Upfall

Before he chanced crossing the river, Mueller decided to examine the submachinegun again. It would be useful to have an operational weapon, just in case. After inspecting the gun in the light of day for a few minutes, Mueller identified the safety device behind the pistol grip. He depressed it, and pulled lightly on the trigger. It gave! How clever. Now with a real weapon to hand he stepped out of the weeds and onto the bridge. Mueller crossed the river and walked into the tiny village of Przewoz. The place didn't look like it had an outhouse much less a police station. He walked through the town undisturbed and unnoticed, sticking to the main road. Mueller followed the road out of the village and walked on a couple of kilometers until he reached the somewhat larger of Malkinia Gorna. He looked around—still a pretty shitty place. He dusted off his battered uniform, and especially his rank badges, hefted the small submachinegun, and marched smartly into the town. He hoped to find a Polish police station or at least a telephone. A single scraggly phone line ran down the potholed road.

He followed the phone line. In the town center, such as it was, Mueller noted that the phone line connected to a postal office, which to his dismay was closed and tightly locked up. God damned lazy Poles he thought. With no real choice, he sat on the steps of the post office and waited for the clerk to arrive.

Three kilometers to the south, Wirth had similar concerns. His uniform was still all of a piece, complete with his officer's cap and death‘s head badge, but it was slowly coming apart, thanks to the attention of seemingly endless patches of thorns. It was the price Wirth paid to stay off the roads through the night, terrified that either the enemy raiders or a jumpy SS patrol might gun him down.

These fears receded with the dawn, replaced by an alarm which mirrored Mueller's—that taken for a deserter he would be summarily executed by his own people. And unlike Mueller, Wirth actually was a deserter. Still, as an SS officer, he was a little better off than the police sergeant. To mitigate the danger, Wirth decided to assemble a small ad hoc command of fellow fugitives. A group of orderly men under an officer would arouse much less suspicion then bedraggled individuals wandering the countryside. Casting about in the early morning light, Wirth managed to gather together four other stragglers from Treblinka—three Ukranians and a SS corporal from Erbel‘s garrison.

They too saw the sense in falling in under Wirth, rather than taking their chances alone.

By mid-morning Wirth and his men found a high road and chanced to walk along it, heading west for the sizable town of Brok.

There Wirth guessed there should be a Polish police garrison, if not an actual German outpost. The little unit of deserters marched behind Wirth along the tumbledown road, finally reaching a road sign showing Brok three kilometers distant.

The men squinted ahead uncomfortably into the evening sun, setting in a rosy glow to the west. They’d heen walking all day, without water of food. Out of the glare a German column appeared on the road, speeding toward the blue—black smoke of Treblinka, still smoldering behind them. The column, consisting of a staff car and a pair of troop trucks, came to a cautious halt several meters from the fugitives. To Wirth‘s relief it was made up of Ordnungs Polizei led by a second lieutenant. Wirth not only had superior status as an SS officer, he could pull rank.

Wirth marched up to the staff car where the lieutenant sat. The Polizei officer looked at him warily, and did not dismount, nor salute.

Wirth dressed him down.

”Obersturmfuhrer Wirth, aide to SS Gruppenfuhrer Globocnik!

Get out and salute—or shall I put you on report, Lieutenant.

The junior officer was actually an older heavyset man who looked like a small town traffic cop, uneasy in the wilds of eastern Poland. He was easily flustered by Wirth's verbal assault. The lieutenant rather comically struggled out to of the vehicle, clicked his heels in the dust and offered a Nazi salute that almost knocked off Wirth's hat.

”Leutnant Jevers reporting!" shouted the the policeman.

"Apologies Obersturmfuhrer, we could not see you clearly through the dust on the road. I was told to be cautious, as there are partisans afoot."

"What are your orders?"

"We are on our way to a camp called Treblinka. Partisans may have attacked last night. We are to drive them off."

"Not to worry, Lieutenant. My men finished the partisans this morning" Wiith lied. "It was a hard fight. We are the garrison's only survivors—other than a few deserters."

Jevers, uncomfortable though he was, assessed the SS officer with a policeman's natural skepticism. "Excuse the question Herr Obersturmfuhrer, but why are you on foot. Surely the camp had some transport."