by William Ryan
‘What are your orders, Herr Obersturmführer?’
It took an effort to break the prisoner’s empty gaze.
‘See what can be done for this one and get rid of the prisoners we’ve managed not to shoot.’
‘Get rid?’
‘Not that. Get them organized, then back to the mining camp.’
Peichl looked over at the emaciated prisoners. ‘You don’t want us to march them back the whole way, do you, Herr Obersturmführer? Not the men from the hut, at least. Surely the camp guards can look after them.’
Neumann looked down at the dead prisoner. He could tell from the yellow star on the grimy strip of fabric which category he was.
‘They didn’t come in a truck?’
‘The mining camp’s trucks have been reallocated. They haven’t even got a handcart these days.’
Neumann saw the resentment in Peichl’s half-concealed scowl. He didn’t care.
‘See you get them there and see it’s done properly. No more accidents. I hold you responsible.’
Peichl hesitated just before he gave his salute. Neumann smiled. It gave him pleasure to irritate the Scharführer from time to time.
Peichl said nothing. Neumann turned back to the mayor.
‘An unfortunate incident, Herr Weber – but one we can forget about, I think.’
The mayor’s attention was elsewhere, on something that was happening behind him. There was a gunshot, very close, accompanied by the unmistakable thud of a bullet driving its way into flesh. The dying man’s moaning came to an abrupt end. Neumann turned to find Peichl replacing his pistol into its holster. He shrugged.
‘I put him out of his misery. Herr Doktor Bayer said he was on the way out.’
Neumann looked down at the dead man – his empty gaze stared back at him. It wasn’t that he’d thought he could save him – he’d known he couldn’t be saved. It was that he’d wanted at least a part of this mess to be fixed. And now, of course, it had been – just not in the way he’d wanted.
‘See that these three are buried,’ he said to Peichl. ‘Find some shovels and do it properly. And the one you shot in the forest as well. And get the dead animals over to the bus. If one of those prisoners – just one – doesn’t make it back to the mining camp I’ll have you transferred to the Front before the day is out. I promise you that, Peichl. Quick now.’
Peichl saluted properly this time and set about organizing the prisoners and guards. Wolf, who had disappeared off somewhere, now reappeared at Neumann’s side, his mouth smeared with blood. He hoped it was an animal’s. Neumann looked at the men gathered around the bus – no one looked over. A pistol shot, a dead man – for other people this might be a moment of significance. For the officers from the camp it was nothing compared with a sandwich and a tot of schnapps.
He looked again. There was one exception – Brandt stared across the snow at him. It was impossible to make out his expression from this distance. Perhaps he felt outraged. He should have picked a different place to work if he was. It was too late for him to sit in judgement now – not since he’d taken their cigarettes, their wages and whatever he’d pilfered from the kitchens. He was as much a part of this as any of them. He could spare them his crocodile tears.
And, now that he looked again, there were other exceptions – the Hitler Youth that the mayor had provided to help serve food and drinks to the officers. Three youngsters with ears and eyes too big for their thin faces, who looked past him to where the dead bodies lay. How old were they? Thirteen or fourteen – one of them even younger perhaps. No longer children, soldiers now. They’d been enlisted into the Volkssturm in October and now, only a few weeks later, here they were watching prisoners being killed for fun.
Neumann pulled his scarf tighter around his face, surprised by his sudden nausea. The last thing he needed was to fall ill. And there was ice in this wind – more bad weather was coming, no doubt. And it would be January soon.
January was always the bitterest of months.
39
BRANDT WAS shivering. He had to lean back against the bus to stay upright. He was cold, that was true, but he’d been much, much colder before. He wasn’t sick, he didn’t think – not physically. Nor was he frightened – the murder of the beaters had brought with it no sense of personal danger, for him at least. Certainly nothing like what he had experienced at the Front. This uncontrollable trembling – almost like spasming – was caused by something else.
He should be overseeing the passing out of soup and sandwiches to the officers – making sure their glasses were topped up with schnapps and brandy when needed. Simple tasks, but they would require a steadier hand than he currently could lay claim to and, if he had to face the officers at this very moment, there was a risk the fury that raged through his entire body might reveal itself in some way. He needed to calm himself.
‘Fischer?’
The young boy turned to him. Moist round eyes and a tight, pale-lipped mouth. Not so cheerful now, it would seem. He wanted to offer him some comfort – but what could he say? That the dead men had deserved it?
‘I need to warm up. I’ve a cold coming on. Can you manage without me for a few minutes?’
Fischer looked to his empty sleeve and nodded his agreement, managing a smile for him.
‘Of course. Would you like me to find you a blanket?’
‘I know where they are. I’ll be five minutes. But come and fetch me if you need me.’
Once he was sitting in the back of the bus, swaddled in thick wool, the tremors that had taken control of his body began to fade. It had been like a sudden fever. One moment he’d been perfectly normal and then his body hadn’t been quite his own. Even now he felt nauseous.
