
Bashir sat in what was becoming his usual spot, with his back facing the wall, just around the corner from the barracks door. The stars were completely obscured this time, so he watched the billowing smoke float by instead. He wasn't really sitting. The ground was too wet and muddy. His clothes, for the most part, were currently dry, and he didn't want to change that. So he was crouched beside the barracks. He was tired but, as yet, he had no place to sleep. Curfew wasn't for another quarter of an hour. Or so he guessed. There was no clock in the barracks or any other way to tell the time except by the activities of the camp. Roll call had just ended, and the sky was dark. But the barracks were still open. Curfew was at nine o'clock according to the Blockälteste. So one could deduce that it was before nine, but still rather late. Henri was inside trying to convince the other inmates who shared his bunk to let Bashir sleep there as well.
"You are a doctor?"
The question, in English, came as a surprise to him. He looked up to see Szymon looking back down at him. As always, Piotr was beside him.
"You might as well sit down," Julian sighed. He was too tired to be friendly with the surly Pole. "I'm not standing up until I have to."
Szymon made no retort. He didn't even change expressions, but he moved to Bashir's right and crouched down beside him. "This is true?"
Bashir thought about his answer. By the regulations of Starfleet's Temporal Policy, he should not have told anyone that he was a doctor. They would expect him to help them, and saving lives, no matter how much he would want or feel the need to do it, would likely change the timeline in unpredictable ways. But, as he'd learned before in the Sanctuary District, Temporal Policy was easier in the classroom. This was real. People were dying and he was one of them. Besides, he had already surmised before that there was little he could do as a doctor here. Saving lives was out of his reach. "It's true. I am a doctor."
Szymon looked skeptical but he translated the words for Piotr anyway. "Does the SS know this?"
Bashir lifted his left hand slightly, careful not to move his shoulder at all. "They did this to me because I am a doctor. I was a surgeon."
"Surgeon? What is this?"
Bashir tried to think of an easier way to explain it. "I did operations."
Szymon nodded and told Piotr what Bashir had said. "This is why," he asked, pointing to Bashir's broken fingers, "you do not make operations in the hospital?"
Bashir nodded but explained further. "I did not know there was a hospital here. Are there medicines there?"
"No," Szymon answered. "Only some. Mostly is there death."
A small crowd of perhaps a dozen men was gathering. A few hunched down beside the three of them, but most stood in a semicircle around them, wrapping their blankets or coats tight around their shoulders. One of them was Henri. Bashir gave him a hopeful look.
When he spoke, he spoke instead to Szymon in heavily accented German. Szymon rolled his eyes up at him, apparently not happy with his new role as Block interpreter. But he did relay the message. "You must show this operation."
Bashir didn't understand. What operation? And how could he show it? An operation required instruments and two working hands. Bashir didn't think he could count even his right hand as qualified. The crowd parted and a short man was brought to him. He knelt down in the snow and mush and held out his hand to Bashir. It was wrapped with a worn piece of cloth that showed a dark stain just over his palm. Bashir was beginning to understand. He had to help the man to gain their trust, and hopefully, a place on the bunks. But he still didn't know how he could help.
Studying their faces, he knew he had to do something. So very carefully, he unwrapped the cloth, keeping his left hand still laying against his thigh. There was a gash across the man's palm at least two inches long and quite deep. It was still oozing blood despite the bandaging. Back on the station or in the Defiant's sickbay, such a cut would be easy to heal. A few moments with a dermal regenerator and the hand would be like new. But here, in this time, he would need stitches. Bashir didn't even have common sewing thread, let alone surgical thread. And neither did he have a needle. He would also need to clean the wound, to keep it from infection and clean cloth to wrap it with. All that seemed impossible here. For now, he merely pushed his own thumb over the cut, squeezing the man's hand as hard as his weakened fingers would allow. The man did not protest, but his face showed his discomfort.
"Tell him to do this," Bashir told Szymon, motioning with his chin how he was holding the man's wound. Szymon obeyed and Bashir let go of his hand. The man clamped it tight with his other hand. "He needs stitches," Bashir said, but at Szymon's confused stare he held up his hand making what he hoped was a comprehensible motion for sewing.
Szymon got the message and turned to the crowd. "Hat hier irgend jemand Nadel und Faden?" he asked, first in German, then Polish and then back to German, but with a different dialect. Yiddish, Bashir thought. These people are Jews. They probably speak Yiddish.
There was a lot of hurried mumbling as the interested parties turned to their neighbors to see if they had what was required. One man spoke excitedly. "Mein Bruder im Block nebenan ist Schneider. Vielleicht hat er welche."
"Geh, schnell," Szymon told him, standing up. "Beeil dich, es ist bald Zeit!" The man ran away quickly, and Szymon resumed his crouch. "Maybe he will organize this," he told Bashir.
Bashir didn't quite understand, but there was nothing else to say until the man returned. They had to wait several minutes, but he soon came running back. He looked over his shoulder fearfully. "Ein SS-Mann hätte mich fast gesehen," he said.
"Hast Du es?" Szymon asked impatiently.
"Nur die Nadel," the man answered and he carefully opened his coat and squinted hard in the darkness. But finally he found what he was looking for and pulled a small needle from the lining of his striped coat. "Ich muß sie bis morgen vor dem Appell zurück bringen."
Szymon grabbed it from him and spoke again, "Wir brauchen etwas Faden. How much?" he asked Bashir. He held out his hands about six inches apart. Realizing that he must be talking about thread, Bashir pulled Szymon's left hand farther from his right. Szymon stood and showed with his hands the length that was required. "Marek, wiem, że masz nitkę," he said to one man in particular who tried to look uninterested in the whole affair. "Wziałeś ją z naszywek."
"Tak, wziałem. Dla siebie," the man retorted defensively.
"No, dawaj, Marek." Szymon tried to convince him, and Bashir was surprised at the effort the usually cold Szymon was giving to the cause of this demonstration. "Jeśli on naprawde jest lekarzem, to będzie warte więcej niż kawałek nitki."
"A jeśli nie jest, to nie będę miał nitki." The man seemed unwilling to bend. Finally others in the crowd joined Szymon in trying to coerce him until, finally, he gave in. He pulled a piece of thread perhaps a third of a meter in length from one of the pockets in his pants and handed it to Szymon who passed it to Bashir.
Julian was amazed. Despite the conditions, the prisoners were resourceful. Bashir now had a needle and thread. It would have been wonderful if he'd had some scissors or a knife, but he didn't bother to ask. The SS probably wouldn't allow those things. They could be too dangerous. He would have to make due with breaking the thread. But it still wasn't enough. He really needed two hands. He turned to Henri, who had thus far been the most helpful person in the barracks. "Aidez- moi, s'il vous plaît," he said holding up the thread and needle to him.
Henri saw what was needed and knelt beside the patient. He also had to squint to see the needle. The rest of the crowd caught the hint and crouched down, giving him whatever light was available. He threaded the needle more easily then and handed it back to Bashir.
"Zehn Minuten!" the Blockälteste cried out. Now the pressure was on.
In the end, it turned out that the bunk was as crowded as Henri had said it was. Everyone had to lay on his side in order to fit, and someone was pressed against him on either side. But it was still better than sleeping on the floor. His own head was facing the aisle between the two rows of bunks just across from Szymon and Piotr. Henri was behind him and the short man with the cut was in front. Because of his height, Bashir did get a little extra room above the man's feet to lay his broken hand.
And Julian Bashir slept a little better knowing that he had gained the confidence of at least a few people in this new barracks. Henri had even spoken to him using the informal "tu" in place of "vous." It meant he was now considered a friend. As for the stitches, he doubted his professors would have approved, but he had done well, considering his limitations. He had made nearly a dozen stitches and tied nearly a dozen knots all without moving his left hand. And despite the numbness of his fingers and the shakiness of his hands, the stitches had come out straight. Someone had donated a small bit of relatively clean cloth, and the wound was wrapped again, and all before the Blockälteste called for lights out.
