by David Fraser
‘Good Heavens, old boy, do they want you back that quickly?’
‘I’ve talked to the Depot. It’s all fixed up.’ He had telephoned from London on the previous day. By good fortune the Depot Commander was a friend.
‘Yes, Anthony, some replacements are going, other chaps coming home. Yes, I could fix it, they want Captains. I’ll have to send a personal signal to Colonel Harry – you know Harry White’s commanding?’
Another friend.
‘Yes. Please do, Oliver.’
‘But, Anthony, my dear old boy, why? You’re due for a month’s leave.’
‘Please do this for me, Oliver. I’ll explain some other time.’
‘The problem is moving you! You can imagine the queues – both ways!’
Anthony had walked down Pall Mall. To his delight a familiar, tall, languid figure lowered itself down the steps of a club.
‘Charles!’
Charles Oliphant said, ‘Well, well! I’m glad you’re alive. There was a rumour the serious Anderson got away and you were knocked on the head.’
They chatted happily. Oliphant had, he said, been free for three months.
‘Charles, how on earth –’
‘Well, you see, I got away.’
‘You got away! You never seemed even mildly interested in anything so energetic!’
‘Quite. The Germans thought so too, I fancy. I got to Sweden. Out of camp in a laundry basket, that very old trick, and absolutely beastly I may tell you. Then to Lubeck where I struck lucky.’
Oliphant still conveyed the impression of having lifted no finger. Anthony gazed at him and admired.
‘I’m back in Germany now. I’ve taken on the job of looking after a very senior General. He’s not as bad as he looks and I go around explaining him away to people. He’s touchingly grateful. It gets me a lot of travel and he’s got unlimited use of an aeroplane. We’re flying back there next week, 24th.’
Anthony looked at him.
‘Charles, is there a spare seat? Could your General take me over?’
‘My dear boy, nothing easier. He’s most obliging. He even flew my young brother, Robin, home last week for twenty-four hours in London, on some spurious excuse – my baby brother is a troop leader in my Regiment over there. Of course he’ll make no difficulties over you. But, my dear fellow, why on earth do you want to go back to the bloody place? You must be owed ages of leave. And, as you know, the authorities are sure we’re all psychiatric cases, we old prisoners, so why not exploit the fact and have a holiday?’ But it was not Oliphant’s way to intrude with personal questions. He guessed Anthony had reasons of his own. The flight was arranged.
And so, that evening at Bargate, Anthony said, ‘I’m going back next week.’ He went on as naturally as he could, ‘There’s bound to be news of Marcia any day now. Over there I might be able to help. I’m sure there’ll be pretty regular leave so I’ll be home again soon. And I want to see the Regiment again.’
‘Old boy, you’ll only have been home a fortnight.’ But they said no more. John had spoken very recently to an old friend in the Foreign Office and they had been promised information about Marcia immediately it was to hand. The case of Miss Marvell was well-known. People were kind but it was made clear that the office had other concerns as well.
That night when they had gone to bed Hilda said,
‘They’re mad to let him return to any sort of duty. Behind that quietness his nerves are jangling, he’s in a terrible state. I can’t get near him.’
Anthony had talked briefly and uninformatively of his escape experiences. The Marvells had asked little, wanting nothing but to give him peace, decent food, normality, affection. Anthony had said,
‘I was lucky. I was sheltered for a while in the house of a brave, anti-Nazi family. Then, when I was recaptured after trying to get west from there, I was beaten up by some Gestapo thug. It didn’t go on long.’
They guessed – they knew – that there was far more to tell, and that he would tell it, if ever, when he chose. But they longed for time.
If even half the statements about Tissendorf camp were true, Robert Anderson reflected, they still composed a dreadful indictment. From a handful of the survivors, carefully nursed back to something like health, he had now spent a good many hours extracting a dossier of evidence. These were the fit ones, the lucky ones, those quick to recuperate. Evidence had started to be taken as soon as possible; it was still only 19th May. Many others would take weeks or months: or more. But from these lucky ones, their memories fresh, their hatred raw, he had composed a record in some detail of the lives of the inmates of Tissendorf. To each witness he had explained that the authorities had no wish to put additional strain on those who had already suffered much –
‘But you will understand, it is necessary to bring the guilty to justice. For that we need evidence, while recollections are still fresh.’
They were eager to provide it. Some of the recollections he recorded were not so much fresh as foul. He wrote page after page not only about human cruelty and human suffering but about human degradation. He wrote about murder. He wrote about sickness and famine until he could smell the stench of bodies as he wrote. He wrote about cannibalism. It was, several prisoners explained without emotion, important to prevent some of the harder cases killing for food.
‘They had become beasts, you see,’ one witness said to him quietly. ‘It’s not very deep, the veneer which separates us from brutes. Civilization. Religion. Break it down and we become creatures without souls, capable of anything. Anything.’
He looked very old and wise, pallid skeleton though he was.
‘What is your age?’ asked Robert, writing.
‘Twenty-six.’
He took down similar stories, similar sentiments from many.
They had become beasts, you see.’
‘Did the guards know of this? Was it realised? Did they feel responsible for the depths to which their treatment had pushed their prisoners?’
