by Paul Grant
Whilst I was deep in my ugly thoughts, he had returned. This time Major Dobrovsky really did mean business. He looked stiffer, probably because his jacket and sidearm stayed on. He appeared not only more formal, but mean, angrier. Probably he knew what was coming. I definitely did.
‘Well, Schultz, what’s it to be?’ He nodded at the papers in front of me.
I saw the two guards move out of the corner of my eye. Maybe it was my imagination, but I couldn’t help feeling they were getting themselves loose.
‘I have not committed a crime. I will not sign,’ I said.
I sounded more certain than I actually was. I could have avoided a lot of pain for all of us in the short term, by co-operating. It was the longer stay in the camps I was trying to avoid. Then there were other thoughts creeping into my mind, playing with it. Had we committed a crime? I suppose, technically speaking, one of us had. Anybody who thought that, however, didn’t know the type of war we were fighting. It was kill or be killed. You only had to look at our treatment since we’d been captured. It hardly fell under the edicts of the Geneva Convention. It had been a different war with different rules.
‘That’s a shame for you, Sergeant Schultz. A real shame.’
He got up to leave and nodded to the two heavies. I was beginning to build up a picture of Major Dobrovsky and it wasn’t a very pleasant one. He wasn’t the type to end up with blood on his hands. Just like in Stalingrad, others would do his bidding, others would spill the blood.
I realised Dobrovsky was still in the room. ‘But just remember one thing,’ he said. ‘All your comrades will be asked the same question, given the same choices. I hope they share your resolve, Schultz.’
For some reason that comment made me anxious. I didn’t have the chance to dwell on exactly why. The first blow on the side of my head tipped me off my chair. I was in a bad position now, vulnerable. The two of them laid into me with relish. Boots and rubber pipe rained down on me like a monsoon. It felt like there were ten of them, not two. Then again, they must have been experts. They say practice makes perfect, and they’d had plenty of practice. Studying Andrei, as I had been able to do, there was little doubt about that.
I just curled up in a ball and absorbed the blows. Until I passed out. The last thing I remember was feeling something cold on my face. It was the drain. Somebody would have some cleaning up to do.
CHAPTER 32
AUGUST 1945, BERLIN
Maria Schultz had been in turmoil ever since the doctor had given her the unwelcome news. The resilience of the women of Berlin had amazed her. In hospital, she had met many others like Helmi and herself, victims of the Russians. She knew the rape of the city’s womenfolk had been widespread, but she didn’t realise quite how big a problem it had been. Dealing with the mental trauma of the various incidents had been one thing to Maria, but coping with something as permanent as a child, one of an unknown Russian soldier, was quite another thing.
Deep down, Maria knew that bringing the child of a Russian soldier into the world couldn’t happen. She wasn’t worried what other people would think if she did decide that was the best thing to do, she was worried about the effect on her own family, especially on Ulrich. In the past few months, he’d suffered what no child should have had to witness. He had remained strong, and made brave, sensible choices in the face of terrible provocation. Growing up with the child of a Russian soldier could tip him over the edge. That was before she even thought about her husband. If Klaus were to ever return, she couldn’t even consider the eventuality of such a child in his home. There appeared to be no option.
Officially, she’d been told the hospital could not help her, but the nurse had given her the details of a reputable clinic for women “in her position.” At that stage, Maria hadn’t been ready to make a decision, but now the signs were starting to show. Her morning sickness had made Ulrich worried. He’d said she should return to the hospital to get checked over, when Maria knew it was completely normal. She wasn’t ill, just at the start of a pregnancy.
Helmi would normally advise her so well on life’s problems, but she was still coming to terms with the assault. Physically speaking, she was just about healed; the mental process would take much longer. So, Maria had gone back to the red-bricked church, back to where she had been put in contact with the Major during the war. It hadn’t taken long for her call for help to be heard.
