The Division of the Damned

by Richard Rhys Jones

  "Aren’t you off to see to your room, Herr Standartenführer?" sniggered Muschinski.

  "If you’re not careful, Muschinski, you’ll be sleeping in the good Doctor’s room with him!” Von Struck replied.

  "Probably in his bed!” roared Henning. They laughed loudly and without restraint. The all-pervading sense of malevolence had lifted with Rasch’s departure and, alone in this their inner circle, they were at ease with one another and their situation.

  “It seems you don’t think much of the Doctor,” said the young Andreas Schneiderat, and muttered to himself, "I know I don’t”. The room chuckled at the quip and settled down to sorting the bedding out.

  "It’s not that I don’t like him, Andreas. I don’t like all that he stands for. I don’t like a lot of things that Germany now stands for, to tell you all the truth.” He looked up from what he was doing. "But we must soldier on, despite what’s happening back home, for the sake of our families. Ivan wants to do to us what we’ve been doing to him and his people for the last three years. I just pray it doesn’t get that far.”

  All eyes were on him now, wide with cognizance and worry. He, an officer, had said aloud what they had all secretly (and some not so secretly) talked about since the war in the East had taken a turn for the worse. The Russian Army in Germany. Nothing on this earth could compare to the horror of that gathering storm on the horizon. The black clouds of vengeance hung heavily over their loved ones, and all they could do to keep them at bay was fight on. The silence of desperate contemplation stopped all movement.

  "My God, you’re a laugh a minute, you know that?" Rohleder had sensed the mood and he didn’t like it, "Russians in Germany, it’s like saying Americans on the moon! It’s not going to happen, so let’s make our beds and break out the Schnapps, eh, lads?"

  The men all smiled but the strain was still apparent.

  "We’ll get Henning drunk and make him sing, and then you can be miserable!” This time they really laughed and the sombre moment was gone, for the time-being.

  Von Struck sorted himself a bed out and left the men to get some sleep. No sentries, an almost unheard of luxury for the last three years, and a couple of bottles of Ukrainian vodka that Henning and Von Struck had brought with them, would ensure a good night’s sleep for the squad. Von Struck strolled up to the main door.

  * * *

  Rasch waited with growing impatience for the Count to show. He was horrified by the filth of the hall and now waited alone in a room next to the library. It was a study of sorts, a very dusty study. The degradation of the décor and the furniture confirmed everything to Rasch - that he was dealing with a race far removed from the Aryan ideal at the top of his list. That he should have to stoop so low, even worse, that Germany should have to stoop so low, was a tragedy.

  The Count walked in. He threw the doors of the study open with a crash that startled Rasch and brought down a shower of dust and old plaster from the ceiling.

  "Guten Abend, Herr Doctor, or should I say Guten Morgen,” he announced. "Have you brought what I need?”

  No introduction, no social niceties, no beating around the bush. Rasch was thrown off-guard by the Count’s direct and predatory manner, and felt like a rabbit caught in a spotlight’s glare. He had expected old-world manners, not high handed, barefaced demands.

  Rasch stuttered to answer, "I have … your Excellency." He pushed his glasses up and stood awkwardly facing the Count.

  The Count said nothing and looked at Rasch expectantly. Then, as if extracting a confession from an errant schoolboy, "Tell me what you have brought with you then, Herr Doctor … ”

  "Your Excellency will forgive me but I need to make a few things clear in advance," answered Rasch in a wavering voice.

  The Count smiled carnivorously and walked to a chair. He sat down and crossed his legs. ”Well?” he indulged.

  The Doctor took his cue and paused for a minute to get his thoughts in order. He was feeling nervous and rushed. He needed time to gather his wits, to put the brakes on his racing mind. Where was Von Struck? His panic needed to focus blame on someone. He’s never there when I need him. Damn the man, damn him to hell and back … Why was he so panicked? He didn’t need Von Struck; he’d handle this. Think of the rewards of success. Think of Berlin.