The witnesses were curiously indifferent about their guards, although some particularly vindictive warders or wardresses were described, with their habits, in fearful detail. But the horrors of the place, in the later stages, had principally derived from famine.
‘They didn’t feed us. They let us die, scavenge, become like beasts. Like I’ve told you.’
Then, as many attested, came the unbelievable moment when the guards disappeared. The word went round that the British Army was near, that the prisoners could make the camp their own, that the kitchens and food stores could be stormed.
‘We couldn’t get out. The gates were still barred. But we could go anywhere within the camp. Everyone knew where the food store was. Thousands rushed at it – of course many were trampled and didn’t get up, it was inevitable. There was no order. It was anarchy. But the storeroom doors were broken down.’
‘What happened then?’
A pause, always. The next part of the story was repeated so often it had to be true.
‘They came back.’
‘They?’
‘SS. They meant to defend the camp, you see. The Commandant, the guards, had been ready to hand it over, ask the Allies to send in food supplies. But then they came back. And of course they found a mob, they found chaos. It was just when the food store was being looted. Some people bolted, some went mad and tried to go for the SS themselves, a whole mob went for them with their bare hands, imagine! Screaming like wildcats!’
‘And then?’
‘The SS opened fire. It went on and on. You never heard such noise. Screeching, shouting. Most of us got behind huts and lay on the ground. There was blood everywhere. And smoke. You saw some people staggering about, then collapsing, still holding loaves of bread they’d looted and with a leg or arm hanging by a skin, ripped off by bullets. I’d been in that hell over a year but we’d seen nothing like that afternoon.’
Robert wrote it down. The identity of the SS Unit and its commander had been established.
‘Co-operate, Herr Hauptmann? I don’t understand. It wasn’t possible. They were shooting, you see.’
But one woman, thin like the rest, a scarecrow, but eyes shining fiercely from a gaunt, lined face said in her evidence,
‘Yes, of course it should have been done. The SS were frightened. The prisoners were a mob, out of their minds. It should have been possible for somebody to talk to the SS, get the prisoners moving into another part of camp, give an undertaking they could keep the food they had, calm things down. What happened was the worst thing of all. Chaos, followed by mass murder. You see, the prisoners were in a huddle, they couldn’t get away.’
Robert wrote busily. He checked her name.
‘Frau Meier, was there any –’
‘Fraülein Meier.’
‘Fraülein Meier, was there any attempt of the kind you’ve described?’
‘Yes, one. One brave woman walked towards the SS, absolutely calm. She was calling out, calming the prisoners near her. She had such presence, it was having some effect. She had no fear. And amid all that, that –’
Robert nodded, face grave.
‘All that filth and panic and screaming and shouting and death, she had dignity. She walked towards the SS and called out. I heard her. I was lying on the ground. I heard her. She called out,
‘“Please stop shooting. I am sure we can all help each other.” It was simple, but it made sense.’
‘There was no response? They kept on shooting?’
‘No, there was a command shouted, I remember it. She’d made an impression. They stopped shooting. The screams went on because people were bleeding, wounded, dying but the shooting stopped. Then there was a sort of commotion in another part of the crowd and another surge towards the SS. Mad! You see there weren’t many SS. Maybe about thirty. They were frightened, I could see it. Then it was their turn to panic. They started shooting again.’
‘And this woman?’
‘She shouted at the officer, “Stop firing!” It was like an order! She had real authority, you see. And for a moment I almost thought he’d obey. Then I expect he felt ashamed, felt he’d almost shown weakness, hesitated – and on a prisoner’s order! And a woman’s! He shot her. With his pistol. I saw it.’
‘Was this woman a foreigner? A Jewess? What?’
‘No, she was German. I knew her quite well. There was nobody like her.’
‘A German anti-Nazi?’
‘Was she? I imagine so,’ said Fraülein Meier with a shrug. ‘We didn’t talk politics in Tissendorf! Her name was Langenbach. Anna Langenbach.’
Lieutenant Robin Oliphant drove up to the farm, an attractive, mellow building with rose-coloured brick supporting massive timbers. Two huge barns, set at right angles, formed with the dwelling house three sides of a square. Robin climbed down from his scout car and stood, admiring. These places gave a superb impression of being built to last. He had orders, ten days after the capitulation as it now was, to search such farms on a random basis. Not much had been found and by now, 19th May, he doubted whether much would. Every member of the Wehrmacht had to be corralled into a Prison of War Camp, investigated and retained to await the pleasure of the victorious Powers. It was thought that a good many had slipped away before the final surrender ten days before, contrived to melt into the countryside; but so far Robin had found no traces of it. He banged on the door of the farmhouse and asked the usual peremptory questions.
The farmer was a hard-faced man of over sixty. He stood in the doorway shaking his head, his equally hard-faced wife at his elbow.
‘We need more men but we’ve nobody. We’re doing all the work.’
He seemed deliberately to be misunderstanding Robin’s questions, assuming that the enquiries were concerned with whether there was enough labour to work the farm rather than the hunt for illegally concealed German soldiers.
‘Are the barns empty?’
‘We’re storing apples and there are my carts. The beasts are all out.’
