Ogpu Prison

by Sven Hassel

  ‘There’s a lot there. More’n we can count,’ cries Tiny, washing his hands like an ancient Jew who has just succeeded in cheating an antisemite.

  ‘Soon there will be two new Rockefellers adorning the economic firmament,’ forecasts Porta, with satisfaction.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asks Tiny, stupidly.

  ‘Take a look in the mirror,’ says Porta. ‘You’ll see one of ’em there!’

  ‘Great Lord above! I can ’ardly believe it,’ says Tiny, looking at himself closely in the mirror.

  ‘Now all we’ve got to do is keep our heads cool,’ says Porta running his hands tenderly over the piles of money.

  ‘Not much chance of anythin’ else in a Russian winter,’ says Tiny, carelessly.

  ‘From this moment on,’ continues Porta, with an energetic expression on his face, ‘we are too wealthy to take any kind of interest in Adolf’s world war. Down in the cellar and find two large sacks. We’re leaving, my lad!’

  ‘Without sayin’ goodbye to the others?’ asks Tiny, incomprehendingly.

  ‘We don’t know ’em any more,’ says Porta. ‘If they get even a sniff of what we’ve dropped on we won’t be rich for long! Julius’ll find it to be Crown property’n get it confiscated. As I said before: Keep your head cold as ice! Our past is dead! Down in the cellar and find two sacks. Very big sacks, they’ll have to be.’

  ‘I’m gonna shit in Adolf’s army trousers before I throw’em away’n change back into civvies,’ promises Tiny, and runs off whistling down to the cellar.

  ‘Found anythin’?’ shouts Gregor, coming through the window together with Albert and his flashing white teeth.

  Porta closes the safe-door quickly and moves to block their view of the broken door into the small room.

  ‘Fuck-all,’ he answers, casually, and attempts to look like a fox which has offered to keep an eye on the chickens.

  Albert goes into convulsions of laughter at the sight of Porta’s corsets with the roses and butterflies.

  ‘What’s that Adolf’s new secret weapon?’ gurgles Gregor, between roars of laughter.

  Albert clicks this teeth together sharply, as his eye falls on a large picture of Stalin, hanging above a desk, and looking at him with a wicked expression.

  ‘Kak wy pashywajetjc, Tovaritch 10, ’ he roars, bringing up a clenched fist in front of him, as if he were attempting to placate the harsh Georgian stare.

  Tiny returns from the cellar with two large empty sacks under his arm.

  ‘Out on it, you shits,’ he shouts, waving the sacks as if he were frightening hens. ‘Don’t you know it’s forbidden to break into private property.’

  ‘What you want sacks for?’ asks Gregor, with interest, feeling the texture of the jute.

  ‘We’ve got orders to black out the windows,’ says Porta, hurriedly, before Tiny can make a foolish answer.

  ‘Whadda you think I am? Dumb or somethin’?’ whinnies Gregor. ‘You lot’ve found somethin’, you have. Don’t give me a lot of balls! I’ve been a moving-man. I can smell it a mile off!’

  ‘If you don’t shut up an’ fuck off out of ’ere, pretty smartish an’ takin’ that black spook with you, an’ leave us to do our bleedin’ blackin’ out, I’m goin’ to do you up!’ roars Tiny, furiously, beginning to swing his arms about.

  ‘You are on to somethin’, man!’ echoes Albert, gloatingly, jumping up and down on the sofa. He throws a somersault ending in a handstand, and stays balanced, looking interestedly underneath the sofa.

  ‘You’re tempting fate, you African creeper,’ snarls Porta, furiously taking a kick at a cushion which sends it up into the lamp.

  ‘How true, man, how true!’ laughs Albert, pulling out a large oil-can from under the sofa.

  ‘Goin’ to grease your goolies, maybe, an’ roll ’ome to Africa an’ find yourself a bed o’ nails?’ asks Tiny, madly, launching a kick at Albert, which misses.

  ‘Why not?’ grins Albert, taking a drink from the oil-can.

  Tiny’s head shoots forward like a stork going for a frog. He sniffs at the oil-can.

  ‘Merry Christmas to all! Plum schnapps!’ he shouts, tearing the oil-can from Albert’s hand.

  ‘Give me a taste,’ demands Porta, grabbing the can.

  ‘Alarm! Alarm!’ The shout rings out from outside the house.

  A machine-gun chatters angrily. Mortars plop away in the night. An Obergefreiter of tanks crawls up on a chair and takes hold of the picture of Stalin.