Dax was the unfortunate one this time. It was twelve hundred hours, right in the middle of her time off. But it was a time when all the rest of the senior staff was on duty, so she was outnumbered. Sisko offered to try and make the meeting short, but she didn't complain. She might have teased him about it, if she hadn't been so tired. Sisko himself was still stifling his yawns after having just woken up. He was beginning to wonder if he'd be able to get back on a normal day/night schedule once they found Bashir.
O'Brien was the first to offer his report. "The warp engines could take at least two more weeks to fix. We're practically building them from scratch down there." He was obviously frustrated by the whole thing, but Sisko also knew he loved the challenge. "On a brighter note, the shields aren't quite as bad. I've got Stevens heading up the team there. We should be able to get minimal shielding by tomorrow morning. But I do mean minimal. You probably couldn't bounce a satellite off 'em. But as we keep getting the power relays repaired, the shield strength will improve. We still won't get full strength, but we'll have enough to get us around the sun, provided we only make one trip."
Sisko nodded. He'd seen the reports at the start of all this. The depleted Engineering crew had been doing a remarkable job repairing the ship. In three weeks, they had all but two of the main systems in at least working order, some better than others. But getting the ship back into shape to take them home wasn't the chief's only job. "What about the sensors, Chief?"
O'Brien shook his head. "It's a very small piece of equipment," he explained, speaking about Bashir's comm badge. "It would be difficult to scan for even if we had all our sensors. I'll keep a team working on it, but really, sir, I can only spare a few people."
He started to go on making excuses, but Sisko held up a hand to stop him. He understood. It was like triage. You can't just put your resources on the ones that hurt the worst. You also have to think about who will benefit from your administrations. O'Brien wanted to find Bashir as much as the rest of them. They'd developed a close friendship over the years. Sisko was still surprised by it sometimes when he remembered how O'Brien had hated the doctor when he first arrived on the station.
Commander Worf had little new to report. The ship had been searched from one end to the other. Every deck, Jefferies tube, conduit and panel had been scanned. And evidence of the changeling's sabotage had been found in nearly every one of them. But the Security teams had found no new evidence of changeling infiltration, which seemed to confirm Sisko's theory that the changeling had been destroyed in the shuttle explosions or had transported off the ship just before.
"Good," Sisko decided. "Now draw up a new roster. Post the Security personnel where they can be most helpful. If they have any engineering experience, assign them to Chief O'Brien."
"Aye, sir," Worf grumbled in reply. Sisko wondered if it was just his usual grumble or if he didn't like the idea of reassigning Security.
Dax didn't have much to report. She hadn't been on the bridge in over four hours, and the course had changed since then. So Sisko moved on to Kira. He knew the scanning wasn't going well, so he started with the timeline instead. "Ensign Thomas said there's no significant changes in the timeline," Kira reported.
"No significant changes," Sisko repeated.
"They would have to be significant or she wouldn't notice them," Kira clarified. Sisko was a little disappointed. If there had been a change, they would know where to look for either Bashir or the changeling. They might even get lucky and find both.
"I'm running out of ideas," Kira declared. She wasn't even trying to hide her frustration anymore. "We've scanned every inch of that planet. If he's down there, his badge simply isn't functioning. We can scan that planet until we drain all the power, but it still won't turn anything up if the badge isn't putting out a signal."
"Well," Sisko began patiently, "we've got nothing better to do at the moment." Still, he had to consider her point. They couldn't simply stop scanning. They were going to be orbiting the planet anyway, since they couldn't go home yet. But, as she had said, it was apparent that the badge was not working. "Maybe we can narrow down the search."
Dax spoke up finally. "We've tried that already using the fragments from the transporter logs."
Sisko nodded and held a hand up. "I know, and we didn't find anything. But that's not what I'm talking about. Up to now, we've been scanning everywhere, no matter how inhospitable or uninhabited. And it was the right thing to do. We wouldn't have found our people if we hadn't." He got up and paced a few steps. He felt guilty for what he was about to say, like he was giving up, at least partially. But he knew it was now also the right thing to do. There was no point wasting their resources on hopeless causes. "But it's been eighteen days now. Bashir's comm badge is malfunctioning. I think that's obvious. If we're going to get a signal from it, it will have to be fixed. If, however, he's been in"—he threw up his hands as he gave them an example—"Antarctica for eighteen days, there's no way he's going to fix it." He lowered his voice. "If he's there, he's dead. We should concentrate on areas where he'd have a chance, at least for now."
No one said anything for a few minutes. Kira nodded silently and left her gaze on the tabletop in front of her.
It was Dax who broke the silence. "What happens when we get the warp engines fixed, Benjamin, if we still haven't found him?"
Sisko looked her in the eye. He didn't want to make that decision yet. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Then we call another staff meeting."
When she came for him again, Bashir was worried that she'd put him in new barracks as she had before. He'd be sleeping on the floor again with no one to speak his language. On the other hand, it might also have meant a new work kommando, and that at least had a chance of being better than the one he was in. Not much of a chance though. He was hoping she wouldn't be cruel enough to put him in with the Sonderkommando. Szymon, who had opened up a little since the stitching, had told him about that. It was supposed to be kept quiet, but everyone who had been in the camp for even a few weeks learned about the Sonderkommando. They were the ones who dealt with the dead. They loaded and unloaded the gas chambers and then burned the bodies, but only after searching them for gold. The Sonderkommando was itself gassed every few months.
As he stepped out the door behind her, he heard the Blockälteste call Blocksperre. There was going to be another selection. "It's impossible to find some privacy here, you know," Whaley's voice remarked from the man's body in front of him. "I'd take you back to my barracks, but that might cause questions."
Bashir didn't say anything as he hobbled along after her, but he couldn't help thinking something sarcastic. She was worried about privacy? He had to sleep on a wooden plank with five other men. She had chosen this place, not him.
She did manage to find something though, one of the warehouses he had glimpsed when going for the soup. No one was working there yet because it was still too early. The sky was still dark and everyone was probably getting ready for roll call. She led him into the warehouse and instantly changed her form to match her voice. Bashir stood in the doorway, partly out of fear of punishment should he move in a way she didn't like, and partly from shock. He'd seen what filled the warehouse before, on the trip here with his father, but it had been behind glass then, a museum exhibit. Now it was out in the open, fresh and all the more horrible. Hair. Piled as high as the ceiling, it stretched from one wall to the other. Blond, red, brown, grey, every shade and color imaginable. He saw braids in it and ribbons here and there. Children's hair.
"At least they're resourceful," the changeling quipped, picking a stack of bundles to sit on. "They could have burned this with the bodies, but they're sending it back to Germany. What is that saying you have? 'Waste not, want not?' Please, have a seat."
Bashir couldn't speak. He just stared at her, shaking his head in tiny movements. He couldn't sit. The bundles on which she was perched so nonchalantly atop were full of hair. The hair of murdered women and children and inmates in the camp. He couldn't walk on it. He couldn't sit on it.
"Fine, have it your way," she dismissed. "I just thought you might be tired. You could consider this your day off." She leaned back, looking very much like a human being. "Within reason, of course."
"There's no reason here," Bashir whispered.
"Depends on how you look at it." The changeling sat back up, and Bashir feared she would hit him again. But she didn't. She seemed genuinely interested in conversing on the matter. "Before we came here, I really didn't know what a Jew was. Oh, I'd learned about it. We all had. This is where the crew would have ended up after all, except for the non-humans. We would have had to dispose of them ourselves. Earth isn't ready for extraterrestrials just yet. But I really didn't see any difference between the lot of you humans."
Bashir tried to ignore her as she rattled on about National Socialist ideology and racism, but something had caught his attention. What had she said about the crew? He had noticed his hearing was beginning to deteriorate just a little. But it was quiet in the warehouse with the exception of her voice. He had heard her, but almost lost that sentence in the rest of her lecture. The whole crew would have come here.
