Auschwitz - Ss Death Camp

By S. M. Janes

In a race against time Nazi Germany must, at any cost, be prevented from accomplishing its goal: European domination through the might of the Atomic Bomb.
It is June 1942 when Josef Mortkowicz, one of Americas pre-eminent scientists, volunteers to infiltrate and sabotage the Reichs parallel nuclear research programme. Events, however, do not go according to plan. Arrested for a minor offence, identified as a Jew and deported to Auschwitz at a time the world knows nothing of the atrocities being perpetrated in the East (the Final Solution a still unknown concept), the Allies have but a few weeks at most to convince the Nazis they have unwittingly captured an absconded key physicist from Washingtons top secret Manhattan Project.
Lieutenant Miller and his team are sent deep into enemy territory with the urgent brief to rescue and return. But to succeed they must fail. Mortkowicz has to be brought to the attention of the Nazis with cover intact and so Miller is hindered with orders to take rookie W/T operator, Christa Lynton. A combination of insubordination and sheer bad luck results in the teams imprisonment in Hitlers most infamous concentration camp where young Christa is subjected to the horrors of physical abuse, mental torture and sexual degradation by her Nazi assailant, SS Untersturmfhrer Kramer. Cruelly exploited by both Miller and Kramer we see how this vulnerable girls decisions and actions, as she fights for survival in an unimaginably inhumane world, influence the outcome of this most crucial of missions.
Auschwitz SS Death Camp skilfully blends fact with fiction taking the reader into the very heart of the camps SS hierarchy: a nightmare realm with no rules.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524631369

S. M. Janes

S M Janes was born in the UK in 1955. Convent educated by the Sisters of Notre Dame her linguistic skills include both German and French. She has travelled Europe extensively and, a couple of years after the Iron Curtain was lifted, visited Auschwitz/Birkenau for research purposes. A lifelong interest in the history of the Third Reich, in particular the Final Solution, has culminated in the writing of this novel. S M Janes lives in Cheshire, England.

Book preview

AUSCHWITZ -

SS Death Camp

In a race against time Nazi Germany must, at any cost, be prevented from accomplishing its goal: European domination through the might of the Atomic Bomb.

S. M. JANES

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© 2016 S. M. Janes. All rights reserved.

Second Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/19/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3137-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3136-9 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

INTRODUCTION

Auschwitz was a huge industrial complex. After the partitioning of Poland in 1939, Germany came into possession of the already vast, established Upper Silesian coal mines. In April 1941 the chemical conglomeration and world leader in synthetic oil and rubber production, IG Farbenindustrie, needed little persuasion from the government to exploit this natural resource. A small town, originally called Oswiecim, to the south of the Kattowice mining region, was chosen for Farben's expansion. Sufficiently remote to offer security from Allied air raids, the town was ideally positioned with a railway junction, good communications network and already conveniently established gravel and sand extraction works on the nearby River Sola. This waterway also converged with three others and was to provide the energy and fresh water for the subsequent factories being erected to feed the insatiable demands of the war machine. A former Polish artillery barracks on the edge of the town held seven thousand Russian POWs and a smaller number of Polish partisans. This would form the nucleus of the labour complex, be transformed into a camp for political prisoners who would be used as the workforce, and be referred to as the 'Main Camp' (Hauptlager) or Auschwitz I. The average number of prisoners in this camp fluctuated from thirteen to sixteen thousand reaching, at one stage during 1942, a record twenty thousand.

In 1941, Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler singled out the camp as the ideal site for the proposed 'FinalSolution'. As he noted: ...the area can be easily isolated and camouflaged. And, by the end of 1941, just one and a half miles away from Auschwitz I, Birkenau (Auschwitz II) was well under construction with the arrival of the first transports of Polish Jews. By the spring of 1942, the campaign to annihilate all European Jewry was in progress.

