The Uniform

By G. Gruen

A Jewish doctor turned labor camp prisoner stumbles upon the body of a murdered Gestapo officer.  With only hours until his transport to a death camp, he sees the dead man's uniform as his last chsance to survive, maybe even to escape.  His challenge?  Repairing the gashed and bloodied tunic under the noses of his SS captors. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. Gruen
• Release date: Sep 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223191452

G. Gruen

It's been a steady climb for G Gruen's writing life. First, as a creator of ads and commercials for the country's most prestigious advertising agencies. Before long, his original screenplays found homes inside a major movie studio and on assignment for several less major purveyors of the cinematic arts. With the publication of "The Uniform," he's become author of his own fiction and of the exciting next chapter in his writing career.

Book preview

David & Herman 1944

The hand-drawn red cross on David Korda’s frayed armband took five years to weather into a pale pink. A thousand nights confined along damp roadsides had turned its white background the color of fog. But David couldn’t let people see him as ordinary slave labor. He was a peon with a first-rate medical education, trained at Prague’s finest university and graduated into central Europe’s most punishing labor camps. Though he functioned as the prisoners’ medic, more often, he dutifully did his overseers’ bidding—grading roads, laying rail ties and mining salt. Of course, he was forever available to treat Nazi party members.  He did so more willingly than most Jews, less to provide care than to remind himself of what he had been. He had persuaded even himself that he could ingratiate himself with the Germans and ultimately save his own life.

It was the season of surrender to the elements, of frostbite transformed into gangrene, of toes turned black and of workers losing their will to go on.  This far into the war most of David’s fellow prisoners had made their peace with death. The few who refused to abandon optimism reminded each other that they were the Bible’s Chosen People. David saw no need to mock them but suggested they had become characters in a scripture that chose a darker outcome for them. As long as he’d been spared transit to the airlessness of a concentration camp, he accepted his fate without protest.

And should he forget his place, the SS officer corps were always within his field of vision, forcing him to stare tamely at the ground. He wouldn’t have survived into his 29th year without grasping that degree of caution. On occasion, when German doctors were unavailable to treat their own soldiers or party members, they found enough use for David’s skills to lend out his services. He dutifully administered sulfa and morphine to soldiers and citizens and, more than occasionally, expanded his portfolio to include patching roofs, weeding local vegetable gardens, and painting houses from Hungary to Austria. Granted, it was stoop labor but, to David’s surprise, some of these assignments became treasured moments, reminders of normal days, of dealings with ordinary people who shunned Jews devoutly but allowed David wisps of Strauss on their radios, hints of onions browning in their frying pans, and air carrying suggestions of perfumed women. On occasion, his Austrian hosts repaid David’s exertions with a potato or a heel of bread. 

On this day, David and his fellow prisoners—lawyers, chefs, rabbis, and circus clowns—turned their talents to roadwork, trudging through fresh snow to a newly-graded dirt road. The route skirted a cemetery, its barren oaks and lonely pines forming a monochrome enclosure for the dead.

This type of morning helped David pretend the war was far off. Too early for the bark of diesel engines, it was quiet enough to hear snowflakes touch the ground. They formed a layer too delicate for tanks to carve up with steel tracks dripping mud. Even the pile of macadam that would be flattened into the road’s foundation wore a delicate, snow white frosting. It was left to David to break the morning calm, crunching the pristine white snow with his worn-out street shoes. He dug a shovel into gravel, scuffed its blade and scattered pebbles across the compacted mud. Fellow prisoners chimed in with their own road-building racket.

A compatriot, Herman, looked like he was made for the Austrian tundra. He withstood every day of his 45th year in this steel-gray cold with only a rake and a ragged overcoat. As he spread the gravel, he heard the belch of a diesel engine. An SS touring car moved gradually atop the fresh grading, its platoon of guards keeping up as if on a stroll.

