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“In THE RAGNAROK VAULTS, Michael Perrota channels the storytelling ghost of Alistair MacLean and the literary efficiency of Lee Child to produce one of the best what if? thrillers I’ve read in years.”  

—Dan Pope, author of HOUSEBREAKING.

“Perrota is fortunate to possess a powerhouse of strong emotions that he can tap into — fuel for a lot of vibrant writing.”   

–Daniel Asa Rose, author of LARRY’S KIDNEY

“Perrota’s novel is a feast of exquisite sentences and compelling characters that carry the reader deep inside a mystery where life and death, and love and betrayal reveal themselves to us in uncommon and unforgettable ways. Because The Ragnarok Vaults is a stunning portrait of people filled with longing and regret, seeking refuge in a world collapsing around them, we should pay close attention. 

–Don J. Snyder, Author of OF TIME & MEMORY

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

August 1943, Occupied Poland

Mahks Bohle and Erich Von Laursen walked the grounds of Treblinka. No executions had taken place for a week. Instead, the remaining prisoners were ordered to clear the debris from the remnants of the chaotic revolt that had damaged most of the camp.

Bohle showed Von Laursen the compound where the children of the camp had smuggled munitions and small arms in their sacks. He showed him where the first shots were fired on two mercenary Ukrainian guards. He showed him where hundreds of fleeing Jews had been killed by Germans in the machine gun turrets.

And he showed him the various points on the barb-wire fences that the prisoners had torn their flesh on. And escaped.

“How many?” said Von Laursen.

“Initial reports were 300. I’m afraid it could be as many as 600,” said Bohle. “They scattered in a hundred different directions like cockroaches.”

“Major, am I to tell Reichsführer Himmler that we don’t have an exact number?”

“My apologies, General. They burned our records office, and the officer in charge of registration was murdered during the uprising.”

Von Laursen shook his head. He touched the fence and ripped off a piece of clothing that was still dangling from the revolt. He smelled it and inhaled its stench. He did not gag nor flinch. Instead, he choked it in his fist and then threw it back against the fence.

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