"But I realize now that that might not have been a good method," she continued. "After all, there's some who could be considered of Aryan stock aboard. And some of you might have simply survived somehow. We couldn't have you finding a way to leave a message for the future."
He was paying attention now, ignoring instead the fatigue in his legs. He would have been standing in roll call anyway. She was talking about the crew of the Defiant, about what she had planned for them. And apparently the plan had fallen through. Why else would she have been talking in should-haves and couldn't-haves? He realized now that he really hadn't thought about that before, that she could have transported more than himself to this hell, that the whole crew had been in danger. But apparently it hadn't turned out that way. Maybe she had lied about Captain Sisko. Maybe he was the only one.
And she was right. It wouldn't have worked to send the whole crew here. Some would probably have been shot on site. Others would have been singled out as political prisoners and treated better. Besides, they'd all just arouse suspicion, and what both he and the changeling needed was to blend in. "Too many foreigners," he supplied. He wanted her to keep talking about it so that, perhaps, he could learn what the whole plan had been. What were they going to do with the Defiant once the crew was disposed of?
"You're right, of course," she sighed. "Someone would get suspicious." She smiled at him then, a cold smile that tried to appear genuine—or maybe it was the other way around. "But you? You fit right in, don't you? Are you sure you're not really Jewish?"
"Judaism is a religion, not a race," Bashir said. He faced away from her, but where he could still see her from the corner of his eye.
"Perhaps, but does that really matter?" she asked, standing up. "These uniforms are so ill-fitting when I'm in this form." She morphed herself then, pulling in her arms and legs until the uniform she'd been wearing slipped down around her feet. In its place she wore the simple flesh-toned dress that had become characteristic of her people, at least when they interacted with solids. "I mean," she continued with the conversation, "reality is only what you make of it. Judaism may be a religion, but here, it's treated as race. And that's what you have to live and die with. Religion becomes irrelevant."
Bashir didn't know if he agreed or not. Was it irrelevant? Perhaps in the context she was speaking of. But, though he'd grown up believing religion to be something to be respected in other cultures, but otherwise rejected, it somehow felt worse to look at all that hair and think the people who had lost it were killed for no reason at all—or that the God they believed in wasn't there for them when they died. But then, his rational side would ask why their God didn't stop them from dying. It was a complex issue, one he was too tired and too hungry to contemplate now.
"Sometimes I come here," the changeling said, her tone of voice much different, more reflective, than before, "or to one of the other warehouses when no one is around, usually when they're eating lunch. It's difficult to keep this shape constantly—especially that man—and to wear those clothes. It's so limiting. How can you stand being trapped in the same form all the time?"
Bashir didn't expect that she was actually looking for an answer, but when he looked over at her, she was waiting for him to speak. She even looked genuinely interested in his answer. But what kind of answer could he give? It was a very odd question to ask someone who'd never changed his form. "It has its benefits," he said, keeping it vague.
"Do you suppose Odo thought so?" she asked. "We changed him. It was meant as a punishment."
Bashir wasn't sure he should answer that one. It might compromise the constable in some way. But she seemed determined to wait until he responded. So, still trying to be vague and noncommittal, he said simply, "He got used to it."
"But he was happy to change again," she pointed out. "Soared like a hawk across the Promenade, isn't that right?" As she spoke, she twirled around once in a graceful arch. "Oh, that's right, you weren't really there at the time."
"No," Bashir replied, "I wasn't."
"It's a shame." She had stopped her little dance. Now her eyes fell to the floor toward her bare feet. Little wisps of loose hair lay about them. She didn't seem to notice. "I knew him. And he knew you so well." She looked up. Her eyes showed the excitement he heard in her voice. "He was just as good a doctor. You should have seen him work. No one even noticed he wasn't you. He knew he was going to die, but he went anyway."
It was disconcerting to hear her speak of the changeling that had impersonated him like that. He had found it very disturbing to learn all the changeling had done while he was in the Jem'Hadar prison. Once he had found out, he made every patient the man had seen come in again for a full physical. Captain Sisko had patiently spent the better part of a day being tested and retested after Bashir had learned of the surgery the changeling had performed. And yet, he'd found nothing wrong with any of them. That changeling had been as good a doctor, just as this changeling had said.
"But he died," her tone changed to something harder, more angry, "before he could complete his mission. Does that sound familiar?"
Bashir caught the warning in her tone and kept his mouth shut.
"It was your fault. You escaped and warned the station." She quieted down, but the coldness in her eyes didn't leave. "But that was only one of my people. Do you know how many of us were on that ship? Forty-six. And they died because of me and because of you." When he didn't respond, she continued. She sounded remorseful. "I failed them. I failed because of you and your curiosity. If you'd just have left the blood samples alone, this could have been avoided, not for you, but for them. But now they're dead. And I'm alone here with only you for company."
He thought about the number. Forty-six changelings. Forty-seven, if he counted her. The exact number of crew on the Defiant. She was silent after that, for nearly fifteen minutes. Bashir didn't offer to break the silence. Nor did he sit, though his legs were tired. He didn't move from his spot near the door. Every time she moved or took a step, he felt it a desecration to the people who had lost the hair that filled the room. She didn't seem to mind.
Then suddenly she returned to the empty uniform on the floor. "I have to go." She slipped one foot and then the other into the neck of the uniform jacket. "Stay away from the SS, if you want to live. And be sure not to miss the evening roll call." With that, she disappeared, melting down into the uniform. The uniform then began to grow, rising from the floor as she filled out its spaces. Her hands poked out of the sleeves and finally her head, or rather Heiler's head, emerged from the collar. She had to pick up the hat. "You shouldn't stay here," Whaley's voice spoke. "There's a transport of Gypsies—whatever they are—coming in today. They'll be bringing their hair in here."
Bashir looked at her. "Wh—," he started to say. But he stopped himself, remembering her reaction to his questions. "I don't know where to go." Freedom here could be as dangerous as slavery. He didn't know the place. He didn't know what was allowed and what wasn't. And how was he to avoid the SS? It seemed strange, but he had to admit that he was only safe when he was with her.
"Go back to your barracks. It's empty now," Heiler answered, though he carried no accent. "I don't care. I told you this was your day off."
And then he was gone, and Bashir was left standing alone in the warehouse. He stood there for a few moments, trying to decide what to do. He couldn't stay, as she had said. If someone saw him, there would be questions. Finally he turned and opened the door a crack. He couldn't see anyone near, so he stepped out. The sun was just beginning to brighten the sky, and the wind was picking up. He closed the door behind him and hurried to leave the area, still not sure just where he would go.
Captain Sisko looked at the PADD Worf had given him before leaving the bridge. Worf had given no explanation of the report, and now Sisko could understand why. It was something better not discussed, at least not yet. He had a decision to make first. It read at first, like an ordinary report. Worf had concluded that the changeling, as believed, was no longer on the ship, but also that it was likely the changeling committed suicide in the shuttle craft when it exploded. Some black, sooty residue had been found near the remains of the transporter controls, and there had been no evidence of any timeline changes to show interference by the changeling on the planet's surface. There was a high possibility that the changeling threat was gone.
But added to the Security report was something else, something Sisko wouldn't have expected of Worf. It was a report on the morale of the crew, something Worf too often seemed insensitive to. But as he read on, he realized it was something hard to miss—unless you were the captain of the ship. The crew was unhappy, and Sisko could understand that. They were tired, and felt there was no longer any danger. They wanted to go home. Bashir had been gone now for nearly four weeks without a trace. It was time now to admit that he was dead and concentrate on getting the ship back to its own century.
Sisko could not blame them for grumbling. The sixteen hour shifts they were working were grueling. He could do something about that. But he wasn't ready to give up on the doctor. They were right. Three and a half weeks was a long time. He had moments of doubt himself when he knew Bashir was dead, and they were wasting time and energy looking for him. But just when he was about to make that decision, the doubt slipped and just enough hope stepped in. And a small helping of guilt, too. Bashir had been gone for a month before, kidnapped by the Jem'Hadar and none of his crew had even noticed. And he'd survived it, escaped with Garak and Worf and a few others in tow. Perhaps he was still surviving now, wherever he was.