The tailpipe of the SS Kübelwagen spat black ash as it rolled toward them. With the car’s top down, Sturmbannführer Leibig could survey the length of the road from his back seat perch, instilling in both Jews and their captors the fear of a poisonous God. 

As it rolled past the prisoners, the car splashed slush at the hem of David’s overcoat and ice shards at his ankles. David shivered in place, waiting for Leibig’s guards to saunter past before he allowed himself a complaint.

Damn it, he whispered. He flicked slush off his armband’s makeshift red cross. 

Herman pretended shock. Is that the coat you got in Prague? 

Their conversation, punctuated by suspicious looks from SS officers, was formed from whispered phrases, grunts, broken sentences, nods and gestures. It took place over several hours whenever the guards moved out of earshot.

David, daydreaming of life before the war, replied, At Karlovy. On Pariczka Street. 

Herman teased, If I knew, I would jump in the way of the splash. 

I would let you.

Herman leaned away, as if from the glare of jewelry. It must be the finest coat in the labor camp.

It helps me remember who I was, David said.

David had been impressed into labor in 1939 by the Arrow Cross, Hungary’s nazified military. They allowed him to return home each night—at least in the war’s beginning. They tolerated the laborers access to their own clothing instead of the striped uniforms forced on most prisoners, a distinction they wore with pride. 

"Now, my coat is truly special," Herman argued while inserting a finger through a gabardine hole.

David tilted his head at the sight of Herman’s frayed coat as if measuring it for an alteration. How so?

There’s half a roll in my pocket, Herman explained. 

David wondered if he’d heard correctly.

Take it, Herman ordered.

What?

When a guard turned away, Herman whispered, Take it. He spoke to David like a favorite uncle would.

Fashion may have indeed fed some souls but, after fending off starvation for months, this was far more than David had hoped for.  Where did you find an extra roll?

I have influence. Herman gave David a secret glimpse of the brown crust inside his overcoat pocket.

With someone other than me? David extended a surreptitious hand toward Herman.

I have no influence with you, Herman claimed. But Vogel...

David stopped his hand in mid-reach. The anti-semite?

"The anti-semite pharmacist, Herman clarified. Jew haters can be very agreeable if you approach them in the right way." Their conversation, barely above a whisper, continued haltingly and in between glances from SS guards.

And you approached him how?

I gave him a chance to kill a Jew.

I don’t understand. 

"And save a Jew."

Who? probed David, ignoring Herman’s rabbinical musings. He stared at Herman’s pocket.  Kill who?"

Me. Herman opened his other palm briefly. A handkerchief cradled two dozen pills, perhaps more.

David didn’t understand.  Why would you—-?

So I can be buried like a real Jew. Buried. In there. Herman nodded at the cemetery. Not inside some incinerator.

David thought Herman confused. "It’s a Lutheran cemetery."

"And a beautiful spot, " Herman pointed out. He gestured toward the row of pines that bordered the graveyard.

You’re insane. David hissed.

Herman replied casually. Dying at a time and manner of my own choosing?

David had seen a few suicides in five years of captivity, but the prospect of losing a companion, of yet more emptiness, jolted him with dread. Herman, please. 

Look at me, offered Herman. He displayed an emaciated wrist. Half-dead already. 

David, the atheist, reminded Herman of what he thought must have been a talmudic rule. Rabbis can’t commit suicide.

Herman thought David too preoccupied with titles. You’re a good boy. Not a very good Jew, but you have the integrity of a good Jew. Pausing until a guard walked past, he said, Listen to me.  There’s a fresh grave over there. He nodded at the piney canopy that camouflaged the cemetery, then laid out his plan. When Leibig looks away, I’m going to sneak over there and climb into a grave. I’ll take the pills. As soon as the sun goes down, run over. Cover my body with soil. He knew David needed reassurance. I won’t feel pain. I promise. Again, he tried to entice David with the half roll.

Why me? asked David. 