He was clear-headed enough to realize the moment which had triggered the reaction. It wasn’t when the prisoners had been shot. He’d almost been expecting something like that to happen, he realized now. And when the Commandant had reprimanded Jäger so publicly, it had been reassuring in a strange way. Even amongst these men there were rules about death, and perhaps it helped that he heard some, a tiny portion, of his outrage spoken out loud – even if it was by the Commandant.
No, what had set it off had been when Peichl had shot the wounded man. He’d seen, even from a distance, the look that had passed between the Scharführer and the doctor when Neumann turned away. Peichl had pulled his pistol out, pointed it at the wounded man, glanced over at the doctor – who’d shrugged as if to say: ‘What are you waiting for?’
And Peichl had fired. As simple as that.
But it wasn’t even this moment that had caused him the most disquiet – he’d seen people shot in such a way before. There were no prisoners taken at Stalingrad – or few enough. It was the setting. The contented, chortling officers gathered around the soup urns and the fact that not one of them so much as turned – not even the Commandant, who had been so angry only moments before. There had been a mess, it had been tidied up. It would have been impolite for any of them to acknowledge that the cleaning up had involved another murder. It was curious, he thought, that the anger he felt was mostly with himself – and at his own powerlessness.
Even now, sitting in the relative warmth, calmer – he could hear them talking about the shots they’d made and the shots they’d missed – the ripe cheeriness in their voices and their self-satisfaction. They’d forgotten the dead men, if they’d ever even been especially aware of them, of course. He felt that peculiar pressure just above his Adam’s apple, the tang of bile in his mouth that told him he was a momentary lapse of will away from spewing up his breakfast. He concentrated on breathing. Slowly. Nothing else until he felt his self-control returning.
He reminded himself why he was here. He cleared his mind of doubt.
When he was ready, Brandt pulled himself to his feet, letting the blankets fall down behind him. One of the officers could pick them up, fold them – make them into something orderly. Tidy up the mess in the same way they’d tidied up the wounded beater
. He would go back out into the snow and smile – joke even, if necessary, with the officers. He was not completely powerless – there were things that he could achieve in the face of this bitter evil. A great good might be within his grasp. But the time for patience was over – it was time to take risks. And to find out where things stood.
He found Bobrik standing beside the dead animals and guided him away from the other guards, walking until there was no prospect of them being overheard. Bobrik was smiling, as if amused.
‘Why did you take the key?’ asked the Ukrainian.
‘It was an accident.’
‘Was it? I covered for you anyway.’
Brandt took a moment to think the situation through. Bobrik didn’t care about the key.
‘Why didn’t you report it?’
‘Because you’re going to help us, aren’t you? The time is coming soon. The papers that we asked for. Have you found someone?’
‘I might have. I need photographs.’
‘That can be arranged. What do they want in exchange?’
Brandt leaned forward and whispered in Bobrik’s ear. When he’d finished, he stood back and waited for his reaction. He had rolled the dice.
He watched the smile slip off the Ukrainian’s face like snow off a roof. There was no outrage, however. He could see concern, of course, but that was only natural. Bobrik coughed, scratched his ear and coughed again. But he didn’t say no.
Instead he leaned his head forward to hear more.
40
NEUMANN WASN’T certain how long had passed since the killings. An hour? Ten minutes? Neumann had drunk one too many schnapps – possibly even more than that. He wasn’t the only one, of course, but now the Commandant was coming towards him, his good mood apparently restored. Neumann cursed his foolishness and smiled a greeting – hoping it would be sufficient.
‘Neumann,’ the Commandant said, indicating with a twitch of his chin the spot where the dead men had lain before they’d been removed. ‘Thank you for dealing with that matter.’
‘I only did my duty, Herr Sturmbannführer.’
‘We’re on our own now, Friedrich. You should address me as Klaus.’
‘Thank you . . .’ Neumann hesitated – he didn’t entirely trust his tongue. ‘Klaus.’
Not so bad. He risked another smile.
‘Last night you wanted to ask me something,’ the Commandant said. ‘Can I guess what it was?’
Neumann decided it was safe to say nothing, and so didn’t.
‘You wanted to know what happens when the Russians come. Am I correct?’
‘Then they are coming?’ Neumann risked.
‘Our intelligence anticipates an attack is imminent – no more than two to three weeks away. Our current offensive in the Ardennes is intended to drive the Americans and British back into the sea. We must hope that success in the west will allow us to return to the offensive in the east. But we must be realistic – we are no longer as strong as we were in nineteen forty-one.’
‘And if we aren’t successful?’
‘Then we must contemplate defeat. Reichsführer Himmler has ordered contingency plans to be put into operation. At last. Where possible, we will move prisoners capable of work further west so that they may still contribute to the war effort. Those not capable of productive work will be dealt with in a different way. This war is coming to an end. Therefore we must contemplate our future.’
The thudding in Neumann’s ears was so loud that it was hard for him to hear what the Commandant was saying.
‘What kind of future should we expect?’ he asked, realizing as soon as he’d asked it that it was a stupid question.
The Commandant smiled. A thin smile.
