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The Last Of The Sonderkommando

The Last Of The Sonderkommando

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The Last Of The Sonderkommando

107 pagine
1 ora
Apr 15, 2014


An uncompromising account of the bloody persecution of the Jews, and others, in the Ukraine and the terrors of the Nazi death camps will shock and horrify many readers. All the events are as told by one of the survivors, Carl the main character in the book (although that was not his real name). The horror is real, the story is real, and it is as accurate as he, an old man when he related it in full, could remember it. There are no heroes here, only those who did whatever they needed to do to survive.

Carl was no gentleman and few people liked him, but in his life he had survived more horrors than most people could even imagine. As a Jew in the Ukraine during the Nazi occupation, he had been forced to become one of the sonderkommando, a member of a clean-up squad in a death camp, and yet he had not only survived but eventually also managed to take the opportunity to fight back.

Through a strange twist of fate, Carl and his small band of thugs may have changed the course of the war, but in an uncharacteristic act of kindness Carl might also have unwittingly helped millions of people in a very different type of war that is still being fought today.

Apr 15, 2014

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The Last Of The Sonderkommando - Mark Stephens

The Last Of The Sonderkommando

by Mark Stephens

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Mark Stephens

Published by Strict Publishing International

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

If you just thought the way I did, I think we’d get on fine.

But sad to say your foolish mind is not the same as mine.

Chapter One: Despair

Vancouver, Canada. 23rd December (two days before Christmas). 5.30pm. Temperature -2 Celsius. Conditions: Occasional flurries of snow, with icy patches everywhere.

This is the city that claims to have the highest standard of living on the planet. West Georgia, the main street is filled with throngs of people buying, eating, talking, laughing, and between them a never-ending stream of traffic crawls along.

You would need to look carefully to even notice the frail old man standing opposite the fine hotel and just watching intently as fancy cars arrive and well dressed people hand their keys to the valet then disappear into the warm and brightly lit interior.

Eventually, this old guy takes his walker and slowly makes his way up the slight hill past all the glittering signs and the enormous Christmas trees. He stops and waits for the sign telling him it is now safe to cross, and immediately starts moving. The traffic lights are designed for more active people so before he reaches the other side they turn red. A large car starts honking and someone opens the window leans out and yells, Get off the fucking road, you old bastard.

He does not react, but he continues moving as fast as he can. A few blocks further and he turns away from the bright lights, heading towards another world close in reality but thousands of miles away in another sense. A person, it is difficult to know if they are male or female, sits with their arm uncovered shoving a needle into a place just below where they have tied a cord. A young prostitute is catering to a client at the entrance to the ally, and shouting can be heard coming from several directions. The old man ignores everything and slowly continues on his way.

He is heading towards a building that could easily be the setting for a horror movie. Outside, the walls are covered in graffiti, and as you enter you wonder how anyone can live like this. The mailboxes are broken, the floor is filthy, and in two places is it obvious that someone has thrown up. There are two old and very dried up, used condoms on a wire that holds the one and only Christmas decoration, and a syringe is lying nearby.

None of this appears to worry this guy. He finally arrives at his apartment, the second door on the right. He is fortunate that he does not live on another level, because that would mean climbing the stairs. As usual, the elevator is out of order.

The apartment he has just come into is, to put it mildly, dismal. The globes in the bathroom, with one exception, are burned out. There is only one source of light in the living area and if it were not for the reflected light from the tall building across from his window it would be almost dark. Although it is almost Christmas, not everyone has the spirit of goodwill as the sounds from the apartment above clearly indicate. Shouting and cursing, screaming and using the most vile expletives imaginable followed by the sound of things being thrown about and glass breaking.

He moves over to the torn sofa, and collapses into it then tries to turn on the T.V. but nothing happens. Desperation is showing, for he sits up puts his head in his hands and starts sobbing. It is the end of the line and he knows it. He wants out, but how? In the past there were guns, or a hose from the car, or medication that he could overdose on. Hanging was also something to consider but you need a rope and the ability to climb onto something. No gun, no car, no medication and no rope; he is trapped.

He does not want to live, it is too painful, but he does not know how to die. He knows his friend Carlo has Oxycotolyn, the painkiller, and he makes up his mind to get some. It is not one of those spur of the moment decisions like so many he made in the past. This time it is all planned and premeditated. Although it has been a very tiring trip into town he needed to do it. At this time of year awards are given to special people who had achieved certain things, and tonight Sharron, his ex wife and his childhood sweetheart, would be there. He knew that Brad, Monica and Cliff, his children, would be with her, hoping to bask in their mother’s glory, together with their new stepfather François. He is certain that the following day there will be a lot of press coverage and Sharron will be, if not on the front page, certainly well presented elsewhere. She is very photogenic, and she always enjoyed the attention that fame provided.

* * * * *

Jack had waited in front of the hotel hoping get a glimpse of his old family, but he had been moved on. Standing across the street he thought he saw them, but he was not sure. Now he recalled the many occasions in the past when they had stayed there or when they had been there to receive an award or attend some celebration. In those days, the doorman, Bill, would greet them with a cheery, ‘Hello Mr. Tomlinson. How are you today?’ He would take the keys for the BMW while a bellboy unloaded their luggage and took everything up to their penthouse suite.

How things had changed, not only the staff at the hotel but everything from the smart clothes to the long thick dirty coat he now wore. It was not only the clothes; there was the discomfort and the smell. Jack had had prostate surgery, and because of that he leaked. It was embarrassing and damned uncomfortable. Right now he had lots of newspaper shoved inside his old underpants, but because he had been out for so long it had become saturated and so had his pants. Add to this, the temperature outside was well below freezing, and it was no wonder that he felt as he did.

Everything he did was slow, and now he left his apartment and he turned right and slowly headed down to #12 where Carlo lived. He knew where the painkillers were kept, so maybe he could ‘borrow’ some. He knocked, but there was no reply. He tried the door handle and to his surprise it opened easily. It was rare for anyone to leave their door unlocked in this neighborhood, but this one, like so many things in this building, was broken. Carlo had recently lost his key so he did what he was good at: he broke the door. Jack knew where Carlo kept his tablets, but as he tried to open the drawer there was a little sound, like something breaking but he was not sure exactly what it was.

There were four bottles of painkillers. Jack took two, put them in his pocket, closed the draw and left as quickly as he could. It was only about thirty feet between the two apartments but, as fate would have it, with only about ten feet more to reach his own door, the door from the entrance opened and there stood a happy and slightly drunk Carlo.

As always, he was in a good mood. Nothing ever changed that, and even if he were involved in a vicious fight he would still be laughing as he was kicking someone or being hit by them. Tonight was no exception, and as he entered he bellowed out, Happy Christmas, my friend.

The last person Jack wanted to see tonight was this huge Ukrainian, and the furthest thing from his mind was the joys of Christmas. However, there was one thing he knew: you do not upset Carlo. He had seen others do it and pay the price. Although well into his eighties, this man was incredible. A few weeks earlier Jack had been mugged and his welfare check stolen, together with some other money, and he ended up in hospital with broken ribs. Carlo, on the other hand, was once arrested after an attempt to mug him, when he had thrown one assailant through a shop window and kicked the other so hard that his testicles had burst, ending forever his hopes of becoming a father.

Jack clearly remembered the event because he was standing on the other side of the road when it happened. Carlo had been accosted by two young thugs who had knives and demanded his money and his watch. On the

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