  ‘Uncle Joe’ll make a nice souvenir! This ought to look great over the family sofa back in Cologne when the war’s over!’

  ‘Don’t touch him!’ screams Gregor, in terror, throwing himself flat on the floor.

  Albert is behind the sofa in one long leap, like a black cat in flight from an Alsatian. Porta is down behind an overstuffed armchair, together with Tiny, who has hidden his head like a stork. The cherry-decorated hat flaps through the air like a wounded bird.

  In a fraction of a second Gregor has seen the thin black thread which runs from the picture and through a hole in the wallpaper.

  The explosion breaks up the entire house. A towering pillar of flame shoots up towards the sky. The entire roof seems to balance on the tip of the flame. It is like the end of the world. Explosions come one after the other along the whole length of the street. Houses collapse as if made of cardboard. The dark heavens light up blindingly. It is as clear as day. The blast wave thunders down the street like a tornado, sweeping away everything in its path. A lorry rolls along, over and over as if it were a toy. Out through the remains of the wall comes the sofa, with Albert howling, and hanging on to it for dear life. It crashes into the wall of a house, on the other side of the road, with a nasty, splintering sound.

  Albert screams like a pig on the way to the slaughterhouse. Head over heels he goes, down a narrow path, his arms and legs wind-milling wildly. His breakneck flight takes him right down to a frozen pool where Gregor has already landed.

  ‘Jesus, man!’ he chatters. ‘That was enough to knock the stuffin’ out of a grizzly bear!’

  All around, wounded and dying men are screaming for help. Pillars of fire throw a purple glare over the boiling, filthy snow. It is like a volcanic eruption, which seems to go on and on for an eternity.

  It stops!

  Those who are still alive struggle to their feet. They are in a state of shock and literally stone deaf. Their ears hurt. It is as if a red-hot needle is being pushed into them.

  For some minutes we are unable to understand what is happening around us. We are in a state of acute insanity. Bloody shreds of meat and splinters of bone are everywhere. Even the trees which lined the village street on both sides, have disappeared without trace. Torn up by the roots. Russians and Germans, civilians and military, are running around in circles. In senseless panic.

  A Russian sergeant, in a tattered soot-blackened uniform, empties his Kalashnikov straight up into the air, throws it from him and roars ‘job Tvojemadj’11. He breaks the neck of a fat Feldwebel who is taking a kick at him, with a chop of the edge of his hand.

  A motorcycle and sidecar, with machine-guns and ammunition bags, is twisted around the remains of a chimney. The bloody remains of a human being hang from the sidecar.

  Albert has run amok. He crawls round in circles howling like a mad dog. He returns to normal only when Porta hands him his steel helmet. The whole of the neck protector has been torn away. Albert looks at the ruined helmet for a moment uncomprehendingly. He runs a hand over his head as if to assure himself that it is still there. He looks up at the sad, black sky, and thanks God and all the known and unknown saints. Some of them he invents for the occasion. He takes the helmet with him and shows it to everybody as a proof that God is specially protecting him.

  ‘It’s because us blacks have nothing to do with this war,’ he asserts. ‘It’s a war for the whites and the yellows.’

  ‘What a mess! And all for the sake of a picture,’ sighs Porta, staring at the remains of the
mayor’s house.

  Oberst Hinka takes Porta to one side, when he sees the colourful corsets. Porta has forgotten he has them on.

  ‘Where did you get those?’ he asks, severely.

  ‘Found ’em, sir!’ answers Porta, which is true enough.

  ‘Where did you find them? Come on! The truth now!’ Hinka’s eyes bore into him. ‘Which house?’

  Porta twists and turns. He tries to talk himself out of it with one of his usual stories. Something about a hairdressers shop in Düsseldorf whose owner always wore corsets.

  ‘To the devil with your hairdresser friends,’ Hinka cuts him off, brusquely. ‘You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, Porta. I thought you’d have learned that by now. What happened in that house to start the explosion?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir! I see, sir, that’s what you want to know.’ Porta smiles, falsely. ‘It was one of these motorcycle fellows, sir, who was hot on a picture of Stalin, and wanted to take it with him. Nice picture it was too, sir. We warned him, sir, the motorcyclist that is, not Stalin, sir!’ Porta throws his arms out in the direction of the blown up village. ‘There was something fishy about that picture, sir. You can see for yourself, sir!’

  ‘Would you recognise this motorcyclist again?’ asks Hinka, distrustfully.