Bashir had given a report, but otherwise he talked very little about his time in the internment camp. He'd asked about everything he'd missed while he was away and ordered most of the station's residents to come in for full physicals, but otherwise he'd tried to go on as if it had never happened. But Sisko had noticed a change in him. He was much more serious than he had been before, especially when it came to the Dominion. And he was afraid. He hid it well, actually. But Sisko could sense it. He smiled less often and always seemed to want more reinforcements from Starfleet. Sisko remembered how Dax had teased him just after they had abandoned the station and were rendezvousing with the Federation-Klingon task force, asking him if there were enough ships for him now while the impressive fleet hung before them on the viewscreen. He had joked back to her, but Sisko could tell that he was relieved.
No, Sisko was not ready to leave without him. But he also knew that he couldn't stay forever. Bashir was only one man. Sisko had twenty-eight other crewmembers to think of. He would have to make a decision eventually.
"Dax," he asked, clearing the PADD and setting it aside, "what is the status on our ability to get back to our time."
Dax checked her instruments and took a moment to consult with the officer at the Engineering station. Then she swiveled her chair around to face him. "Still a ways to go, Benjamin. Warp engines are still offline, and we'll need stronger shields if we don't want to burn up completely."
Sisko sighed with relief, earning a confused look from Dax. "Thank you, Old Man." He pressed a few keys on the console beside his seat and spoke, knowing that the comm system would relay his voice through the entire ship. "All hands, effective at OOOO hours, all shifts will be reduced by four hours. Off time will be staggered within the normal sixteen hour shifts. Major Kira will work out the rotations. Check the new roster in the morning." He paused a moment before changing the subject. He had to approach the next subject carefully. He didn't want the crew to feel that they had been spied upon. "It has now been over three weeks since our arrival in this time. As yet, we've found no evidence of a change in the timeline nor of any further sabotage by the changeling. It is safe, for the time being then, to assume that the changeling was destroyed in the shuttle explosion. We have also not received any signal from Doctor Bashir. I realize how hard the last few weeks have been, and I appreciate the effort and loyalty this crew has shown. I know you want to go home. I do, too. However, it will still be some time before the ship is capable of getting us there. We must continue to monitor the planet's surface for either changeling activity or our missing crewman until that time. When that time comes, if no evidence of either has been found, I will reevaluate my decision. In the meantime, we should all assume that Bashir is alive and give as much effort to finding him as we did for the others. Sisko out."
Max had noticed the Blockälteste's angry looks for the last few days. He had not tried to hide them. Each day he grew more brutal, always singling Max out for the slightest imagined infraction. His bunk was not clean enough. His clothes were too dirty. He took too long to rise from the ground during drills. None of which could be helped. But Max had also noticed that Vláďa was missing more and more, even from the drilling. Max generally only saw him at roll calls now. Though he seemed relatively well fed, he had a hollow look to him. He smiled whenever he saw Max and always had an extra crust of bread to give him.
Max had noticed, too, when the Blockälteste had approached the SS, pointing in his direction. The SS had then instantly called him by number after roll call, assigning him to one of the work kommandos. He hadn't even had time to say goodbye to Vláďa or to tell him where he was going. He didn't like where he ended up. A new transport arrived that morning carrying Gypsies. Max, in his new kommando, was assigned to unload their baggage from the train. He watched as the Gypsies were unloaded. They were scared and didn't know what to expect from the camp. They resisted the order to leave their possessions behind. It was much like the time when Max had arrived with Sofie and Hanna: Dogs barking, people yelling, pushing, hitting, and the ever-present SS.
It was the second such transport and unlike the transports of Jews, these Gypsies didn't have to go through a selection there at the platform. They had a whole camp to themselves where they could live with their families. It was still crowded for them and they, too, had little to eat, but at least their children were not killed. At first, he felt pity for them. But as he saw child after child, he couldn't help but think of his own, precious daughter, slaughtered by the Germans. And he didn't understand why the Gypsy children were saved. He was jealous, and though he hated himself for wishing death on children, even Gypsy children, he felt it nonetheless.
He was glad then when the train was empty, and he didn't have to see their little faces anymore. The rest of the long day was spent sorting through the belongings they left behind and transporting them to Kanada. The large area full of warehouses had been nicknamed Kanada because of the riches contained there. Gold, jewels, and money, but also clothes, shoes, eating utensils, and photographs were stored there before being sent back to Germany. He was told that there was also a warehouse for hair which was used to stuff mattresses for the Germans or to make socks for U-Boat crews.
He had hoped that he would return to his barracks after the evening roll call, so that he might see Vláďa and explain to him what had happened, but he was taken instead to a new Block in a different area of the camp. It was a much more crowded barracks with several hundred more people than the one in quarantine. Max was one of several new arrivals. The Blockälteste here took little notice of them and their fellow prisoners did not welcome them either. In fact, it had been difficult to get their supper rations. The older residents pushed to get the best place in line. Max, still exhausted from the work and the roll call, and unaccustomed to this new barracks, ended up near the very end of the line and without any supper. He had a few bread crusts, though, still in his pockets so he began to try and find a place to sleep. The Blockälteste had not assigned any, so he wandered down the barracks, trying to see if he knew anyone or if one of the bunks had an empty space. He reached the end of the barracks without finding anything, noting that some men were forced to sleep on the floor.
He didn't want to sleep on the floor, so he kept walking up the other side of the building. The room was full of people, and, though they were exhausted, they used their last few minutes before curfew to speak among themselves, either to tell each other about the day, or talk about life before the war, or to yell at their bunkmates to move over and make more room. But, just as he was about half way back to the door, Max noticed another sound.
"I am," someone was saying. "You are. He is. She is. We are." It was English. And it was coming from somewhere above him.
Ignoring all the curses he received, Max climbed up the bunk. He had thought it impossible that the doctor could live. In fact, if it hadn't been for Vláďa's near obsession with the man, Max might have forgotten about him altogether. But as his head poked over the last bunk, Max saw him. He was sitting in his usual position, his right shoulder to the wall. Another man sat beside him. It was that man who had been speaking. He continued, conjugating verbs from the sound of it. "They are."
"Very good," Bashir told him. And then he noticed Max's face there at the end of the bunk. "Max?" he asked.
The other man stopped his recitation and looked to see who the Englishman was referring to. There were two other men on the bunk as well, and they instantly began to complain, telling Max that there was no room for him. Bashir ignored them, speaking instead to his pupil. "Il est un ami. Il s'appelle Max Zeidl. Il parle allemand."
So the man is French, Max thought. The Frenchman yelled something to the other two, something about the selection a few days ago. Then he turned to Max, motioning him up the rest of the way. "Ich heiße Henri Bresalier." He spoke German well, though with a definite accent. "Come up. You can sleep here. Just ignore the others. You speak English, too?"
"No," Max told him. "We were in quarantine together." He climbed the rest of the way up to the bunk. The other two tried to push him back, but Henri stopped them. Bashir, he noticed, didn't move, though he followed everything with his eyes.
"Demande-lui, où est Vláďa," Bashir said, touching Henri's sleeve.
Henri nodded and translated the request into German. "He wants to know where Vláďa is."
Max didn't quite know what to answer. Should he tell Bashir, through this Frenchman, all he suspected? "He is still in quarantine."
Henri translated this back to French. "Comment va-t-il?" Bashir asked.
"Qui? Max ou Vláďa?" Henri shook his head. He apparently wasn't used to being an interpreter, switching back and forth between two languages. Max was used to it. He had used both Czech and German every day with his customers.
Bashir shrugged, or at least it looked like a shrug. It was hard to tell since he didn't move one shoulder and the other was pinned to the wall. "Tous les deux," he said.
