by William Ryan
37
THE BUS WHEEZED as it climbed the road towards the higher valley. Behind them came a covered truck with Brandt and his Volkssturm boys – and the picnic. The small convoy had crossed the dam and now the frozen reservoir lay below them to their left. The road was barely more than a track, and icy with it. Occasionally the tyres would slip and the bus slide sideways before the driver corrected it. The officers shouted out in pretend fear, and then laughed. Neumann did his best to smile, but the truth was the prospect of tumbling down into the valley terrified him.
The problem was the bus. It was an old school bus and its engine wasn’t powerful enough for an incline like this. Painting it field grey didn’t make it a military vehicle. They hadn’t even changed the seats. The officers, swaddled in tweed and felt, their rifles wedged between their knees, swelled out into the central aisle, rubbing shoulders with the officers on the other side of the bus. With each bump and turn in the road, they leaned and swayed as one.
Despite the cramped conditions and their hangovers, they were in a good mood – there was a burble of anticipation despite the struggling motor and the steep slope. Each slide and slip, each twist that took them closer to the precipice, made them more cheerful still.
It helped that they’d left the SS women back at the hut – the officers were more relaxed as a result. It was cold in the bus and their breath had fogged the windows. Beltz drew a penis on the misted glass. Neumann doubted he’d have done it if an auxiliary had been sitting beside him, rolling blonde hair around a pretty finger. None of the others would have laughed along with Beltz if there had been women with them. The Commandant passed him a small flask. He drank from it. Better than leaving it to the Russians, after all. It burned as it made its way down but it warmed him. The Commandant took it back, sipping in turn. He gasped, his smile fleshy and wide, and took a grip on Neumann’s knee.
‘Well, what have you arranged for us?’
He spoke not only to him but also to Weber, who sat beside Neumann, his fat thighs taking up more than his fair share of the seat.
‘It’s a driven shoot, Herr Commandant,’ Weber said.
‘I know that much.’
Neumann smiled at Weber’s downcast reaction.
‘There is plenty of game in the woods up by the Red Farm, where we’re going; I’ve seen it myself,’ Weber said. ‘The shooting should be excellent.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, Weber.’ The Commandant turned to the other occupants of the bus, raising his voice. ‘Hopefully our celebrations from last night will not affect our aim.’
The officers, even the grey ones – the ones with the swampy eyes who didn’t laugh when the bus slid – even they smiled.
‘Where did you get beaters from?’ Jäger asked. He looked the palest of all – his cheeks seeming to have shrunk in on themselves overnight.
Neumann paused, considering how to answer. It was an awkward question but not deliberately so, he didn’t think. Jäger looked more curious than mischievous.
‘The Commandant was able to assist,’ Neumann said.
He’d have preferred to appear offhand, not to draw attention to his words. The hesitation had been a mistake and, sure enough, Jäger noticed. He might still be half drunk, but his brain was working efficiently enough. It took him a moment or two, but he reached the correct conclusion.
‘Prisoners? From the camp? It will be nice for them to get out for a walk in the fresh air. How lucky they must feel.’
Beltz’s laugh was like a dog’s bark but it stopped when the others looked away, discomfited. The mood on the bus had turned sour. Jäger looked around him, no longer appearing quite so bleary-eyed. In fact his blunder appeared to have revived him. The oldest of the doctors, a man in his late fifties, closed his eyes, his lips moving without words. Neumann wondered if he was praying.
‘I apologize, gentlemen,’ Jäger said, louder than was necessary. ‘I didn’t mean to offend your sensibilities.’
The irony was pitch perfect. Neumann had to admire it. He had to say something, of course. It was his duty to ensure the officers enjoyed themselves this morning. But before he had a chance, the Commandant leaned forward, taking Jäger’s shoulder in his hand.
‘Perhaps we should sing a song, what do you think, Jäger?’ The Commandant made the suggestion sound like a threat. ‘You were so keen to sing for us last night.’