When Maria set eyes on her on the Ku’daam, Fräulein Sommer looked to be back to how she was when they first met in the Tiergarten. She embraced Maria, whilst somehow managing to keep her at a distance.
‘It’s good to see you’re still with us, Maria.’
‘Likewise, Fräulein Sommer.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘It was a close-run thing there towards the end.’
Maria knew she wasn’t going to elaborate on what she’d already said. If the last weeks of her war, and the immediate aftermath, had been anything like Maria’s, she wasn’t surprised to hear it.
They started to walk on down the street. Maria noticed American jeeps roar up and down the road, Allied troops having gained access to the city in the previous month. They had each taken their slice of Berlin. Somehow, the night-time activities of the Russian troops had settled down; the assaults still occurred, but they seemed to be more sporadic, rather than widespread.
‘Have you heard anything about your husband?’
Maria felt scared for a moment, quickly shaking her head. Whilst in this predicament, she couldn’t think about it. She had to force it from her mind just to cope.
Fräulein Sommer lit a cigarette, slipping the silver lighter back into her brown leather handbag.
‘Have you heard from the Major?’ Maria asked.
‘He is fine. He made it to Switzerland. He’s back in Germany now.’
Maria smiled. ‘I am pleased about that. He’s a good man.’
‘Hmm. I would agree. There aren’t many around.’
‘What about Hannah?’
Sommer shrugged, a little smile crossed her lips. ‘She’s well. I am sure we will hear some more from her quite soon.’
Maria looked puzzled for a moment.
She turned her head towards Maria slightly, and sighed. ‘You’re not here to enquire about the Major or Hannah Hirsch, though, are you?
Maria’s head dipped slightly. It was still a difficult topic to broach, even to herself.
‘You looked flushed, Maria. A little too well in your cheeks. It’s not normal in these parts.’
Maria’s heart sank. Was it so obvious?
‘How long?’
‘Not sure exactly. Maybe twelve weeks,’ Maria said.
‘It’s still early at least.’ Fräulein Sommer shook her head, bitterness was in her voice. ‘Quite a legacy the Russians are determined to leave us with.’
Maria felt herself choke, ready to cry.
Fräulein Sommer grasped her hand. ‘I know this is difficult, Maria, but you must remain strong.’ She paused, the smoke wisped from her nostrils. ‘These things can be dealt with.’
‘I am not sure what to do.’
‘You are not alone, my dear. As much as it pains me to say it, there are no doubt thousands in your position. The scale of this problem is immense, yet nobody wants to talk about it. The Russians, the Americans, none of them.’
Sommer was angry now, her breath short. ‘You know I work with the Church.’ She shook her head. ‘Sometimes their ideas are out-dated, out of touch with the realities of modern life. In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t suggest such a thing, but these are special times.’
‘I cannot have a baby, Fräulein Sommer. I have my family to think about, my husband.’
‘Nonsense!’ She was turned towards Maria now, quite adamant. ‘The only person you have to think about is yourself.’
Maria looked at her. This woman was a strange one, like a stone emotionally, cold and unapproachable, yet like a rock, immovable, impassable.
‘There is a clinic in Grüne
wald, run by a friend of mine. I can organise everything. You will be safe, and no-one need know.’
She reached across and squeezed Maria on the shoulder.
‘I am here to help, but only you can decide what you want to do in the end, Maria.’
CHAPTER 33
AUGUST 1945, MOSCOW
My dreams were filled with terror. I was fighting them off. I scrapped like hell, thrashing and thrusting, but no matter how hard I fought, it was to no avail. Whichever way I turned, they had me covered, laughing at me, taunting me. There was no way out. When I eventually came around, I would have preferred frustration, rather than the banging, bone deep aching my body felt. Dobrovky’s last words were ringing in my mind. I knew the others would suffer the same treatment.
‘Markus,’ I called out to Schram.
He popped his head over the edge of his bunk. Seeing I was conscious, he jumped down.
‘I was worried you were a goner,’ he said, as he knelt near my head.