Henri sighed and turned back to Max. "Are you well? And this Vláďa?"
Max nearly laughed. "Well? Here? As much as I can be." His smile faded. "Vláďa is. . . ." He still didn't know what to say. He wasn't even exactly sure what was going on with Vláďa. It was only a suspicion. "He eats well enough," he said finally.
Bashir caught his hesitation even as he waited for the translation, but he didn't have time to ask any more questions. The Blockälteste of this barracks yelled that it was curfew. There was a scramble then as everyone tried to find enough room to lie down. It had been a long day, for all of them, and it only promised to be longer tomorrow. So Max tucked his bowl, wrapped with his shoes and coat, closer beside him and tried to ignore the cold, the hunger, and the elbows and knees that jabbed at him as he slept.
Dax was appreciative of the new shift rotation, though she was even more tired now as she took her place at the helm than she had been the last three weeks. The new shift called for eight hours on duty, followed by four off, then four on and finally eight off. Half the crew's shifts were just the opposite, beginning with four on, four off, then eight on and finally the usual eight off. Dax now had some free time to spend with Worf, whose short break coincided now with the final four hours before her eight hour shift. It meant she slept less at this time, but she compensated by taking a nap at midnight when her short break began.
The whole crew seemed to appreciate it, too. Everyone seemed a little more relaxed, and the grumbling she'd heard before had become less noticeable. People were still anxious to go home, but their moods were lighter now that they had some time to relax or catch up on their sleep.
Dax checked the Defiant's position and sipped her raktajino. They were just beginning to scan North America. It wouldn't take as long to cover all the area this time, since they could exclude the uninhabitable regions. But Dax didn't plan on taking it too fast either. She would still cover every inch of habitable land down there. By now she had refamiliarized herself well with Earth's geography. She remembered her flight training at the Academy, piloting a shuttle over the Rockies, which showed themselves to be a few inches taller in this time before the various large-scale wars dulled them down a bit. It would take a good part of her shift to finish the scan of this continent, and Dax expected they'd cross the Atlantic while she was sleeping. She'd be back for Europe.
Despite the nostalgia she felt, noting the changes in Earth's geology, she still found herself yawning. Eight hours was hard, not as hard as sixteen, but still difficult when the task was unchanging. She and Kira chatted a little bit after the captain left for his break and Worf went off duty, but every day there was less and less to talk about. Besides, there were some things that they didn't want to share with the whole bridge.
Things like Julian. They would save that for dinner when Kira's shift ended. Dax thought about the time she and Kira had shared a table in Quark's, drinking to Julian and O'Brien's memories when they thought they were dead before. It was a lot like then, except it was every day, and Kira had more nice things to say about Julian now. Dax still felt guilty that she'd never read the medical school diaries Julian had given her. She wondered now, though, if they would help her to understand him better. He'd changed so much since then. Kira had expressed an interest in reading them herself.
Dax was glad that Kira had learned to appreciate and even like Julian. But she seemed to be taking his loss much better than Dax. At first, Jadzia had chalked it up to her experiences during the Occupation. She'd lost so many people she cared about. But Dax had lost people too, probably more. She had seven lifetimes of losing people, some who had still been alive, children she'd had to leave behind as her symbiont changed hosts, or even a widow, like Nalani Kahn. She had experienced loss. It never seemed to get easier for her, and she nearly cried herself to sleep every night after dinner, remembering their faces and knowing that she would have to add Julian to the list.
Sisko sighed and surveyed the room. Dax sat with her back to him as she returned to duty at the helm from her break. She had been very quiet lately, sticking only to her duties despite the monotony of flying the Defiant in seemingly endless orbits around the Earth. The computer, now that they had navigation up and running, really did most of the work. At least she looked a little more rested now. Worf was due on the bridge as well, but had yet to arrive. Ensign Dimitriov pored over the engineering console. It wasn't her specialty—engineers were still spread pretty thin—but she didn't complain, as she tried to boost the quality of the sensor readings. She'd been doing just that for her full eight-hour shift already. Lieutenant Jordan was hunched over another console, the one Kira had left only a few hours ago. His head rested on his turned up palm. He hadn't moved in over a half an hour.
Sisko was about to say something to him when the young man bolted upright. "I've got it!" he exclaimed, swiveling around in his chair.
Everyone on the bridge heard him and turned. Sisko nearly jumped right out of his chair. Dax, too, spun hers around to face him. Both she and the captain met Jordan at his console. "It's very weak," he warned, and he was right. There was barely a signal at all. But it was there.
"Helm," Sisko said, turning to Dax, who raced back to her seat, anticipating his next command, "hold position and establish a geosynchronous orbit." The ship slowed and the image on the viewscreen stopped its slow crawl across the display. Europe. The signal had come from the heart of Europe, an area they'd scanned at least four times already.
Sisko straightened his uniform and tapped his comm badge. "O'Brien to the bridge." He waited for confirmation and then called for the major and Ensign Thomas to meet him in the mess hall in ten minutes. It took less than two minutes before the chief stepped out of the turbolift.
Sisko, still standing over Jordan's station, called him over. "We're getting a signal. See if you can't amplify it somehow. We have to be sure it's one of ours and not some errant radio signal from the planet." He lowered his voice so the whole bridge wouldn't hear. "And I want to know if there are any lifesigns. Dax and I will be in the mess hall if you get any more information." He tapped the lieutenant on the shoulder. "You have the bridge, Lieutenant."
The young man looked up at him with wide eyes. Then they narrowed as he realized there really wouldn't be that much to do. The ship wasn't going anywhere. O'Brien replaced him at his console, and Jordan walked confidently to the command chair. Sisko turned to Dax, waiting expectantly at the helm. "You coming, Old Man?"
Major Kira and Ensign Thomas were already waiting inside when the captain and Dax arrived at the mess hall. They had to step aside for a few crewmen carrying their trays of food. Though they looked tired, they didn't look too upset at having to leave the mess hall in the middle of their meal. Major Kira on the other hand looked not a little perturbed at having been dragged out of bed. But Sisko knew that would fade as soon as she knew the reason for the meeting.
"We picked up a signal," he said as soon as the last crewmember left and the door closed. At once, Kira's expression changed, and she was completely alert. Dax was already at the console at the front of the room, calling up the sensor map on the viewscreen there. Thanks to Thomas's research, the sensor maps now reflected the political boundaries of the era.
Thomas, who had been sitting at one of the tables with Kira, stood immediately and walked closer to the viewscreen as if she didn't believe what was displayed there. One small dot of light was centered on the map. It wavered weakly and then flared a little brighter. "Germany?" she asked, obviously perplexed. She turned. "It's been a while since my last physical, but isn't the doctor"—she paused as she looked for the right word—"dark?"
Sisko felt the pressure in his stomach starting up again. He lowered himself into the chair nearest him. The door opened before he could say anything else. O'Brien entered. Letting the ensign wait for a moment, Sisko turned to the engineer. "Is it ours?"
"Yes, sir," O'Brien responded. He didn't look all that excited though. "We were able to clean it up a bit. It's Julian's signal, alright."
After the ensign's remark about Bashir's dark complexion, Sisko wasn't as happy to hear that either. "Life signs?" he asked.
O'Brien shook his head. "But that doesn't mean anything necessarily. We aren't getting any life signs at all anywhere near it. Nothing organic even, except wood."
Sisko looked at him quizzically. "Wood?"
O'Brien nodded. "And marble, though that's not organic. But there's a lot of it. Various metals and plastics, too."
"Sounds like a laboratory," Thomas spoke up, drawing all attention back to her. "Sir, I doubt very much that the doctor is in Germany."
Sisko agreed. "But his communicator is."
Kira stood up impatiently. "Will someone please tell me what is going on? If he's not in Germany—wherever that is—where is he?" She turned to Thomas, "Isn't Germany one of the warring nations?"
Thomas nodded her reply. "It was more than that."
Sisko finished for her. He knew what she was getting at. "The Holocaust."