Neumann knew the Commandant well enough to realize how annoyed he was. But Jäger wasn’t intimidated – he shook his head regretfully.
‘I apologize, Herr Sturmbannführer. I’ve forgotten all the words to all the songs I ever knew. I must have drunk too much last night.’
‘You could just hum, Jäger. That would be sufficient. Hum for us, why don’t you?’
It was enough to make one or two of the officers chuckle – but the Commandant wasn’t intending to amuse.
Jäger smiled. And began to hum.
38
WHEN THEY arrived at their destination, Weber drew a diagram in the snow with his shooting stick. He explained how the valley’s ridge split here, forming a natural funnel. The beaters, and their guards, would push whatever game there was along it to where the officers waited, strung out in a line some fifty metres from the edge of the forest.
Neumann was surprised by the anticipation he felt, once he made his way to his assigned position. Wolf stood behind him – his pink tongue lolling, his eyes sparkling in the morning sun. If Neumann shot well, then the dog would eat meat today. At first there was nothing but the snow-smoothed silence. Then Neumann heard the beaters coming, felt his heart quicken as he pushed the safety catch on his rifle to the off position. He slid his gloved finger inside the trigger guard and breathed out slowly, calming himself. The air was cold – his cheeks were smarting. When he breathed back in, he felt its sharpness in his chest.
He looked to his right and saw Beltz’s eagerness; to his left, the Commandant had taken a wide stance, the butt of his weapon tucked under his armpit, ready to flick it up and fire.
They’d been friends since childhood – they’d even fought in the same regiment during the last war – and something in the Commandant’s watchful anticipation reminded Neumann of the younger man. After their discharge, the Commandant had been the one who’d done well – at least until the crash in ’twenty-nine. And even when his business had failed, he’d landed on his feet with the Nazis – and then the SS. Neumann hadn’t joined the Party until much later, and only after the Commandant had explained to him the importance of being on the winning side in the new Germany. It had even been the Commandant who’d pulled the strings that landed him a commission in the SS.
It wasn’t that Neumann had opposed the Nazis. It had been clear that the country needed strong leadership and the Führer had certainly offered that. It was just that, back then, he’d had other matters on his mind. After all, his position had not been so bad – a pretty wife and two young children – the thought of whom caused a constriction in his throat – and a job in the local bank when many had none. He’d kept his head down, avoided the violent demonstrations, kept his opinions to himself. But it had been clear that things were changing, that the Nazis were the new power in the land, that the democrats, the liberals, socialists and communists – and most particularly the Jews – would be dealt with harshly. And then the Commandant had told him they were looking for fellows just like him – well, he didn’t want to be left behind, did he?
How it had got from that to this wasn’t so strange. There had been a momentum – everyone was rolled up in it and it bore you on. Everyone – well, a lot of people – had thought the Jews were responsible for the failure of the last war, for the crash, for every little wrong they’d ever suffered. One thing had led to another. No one wanted to be the one who stood out – the one to say things were going too far. It had been quite the opposite, in fact. People had said they weren’t going far enough. But mostly, no one had ever imagined it would come to this. Until it had, of course.
/> There was a cracking of branches in front of him and a fox sprang out of the undergrowth like a rusty bullet, a dark blur against the snow. He aimed and fired. Missed – fired again. He’d been holding the rifle loosely for the first shot and the recoil hurt his shoulder. It woke him up. The second shot caught the fox in the chest and flung it backwards into a still mound of fur.
‘Bravo!’ The Commandant shouted and there were other congratulations, from his left and right. Wolf loped forward to collect the dead animal, dragging it back towards him, a trail of blood behind. The first kill was his but he felt no pride in it. There had been no skill or thought. The truth of the matter was he wasn’t sure he’d wanted to kill the creature. If it had made it past him to freedom he wouldn’t have minded.
All along the line rifles were firing now – not continuously, but there was a kind of rhythm to it all the same. There was a cheer as a huge boar burst out onto the snowy field, and aimed for the gap in the line between the Commandant and the next officer. The Commandant swung his rifle in time with the boar’s run and fired once, killing it instantly. It slid to a halt nose first – carried by its momentum.