‘Where’s Oskar?’ I asked, trying to look around. I instantly wished I hadn’t. I felt like a herd of elephants had trampled on my back. The two female guards probably weighed more than a baby elephant.
‘He’s on his bunk.’
‘Any change?’ I asked.
‘He’s not uttered a word.’
I glanced across the cell, my focus gradually returning. There were a couple of others there I didn’t recognise. ‘Where is Alfons?’ I asked.
‘They took him a few hours ago,’ Schram said, with concern in his voice.
‘The big fella will be ok. How’s Koegel getting on?’
‘He looks like you, only quieter.’
The details of the interrogation came back to me. ‘We’re in the shit, Markus,’ I said quickly.
He moved closer to me. ‘Be careful. Alfons said they put stooges in the cells,’ he whispered. ‘So?’
‘You remember the early days in Stalingrad?’
‘You mean when we were still advancing?’ he laughed.
‘Yeah, but this is serious. That time near the grain silo when we snatched those tongues.’
‘You mean the two that got away?’
‘Yes, but they didn’t get away, did they? Wiebke shot them.’
‘How the hell can they know about that?’ Schram said.
I told Markus all about my interrogation.
He appeared worried at the news of Dobrovsky’s presence. ‘Still, how can they know it was us? They were a lot of German units in the city,’ he said.
‘I’ve no idea, but they’ve got our name down for it. He wanted me to sign a confession.’
‘You didn’t, I presume?’
‘Of course I didn’t, but that’s not the point. They want somebody’s balls and ours are in the vice.’
Schram finished it off, ‘… and they’ll squeeze until we sign.’
I thought of Andrei. ‘Yeah, they might not only squeeze.’
‘So, what do we do?’ asked Schram.
I smiled, and it was a painful smile. My teeth were all there, but my lips were cut and swollen, as was the inside of my mouth. ‘I was hoping you could come up with an answer to that question.’
Schram shrugged. ‘We don’t really have many choices from what I can see.’
I looked over to Marz. ‘We’ve got to get him right.’
‘I’ve tried everything. He’s barely eaten since we’ve been here.’
‘He’s taken it badly.’
‘Why did they pick him out? I don’t understand it,’ Schram mused.
‘Me neither. I suppose it could have been any one of us.’
Schram started to walk over towards Marz’s bunk when the cell door opened. Two men dragged in the limp body of Alfons and dropped him on his bunk. It was kind of them. They usually left the injured in the doorway. I realised, seconds later, they wanted the doorway clear. They made their way straight to Marz’s bunk and grabbed him. He started to struggle.
‘Get off me. I haven’t done anything,’ he protested.
With difficulty, I perched myself up on my elbow. ‘We told them nothing, Oskar. Don’t sign anything.’
He wasn’t listening. His eyes rolled like a crazed beast. He tried to cling on to the door on the way out, but the guards rapped his hand with a rubber truncheon. Once outside the cell, his howling cry was harrowing to witness.
***
The day had been a long one. Oskar Marz had not returned, and that concerned us all deeply. Given his mental state, I didn’t want to think what could have happened during his interrogation.
I nodded to Schram and we both approached Koegel’s bunk. He had just come around from the beating after his own meeting with Dobrovsky. His injuries were like mine and I knew exactly how badly he was feeling.
‘Marz should have been back by now,’ I said.
‘How long was I gone for?’ Koegel asked.
I looked towards Schram for the answers. He’d been the only one waiting here whilst we’d been away with our tormentor.
‘A couple of hours.’ Looking at me, he said, ‘Same for you.’
‘Yet Oskar’s been gone most of the day.’
We tried to keep our voices down. New cell mates were arriving all the time. We didn’t trust anybody. The only other person we spoke to was Alfons, who was sitting at the table, deep in contemplation.
‘Why should they treat him differently?’ I asked.
‘Maybe they didn’t. Maybe he just didn’t survive the beating,’ Schram said.