‘The most important thing is not to be captured by the Russians. You worked in the east, so you know why. Germany isn’t finished, Friedrich – we will rise again. Sooner or later the Americans and British will fight the Russians and then they’ll need a strong Germany as an ally. And a strong Germany will need men like us. We must survive for just this reason. It’s our duty, even. Otherwise all of this will have been in vain.’
‘I never wanted to be part of it.’
The words were out before he’d thought what they might be. He shook his head, both to disagree with them and to shake some sobriety back into his thinking.
‘I didn’t mean,’ he began, but the Commandant held up his hand to stop him. The gesture was gentle, his frown compassionate. He reached out and took Neumann’s arm, turning him away from where the officers had gathered to watch the animals they’d killed being laid in two rows, grouped by species.
‘Some of us were better suited to the work we undertook than others. That’s why I assigned you here, to the hut, where you perform a useful – no – a vital role. The relaxations that you’ve arranged have been essential to the well-being of our comrades. After the incident on the train – which would have been a terrible event for anyone – having you work in the camp would have been a waste of a talented officer.’
Neumann sensed the world around him shifting shape, even as he listened to the Commandant’s words. The musty scent he associated with the old man from the train filled his nose, even his mouth. He kept his eyes fixed on the snow in front of them, watching his boots as they pressed into the crisp surface. Step, step, step. He knew if he looked around for the old man from the train he’d see him.
‘I wasn’t prepared – I hadn’t fully understood,’ he said.
‘That train was worse than anything we saw in the last war.’ The Commandant’s voice was smooth and reassuring. ‘Most of us who have been involved in these duties have had comrades around us to support us, to share the burden with – to encourage us even. We haven’t been on our own. I lodged an official complaint about the transportation officer. His men failed to prevent tools being smuggled on board the train – the same tools used to break out of the wagons. Then he assigned you, an inexperienced officer, in these matters at least, to command a half-strength guard of recruits. And, worst of all – given the circumstances – he sent the train by the slowest possible route. And the prisoners were completely the wrong sort – too many young men. It was incredible you weren’t all murdered. That you managed to achieve what you did was extraordinary in the circumstances. That he put you and your men in such a situation – it makes my blood boil to this day.’
Neumann had no pity for himself, or his men. After all, they had been the ones doing the murdering. The old man had no pity for him either. Had he spoken to him, back then? He couldn’t remember.
‘We ran out of bullets. We had to . . .’
‘. . . use bayonets and rifle butts. I know. Horrific. Medieval. But all in the past now.’ The Commandant squeezed his elbow. ‘I feel responsibility for what happened – that I put you in harm’s way. But you’ve been happy here, haven’t you? I’ve done my best to make it up to you.’
Neumann glanced across at the Commandant, momentarily bewildered. It was such a complex question.
‘There’s no need to say a word. It was the least I could do. I’ve made some contingency plans, and I’ve taken the liberty of including you in them. I’ve orders to another posting near Nordhausen when we’ve finished up here and you will come with me. Well, what do you think? Nordhausen is a pleasant spot. We’ll find you somewhere to live. A nice house, perhaps. You can go to Hamburg – talk it through with Marguerite. I’m sure she’ll see sense. She can bring the boys to Nordhausen and things will be back to normal.’
Neumann didn’t think things would ever be normal again between Marguerite and him. He was far past any kind of normality now, he understood that.
‘What about the hut?’ he asked. ‘The prisoners?’
They turned and walked back towards the bus and the Commandant nodded towards where the guards were standing.
‘They aren’t your concern – Peichl will take responsibility for them. As for the hut, you must ensure nothing is left behind that might be used against us. Clear the
place out of any paperwork, photographs, everything. No trace of our presence must remain.’
The last of the dead animals had been brought across. The officers were in good spirits, although their voices sounded unnaturally loud – as if they were trying to talk over another conversation.
‘Look, Friedrich. See how content our comrades are? Even in the current situation? Your work here has been of great importance. Without you, I don’t know if we’d have been able to carry on.’
Neumann found his teeth had clenched tight, his hair was standing up on his scalp.
‘That can’t be true.’
‘Don’t be so humble. Reichsführer Himmler himself has spoken often about the stress our people face – diversion from their duties was essential and you provided it. You were the glue that held us together.’
The conversation appeared to be taking place between the Commandant and some other person Neumann had never met, talking about things which he’d never understood. And all around him were the ghosts of dead prisoners – he wondered if the dead beaters had joined them already. Could it really be true? That without the hut, the killing machine would have ceased to operate?
Of course not. But even so – he’d had a part in its smooth operation. He had to accept that, standing here, he was just as culpable as when he’d been standing on the train.
‘We should have a photograph taken,’ the Commandant said. ‘Did you bring your camera?’
‘Yes,’ he managed to say, even though the Commandant’s voice came from a great distance. ‘Brandt knows how to use it.’
‘Excellent.’
The Commandant called the officers together and arranged them in a long line, much as the guards had arranged the beaters earlier. He waved the mayor in, but when Jäger held back, the Commandant didn’t press him. The officers stood behind the rows of torn wildlife, still leaking blood onto the white snow, their hands clasped around the barrels of their rifles, almost as though they were in prayer – their expressions grave.