  ‘He’ll be gone, sir. Totally gone, I’m sure, sir. Might even be the rest of him hangin’ up on that tileworks chimney over there! The German God is quick to punish disobedience, isn’t he sir?’ he adds, thoughtfully.

  ‘Did you see him killed?’ Hinka questions him, sharply. ‘If he is still alive, I want him to find out how I punish disobedience!’

  ‘He would deserve it too, sir!’ admits Porta, sighing deeply. ’We could all of us have been blown to bits, just because one drunk couldn’t leave a bit of loot alone!’

  ‘Be careful, Porta, that you don’t start growing white wings. I asked you: Did you see him killed?’

  ‘Unfortunately I did not, sir. The house fell on me!’

  ‘Who was in there with you?’

  ‘Nobody at all, sir. I was all alone in there. Apart from the looter, sir!’

  ‘Then you threw those pantaloons and that brassiere out of the window to Obergefreiter Creutzfeldt?’ He points at Tiny, who is standing open-mouthed, with his eyes rolling around in his head, still in a state of shock from the explosion.

  ‘Come here, Creutzfeldt!’ shouts Hinka, angrily.

  Tiny does not react at all. He is still stone-deaf.

  ‘Shot his hearing aids out, sir, I’d think!’ opines Porta, sagely. ‘Beg to report, sir, I couldn’t hear at first, but soon as I stood on my head it came back again, and now I can hear again sir, thank the good Lord. I can hear everything Oberst Hinka is saying to me, sir.’

  ‘Get those silly corsets off,’ orders Hinka, sharply. ‘And I warn you, Porta. My patience is not endless! Go too far and I’ll find you a cell somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, sir, there’s always a cell free in Germersheim I suppose, sir,’ says Porta, quietly, trying to look down-hearted.

  ‘Someday I’ll shoot you,’ promises Hinka, turning on his heel.

  ‘We move off in one hour,’ says the Old Man. He has been at a section leader meeting with the O.C. ‘What the devil are you wearing?’ he snarls sourly, when he sees Porta and Tiny in their corsets and pantalettes. ‘I won’t have you silly sods looking like that! What the hell will the Russians think?’

  ‘They’ll forget to shoot at us,’ says Porta, ‘which might be a good thing, come to think of it!’

  A wall of fire dances in the distance. A huge, black cloud of smoke can be seen against the flames. Thermic whirlwinds carry a thick rain of ash down on us. The ground trembles like an animal in its death throes.

  Tiny appears through the thick rain of ashes, tall and broad, a living machine of muscles and sinews. His fat cigar juts out of his soot-smeared face like a glowing bowsprit. He is still wearing the old-fashioned pantalettes, and curses the schoolteacher and the ex-Oberst incessantly. They come puffing after him with the flame-thrower tank and the ammunition boxes.

  The air is filled with bubbling, rasping noises. The soggy sound of a mortar shell sends the ex-Oberst into cover.

  ‘The devil take you, you silly man,’ roars Tiny. ‘Didn’t I tell you, goat-shit, not to take cover unless I give the order.’

  The slobbering sound is there again. Tiny looks up inquisitively and follows the course of the shell with his eyes. It falls into the snow with a nasty sound and throws it up on all sides.

  A splinter of shrapnel knocks a hole in one of Tiny’s waterbottles. Vodka trickles down his legs.

  ‘Dirty, ’eathen Russian sods,’ he rages, pointing his sawn-off shotgun over towards the heights. ‘What kind of trick’s that? What’s that got to do with a war?’

  ‘Take cover, man!’ shouts Leutnant Braun, nervously. ‘You’ll get yourself killed!’

  ‘Nothing’s gonna ’appen to me, sir,’ Tiny reassures him, in his deep rusty bass. ‘I’m not goin’ to let myself get shot before I’ve seen New York an’ London, an’ been on a trip to Africa together with Albert an’ try ’avin’ a shit on one of them fakir shit’ouses with nails in ’em.’

  ‘No. 2. take the lead!’ comes from up front. The order is passed along the company.

  Slowly we get to our feet. The Old Man straddles his legs in snow up to his knees. He carries his Mpi on a short strap over his shoulder.

  ‘Get your fingers out! On your feet!’ he shouts impatiently. ‘Up you get, Tiny! Take the right flank, and the evil one himself help you, if you go into a hut or start pulling gold teeth out of the corpses! You hear me?’