  Rasch took a deep breath and, ignoring the Count’s eyes that bored into him and the agitation in his gut, he plunged on. "Your Excellency, I would firstly like to express the Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler’s sincerest apologies that he could not come here himself. The war has taken a terrible toll on his time and I’m sure you can understand the pressure he is under … ”

  The Count nodded slowly and gesticulated with his hand that Rasch should move on.

  "Before I go on with the proceedings, I have been ordered to check on the quality of, shall we say, your part of the understanding … your Excellency.”.

  The Count glared at Rasch and spoke with deliberation. "They are not here right now. At night, I like them to get out and,” he paused, "…hunt.”

  "Ah, I see. How many are there of them? I understand that at the first meeting there were only twelve.”

  "I have now a company of thirty-two.”

  "Thirty-two?” exclaimed Rasch.

  "I have a problem with logistics. We are situated in a very remote part of the world. My men need to feed twice a month, minimum. There is simply not enough food to provide for a bigger unit.”

  Rasch squirmed at the use of the word ‘food’, as it brought home to him the nature of the mission. Nonetheless, his main concern was the size of the unit.

  "Thirty-two is not a company, it’s more like an oversized platoon." The Count’s eyes flashed with anger. "But I realise the problem you have with logistics. I have an idea, if the Count will allow me … ” The Count invited Rasch to continue. "We could easily set up a camp here, in this area. It could be stocked with enough ... er ... shall we say provisions, to feed whatever size regiment you can raise. When the stocks are running low, we could bring more in." He allowed himself a knowing smile. "Believe me, we have enough 'food', Poland is full of 'food'.”

  The Count's eyes lit up. Of course, they had enough livestock to feed an army; to feed a plague! It was brilliant. The Germans had what he needed in abundance. Abundance!

  “I like your proposal, Herr Doctor. Your Reichsführer is a very resourceful man.” The Count stood up and started to pace around the room in deep contemplation.

  "Our Reichsführer, your Excellency,” Rasch corrected him. "Furthermore, I must take the credit for the suggestion. It occurred to me during my time in the camps in Poland that if the plan was to succeed, we would need to be able to feed the troops when there is a lull in the action.”

  The Count leaned forward. "Who would man the camp during the daylight hours - Germans, Romanians or my soldiers?"

  In this innocent-seeming question, lay the crux of the whole meeting.

  Rasch didn’t say a word. He looked round for a seat and sat down, making himself comfortable. He smiled at the Count. He wanted to draw out this moment for all it was worth. It seemed to Rasch the roles were reversing. He felt in control now that the Count stood before him.

  The Count waited.

  "I have been working on a serum that will eradicate all your problems in one go. It’s quite brilliant, I can assure you, and I’m very proud of what I have achieved. There are not many Negroes in our camps in Poland and I had to travel far and wide to do my work. I won’t go into details but I studied their skin and invented and refined a technique for harvesting valuable proteins, hormones and various other ingredients to help you with your problem. Don’t for one second think that this problem is only skin-deep. Its roots lie in the very make-up of your, er, kind."

  Dracyl remained silent, captive to every word.

  Rasch lectured on. "I devised techniques that are far and away more advanced than anything known of or used up until now. The need for secrecy was, of course, very important and, had I shipped all
our ‘Blacks’ to one camp, someone somewhere would have deduced that something was up. So I travelled to them. I was left alone to do my experiments. Any helpers that I had were executed after I had finished - they were only Jews - to ensure that no word got out. Even the camp commandants had no access to my work. So you can see how much effort has been put into this project. A lot.”

  The Count nodded, excited, "And, Herr Doctor, were you successful, or did you fail in your quest?”

  Relishing every nanosecond of his triumph, Rasch slowly nodded. "Yes, your Excellency, I was successful. We must obviously conduct trials with your men, but I’m quite sure that we have a serum that would enable your soldiers to fight by daylight.”