Further up the line a deer came bounding through the brush and there was more cheering as blood exploded from its head. Soon, animal corpses littered the expanse in front of the line of shooters, the snow turning pink around them. The chatter and cheering decreased as the opportunities came more frequently. Then, in a long pause where each man concentrated on the area in front of him, rifle held at the ready, there came the sound of gunfire from inside the forest – three shots in rapid succession. Further along the line a deer broke cover but no one fired. It bounded through the line, its eyes white with fear.
It had sounded like a pistol. The Commandant looked across at him. Neumann lowered his rifle and shrugged – uncertain. He listened. All along the line others did the same. But there was only silence. Even the beaters were no longer making any noise.
‘It must have been one of the guards,’ Beltz said to no one in particular. Perhaps to himself.
One of the beaters trying to escape? Or just moving too slowly. It was the most likely explanation. But, just in case, he held his rifle close to his shoulder and scanned the tree line for movement.
The shouting from inside the forest, unmistakably men telling other men to do things they didn’t want to, came as a relief. A hare, perhaps startled by the sound, tumbled out onto the snow, running left, then right.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ the Commandant called out, turning so that the officers further down the line could hear him. Saying which, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired at the hare, missing it. On either side, the shooting started afresh. The hare, terrified, bounded between Neumann and the Commandant and Neumann watched as the Commandant’s rifle followed it until it was pointed directly at him – when he fired. The bullet cracked past Neumann – so close he could have sworn he felt the heat of it on his cheek. The Commandant pointed his rifle upwards immediately – a look of shock on his face, quickly replaced by an apologetic smile. No one else had noticed the incident.
‘It got away, blast it,’ the Commandant called over to him. Neumann found himself smiling, feeling the adrenaline surge through him. It wasn’t fear as such – he’d almost enjoyed the experience. In fact, it amused him – the thought that his old friend might have shot him. A final gift from the Commandant – on Christmas Day.
‘Better luck next time,’ he said. And the Commandant smiled back at him, appreciating the double meaning.
Neumann was pleased. He hadn’t made a fuss about the incident. He had shown he was a man of courage.
It was surprising to Neumann how much game there was but eventually, despite the plenty, the animals that broke from the brush became fewer, and further between. The firing decreased in intensity and the shouts and crashing of the beaters came closer and closer. The end of the shoot approached. It had gone off well – despite his having nearly been shot by the Commandant. Neumann permitted himself some satisfaction. It was fleeting, though – ended by a final spate of firing and a high-pitched wail of pain that paused only when the wounded man drew breath.
What had happened wasn’t entirely clear – there was shrill laughter and some confusion at the other end of the line. Neumann thought he recognized the laughter as belonging to Weber – the mayor. Then there were two more shots and more laughter – although this time it sounded almost hysterical. Already the Commandant was marching along the line towards the commotion, shouting at people to stop firing. Neumann ran after him, cursing as he did so. He could see what had happened now – a bundle of striped rags lay on the snow, a few metres in from the trees. A dead prisoner. Twenty metres further along another prisoner squirmed in agony, another dead man lying beside him. The fools had shot at the beaters. No one looked up as they approached the officers who had gathered around the nearest corpse. The dead man’s mouth hung open in a broken-toothed, black-tongued yawn. He stared up at the clouded sky – unseeing. A bullet had hit him in the chest.
‘Who is responsible for this?’ the Commandant demanded.
‘It was an accident.’ The older doctor from the bus looked to be in shock – his face was white as the snow itself. ‘I thought he was a deer.’
‘Since when do deer wear stripes?’
The doctor had the good sense to say nothing. The other officers looked away, except for Jäger, who poked at the dead man with his rifle.
‘Maybe he thought he was a zebra?’ Jäger suggested.
‘You think this is amusing, Hauptsturmführer Jäger?’ the Commandant shouted. ‘Something to laugh about?’