They taught you to end suffering, no? In Prague? This is your opportunity to be the man you were.

Not that.

Though Herman was ready to die, he wouldn’t let Leibig rush him into it, so he kept out a wary eye. Is he watching? The Sturmbannführer?

Please don’t drag me into this," David begged.

Promise me, David. Bury me like a real Jew.

They’ll kill me, he said in an urgent whisper.

No, Herman clarified. You’re the Jew who Vogel swore to save!

Herman, no.

Here’s the good part. Herman lowered his voice to share a confidence. He promised he would sneak you into Switzerland tomorrow morning.

David sneered at the thought. Why would he risk his life for me?

His wife has a malady too minor for Wehrmacht medics, yet it’s concerning enough for Vogel. All you have to do is treat her.

They won’t let me breathe the same air as a citizen, David argued, Much less ride with them.

He’s no ordinary citizen. He’s a Kreisleiter! It was a rank the Nazi party stamped upon the breed of local official you find in sub-provinces, boroughs, counties, and shires.

David countered, "Party officials already let me treat their children. In their homes. It’s like the life I had before the war." 

"He’ll take you to Switzerland," he reminded, pointing in that direction. He swore on Christ! How could a man possibly sound more alive while talking about death? Your parents made it there, no? You could find them. Think of it.

David peeked at the road head. Vogel, the plump, balding pharmacist bent over the Kübelwagen’s passenger door to chat up Sturmbannführer Leibig. 

Herman took a step away from the line of laborers. Wait until the sunset. After you bury me, rejoin the crew.

Herman, I didn’t say yes.

Herman stopped long enough to add, "This is my escape. He knew David would give in. It’s not Switzerland, but..." He shoved the half-roll into David’s palm and limped hurriedly toward the cemetery. It only took a moment for him to disappear behind the line of trees.

Herman

Albert Vogel earned a string of minor honors beyond his pharmacy degree. As a Kreisleiter, he had official duties at the local National Socialist district offices. Like most party men, he assumed it granted him special authority as well as access to every Gauleiter, Reichsleiter, and imaginary führer in Austria. Even if he didn’t wear a uniform, the stiff arm salute he unveiled at every opportunity confirmed his place in the ranks of those aspiring blue-bloods. He was especially proud of his personal connection to SS luminaries like Sturmbannführer Leibig. At every opportunity he made a show of strutting toward the man. For all that, he was proudest of Luisa, the beautiful, young widow who became his wife only two months earlier.

He found her in a local hospital.  With his position of responsibility inside the hospital pharmacy, he was able to show her kindnesses that inclined her affectionately toward him despite their age difference.  Nearly as encouraging, Luisa’s malaise diminished with each injection the nurse administered. She complained of a fever at first, and soon her headaches brought her quite low. Yet, Vogel’s attentions awakened a smile in her that brightened everyone’s morning at the same time as it distracted her from thoughts of her late husband’s passing. 

The demands of the war’s two fronts had diminished the supply of physicians who might have been available to treat Luisa. But their absence came with the unintended benefit of limiting Vogel’s male competition and delivering to him a most seductive prize. 

Luisa’s mourning period was too brief to allow her wedding to Vogel to go forward without disapproving whispers. Nevertheless, during the war, most people were anxious to put unpleasant news in the past. Vogel, no less. Beyond that, his rank as a Kreisleiter had a way of muffling the petty complaints among envious citizens.

A month later, Vogel greeted his young bride with an especially passionate kiss. It caused her to whimper as if he had struck her. When she turned away, Vogel asked as gently as he could what he had done. Tears poured from her eyes and she covered her mouth with her hand. Her own fingers seemed to pain her. 

The truth was, Luisa had become somewhat irritable, especially where moments of intimacy were involved. Vogel considered the most obvious possibility, that she only valued him for his public standing and never did care for him. Yet, she always had a warm expression for him. And her symptoms seemed too genuine to be anything but true anguish. Vogel only wished to ease her distress. The night before, when she put a finger to his lips, her right hand shook. She stilled the tremor with her left. 

