“We have no arms,” Tatiana explained. Markowitza made an inarticulate sound, furious at being upstaged.
“What are you doing here?” the German officer asked, looking over all of them and realising that only the Commandant could be over 20.
“We were in our summer camp,” Tatiana said.
“You are the Commandant?”
“I am the Commandant,” Markowitza declared.
“Then I make you responsible for these children. You will remain here until told where to go. Understood?”
“We will remain here,” Markowitza agreed.
“Please, sir,” Natasha said. “May we have some food?” There had not really been enough to go round.
“I have no food,” the captain said. “When our ground forces get to you there will be food. It will not be long.”
He rejoined his tank, and the two vehicles roared off to rejoin the battle. “We must hurry,” Tatiana said.
Markowitza stared at her from under arched eyebrows. “Hurry, where?”
“Well...into the Marshes, I suppose.” They had to accept the inevitable, however distasteful it might be. “They will hardly follow us there.”
“I told the officer we would remain here,” Markowitza declared. “We have surrendered.”
“There may be some food in the houses,” Natasha suggested. “Those people cannot have taken it all.”
“That would be stealing,” Markowitza said, severely. “Are you thieves?”
Tatiana felt like stamping her foot; the silly woman should realise that if they didn’t take anything they could find, the Germans certainly would.
The boys also had some food in their carts, and they managed to have a frugal meal. Anatole sat next to Tatiana. “What are we going to do?”
“I think we should leave this place and try to reach the Marshes.”
“But Markowitza has said no. She would punish us.”
“She’d find it a bit difficult to punish us if we all went,” Tatiana pointed out. Anatole chewed his lip in indecision.
Markowitza stood above them. “People are coming,” she said, “Line up, and look your best.”
Tatiana sighed. They had lost the right to make a decision. She called her girls into line, and they watched the columns of grey-clad soldiers who had bypassed Brest-Litovsk and were tramping across the fields. But instinctively she knew that the soldiers were less important than the cars approaching along the track from Brest-Litovsk. From the lead car there flew the swastika.
There were four cars, with four men in each. Three of the men in the first car were officers, very smartly dressed in black uniforms and high-peaked caps; they wore sparkling little badges — only when they came close did Tatiana see that the badges were those of the death’s head. The rest of the men also wore black, but were less ornately dressed. They were however each armed with a Maschinenpistole 40, the Schmeisser sub-machine-gun, and these were presented at the young people as the black-clad soldiers fanned out to either side of the car.
Tatiana felt her stomach roll as the officers approached. Never had she seen such brutal faces, or such lustful ones as they looked over the girls, quite a few of whom were extremely pretty. But all three, having looked, brought their gazes back to Tatiana. None of the other girls had her beauty. She had an almost irresistible urge to turn and run as fast as her legs would carry her. But she knew that would mean a bullet in the back. The first officer addressed Markowitza in Russian. “You are in charge of these people?”
Markowitza stood to attention. “Yes, Comrade Major.”
The officer stepped up close to her and slashed his gloved hand across her mouth. Markowitza staggered, and blood flew from her cut lip. She stared at the officer. Nothing like that had happened to her since she had become a Party member. A ripple of fear went up and down the line of boys and girls. “I am not your comrade, woman,” he said. “I am your conqueror. You will address me as Herr Major.”
Markowitza licked blood. “Yes...Herr Major.”
“Now, you are the Camp Commandant? Then you are a commissar?”
“No, Herr Major.”
“Do not lie to me, woman!”
“I am not lying, Herr Major. Of course, I have every hope of becoming a commissar, but...”
“That is sufficient! You are under arrest.”
Markowitza’s jaw sagged, as two of the soldiers came forward. She had still not made up her mind what to do, or say, when they grasped her arms, pushing Tatiana out of the way to do so. Then she reacted instinctively, trying to shrug herself free. Instantly the soldiers threw her to the ground, and before she could catch her breath one of them had kicked her in the buttocks. Markowitza gave a shout of mingled pain and outrage, and tried to get up, whereupon the other soldier kicked her in the thigh, and she fell again, rolling, arms flung wide, panting, skirt disarranged. The girls shuddered. One of the soldiers stood astride her and placed the muzzle of his sub-machine-gun on her breast while he snapped at her in German. “He is telling you to get up,” the major said.
Still panting, Markowitza cautiously pushed herself out from beneath the German’s legs and stood up. She was trembling, her cap had come off, her clothes were coated in dust, and to Tatiana’s consternation, a tear escaped her left eye and trickled down her cheek. Markowitza, she with the cane, weeping? But she had also lost her cane. Now she gasped again as one of the soldiers jabbed her in the ribs with his gun, and she staggered towards the cars. “Now,” the major said, surveying the rest of them. “Are there any Jews here?”
The girls glanced at each other. There were, in fact, several Jews among both the girls and the boys, but they all suspected that they would be arrested and beaten if found out. They could not help looking past the major at the Commandant, who had been taken down to the last of the cars and was being thrown to and fro between six of the men, Tatiana realised, while she was stripped of her clothing. Again she felt sick. The major walked up and down in front of them. “Well?”