During the months and years that followed a collection of approximately fifty one prison camps, all owned and run by the SS, would be established in the vicinity and a never ending supply of labourers would, first build, then feed the many companies operating under the umbrella of IG Farben. These included such names as Hoechst Bayer (pharmaceuticals), BASF, Agfa, Krupps (fuses), Siemens, Deutscheausrüstungswerke (DAW -- German Equipment Factory Ltd producing such diverse goods as construction and railroad equipment, furniture, crates and other containers) plus the myriad of sub-contractors all attracted by the cheap workforce offered by the SS. From innocuous beginnings, the outskirts of the town of Oswiecim distended into a tumescent landscape of misery covering fifteen square miles. It became known collectively as the Auschwitz Zone of Interest.

The deaths of 1.1 million people are attributed to Auschwitz: victims of slave labour, epidemics, gassings and experimentation.

TABLE OF SS RANKS

Approximate Equivalents

CONCENTRATION CAMP PERSONNEL

PROLOGUE

Early June 1942

Die Judenrampe

Auschwitz II

Josef Mortkowicz had arrived in Gehenna. After seventy-two hours packed into a goods wagon with a sorry assortment of human flotsam, SS soldiers had flung back the doors to reveal the inner sanctum of Hell. The place where all his sins were to be purged. A black, nightmarish vision with thrusting searchlights dissecting the cool night air. Through hissing clouds of steam dogs snarled, soldiers cursed, children cried, women wailed, men begged and pleaded.

Alles 'raus! Alles 'raus!

Weak from hunger and dehydration he stumbled onto the tracks.

Throw out the dead! Throw out your luggage!

Surreal orders barked in a surreal landscape.

Following the straggling mass of humanity along the platform Mortkowicz halted as an SS officer addressed them.

Your resettlement home is barely a kilometer away. There you will find food, water and rest. When you arrive you will be segregated but only for a short period. I must stress this will only be for a short time. Keep calm and all will be well. Leave your luggage here and it will follow on.

The crowd watched helplessly as soldiers threw their suitcases into the back of a newly arrived wagon, dissenting murmurs rippling through the mass.

We need water!

Why do the old and children have to walk?

Where are we?

We need water now!

Rebellious voices were cut short. Don't anger them. Our ordeal is over.

They have promised us food and water.

Not long now.

Our new lodgings are in sight!

I told you we would be resettled!

Children cried as parents struggled to cope with them. The elderly groaned. The enforced journey had taken a heavy toll on them.

Mortkowicz held out a helping hand.

You're very kind, said a man of his own age. Why my father had to make this journey is beyond me. Look at him! His hands are crippled, he can barely walk, they have taken his sticks...... and they expect him to work? What game are they playing here with us?

Mortkowicz shook his head sadly. What game indeed?

They trudged on until the brick arch beneath the main sentry tower of Auschwitz II -- better known as Birkenau -- came into view. To either side stretched live wire fences interspersed with wooden watch towers, each elevated on lofty, spindly legs. Incongruously they reminded Mortkowicz of H G Wells' demonic, alien creations. The war of the world had truly come to pass. Beyond the wires row upon row of low wooden barracks was clearly visible, leading the crowd to exhibit an undercurrent of mistrust. This was not the sight they were expecting. More guards with dogs appeared, weapons at the ready.

You promised us......

A soldier swung the butt of his rifle at the old man's head, his skull caving in with a sickening crack as he hit the ground with a dull thud. A woman screamed. Now the crowd knew they had been lied to.

Verdammt noch mal! The SS officer cursed loudly as the dogs became more excited. Things had been going to plan until then. Form a line. An orderly queue. All will be well.

Two columns formed ahead of Mortkowicz.

Links. Rechts. Rechts. Links. Links..........