Captain Sisko had given her exactly ten minutes to prepare a succinct and comprehensive explanation of just what the Holocaust was and what they were up against in trying to find the missing doctor. Personally, Ensign Thomas didn't think the odds were good. Actually, she knew they were very bad. But she wasn't ready yet to give up hope, not when it came to the Holocaust. She had a chance to save one of its victims, and she was going to do anything in her power to do so.
She had first heard about the Holocaust when she was fourteen. She had read a book: Elli: Coming of Age in the Holocaust by Livia E. Bitton Jackson. Livia, or Elli as she was called at the time, was fourteen when she was sent to Auschwitz. Something must have connected between them, because Mylea was drawn to the story, and any other story she could find on the subject, from then on. She had to know more. She'd read countless accounts by survivors and visited a few of the major camps that were still standing as memorials to the victims. She sometimes wondered why she was so fascinated with such a grisly topic, whether she was just morbid or had some sick interest in gore and death. But she didn't feel it was like that. She felt it was more an attempt to know the victims, the survivors, and even the perpetrators. She couldn't seem to wrap her mind around the enormity of the crime, of the hurt, the loss, the fear, or the hatred and cruelty. How could one person look at another person, so similar to himself, and wish him pain and torment and death? It was something she would never really understand.
As she thought about what to say, she decided that it might not be too hard to explain it to the Bajoran major. The Cardassian Occupation of Bajor had been similar in many ways—though significantly different in others—to what the Nazis had done during World War II. They had used terror for control and had even set up labor camps where people were starved, tortured, and worked to death. Major Kira had even helped to liberate one of the worst of them: Gallitep.
The ten minutes passed quickly, and the door to the mess hall opened again. The entire senior staff entered, including the captain, who was now off duty. The sensor readings from the bridge were channeled to the display terminal behind her. O'Brien had also managed to get some of the general computer systems running, like the library. Everyone was going to need it to brush up on their history.
She felt like a school teacher when everyone sat at the tables, leaving her alone at the front of the room. All of a sudden, ten minutes seemed like not nearly enough time to prepare. But the captain was waiting for her to start.
"The Holocaust," she began carefully, "is a pretty complex topic. I can't possibly tell you everything, but I'll try to hit on the main points. We've already talked about the war, about the National Socialists, so I won't begin there. We didn't talk really about their ideology, per se, so that's probably a good place to start. The Nazis. . . ." She paused. It wasn't as easy to start there as it seemed. She tried again. "The Nazis' ideology was a racial one. Anti-Semitism, or hatred of Jews, was the backbone of it, but it was more complex than that. There was a whole hierarchy of races, ranging from pure Aryan—which could be characterized as blue-eyed, blond, and of Germanic stock—to Slavs, Gypsies, and Jews. All of these peoples, and even political opponents and social outcasts, were persecuted to some degree by the Nazis. But several of the groups, especially the Jews, were slotted for extermination."
Lieutenant Commander Dax motioned with her hand to interrupt. "But isn't Judaism a religion? It's not a race."
Thomas shook her head. "You're thinking about it like a rational person, Commander. You have to think like a Nazi. They didn't care about your religion. They considered it race, something hereditary that you couldn't change just by converting your beliefs."
"When you say 'extermination,'" Kira broke in, "you mean 'genocide?'"
Thomas nodded. "One of Hitler's main goals was to completely destroy the Jewish population of Europe. It even ranked higher than the war effort toward the end. And he went a long way toward succeeding, too. But that's getting ahead of ourselves." She walked to the computer console and pulled up a map of Europe from 1933. Germany was still well within her boarders. "The Nazis persecuted many groups, as I said: Communists, Gypsies, Democrats, Jehovah's Witnesses, homosexuals, the mentally and physically disabled, and so on. But their main concern, and ours quite frankly, was the Jews."
"Julian's not Jewish," O'Brien pointed out, but he did look worried.
"You're being rational, too, Chief," Thomas told him. Postponing the map, she addressed the computer, "Computer, show us an image of Doctor Julian Bashir." The computer hesitated for about five seconds and then put the image up on the viewscreen. "The Nazis were looking at this racially. They had a whole pseudo-science of race planned out. They would send scientists out to classify people by standards of racial purity. They'd check your hair color—how close you are to blond—your eye color, the shape of your head, the prominence of the nose, the color of the skin. If you look at him like that," she said, pointing to the image on the viewscreen, "using their standards. . . ."
Captain Sisko cut her off, his face grimly set. He looked her right in the eye when he spoke, and she knew he understood. "He's a Jew."
Glad she didn't have to pursue the issue, Thomas once again set the display to the map. "At first, the Nazis only had power within Germany," as she spoke, she highlighted the area on the map. "They started small, relieving some Jews of their jobs. And then all Jews of their civil rights. They were no longer allowed to shop in non-Jewish shops. Jewish children couldn't go to public schools. Jews couldn't go to certain parks or sit on certain benches. Then nearly all occupations were closed to them, and they lost their citizenship. They were only allowed to come out of their houses for a short time each day to shop for food and necessities. And at any time they were vulnerable to harassment, humiliation, and violence."
She changed the map, letting the highlighted area flow out from Germany into Austria. "As they gained power over other nations," then highlighted the outer rim of Czechoslovakia, the Sudetenland, and then the rest of the country, "they took their racial policies with them." The highlighted area moved to fill in most of Poland as well. "And then they went farther. Jews lost their homes and were forced to move into ghettos." The map widened to include Western Europe and the highlight of Germany engulfed more lands there, the Netherlands, Belgium, Norway, France. In addition, little pinpoints of light dotted the whole scene showing the many hundreds of ghettos. "The ghetto in Warsaw was the biggest, if I remember correctly. At its highest point, it had a population of over four hundred thousand. Several families lived together in each room. It was overcrowded. The sanitation was bad, and there was never enough food. Rations were ranked hierarchically, too. Germans got more than Czechs and Poles. Jews got less than anyone. Thousands died right in the streets. And there was no law against killing a Jew."
Thomas had been facing them, changing the computer screen using a PADD. But she turned now to let that sink in for a moment. Leaving the ghettos highlighted, she set the computer to locate the camps with red, six-pointed stars. Only this time she used the sensors as far as their range. The library filled in the rest. "Then they even took away the ghetto. Jews were sent in trains meant for carrying cattle to concentration camps, labor camps, or killing centers. In the concentration and labor camps, a prisoner was expected to work, under grueling conditions and for long hours with very little food. And there was always the threat of violence from the guards. Many died of overwork, starvation, violence, or diseases caused by the poor sanitation. But the killing centers, extermination camps, like Bełżec, Treblinka, and Sobibor," she pointed them out as she spoke, "were set up with the sole purpose of killing Jews.
"The Nazis started by simply shooting Jews, either in town or in mass graves which they forced the Jews to dig away from town. But they found it simply too costly in bullets and troop morale, so they tried other methods. Carbon monoxide expulsions from combustion engines were too time-consuming and inefficient. They eventually hit on Zyklon B, a pesticide gas meant to kill rats and vermin. They tested it in Auschwitz in 1941 on 800 prisoners." She pointed to Auschwitz. "They were all dead within twenty minutes. Auschwitz went on to become the largest of the camps, both a concentration camp and a killing center. There were five gas chambers and crematoria for disposing of the corpses and also a slave population that averaged more than a hundred thousand. The total number of dead is still disputed today, but by all accounts at least one million Jews died here. Six million were killed in the Holocaust, along with around five million others."
Thomas stopped to take a breath. It was all coming out in one big rush now. She could feel her heart beating faster, her chest becoming hot with anger. "They even tried to continue the killing as they were losing the war. They forced most of the prisoners on death marches inward toward Germany to other camps, killing anyone who couldn't keep up. Only the total defeat of Germany brought the slaughter to an end, but not until something like two-thirds of Europe's Jews had been killed."