  Count Vlad Dracyl started to laugh. Centuries had passed since the birth of his kind. They had been condemned to hunt by night and hide by day since the time of the old gods. Humanity had been spared subjugation and slaughter only by the wrath of the sun. Now humankind had provided the means of its own enslavement. It was too rich to be true.

  Rasch looked on bemused as the Count whirled around and around, laughing like a lunatic, drunk with joy.

  * * *

  Von Struck walked up to the front door and let the huge knocker crash down. Marik opened the door and he followed him into the hall, noting the dust and run down state of the décor. He met Rasch and the Count in front of the study.

  "All seems to be in order, Standartenführer. Let me introduce you.”

  He turned to the Count, "Count Dracyl Blestamatul, Standartenführer Markus Von Struck." Von Struck dutifully clicked his heels together

  The Count nodded.

  "So when can we see your troops, your Excellency?" Rasch asked.

  The Count looked at the huge grandfather clock by the door to the library. "This evening?” he suggested.

  "Excellent!” Rasch nearly clapped. "That will give us enough time to get the men rested and make them presentable.”

  Von Struck didn’t like the way Rasch spoke of the men like horses, but he let it drop.

  "Marik will show you to your rooms, Herr Doctor. I hope you will both feel comfortable. Until later on, then."

  With that, the Count nodded and left them in front of the main stairs.

  Von Struck turned to Rasch. "I’m going to sleep with the men but let’s get one thing straight, Herr Doctor. We will not parade the men round like a palace guard. They have just come from the Eastern front and this will be treated as a period of recuperation for them, not as your own personal tick-tock marching machine. Have I made myself clear?”

  "Yes perfectly, Herr Standartenführer," Rasch answered, tight-mouthed and furious. His success with the Count had elevated him, in his mind, to a station above Von Struck and his little band of Waffen SS brutes. He would write a report up after this was all finished that would send Von Struck to the Eastern front until he retired.

  Von Struck went on. ”The men are rationed till tomorrow. After tomorrow we’ll be on the Count’s good grace, so you need to talk with him about it. Your first duty is to the men here, Herr Doctor, and not to your career. Don’t forget the men, Rasch, and we’ll get on fine. Understood?”

  "You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” Rasch almost smiled. He would ruin Von Struck’s career and sail to new heights within the Party, all on the strength of this one mission. Berlin’s high society would welcome him back with open arms and he would tread on Von Struck like a worm ….

  "Doctor, what’s gotten into you? " asked Von Struck.

  Rasch blinked and came out of his reverie.

  "For a minute there you blanked out. Are you alright?”

  "Oh yes, er, fine” Rausch stammered. ”Just tired, I will go to bed. Sleep well, Standartenführer."

  Rasch left him and walked up the stairs towards the waiting gaze of the ghostly Marik.

  Von Struck shrugged and went to the stables. He paused to take in the rising sun. It had been a long night and he was very tired. He heard something in the distance. He strained his ears and listened. He was sure he could hear wolves howling.

  * * *

  They had endured their first casualties in the night. The alarm had been raised in time by an all-too-alert sentry and, although the massacre had been complete and they had feasted, two of their number had been wounded. The wounds themselves were not fatal. Only the sun, silver, decapitation or the cross could kill them. But, slowed down by their handicaps, they hadn’t made it back to the barracks in time and the sun’s scorching reach had raked them to dust.

  Theirs was a slow and agonising death. The skin blistered, cracked and fell off the flesh. Bones powdered as if in a kiln and eyes boiled in their sockets. Their feral screams echoed through the wood as the vengeful sun gave vent to its power over them. A shadow of ash is all that would remain. They now only numbered thirty.

  They showed no remorse for their fallen comrades, only fear of what the Master would say. His anger was terrible to behold and his punishments were fierce. They were as broken and callous as guard dogs. Well trained, vicious and true, they only knew the two emotions: bloodlust and fear of the Master.