Tatiana drew a deep breath. “There are no Jews, Herr Major.”
The major paused in front of her; she found she was holding her breath, and had to let it out, very slowly. “Well,” he said, “Anyone can see that you are not a Jew, even if you are a liar. But it would be a shame to ruin such a beautiful creature.” He looked along the row of girls. “That one!”
There was another ripple through the ranks, but the sub-machine-guns were aimed at them, and no one dared move. One of the soldiers seized the girl at whom the major had pointed and dragged her from the ranks. Her name was Constantina Reykjava and she was a slight girl, only 16 years old. This was her first summer camp and Tatiana had found her a bit of a problem because of her homesickness and her terror of the open air. She had been weeping nearly all morning, and her eyes were red and swollen, which no doubt was one of the reasons the major had chosen her. “Now,” he said, when she was brought in front of him. “What is your name, little girl?”
Constantina’s teeth chattered. “Constantina Reykjava, Herr Major.”
“And you are afraid of me. But there is nothing for you to be afraid of. Not unless you make me angry. You are not going to make me angry, are you?”
“No, Herr Major,” Constantina muttered.
“That is very sensible of you. Turn round, Constantina.” Constantina hesitated, and then obeyed. Tatiana could see that every muscle in the girl’s body was tensed as she anticipated an assault. “Look at these girls, and the boys, Constantina,” the major invited. “And tell me which ones are Jews.” Constantine opened her mouth, and found herself staring at Tatiana. Hastily she closed it again. “Come along, girl,” the major said.
“There are no Jews here, Herr Major,” Constantina said, her voice little more than a whisper.
The major thrust his hands into Constantina’s hair, long and wispy, mouse-brown, and pulled her head back; Constantina’s sidecap fell off. “You are lying, Constantina,” he grunted. Constantina gave a little whimper. Now all the girls
and boys were looking at her instead of Markowitza, who had in any event disappeared behind the last car. So had two of the soldiers, who were no doubt raping her, Tatiana supposed. Now it would be Constantina’s turn. But she was not going to be so lucky. “Very well,” the major said. “Now you have made me angry, Constantina.”
He gave an order, and four of the soldiers seized the shivering girl. Two held her arms while two more grasped her ankles and lifted her from the ground. They then laid her across the bonnet of the first car, continuing to hold her wrists and ankles, two on each side of the bonnet. It was now late morning and the sun was overhead, shining fiercely. The metal of the bonnet was hot, and Constantina gasped in discomfort, a gasp which became a scream as another soldier threw up her skirt and pulled down her drawers. White buttocks gleamed in the sunlight, and the major signalled one of the junior officers, who took from the back of the car a thin cane. This he showed to Constantina, who stopped screaming to burst into tears.
Once again the watching young people rippled with apprehension. Fifteen men, Tatiana thought, dominating more than a hundred. But they had the guns! At the first stroke of the cane Constantina’s head jerked; she was so taken aback by the pain that she even stopped crying. But by the second she was weeping and screaming incoherently, straining against the four pairs of hands which held her spreadeagled across the bonnet, while the cane slashed again and again into the no longer white flesh. One of the girls gave a sigh and fainted; Natasha and Tatiana held her up — they had to presume that for anyone to fall down would involve her also in a beating.
After the twelfth stroke the major signalled his junior to stop. By then Constantina’s buttocks were a bloody mess. The hands released her, and she slid off the bonnet, whimpering. Her knees gave way and she collapsed to the ground, but hastily tried to push herself up as her torn buttocks came into contact with the earth. The major nudged her with his foot. “Now,” he said. “Are you ready to point out the Jews to me?” Constantina panted, and two of the soldiers held her arms to lift her to her feet. When her knees gave way, they held her between them; her drawers remained about her ankles but at least her skirt had fallen into place. “Come along now,” the major said.
Constantina’s head was drooping and he put his hand beneath her chin to raise it up. “If you do not tell me now,” he said. “You will have to have another 12 strokes. I should think another 12 will scar you for life.” Constantina cast Tatiana an agonised look. But Tatiana knew she was lost.
It was probably the humiliation as much as the pain. She closed her eyes. She did not wish to look upon the utter disintegration of a human being. “All you have to do is point,” the major was saying.
Constantina was apparently pointing, because Tatiana could hear a great deal of rustling, sounds of despair, around her. Someone shouted, “Tatiana!” but she kept her eyes shut. She was their leader, their mentor, their certain refuge in time of trouble. And she was doing nothing to help them. She could do nothing to help them, save die herself.
“That is very good, Constantina,” the major was saying, and Tatiana opening her eyes, saw that some two dozen of both sexes had been pulled from the ranks, and were standing in a group, looking forlornly at their fellows. Now it was Constantina who had her eyes shut. “Now,” the major said to the rest of them. “Fall in. You are young soldiers of the Soviet Union, eh? Well, as of now you have been transferred. You are now young labourers for the Greater Reich. Come on, come on, fall in!”