"And you think they have Bashir?" Kira asked quietly. Her face was set hard, but her eyes were slightly puffy.
"There's only one way to find out for sure," Thomas ventured, looking to the captain. "Like the Cardassians, the Nazis were meticulous record keepers."
Sisko nodded and stood up. "If they've got the communicator, they probably have the paperwork to tell us where they got it. Do you speak German, Ensign?"
Thomas pulled herself to attention. "Only a little, sir," she replied, having no intention of lying to him, even if it kept her off the away team.
"Find someone who does."
"Sir, the universal translators are still functioning," Worf suggested.
"But you can't use them to read German, Commander," Sisko corrected. "Where exactly is the signal coming from? Can we get a good fix?"
O'Brien stepped to the computer terminal. "If we patch the sensors in with the historical database the ensign's been using. . . ." He let his sentence trail off as he worked. His fingers moved silently over the controls for a few minutes before he proclaimed, "It's in Berlin. Computer, superimpose this signal on a scale map of Berlin, Germany, circa 1943."
"Working," the computer droned. Thomas couldn't help but notice that it sounded tired. They all waited anxiously as the map slowly changed, drawing closer in on Berlin and filling in the many tiny streets one inch at a time.
"Zoom in fifty percent," O'Brien ordered. The maze of tiny lines changed to more orderly patterns of streets and alleys. "Again, fifty percent." Buildings became clear, complete with labels for the more important landmarks. The badge's signal was emanating from Kaiser Wilhelm University.
Sisko turned to Dax. "Lose the spots, Old Man, you're going with her." He waited for Dax to nod before he brought his attention back to Ensign Thomas. "You'll need to dress appropriately. I don't think they'll let you just walk in and rummage through their files. You'll need something with power to back it up."
"Gestapo might do," Thomas guessed, trying to remember if there were any female Gestapo agents.
"Sir, request permission to join the away team," Worf snapped, standing. Sisko and Thomas turned at the same time to give him an incredulous look.
"No offense, sir," Thomas said, "but you wouldn't last two minutes." To soften what she was saying she swept her hand to encompass everyone in the mess hall. "Even if we discount your forehead and the major's nose, there isn't one of us in this room who would qualify as being of superior racial stock. Chief O'Brien would probably come the closest. Dax, the major, and I might have a chance though."
Kira stood and gave the captain a determined stare. "Then let me go."
"First," Sisko said, raising a finger and turning toward the viewscreen which still showed the city map of Berlin with Bashir's badge marked out in bright yellow, "we don't have a doctor to fix your nose." He turned to face her again. Thomas noted that he looked like the teacher now. "And second, I don't believe the Nazis were into equality of the sexes. We'll need a man on this mission. I would prefer someone from Security, someone who can read German. We can't just let them keep the badge. We've been over this territory before and got nothing from it. They must be tinkering with it. They've got a weak signal, we can't let them get any more."
"We should replace it with something, Captain," Thomas advised. "They'll notice if it's just gone in the morning."
"We can replicate another one," O'Brien suggested, "a fake."
Dax's face began to light up. "It'll have to be just like the one they have, even if they've torn it apart. We'll have to beam it up first and then replicate it."
"Do the same with any records you find," Sisko ordered. "I would think night the best time." He looked to Thomas for confirmation.
She couldn't answer right away. She really didn't know. The building would probably be locked, perhaps even guarded. But there would certainly be less people than in the daytime. She nodded, hoping that it was the right decision.
"Sir," Worf called from the back of the room. He held a PADD in one hand which he seemed to be studying, "Lieutenant Novak is fluent in German, both verbal and written."
"Good," Sisko acknowledged a little more cheerfully. "Sign him up."
Kira's voice was calm when she spoke and all the excitement was gone was her face. "It's gone."
Every head in the room snapped around to see where she was pointing. There on the viewscreen was the map of Berlin just as they had left it, only now the sensor image of the badge's signal was indeed gone. O'Brien rushed over to the console. Everyone waited as he diagnosed the problem. "We haven't lost the signal exactly," he finally said. "We've lost the sensors. Too much power. They weren't up to it. Shorted out. We should be able to fix it, but it's going to take a while."
"And we can't beam down without the sensors," Dax concluded.
O'Brien shook his head. "Not unless you want to risk beaming into a wall. Besides, we'd need the sensors to beam you back up."
Thomas looked to the captain for his decision. His face was still calm, set in stone. He spoke with a soft voice, but she could hear the disappointment in it. "I guess you'll have more time to prepare your team then, Ensign." Thomas nodded. The captain moved on. "Keep me informed, Chief. I want those sensors repaired before tomorrow night." Then, without another word, he left the mess hall. She noticed he didn't head toward the turbolift that would take him to the bridge.
Julian flashed Max a look that said good-bye and then headed after Henri and Szymon, glad to be moving his legs, even if it meant more pain in his back. Henri was getting better at translating for them, though Bashir felt a little guilty. It left less time for their lessons, and that had been the deal between them. But he seemed to like Max, who was sometimes able to 'organize' things from the transports he helped to unload. 'Organizing,' he had learned, was a way of obtaining things. It wasn't stealing, though that happened here quite often with the weakest being the victims. One had to watch one's few belongings at all times. Henri had already lost his tin spoon, the one utensil they were given to eat with. Max, though, had managed to find another one. He also came back with food sometimes. It was dangerous though. If he had been caught with any such items, he could be sent to the punishment kommando or even Block 11.
Bashir now knew that that was where he had been. The "Death Block" it was called. Most who entered it did not return, except perhaps to be killed publicly as a message to the rest of the prisoners. Bashir warned Max, too, not to take anything from the transports, though he couldn't help but hope that he had when he returned for evening roll call. The few morsels he smuggled back to the barracks meant the difference between complete starvation and survival. Even Szymon had become friendly then, when he knew Max would share, though he still rarely spoke to Bashir. He was even more suspicious now, knowing that he had survived Block 11.
As they neared the construction site, Bashir hoped Heiler was having a good day. She seemed to suffer from fluctuations in her mood. Or rather, he suffered from fluctuations in her mood. When she was unhappy or too nostalgic, she made a conscious effort to make his work as hard as possible and then beat him for not doing it well enough. On better days, she nearly ignored him, settling for mere verbal tirades with perhaps only a few blows to punctuate her remarks. More and more she seemed to be taking to the role of SS officer, meting out her invectives to the other prisoners as well.
She hadn't said anything to him yet this morning though. Her attention seemed to be elsewhere. The kapo had noted Bashir's injuries and the extra attention that Heiler gave him. He often sent him to go and fetch the midday soup ration, and he had put him on an easier task. He would still beat him, though, for being slow if the SS were watching. Bashir was now working to cement the ceiling of the undressing chamber. Pouring the cement wasn't easy, but at least he wasn't bent over the whole day. After it was poured, any pockets of air had to be removed. Doing so required little use of his left arm and didn't jar his back. Still he was constantly afraid that Heiler would get angry and push him into the fresh cement. She had come close twice already when she assailed him for moving too slowly. But he'd fallen into the rebar instead, scraping his cheek and his hands.
Henri was nearby, working with Piotr to secure the rebar in place. When they were close enough together, Henri would continue his lesson with Bashir, practicing his English in whispers. The kapo didn't mind as long as they continued working. He even warned them when the SS was coming around.
"Who is Vláďa?" he asked. Bashir wasn't sure why he was asking now. It had been several nights since Max had first spoken of the boy. He hadn't said anything about him since, despite Bashir's questions. Before, Henri had merely translated, showing little interest in the actual conversations he and Max had. "Is he son of Max?"
"Max's son," Bashir corrected. "No, we all met each other in quarantine."
"Each other?" Henri didn't understand the phrase.
"L'un et l'autre," Bashir told him, just a little uncertain about the proper grammar in French.
Henri nodded. "Why you think so much on him?"
"I met his cousin on the train from Poland," Bashir said. He paused as he waited for another prisoner to pour more cement down in front of him. "I promised him I would take care of Vláďa. He's just a boy and he's alone."