  ‘You’re shoutin’ loud enough to wake the dead in all the cemeteries in ’Amburg! I wouldn’t be surprised if all the corpses are standin’ to attention now, shakin’ in their bones!’ Tiny rumbles, crossly, and gets to his feet slowly and provokingly.

  ‘You sour?’ asks Porta. ‘You look as if you were being bitten to death by communist lice!’

  ‘It’s that bollockless Oberst, as irritates me,’ says Tiny, darkly. ‘A brainless shit ’e is, with no more between ’is ears than a recruit, which is to say fuck-all!’

  ‘I won’t take any more of your insults,’ cackles the former officer. He tries to make his voice sharp and commanding, as it used to be when he stood in front of a regiment. Without succeeding.

  ‘Too bad for you, you featherless budgie you,’ grins Tiny, jeeringly, smacking the ex-Oberst with the back of his hand. ‘’Cos you’re goin’ to ’ave to, ain’t you? Got that through your bleedin’ cranium? Or would you like a nice little run to liven you up a bit? Understand once and for all, you burnt out shootin’ star you, you’re the arse’ole o’ the bleedin’ Germany Army, you are. An’ me? Me I’m an Obergefreiter, the backbone o’ the Army! The top part, of course!’

  ‘Do they really want us to sprint up to that fuckin’ prison?’ asks Porta, straightening the garter tabs on the red corsets, which are flapping against his legs.

  ‘Want to or not, there’s where we’ve got to go,’ answers the Old Man, shortly, sending a long spurt of tobacco juice into the snow.

  ‘This lousy world war’s turned everything upside down,’ grumbles Porta, pessimistically, and cadges a cigarette from the Legionnaire. ‘When are you going to stop smoking this black French shit you’re fucking up your lungs with?’

  ‘Pas question, mon ami! These cigarettes have at least the built-in advantage of my being able to keep most of them for myself,’ answers the Legionnaire. ‘Your pale-coloured rubbish is only for young girls not yet past their confirmation.’

  ‘I’m getting mad enough to crack Brazil nuts with the cheeks of my arse, and spit the kernels out fast as a mortar can spit out shells,’ Porta raves. He stares up at the OGPU prison, its walls illumined by the wildly dancing flames from the burning conifer forest.

  ‘Here we’re going to climb up hills and down hills, slide over frozen lakes till all the skin’s worn off our arses, force our
way through frozen forests like some kind of bloody bulldozers, and all just to get to that Communist fucking prison. I’m used to getting driven to prison sitting on my arse! If this ain’t a case of Human Rights, which ought to go in front of an international court as a matter of urgency, then I’m as dumb as a lame duck from Holland.’

  ‘It ought to be forbidden to put normal people through all this shit, just because a few twits don’t know how to avoid starting a world war!’ shouts Gregor, angrily.

  A motorised sleigh comes rushing along in a cloud of snow. An Oberstleutnant of the General Staff shouts hysterically for the O.C.

  The Old Man points over his shoulder in the direction of Oberleutnant Löwe, who is sitting on a barrel, scratching a cat behind the ears.

  ‘Know how to stand to attention, man?’ roars the Staff officer, ragingly.

  The Old Man puts his heels together slowly and touches his helmet with his hand in the semblance of a salute.

  ‘Oberleutnant Löwe, O.C. No. 5. Company, 27 Panzer Regiment, reporting, sir!’ comes in a weary bark from Löwe.

  ‘What in the name of all the hells are you sitting here picking your noses for?’ screams the Oberstleutnant with the blood-red staff tabs. ‘Haven’t you received the order to attack? No stopping, even for a moment! Atta-a-a-ack, man!’

  The echoes of ‘Atta-a-a-ack!’ come back sneeringly.

  ‘Oberstleutnant, sir!’ answers Löwe, saluting smartly, while secretly wishing the screaming Oberstleutnant into the farthest depths of hell.

  Staggering like drunks, we stumble through the dense conifer forest and on into the pitch-black dark. We trip over frost-dried branches. Our faces are slashed and torn.

  Suddenly a Russian Maxim hammers from the undergrowth.

  Like lightning Porta throws a hand grenade and follows it up with a rain of bullets.

  A Russian soldier is thrown into the air, his long cloak flapping like wings.

  The machine-gun hammers again.

  ‘Bleedin’ ’ell!’ shouts Tiny, and turns the flame-thrower onto the bushes. A roaring stream of ruddy fire blazes across the snow. Trees burst into flame. The machine-gun stops!