The girls and boys obeyed; they were used to this kind of command. Tatiana turned to see them obey, and gasped as someone touched her on the shoulder. She swung back again, found a soldier standing to each side of her. It was painful to draw breath, she was suddenly so terrified. But she was not Jewish! The major had recognised that.
“What is your name, Fraulein?” the major asked.
Tatiana licked her lips. “I am Tatiana Gosykinya.”
The major looked her up and down, as if seeing her for the first time. But he had been looking at her from the very beginning. Now he stretched out his hand and squeezed her left breast. It was a brutal gesture, with no suggestion of tenderness, or even lust, but merely to ascertain that there was flesh beneath the bulge in her blouse, and perhaps also to make her realise that she was entirely at his mercy. Tatiana gasped and instinctively raised her hand, only to have her wrist caught by one of the soldiers.
“Do you know what would have happened to you had you struck me?” the major asked. Tatiana panted. Now he squeezed the other breast. “We would have these off for a start. Secure her wrists,” he said. Tatiana’s arms were pulled behind her back and her wrists were bound. “That one,” the major said, pointing.
Natasha Renkova was pushed forward, and her wrists also bound behind her back. The major felt her breasts as well. Natasha’s face contorted with embarrassment.
“And that one.” Sophie Shermetska was similarly treated; predictably, she burst into tears. The major smiled at them. “You three will not have to work for the Reich, with your hands. You can work on your backs.”
He jerked his head and they were thrust forward, made to enter one of the cars and sit on the back seat, awkwardly and uncomfortably with their wrists bound behind them. Tatiana turned her head as the rest were marched off. Anatole caught her eye and gave a little shrug of the shoulders. There was still some spirit left.
The approach to Brest-Litovsk was littered with corpses, men lying in ungainly postures, already stiff. Few of them had rifles, and Tatiana realised they were men who had tried to run away, like those earlier men, more fortunate, at least in the short run, in having made the decision to abandon the struggle immediately. But they were Russian soldiers! There had been supposedly thousands of them, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. And they had run away at the first shock of battle!
Some had fought, and been defeated; the approach to the town was also littered with burned-out tanks, shattered by the inexorable panzers; there were even one or two crashed planes. But there was hardly any indication of German casualties. Closer to the town were the living who had not had the time to run, a huge mass of men herded together by the conquerors. They too did not have rifles.
But the battle still raged, for the citadel continued to hold out. German bombers swooped overhead, dropping their deadly cargoes, and German mortars pounded the old stone fortress from close range; both sent clouds of dust high into the sky from the crumbling stonework. But there were cracks of rifles from amidst the rubble, and the few guns and machine-guns still possessed by the defenders spat fire at their assailants. The town itself burned. Although it was midday, the smoke clouds made it seem like night, and the stench, composed of a hundred and one sources, but principally the sweetish odour of burning flesh, was nauseating, seeming to redouble the intense heat. Here and there German soldiers were picking through the wreckage, occasionally dragging people out of shattered houses, civilians as well as soldiers. Every so often there would be a shot. Sophie wept quietly. Natasha shuddered constantly. Tatiana sat rigid, staring at the guard, who stared back, grinning.
At last, some relief from the heat and the stench. They had emerged on the far side of the town where there was a prosperous-looking dacha, clearly belonging to the local Party boss. Here the swastika flag had already been run up the flagpole, and sentries were posted at the door. There were also several other officers, some, judging by their insignia, of quite high rank. They spoke in German, with the major, and there was some gesticulating and pointing. Tatiana became aware of a fresh noise overlying that of the burning town and the firing from the fortress, and looked to where the road crossed the frontier, perhaps a mile away; she caught her breath as she saw the immense amount of armour which was proceeding up the road, the truckloads of soldiers following them, intent on enlarging and exploiting their initial victory.
Now the officers’ conversation obviously turned to the three girls, as their guard gestured them out of the car and the officers came across to ins
pect them. One very senior officer — Tatiana reckoned he was a general — with white hair and quiet features, was clearly disapproving. But a majority of the others were grinning and apparently pleased to see the prisoners. There was some argument, then the general snapped his fingers and another staff car appeared from round the corner of the house. He got into this, followed by one of the junior officers, who looked regretful at having to leave, and they drove out of the yard. The rest of the officers exchanged laughing comments, and the major turned to the three girls. “Inside.”
Tatiana led them into the house, which had survived very well. Certainly no one had tried to defend it; the few cracked windowpanes had been caused by distant blast rather than bullets or bombs. “Upstairs,” the major commanded. Tatiana led the way up the stairs. “There is the bathroom,” the major said. “Use it. Take a shower. Use soap.”
At some stage during the afternoon they were fed sausages and vodka. Sophie had stopped crying; she had taken off her glasses and ate with a wolfish anxiety. They were all very hungry. Tatiana ate more slowly, and tried to drink as little as possible, although the men kept forcing vodka on her. If only she could tell what they were saying. They seemed good-humoured enough, and they were rapidly getting drunk. But when they were tired of playing with their toys, would they just shoot them?
The major had been absent. Now he returned, and began giving orders. Reluctantly the men began to dress, staggering about the place, while the major lambasted them with his tongue.
The Scarlet Generation Page 4