He may have been thirty eight years old but, prior to his imposed journey, he had been fit and well fed unlike the rest of his companions who had arrived after an imposed lengthy stay in the transit camps and ghettoes. He was savagely pushed into the right hand column consisting of the mainly fitter, younger men with just a few women. Guards, together with their vicious animals, stood vigilant between the two lines and he understood why. Children had been ripped from their parents, brothers and sisters torn apart, husbands and wives separated, elderly grandparents now given custody of infants and toddlers.

A husband of no more than three years turned to Mortkowicz in anguish. My wife! My children! he choked, grabbing him by the arm. She cannot manage alone.

Mortkowicz watched the dishevelled mother, black hair once pinned high on her head now a tangled, matted mess around her ears. She disappeared to the left, a weeping two-year old clutching a hand. In the other, she held a howling, hungry three-month old over her shoulder.

You will be reunited, he comforted the man, simultaneously placing a restraining arm around him. All will be well. The officer has promised. Not for one moment did Mortkowicz believe his own reassurances.

CHAPTER 1

18 June 1942

US Military Intelligence Headquarters

London

General McNamara and Colonel Jefferson faced each other in stony silence across the broad mahogany table, the atmosphere thick and unfriendly. Two hours of fruitless discussion and they were still no nearer a decision.

They'll die, he snarled. All of 'em.

So? We gotta use the best to ensure the Krauts have a tough time. Only then will they believe all they're finally told, the General drawled, his tone weary.

That's just my point. Miller won't break, I'm sure of that. He's a good man.

Every man has his breaking point, especially when saddled with a liability. You've read the girl's dossier: scatterbrained, juvenile, possesses no convictions whatsoever, an obvious danger in the field with her limited W/T skills. A few nights spent relaying the transmission at the strict times we'll insist upon should ensure they're picked up pretty quick.

You can't do this to Miller.

C'mon Jefferson, you know we have to use every weapon at our disposal. What's the sacrifice of five lives when compared to the threat the Nazis could hold over the entire world? We already know how far ahead of us they are in this race. They've got a heavy-water plant, access to high grade uranium compounds. Couple that with their world-beating chemical and engineering industry and we're in deep shit. I heard a rumour outta Oak Ridge only the other day: they've nearly completed a prototype cyclotron. The folks out at Site 'Y' are screamin' at us to do anythin' to slow 'em down. Mortkowicz has to get through to Berlin and we have to send in our best man in order to fool those Krauts completely. I thought we'd agreed on that basic premise at least?

I guess so.........but Miller?

Pushing back the braided sleeve of his tunic, the General glanced down at his watch. Time's gettin' short, he observed. I could order you...... but I don't wanna do that.

The Colonel sucked in a lungful of smoky air, exhaling slowly. We're bastards! he finally remarked icily. Each of us, a goddam bastard.

Lieutenant Ronald L. Miller, US Military Intelligence, pensively studied the smoke curling up from the glowing end of his Lucky Strike. It wound its way through the shaft of sunlight streaming through the window opposite then disappeared into the void beneath the dark, nicotine stained ceiling. He'd been summoned three times previously to this same office on The Strand. On the last two occasions he'd received orders to take his men behind enemy lines and he had no reason to suspect this summons should be any different. He was in Colonel Jefferson's office. The one and only contact he'd been allowed in the newly formed OSS HQ set up here in England. But he could sure hazard a good guess to whom this office belonged. Only high-ranking, decorated officers got to occupy rooms this large with a padded leather chair and huge mahogany desk. They complimented each other well, together with the half height, wood panelled walls that lent a heaviness to the atmosphere, closing in around him. He wanted to open up one of the sash windows and allow in some air to breathe, some light to brighten up the gloomy corners.

Well, Lieutenant Miller! Good to see you again. Colonel Jefferson's voice boomed out the greeting.

Miller jumped startled from his chair, his reverie rudely interrupted. Hastily stubbing out the cigarette butt in the large ashtray on the desk before him, he turned smartly to salute his superior.

An excellent job that last mission of yours. Excellent.