Before approaching Leibig for help, Vogel had taken Luisa to the hospital where he supervised the pharmacy staff. The abundance of wounds, infections, and exotic disorders Vogel struggled to medicate made him more aware of the war’s hardships than the average citizen, yet they seemed to cause him special problems. Most of the district’s physicians had been impressed into the military’s various divisions—SS, Abwehr, Wehrmacht, and their sub-groupings. With so many physicians and surgeons exiled to the Eastern front, his only option for Luisa’s care rested with doctors in field hospitals. His wife faced a problem for which the army’s medical establishment recommended a single treatment: injections of Previtin, a methamphetamine. Not only did their preferred therapy fail to address Luisa’s health issue, they turned her into a wreck. Vogel wondered whether party membership granted him any real advantages.

He explained his situation to Leibig.  My wife is ill, Sturmbannführer. But she’s not getting proper care. I would never slander the Reich or its institutions, but the overwork of our physicians has become an issue for the local citizenry.

What issue? Leibig challenged.

It seems our Abwehr physicians have a single recommendation for every malady. It’s true if you’re a tank commander and it’s true if you’re a housewife.

Ahh. Leibig knew of the injection that squeezed inhuman performance from exhausted troops. He also knew the risk of doubting official policy. But the medical establishment believes in it.

Vogel lowered his voice as if to deliver secret information. Sturmbannführer, it won’t help a woman who has prolonged periods of menstruation.

Perhaps she’s in menopause?

The stupidity of Leibig’s answer startled the Kreisleiter into silence. He worked up the energy to explain, slowly, as if to a child. Sir, she’s a young woman. Only twenty-eight years old.

It sounds like a common enough problem.

With respect. She’s experiencing abnormal hair growth. Vogel was embarrassed to go into more detail.

Leibig wanted to laugh. She’s become a werewolf, he thought. 

Sir, I looked up my wife’s symptoms. Benzedrine may help soldiers in battle, but not a woman with an enlarged ovary.

What do you want from the SS?

I’ve heard there are medics among your labor camp prisoners, men with medical degrees who might be able to help.

You would accept the advice of a Jew over a German scientist?

I’m not asking them to treat her, only to offer suggestions. Could I? The truth was, while employing Herman to weed his garden, Vogel had already asked him for an introduction to a Jewish medic. He hoped to get Leibig’s authorization only to avoid accusations of treason.

Leibig didn’t reply as much as give the matter rabbinical deliberation. In a minute, he put out his arm and forced Vogel to stand aside.

A hundred yards ahead, a gleaming Mercedes transported an officer across the frozen ruts in the road shoulder. The bouncing tires gave the road laborers a view of an SS Oberführer’s peaked cap. He removed his leather overcoat to give others a glimpse of his black SS uniform. The night before he had his wife take in the waist of the tunic to emphasize the width of his shoulders. If it minimized a forty year old man’s paunch, so much the better.  As the Mercedes rolled toward Leibig’s touring car, it forced Leibig’s driver to steer the Kübelwagen out of the Oberführer’s way.  Leibig, who had been lounging in his back seat, sat up and saluted crisply at his superior in the Mercedes. Oberführer Bauer. 

Sturmbannführer Leibig. The vapor expelled from Bauer’s lips gave his greeting a puff of dignity.

Leibig climbed out of his touring car and strode toward Bauer. The Oberführer would have to look up at him.

People tell me you’re wasting your talents here. On these— Bauer gestured dismissively at the laborers. As Leibig nodded his thanks, Bauer asked, Are you interested in a more challenging assignment?

Of course, Oberführer.

You know of the O/5 partizans? asked the superior.

Leibig bragged, We shot a pair of them last week.

Leibig’s pride annoyed Bauer. "That can