I swallowed hard, not wanting to consider the worst scenario.
Alfons piped up, ‘Whatever has happened to him, you can’t control it. If he has signed, you’ll know soon enough. If he hasn’t, you won’t find out what happened to him, but one thing’s for sure, they’ll be back for you again either way.’
I didn’t believe anybody had been listening, or could hear us. Not that it mattered. He was right.
Suddenly, the loud music started, soulful, wallowing, classical stuff. Schram looked at me with desperation in his eyes. I shook my head, trying to shut out the vision of Oskar Marz being dragged out to be shot. We couldn’t think that. The rattle of the machine gun started.
***
They came for me again the next morning. Somewhere between the cell and the cellars, I’d come to a decision. It wasn’t an easy decision, and it certainly didn’t sit comfortably with me. I hadn’t slept during the night. My thoughts were on a continuous loop about Marz. It was a dreadful waste. Another dreadful waste. As if that wasn’t enough, I was downright suicidal about the thought of spending another minute in one of those camps. Death felt like a better option. It was probably why I’d come to the decision I had. I’d like to say it was to prevent needless beatings of Schram, Koegel and even myself. I actually believe I felt reckless, uncaring, indifferent to my fate, and that was a dangerous place to be.
Dobrovksy was in ebullient mood. If my state of mind hadn’t been weighted so far toward the other end of the spectrum, I might have cared. He looked proud of himself, his uniform spotless, every piece of him buffed to a shine, including his head. In fact, he looked like he’d won the war single-handed. As a Commissar, he probably felt he had. He offered me a cigarette again. People like Dobrovsky didn’t forget things, so I knew there was a point to it. I think he wanted me to join his little celebration, like I should be happy for him. I wondered if he’d been promoted. I did know, whatever it was, his good news could never have been mine.
Then he did something I didn’t expect. Maybe he’d seen my demeanour and decided to help me on my way, maybe it was just his idea of a sick joke. He took out his sidearm and placed it on the table in front of me. It didn’t seem the most security conscious thing to do in a prison. In Lubjanka, where most of the prisoners were staring down the barrel, literally, it seemed ludicrous. I looked down at the Tokarev, transfixed.
He pointed at it and said, ‘That is your way out of this nightmare.’
It’s funny how he was thinking t
he same thing as me. I stared at the lump of metal in front of me. It was a long time since I’d held a weapon. It was ironic; in all the time I might have had reason to use it on myself, namely in the last days of Stalingrad, I was dead against the idea. I actively discouraged others from taking this heroic Nazi end. Yet here, now, it seemed a welcoming idea, so much so it gave me a warm, comforting feeling. As Dobrovksy said, it was my way out. We didn’t agree on much, but we did on this.
I was definitely having a moment of deep thought. It could have been called a moment of weakness. The gun, and what it could do for me, was hypnotic. It was hard to peel my eyes away from it, but I knew I had to. The alternative was the end, never seeing Maria and the kids again. My eyes followed the table back towards me. The feeling of sickness had returned. I slid back my excuse for a stool and looked down, feeling I was going to vomit. Between my feet, I saw my old friend the drain, where all the blood had flowed.
It came from somewhere. It was hard to say where, but undoubtedly my deep recesses. It wasn’t the vomit that threatened, but the return of my resolve, the return of my steadfast determination to survive. What had brought it, I don’t know. I could say it was my family, but it was more anger. It could have been that bloody drain. That’s maybe why the place had to be cleaned so much, not because of the beatings, but because people took Dobrovsky’s choice. Suddenly, I wasn’t that weak. For the same reason I’d come to my decision on the walk to the cellar, I couldn’t shoot myself.
Shooting Dobrovsky, on the other hand was becoming a more attractive proposition. I reached out my hand for the gun. For a moment, I felt the cold steel. Dobrovsky raised his eyebrows, which told me he didn’t expect it from me and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. I pushed it back towards him, ‘That,’ I said, ‘won’t be necessary.’