Miller smiled wryly. He'd bent the truth a little at his debriefing but the end result had been the same.

Sit down, sit down, said Jefferson expansively, opening his cocktail cabinet to reveal a dazzling array of bottles. You'll have a drink, of course, m'boy. What's it to be?

Smile still fixed, Miller settled back down on the hard-backed upright chair. The introductory conversation never changed. He always asked the Colonel for bourbon and today was no exception. With this pleasantry out of the way Jefferson would now get down to business.And the sooner the better. Once he had his orders he had his raison d'être. Sitting around waiting had never suited him. He liked to be in the thick of things. Playing those Nazi bastards at their own brand of dirty games. Back home in New Jersey he'd followed Europe's agony closely since Poland had been overrun by Hitler's new brand of fascism, relieved when his tardy homeland had finally been brought into the conflict. It had taken him less than twenty four hours to officially volunteer for special duties and even less than that for the top brass to accept him. They knew in Miller they had a man with a deep conviction that Europe, no matter what the cost, had to be freed from Nazi oppression. A man for whom it was intolerable to think National Socialism's twisted racial policies could one day grip half the world, their nationalistic ideology plunging western democracy into the dark ages. Miller had proved to be an excellent candidate during his brief period of subversive training. He had plenty of guts, a quick brain and natural aptitude to lead men, spoke fluent German and French and, when circumstances dictated, was ruthless. Utterly ruthless. He had one aim only in life. To destroy the Nazis and all they stood for.

Jefferson eased himself behind his desk, installing his burly frame into the equally accommodating high-winged leather chair. Taking a swig from a tumbler containing the same measure of Bourbon as Miller, he then placed it down carefully and thoughtfully on the desktop beside the photograph of the wife waiting back home in Boston. Staring gravely at the man before him he smiled, a trace of regret in his eyes, as before him he noted a younger version of himself. A man encompassing all the attributes and ideals he himself held. A man impeccably turned out, eager and willing to serve his country. And he was now going to order him to make the ultimate sacrifice.

Glancing up from his liquid refreshment, Miller caught the Colonel's stare. He knew he was being given the once over but relaxed slightly as Jefferson grinned back.

But the smile was dropped quickly, a serious expression replacing it. Auschwitz, Poland, he stated flatly. Mean anythin' to you, boy?

No sir, replied Miller.

No, nor me 'til a few hours ago, agreed Jefferson. "It's a massive industrial complex near Krakow. IG Farben and their Nazi cronies have built themselves state of the art chemical production facilities for producing Buna. Y'know. Synthetic rubber. And it's all manned by forced labour. He pushed a large envelope across the desk. Here. Take a look at the recce photos."

Miller perused them carefully. Auschwitz certainly was big. Factories and camps of various sizes and at various stages of construction were dotted all over, though Farben was by far the largest and the camps holding its labour sources were clearly visible.

OK sighed Jefferson. "Here's the deal. Nuclear fission. Does that mean anything to you?"

Miller shook his head. Nothing seemed to mean much to him today.

Jefferson smiled understandingly at the perplexed countenance before him, toying nervously with the file on his desk, as though turning over in his mind whether Miller could, in fact, be entrusted with such vital information. If this knowledge fell into the wrong hands, Lieutenant, you can't underestimate the damage it would do, not only to Europe but to the rest of the world.

I don't underestimate the threat of Nazism, Sir. I never have, said Miller firmly, prompting his superior.