"Cousin is cousin?" Henri asked. Bashir nodded his confirmation as he pressed and folded the wet cement. "Max is thinking bad on this boy."
"Max is worried about Vláďa," Bashir affirmed, stressing the correct word for Henri. "Yes, I know, but he will not say why."
"Worried is passé composé?"
Bashir sighed. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong word. It had to be confusing. "Worried" was in the past tense, but "is" is present. It was correct, but it would take some explaining for Henri to understand. But the kapo caught his attention. He had removed his hat to scratch his head. He nodded once to Bashir before replacing it. The SS was coming.
"Tonight!" Bashir whispered, motioning toward the kapo with his head.
Henri caught the warning and bent further to his work, but it was too late. Heiler was upon him, beating him as he screamed. "Jetzt ist nicht die Zeit zum Unterhalten, du scheiß Jude! Hast du Angst vor der Arbeit? Vielleicht denkst du, du müßtest nicht arbeiten. Faules Schwein!"
Piotr beside him looked away and worked faster, edging away from the raging SS man and his victim. Bashir stood still. He was shocked, not that Heiler could beat a man, but that he had chosen Henri for it. It was Bashir who had said the last word.
"Are you stupid?" Szymon whispered right beside his ear, and Bashir wondered when he had moved so close. He had been working several meters away. "Work!"
Bashir did as he was told. The changeling craned her head around once to look at him and smiled, even as she continued to beat the Frenchman.
She simply walked away when she was done with him and Henri didn't move. Bashir wanted to run to him and see if he was alive, but the kapo was watching and he shook his head. He went on yelling at some others to work harder, but he kept his eye on the SS. Bashir had to wait until the midday meal before he could see to him. The kapo had chosen two others this time to get the soup, and Bashir was grateful, even if it meant he had to stay and work under Heiler's gaze.
Henri was alive, but he was still unconscious when Bashir reached him. A gash in his head was bleeding profusely. The entire left side of his face was swollen and colored red and black. Several of his ribs were broken, and Bashir thought his right forearm might be, too. He awoke when Bashir moved him—at the kapo's order—to a slightly more sheltered area. He was groggy still and didn't say anything. He just laid still and let Bashir feed him his soup. Most of it dribbled out of his swollen lips, but Bashir didn't mind. He used a small cloth handkerchief that Max had organized and given to him to dab at the gash on Henri's forehead. He packed snow around his injured arm. The SS dog-handler came into view before he could do more, and the kapo called him away.
Piotr and Szymon were waiting for him when he returned. "How often are the selections?" Bashir asked Szymon urgently.
Szymon shook his head and shrugged. He knew that Henri would probably die. "We will take him tonight to the hospital."
Bashir stared at him suspiciously. "I thought the hospital was dangerous."
Szymon nodded. "Is. But the doctors try to help. Maybe they will make him warm."
Bashir understood. They would try to make him comfortable at least. While the hospital had little access to medicines and equipment, they did have more than he had in the barracks. Maybe they could help Henri before the next selection came. It was a gamble, but Henri would die either way. They had to take the chance.
Bashir tried to keep his eye on Henri's form as they worked the rest of the day. The kapo did his part, too, though some of the other prisoners didn't appreciate it. Whenever one of the SS got too close to Henri, he would scream at another prisoner, hitting them with his stick. It worked. The SS looked to see what the commotion was and Henri was forgotten.
As the sky grew darker, it became harder to see him. But then it was also harder to work. The whistle blew and everyone lined up to be counted. The kapo called for two men to carry Henri, and then they started back toward camp. Bashir wanted to be in line near his injured friend, but Szymon caught his arm. "I think sometimes you want death," he sneered, forcing him to stay several rows behind Henri and his bearers. Bashir worried about the jarring cadence of the double-time march and what it was doing to Henri's head wound.
"When do we go to the hospital?" Bashir whispered when the SS weren't looking.
"After Appell," Szymon whispered back.
Appell lasted longer than ever, it seemed, until Bashir could count three stars between the ever present billows of smoke. Two more men from the kommando dropped at roll call and were placed on the ground near Henri. As soon as the signal was given, Szymon and Piotr moved to collect Henri. Bashir followed. Before they moved him, Bashir checked Henri's pulse. It was racing, but his breath was shallow. He was awake, but his eyes wouldn't focus. Bashir nodded and the two Poles lifted him off the ground with some difficulty.
"We must go quickly," Szymon told him.
Bashir nodded. The roll call had cut into their time before curfew. All of them were weak from hunger, and they were giving up their dinner ration to take Henri to the hospital. But Bashir didn't care, or at least he tried to ignore it. His friend and patient was more important. And he felt responsible for his condition. Heiler was his problem. She had probably attacked Henri not because he had been talking, but because he had been talking to Bashir.
When they approached the hospital area, Bashir was amazed by the length of the lines waiting to get inside. For a place with such a reputation for danger and death, the prisoners still wanted in awfully bad. "Why do they come here?" Bashir asked. "Aren't they afraid?"
"They are more tired, more hungry," Szymon told him, setting Henri down on the ground beside them in line. "No working here." Piotr whispered something to him and he nodded. "You go back. Get food. You can give with Piotr. Max, maybe, has something, too."
Bashir looked at Henri, who was unconscious again. His head was still bleeding, though less so because of the cold. He didn't want to leave, partly because of Henri and partly, he had to admit, because of the hospital. He wanted to see what was in there. What could they do? What kind of instruments did they have? The doctors tried to help, Szymon had said. He wondered how much of a difference they were able to make.
But Piotr's eyes pleaded with him. He was hungry. Going without a meal could be deadly. And Bashir was the logical choice. He couldn't carry Henri with only one arm. "Tell me everything," Bashir told Szymon. He took one more glance at the line in front of the door and at Henri and headed back to the barracks. He only hoped the trip was worth it. He might arrive too late for any food.
And he did. He made it to the end of the line, but the rations were gone by then. There was nothing else. Max saw him and waved him up on the bunk. His eyes showed his worry and relief that someone had returned. "Wo ist Henri?" he asked excitedly, helping to pull Bashir up over the edge of the bunk. "Und Szymon und Piotr?"
Bashir didn't know how to tell him. "Heiler beat Henri," he said, and he pounded on his own leg with his fist to show the meaning of his words.
Max's eyes fell to the bunk, but he nodded. "Ist er tot?" He ran a finger across his throat to make his point.
Bashir shook his head. "Szymon and Piotr took him to the hospital." Max, of course, didn't understand. Then Bashir remembered that Vláďa had called him a doctor. The word was the same, at least in Czech. He touched the six-pointed star sewn to the chest of his coat. "Jewish doctors."
"Ah," Max said and nodded. He was silent for a moment. And then he seemed to notice something. He grew excited. "Du hast nicht gegessen?" he asked. But, now it was Bashir's turn to stare at him without understanding. Max didn't try to explain. He knew the answer to his question. Instead, he unwrapped his coat and removed a small loaf of real bread and his own tiny portion of sausage. He shielded it from the view of others as he held it out to Bashir.
Bashir's mouth began to water just looking at it, but he held up three of his fingers. "Three," he said. "For Szymon and Piotr, too."
Max nodded and broke the bread into three parts, two of which he wrapped up again. Then he did the same with the sausage. It left only a few bites for Bashir, but he was glad for them. He knew the danger Max faced in smuggling it in. And he knew the sacrifice Piotr and Szymon were making to take Henri to the hospital. He wouldn't steal the food from them.
They returned just before the Blockälteste locked the door. Max only had time to hand them their food before the lights were put out and everyone was ordered to sleep. Bashir wanted to ask about Henri, but there was no time. Szymon and the others were exhausted. And so was he. Despite his concern for his friend, he fell asleep quickly and dreamt he was at one of Captain Sisko's dinner parties.
©copyright 1998 Gabrielle Lawson
Chapter Nine
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