Read Online Angels Fallen by Francis Joseph Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Francis Joseph Smith
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organization. They have the simple job to check the conditions at our fine establishment. These ladies and gentlemen are here to register your complaints and review our general living and working conditions. Their delegation also includes a Catholic priest for any of you who proclaim that religion as your faith. Those of you who are Catholic will be allowed to visit for five minutes with the priest to confess your sins. To speed the process, I would like all of those prisoners of the Catholic persuasion to identify themselves and step out of line. If you do not, I will personally search the records to find out who is Catholic and invite you to my office for a more personal visit. I guarantee you will not enjoy the visit.” He smiled, patting the ceremonial sword that hung around his waist.
Of the 770 odd men assembled in the courtyard, ten stepped out of line as instructed, walking in an orderly procession to where the priest and Major Fedorov awaited them.
“Good, g ood, we have volunteers. Follow me and this gentleman into my office,” Major Fedorov ordered before turning to face the priest. “Father, you will have five minutes with each prisoner. After that they go back to work for Mother Russia.”
The small, balding, almost gn omish Red Cross representative was quick to reply. “That is most gracious of you, major. I am your humble servant.” He made a slight downward tilt of the head as if the major were royalty. Of the ten prisoners who were assembled in front of them, Peter Dems was selected or “arranged” to be the first man to enter the commander’s office, being hustled out of line by a brutish guard and harshly pushed to the front.
At one time Peter Dems had been considered a handsome man, standing 6’1,” 200 pounds, with a thick head of blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Since his arrival in 1945, pneumonia, plague, and typhoid ravaged his body taking their toll. He now appeared gaunt and weak.
“Welcome, my son. P lease do sit down,” said the Priest, otherwise known as Antonio Perluci of the Vatican Intelligence staff, recently assigned to the International Red Cross for this one mission. He closed the door. A small widow in its center allowed the guard to observe the proceedings. “Has it been long since you have spoken to a priest of your faith?”
Peter eyed the man for several seconds, not really knowing how to respond to such a ridiculous question. “I don’t mean to sound rude, Padre, but what the hell do you think we do in here?” he replied sarcastically.
Perluci glanced over Peter’s shoulder to see if the Soviet guard was still monitoring their conversation. Convinced he was indeed alone with the prisoner, he proceeded. “We are here to monitor the conditions of the camp and to possibly relay any messages you may have for family and friends.”
Peter tried to gauge this man for trickery. He knew it would not be beneath the Soviets to create an elaborate ruse just to torture the prisoners. “Father, I really don’t have anyone at home who would still care enough to want to hear from me. Most of my family was killed in bombing raids during the early years of the war. I was hoping to just talk about current events. We don’t receive outside news in this god-forsaken place. Hell, for all I know, the war could still be going on.”
Perluci looked to the door once more, seeing the guard had evidently tired of his post. Perluci removed a wedding photo of Peter and his wife from his jacket pocket, slipping it across to him. Perluci lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Please, I already know who you are. You have changed much from when this photo was taken over six years ago. I imagine Soviet food and confinement do not agree with you.”
Peter stared at the photo. Tears began to well in his eyes.
The photo had the desired effect. He was already a broken man.
Perluci continued . “I only have a few minutes before the guard comes back,
Of the 770 odd men assembled in the courtyard, ten stepped out of line as instructed, walking in an orderly procession to where the priest and Major Fedorov awaited them.
“Good, g ood, we have volunteers. Follow me and this gentleman into my office,” Major Fedorov ordered before turning to face the priest. “Father, you will have five minutes with each prisoner. After that they go back to work for Mother Russia.”
The small, balding, almost gn omish Red Cross representative was quick to reply. “That is most gracious of you, major. I am your humble servant.” He made a slight downward tilt of the head as if the major were royalty. Of the ten prisoners who were assembled in front of them, Peter Dems was selected or “arranged” to be the first man to enter the commander’s office, being hustled out of line by a brutish guard and harshly pushed to the front.
At one time Peter Dems had been considered a handsome man, standing 6’1,” 200 pounds, with a thick head of blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Since his arrival in 1945, pneumonia, plague, and typhoid ravaged his body taking their toll. He now appeared gaunt and weak.
“Welcome, my son. P lease do sit down,” said the Priest, otherwise known as Antonio Perluci of the Vatican Intelligence staff, recently assigned to the International Red Cross for this one mission. He closed the door. A small widow in its center allowed the guard to observe the proceedings. “Has it been long since you have spoken to a priest of your faith?”
Peter eyed the man for several seconds, not really knowing how to respond to such a ridiculous question. “I don’t mean to sound rude, Padre, but what the hell do you think we do in here?” he replied sarcastically.
Perluci glanced over Peter’s shoulder to see if the Soviet guard was still monitoring their conversation. Convinced he was indeed alone with the prisoner, he proceeded. “We are here to monitor the conditions of the camp and to possibly relay any messages you may have for family and friends.”
Peter tried to gauge this man for trickery. He knew it would not be beneath the Soviets to create an elaborate ruse just to torture the prisoners. “Father, I really don’t have anyone at home who would still care enough to want to hear from me. Most of my family was killed in bombing raids during the early years of the war. I was hoping to just talk about current events. We don’t receive outside news in this god-forsaken place. Hell, for all I know, the war could still be going on.”
Perluci looked to the door once more, seeing the guard had evidently tired of his post. Perluci removed a wedding photo of Peter and his wife from his jacket pocket, slipping it across to him. Perluci lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Please, I already know who you are. You have changed much from when this photo was taken over six years ago. I imagine Soviet food and confinement do not agree with you.”
Peter stared at the photo. Tears began to well in his eyes.
The photo had the desired effect. He was already a broken man.
Perluci continued . “I only have a few minutes before the guard comes back,
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