I know that, boy, replied the Colonel somewhat apologetically. But, right at this moment, the Krauts are ahead of us in this race. He broke off, collected his thoughts and took a slug from his tumbler. "Our boys back home have been working on a new form of weapon, an entirely new concept involving splitting atomic particles. The process involves the use of deuterium oxide, whatever that is, as a catalyst in the preparation of releasing large amounts of energy in the form of a bomb. Now, I confess I don't know all the ins and outs of it, but suffice to say that when it eventually comes together this weapon will wreak total destruction. And, on the day that bomb is dropped, the war will end. And, whoever drops that bomb will be the victor. That's why we have to own it; we must have that threat first to wave at our enemies. He paused for a moment then brought out a photograph from the folder on his desk, handing it to Miller. Josef Mortkowicz. Polish/American and fluent in Kraut. Up until a few months ago he was a member of our top secret team working on that ultimate weapon.Then he had a change of heart. Reckoned its destructive force would be too mighty for any world power to own. He skipped America travelling on forged passport and papers, last heard of heading towards Warsaw where, we believe his parents still live. Yesterday we had confirmation from Polish intelligence he was arrested then transported onwards to Auschwitz. Now, to the Nazis he's still a nobody and that's the way it's gotta stay. Can you imagine the damage that man could do to us if 'persuaded' to work on their programme? He has to be brought back alive, Lieutenant. Understand? It's imperative he concludes his research here. We need that man, Miller, intact. The lies rolled freely and fluently. Now, we're sure he'll have been put to work at the Farben plant. If he's got his wits about him he'd go for the easy route. Let slip he knows about chemicals and engineering, y'know? Get himself an easy job in a lab. What d'ya reckon?"

Maybe, replied Miller slowly. Just maybe.

Those Nazis could find out at any moment what a big fish they've so innocently landed, growled Jefferson. That's why I sent for you Miller. Your team's one of the best. You know that. You've already carried out two missions. Both successes and with no losses.That takes some doin' and I know I can count on you to carry this one through.

Miller flexed his neck muscles, the shirt collar restricting him. He felt uncomfortably hot. The Colonel was obviously unaware of the problems working with his so called 'team'.

Now then, you've got a new member on board. I've read her training record. You've seen a copy, haven't you?

Miller nodded. This one's too dangerous to ask a new.......

All missions are dangerous, Miller. She goes with you and that's that. Her briefing glows in every aspect and you can't ask for more than that. She'll be an asset to you. A real asset. Besides, there's no way you'll be able to get outta Poland without a W/T operator.

Miller was perplexed. It seemed Jefferson's mind was well and truly made up. I know she came out with an A -1 result but to my mind she lacks.........

Jefferson's hand rose sharply. C'mon Lieutenant, a smile played across his face. I reckon you're discriminating against the fairer sex. The fleeting good humour quickly disappeared. My orders are she goes. Good cover having a youngster with you.

Miller pursed his lips thoughtfully. So that was it! Having on board the irritating younger sister of one of his team was non-negotiable. He felt a sudden pang of remorse remembering she'd been dealt a rough hand with her brother and the control his mental abuse had over her. It was obvious to all she held him in a mixture of fear and loathing. She deserved some empathy. Trouble was she'd been used as a negotiating tool and Miller regretted the day he'd conceded that extra ticket.

Oh and one more thing! You'll be goin' in by parachute, added the Colonel now drawing himself to his full, impressive height and extending his hand.

Miller knew this to be the cue his briefing was at a conclusion. He also knew there was little point arguing it was suicidal to drop by parachute into occupied, unchartered territory with neither prior knowledge of the topography nor the dispersion of troops but the Colonel was only passing on orders. It was just unfortunate the orders came to rest at his feet. Gripping the Colonel's hand he exchanged a brief, firm handshake.

Stay here as long as you need to digest all that's in Mortkowicz's folder, Lieutenant. Commit his likeness to memory. The recce photos are yours and we'll be sending the necessary forged documents you'll be needing on to your station. You know who to contact in the department for anything special you want; you've been given priority.

Sure, replied Miller, already tossing ideas around his head.

Have your team ready to fly the day after tomorrow. I want you inside that Camp on the twenty first. Like I said, we've no time to play with, said Jefferson, hanging his head, again somewhat apologetically yet itching to get himself another stiff drink or two at the American Officers' Club on Pall Mall.