‘I never laugh at death, Herr Commandant. I think it’s a very serious matter.’
‘It is a serious matter, Jäger. So wipe that smile off your face.’
The Commandant turned back to the doctor, pointing to the wounded prisoner – furious now.
‘And him? Is he your work too?’
He’d been shot twice, once in the leg and once in the stomach. His eyes were a bright blue in a dark face that was all bones and little flesh, its gauntness accentuated by his beard. The bullet in his leg had hit an artery, that much was evident. Blood pumped from the man’s thigh out on to the snow, forming a smoking red puddle. The dying man stared around him at the circle of officers., In contrast to them, healthy and hearty in their hunting tweeds, the prisoner was so thin it seemed that only his taut skin held his bones together. He appeared surprised by their interest in him.
‘It was me,’ the mayor said, looking almost as abject as the doctor. ‘I thought that we were meant to. That it was part of the shoot.’
‘You thought you were meant to shoot the beaters?’ The Commandant’s amazement was real.
‘They’re prisoners, Herr Commandant. From the mining camp. The others were doing it. I thought I was entering into the spirit of things.’
Weber looked as if he might cry. Why should today be different from any other day? Just because it was Christmas or Julfest or whatever he should call it? Why should there be no killing today?
More prisoners came through the trees and stood, confused by the dead animals strewn across the field, before being drawn by the dying man’s moaning. They wore wooden clogs – their feet wrapped in frozen rags, their hair stiff and clumped. Those who had any. They were tanned by filth, their grimy striped jackets hanging from thin shoulders like oversized ponchos. They were so exhausted that their open eyes were sightless, as if the small amount of energy it might take to focus them was too much. They were drawn in closer and closer by the dying man’s screams. The Commandant pointed them out to the officers.
‘Get rid of them,’ he said. ‘And someone deal with this mess. Where are the guards?
Neumann?’ Neumann stood to attention.
‘Herr Commandant, there are sandwiches and refreshments back at the bus. Please, allow me to deal with this matter.’
The Commandant was as angry as Neumann had ever seen him but, after
a moment’s hesitation, he nodded.
‘Yes, yes. We’ll put this matter behind us. Have these,’ the Commandant pointed to the prisoners, ‘bring the game over to the vehicles – let’s see what we’ve achieved here. Come on, gentlemen – let’s do as Obersturmführer Neumann has suggested. I certainly could do with a drink.’
The prisoners moved aside for the officers, the two groups each choosing to ignore the other. The doctor and the mayor stayed back.
‘Is there anything we can do?’ the mayor asked. The doctor nodded his agreement with the question.
‘You’re a doctor, aren’t you?’ Neumann said.
The doctor glanced down at the wounded man and shrugged his shoulders.
‘There’s nothing to be done for him. Take my word for it.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Not in his condition. With those wounds? And anyway – what do we do with him then?’
The prisoner looked up at the doctor, his eyes wide. He appeared offended. Or perhaps he didn’t understand.
‘Here’s Peichl,’ the mayor said, relieved. ‘Peichl will deal with things.’
The Scharführer approached, a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.
‘Trouble, Herr Obersturmführer?’ Peichl said, looking at the dead beaters and their injured comrade. The other guards followed him out of the trees, faces wrapped in scarves, thick overcoats dusted with snow. Some were from the mining camp and some from the hut. Peichl nodded towards the prisoners and the guards began to organize them into lines. Their shouting was tired – the swing of their rifles slow. Quick enough to make contact all the same.
‘An accident,’ Neumann said.
Peichl shrugged, examining the wounded man.
‘I’ve just shot one myself, Herr Obersturmführer. Not an accident, of course.’ He peered down at the dead man.
‘The Commandant is unhappy about the incident. Today was meant to be a break from this.’
Neumann found the toe of his boot was pushing at the prisoner’s thigh. It was unintentional – he’d merely meant to indicate what he was talking about. He looked down and found himself staring into the dying man’s eyes.