Robin turned on his heel. His troop sergeant, Sergeant Tompkins, had been moving round the buildings while Robin stood at the farm door. Now he called,
‘Mr Oliphant, sir! Are we going to search?’
‘Certainly we are. I just wanted to give them the chance to admit it, if there are people here who shouldn’t be.’
‘There’s somebody in here, sir!’ Sergeant Tompkins was standing by the huge door of the nearest barn. Robin shot a look at the farmer and his wife, moved to the barn door and listened.
Voices. A gabble of shrill sounds. The door was bolted.
Robin shouted to the farmer who was watching, not moving.
‘Kommen sie hier!’
The man moved over sulkily. He said, ‘It’s the refugee children.’
Robin spoke and understood a certain amount of German.
‘Refugee children?’
‘We were asked to take some in. For humanity.’
‘Open up.’
Slowly, he did so. Robin moved into the barn. At first the darkness after the strong sunlight blinded him. He was conscious of movement, of chattering. Then he saw shapes, small, scampering, huddling away in the corner farthest from the door.
‘Christ!’ said Sergeant Tompkins softly.
About twenty children of ages which might range from four to eight, were cowering as far from Robin as they could. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light he could see that most were naked, while a few wore scraps of clothing. The air was foul. The barn, it was clear, was used for every purpose. In the middle of the floor was a large, old-fashioned trough with vestiges of some swill in it.
Robin walked towards the little group and spoke gently. They looked at him, absolutely silent.
‘Can you understand me? We’ll help you, I promise.’
They gazed, disbelieving, frightened of the unknown. He awkwardly raised his hand, with some inner reservation, seeking to pat the head of the nearest small figure, to establish some sort of kindly credentials. He felt black anger when the little creature shrank away, obviously fearing a blow. He could now see that these children were not only naked but filthy, their hair caked with dirt, their bodies streaked with their own excrement. On several small bodies he recognized weals and what looked like dried blood. These were animals, unloved and unvalued animals, jostling to eat on all fours from a trough, beaten, degraded, wretched and afraid. He went outside the barn.
‘Sergeant Tompkins, we’re going to see that all these children are got away. I’ll talk to squadron Headquarters on the radio. There is an organization already working on things like this.’
To the farmer he said, in passable German,
‘You and your wife are under arrest. Verhaftet.’
‘Why?’ said the man, astonished. ‘We did what they told us, sheltered them, fed them. We got paid little enough for each, for our trouble, I can tell you. It was worth nothing to us.’
‘Where are the families of these children?’
‘How can we know? They told us they’re children of people in the camps – you know! The camps.’ He spoke with hesitation. He was unused to speaking freely of such things. His wife joined in.
‘That’s right. They’re all children of people in prison or in camps, so they’ve no families, nobody to look after them.’
‘And you’ve been looking after them,’ said Robin, voice trembling.
‘Yes. And we’ve got a list of them.’ The woman darted back into the farmhouse and reappeared with a paper.
‘I’ve kept it up to date. They’re all there. Twenty-three. You can count.’
She looked pleased. Robin glanced without interest at the list, his nausea mixed with angry compassion. The woman had scrawled name after name with a mauve pencil on a dirty piece of lined paper, as each poor little inmate had been brought to that cruel place.
‘Schmidt K., Velten K., Langenbach F., M
ilch O., …’
‘You will be held responsible for the way you have treated these children,’ Robin said, hoping he was right. Sergeant Tompkins said,
‘Just leave the barn open for now, sir?’
‘I think,’ said Robin, ‘that it might be better to burn it down. We must see to moving these children. That will take time. Then it will be better to burn it down.’
‘My dear Anthony, you seem to be in trouble, you old ass.’ It was 20th June.
Robert wore his customary frown and Anthony hoped that his friend’s duties in connection with war crimes were not making him self-righteous. Robert always had firm convictions, but humour had generally saved him from pomposity. And Anthony was grateful for the visit which Robert had contrived to pay. Robert had heard that his friend was in trouble, that he had been placed in close arrest and then released, but released as one to face a charge, trial by Court Martial or some other form of military justice. He had immediately managed to drive to Anthony’s battalion and was relieved to find him accessible to friends. They had a splendid reunion.
But Anthony did not show himself keen to discuss his own case. He said, briefly,
‘Yes, I’m for it. I’m going before the Divisional Commander next Tuesday.’
‘Hm! I suppose you just boiled over?’ Robert had heard something of what was alleged.
‘Yes, I think you can say that. And I’m glad of it.’
‘Oh dear,’ thought Robert. ‘He’s defiant, he’s sure he’s right about something, he’s going to do himself harm.’
Anthony said nothing more, and Robert changed the subject for a little. He would return to it but he could see Anthony was in a difficult mood.
They had already reminisced gleefully, caught up with each other’s news, re-lived the days of their escape from Oflag XXXIII. They had not seen each other since parting in rain and distress on a train at Kranenberg. Robert was now working exceptionally hard, he said. He had a grim look about him.
‘One of the smaller fry against whom we’ve got a case is a brute you must have suffered from in the later stages. He was Commandant of your camp. Bressler.’