Miller balked. Forty-eight hours to pull everything together? But he said nothing of his fears. Instead he saluted his superior, replying in the affirmative with as much conviction as he could muster. Watching the Colonel's broad back disappear through the doorway, he did not witness the sad look that had settled on Jefferson's face nor the anger that burned in his eyes.

CHAPTER 2

19 June 1942

The sun had risen as Miller swung the jeep onto the gravel parking lot of his HQ, a stately pile in the Kentish countryside shared with other members of the US Special Forces. He knew his first priority: a cup of strong coffee to nurse the hangover acquired during the previous night's sojourn in the capital. After a brief visit to the kitchens he took the grand staircase two steps at a time, making a left turn at the first landing, entering the second room. Three bodies, wrapped in army issue blankets, snored on camp beds. Hey, said Miller. It's gone five. Briefing at 06.00. He noticed one of the blankets stirring.

Fuck off!

Make sure your ass is on a seat downstairs by six, said Miller, recognising the voice.

We'll be there, Lieutenant, another, more courteous, voice responded.

Closing the door Miller approached the room now opposite him. He knocked loudly. Hey, honey! You're on for this one. Briefing at six. He made a quick about turn, descending into the basement where he noted one of the kitchen staff had furnished him, as promised, with a steaming ersatz.

The principal member of Miller's disparate team arrived on time. Since the Nazis and Russians had partitioned Poland, confiscating all lands and wealth, Count Jerzy Szynkarzski had sought refuge in England. Too old to join the Polish Free Army he had offered his services to the SOE and been seconded onto Miller's party. His commitment in the field during their previous couple of missions had been impressive, earning him his place as Miller's right hand man and only person on his team he truly trusted. A distinguished, snowy-haired aristocrat, his family wealth and educated tongue had earned him an easy life. Fluent not only in Polish, English and German but also with a smattering of Russian, he suited Miller well. Minutes later appeared the first of the two US prisoners he had been allowed to get on board when the government had implemented its amnesty programme in return for 'special services' rendered. Albert 'Al' Lynton: an expert assassin who spoke fluent German (a mother of German descent, he vaguely recalled); a distinctly broody individual, not one to indulge in conversation, making up for his lack of communication with his actions. And Miller had been impressed with those actions. The lean young man was a silent predator, slipping up behind his victim, gagging him with the left hand, driving a blade into the windpipe with his right. Continuing with the downward thrust he would push deeper until contact with the collar bone was finally made thus ensuring a severed jugular. Finally his victim would be released. All in one smooth action. And all in no more than two seconds his floored prey was silenced. Forever. This skill was handy amongst the enemy but not so when used for his paymasters back in New York City for it had earned him a cell on Death Row. Glancing at his watch, Miller ran a hand over his regulation crew cut. It was already a quarter gone. He lifted his head from his papers.

They're on their way, drawled Al nonchalantly.

Miller resented their lack of respect but held his tongue. Within moments a short, heavily built man entered, a long scar running down the length of one cheek. Vittorio 'Vito' Saviello was an expert with explosives, leaving a trail of devastation behind enemy lines. His only handicap an inability to speak the enemy's language. Nevertheless, he too had grabbed at his one and only chance of reprieve when a bank job too many had left him incarcerated for life. Following him came his newest member: Christa 'Baby' Lynton. A naïve and immature girl. Far too young to be involved in a war and confined with a bunch of hardened, cynical crooks. Her fresh face broke into a smile the moment she laid eyes on him and, grinning, Miller winked back. It was an involuntary action he unconsciously used on all females. Only too aware of her childish infatuation with him he felt a sudden, acute embarrassment. As pretty as she might be, her blossoming figure disguised in oversized men's clothing (the only garments he'd been able to procure at short notice), this virginal adolescent did nothing to excite him. He glanced down at the paper strewn desk knowing he'd only been able to get Al together with his kid sister, his only remaining family, as a