  Chapter 15

  That same night, Michael took Smith to a small room at the back of the building and turned to him as he put the key in the door. "This is my room. You can hide here. No one ever comes here, not even Maria, so you’re quite safe."

  He opened the door and led him into a small, tidy room with a bed, a table with two chairs, and a bookcase filled with books. The only light came from two candles, one on the table and one in the window. It was dark but somehow cosy, and it gave the impression of cleanliness.

  "Sit down, English. I’ll pour you a drink.” Michael turned to a small shelf with a bottle of clear liquid on it and a couple of glasses.

  "I don’t need a drink. I just need to be out of the way of the damn Bosch. I need to get my weapons from my room. What the hell is going on? What is Jerry doing here?" Smith’s guts were writhing as his concern about the situation began to overwhelm him.

  Michael poured and Smith took the drink and tossed it greedily down in one, instantly bringing tears to his eyes and leaving his throat raw, as he thrust his glass forward for another.

  "So what do you think of your brother’s offer?” Michael asked as he sat down.

  "Did you hear everything that was said?" Smith gasped.

  "Most of it. I don’t normally eavesdrop but I’ll explain why I did later.” Michael tipped his glass back and emptied it too.

  "It really is quite odd. You can’t begin to imagine how queer this all is." The drink had worked its calming effect on Smith and he found himself beginning to warm to his new-found ally. He paused to look at Michael opposite him. “Who are you, Michael? You’re not with them, are you?”

  "No, English, I am most definitely not with them. Nevertheless, before I tell you anything, I need to know what you think about what’s going on here. For example, what is your interest in Maria? Or how do you greet the news about your long lost brother? Tell me these things and, if I’m satisfied with the answers, I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Smith thought for a minute how he should answer. He hadn’t really given much thought to anything these last few days; events had just seemed to take over.

  At first he had been infatuated with Maria but now he was more intimidated by her. She was definitely too aggressive and dominating for his liking. The night he had spent with her had been almost dreamlike and he couldn’t imagine his acting the same way ever again. He’d been maddened with lust, overtaken by a furious, insane desire to have her. Shame shadowed the memory of his behaviour on that night.

  As for his brother, he was completely in the dark about everything to do with him. If he hadn’t been sent here by the military, he would have thought that this was all some elaborate ploy to con money out of him. It really had been an educational couple of days.

  "What or who is Utu?” Smith asked, offering his glass again, the initial shock of the alcohol having worn off.

>   "I’ll tell you after you answer my questions," Michael answered as he poured.

  "To be truthful, I have no real feelings for Maria. I know it sounds terrible of me, bearing in mind what happened last night,” he knocked his drink back and looked up. "You do know what happened last night, don’t you?”

  Michael nodded.

  Smith shrugged. "Last night, the whole evening, I was someone else. It wasn’t me that slept with Maria, it was another me. It’s hard to explain. Maria isn’t my type, it’s as simple as that. As for my brother, well I don’t really know how to answer that. It’s been quite a shock, I can tell you, to find out that I’m not just some orphan and that I do have a family with a history. But this whole ‘breed a child for the family’ thing is really too much." Smith started to feel annoyed as he contemplated his situation. "The whole thing is too bizarre for words. That they want me to father a child with some young girl that I don’t even know, and all for some damn book that, well, it’s all a bit too much, it really is. I’m not a damn machine!” He snatched his drink off the table and gulped it down in one again. Michael nodded sagely, saying nothing, his face impassive, as if waiting for more. Smith decided that he’d said enough and the silence spanned between them. Smith pushed his empty glass towards the bottle. "Well,” he said, ”are you going to answer my question or not?”

  Slowly Michael reached for the bottle and poured two more measures out. "Drink, English, you’re going to need it. Utu was the Sumerian god of the sun.”

  "He was what?" Smith exclaimed. "Oh, and I thought he was African" he laughed to himself.

  Michael ignored him and carried on, "What do you know about the stories of the Old Testament?”

  "Only what I was taught in school and I’ve forgotten most of that.”