Blood and Ice

by Leo Kessler

  As they entered the little settlement, they soon learned there was nothing to be afraid of. The village was dead – wiped out.

  Men – and women, their skirts thrown back obscenely, their legs thrust apart – lay everywhere in the dirty snow. From the black skeletal trees in the village square, naked men hung by their necks, their faces black, their bodies as hard as board. Just outside the church, the village priest was nailed upside down to the big wooden crucifix, his amputated penis thrust in between his gaping lips.

  Schulze retched and fought back the bitter bile which threatened to flood his throat. ‘Christ almighty Chink, who did this?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘The Russians,’ a soft voice in German said behind them. The two of them spun round.

  A little man, dressed in a brown, overlong leather coat and a fur hat with loose earflaps was standing there.

  ‘Who are you?’ Schulze demanded, raising the gun. The little man raised his hands but the smile remained on his cunning face. ‘Janosz is the name, sir,’ he said. ‘Janosz the Pedlar, they call me in these parts.’

  Schulze lowered his weapon slowly. ‘How do you know we are German?’ he asked. The man pointed to the back of the VW jeep. ‘German number. SS too. I thought you were the Russians coming back but when I saw that number I came out of my hiding place, knowing that our allies had returned.’

  ‘What happened here?’ Schulze asked.

  ‘They were ordered back to the siege of Budapest last night. It annoyed them. The Guards thought they were going to have an easy, safe time here, sitting out the battle. They got drunk. After that their officers couldn’t control them.’ He extended one dirty hand as if revealing to them some splendid tableau, his wizened cunning face devoid of any emotion. ‘You can see the result.’

  ‘You’re a Yid,’ Chink burst out suddenly, a look of accusation on his yellow face.

  ‘That is correct,’ Janosz the Padlar replied impassively.

  Schulze was caught off guard for a moment. Was the man off his head, or simply very brave in admitting he was one of the persecuted race? He decided that the Jew was neither; he was cunning. He had revealed himself like this to the two of them delivering his life into their hands, as it were, because he had some plan. ‘Now listen Ikey, don’t try pulling any Jewboy tricks on me, or I’ll dock your prick a lot shorter than the Rabbi ever did! What’s yer game?’

  The little man smiled slowly. ‘Game? No game, honourable sir. Just a little proposition. A matter of business.’

  ‘Business?’ Schulze echoed, while Chink’s suspicious look was changed to one of guarded interest.

  ‘I have the impression that you gentlemen are on your way to Budapest, perhaps as a forerunner of others.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘It is no concern of mine. But if you were prepared to take me to the capital, I could ensure you did not bump into any of the enemy on their way.’ He looked at the giant NCO out of the corner of his dark smart eyes; as if he felt the German might be scared by the impact of his full gaze.

  ‘But what do you want to go to Budapest for?’

  ‘Sir, I have been wandering these roads now for forty years. I am weary of it. You Germans call the Magyars the “hungry people”. I am sick of hungry people too. I think I would like to spend my old age with the Chosen People,’ he smiled to himself at the use of the word, ‘in Palestine, and for that indulgence I need money. In Budapest in such confusing times as these, there is money to be made – much money. I will obtain some of it.’ He said the words as a simple statement of fact, not conjecture.

  Schulze stared at the little man thoughtfully. Slowly a plan was beginning to form in the back of his big head – vague and incoherent as yet, but there all the same. ‘All right, Ikey, you’re on. You can lead us to Budapest.’

  Five minutes later Schulze had radioed their position and the map reference of the road they were taking east, and shortly afterwards the three of them set off in the little jeep to the accompaniment of Schulze’s: ‘A Chink, a Yid and a senior NCO of the Armed SS in a jeep together! What would the Führer say!’

  The little Jew was true to his word. All that long Sunday, he directed them down little side roads, country tracks, through empty, looted, raped villages, avoiding the Russian mobile patrols time and time again. In the afternoon it started to snow again, thick heavy soft flakes which made the going treacherous. Through the battling windscreen wipers, the silent fir forests on both sides slid past, while Schulze concentrated on driving.

  Just as he changed down and prepared to negotiate a steep hill, the little Jew said urgently but without any apparent fear, ‘There are Russians up there, Sergeant-Major.’

  Automatically Schulze hit the brake and the jeep slithered to a stop, a pillow of snow dropping on the hood from a tree with a plopping crunch. ‘Where?’

  ‘On the height.’

  Schulze saw them. A long line of cavalry riding noiselessly through the streaming white wall of snow like grey ghosts, heading into the forest.

  With tensed breath, they waited till they had ridden past, Schulze ready to slam into reverse. But there was no need; the cavalrymen did not spot them.

  ‘You’ve got good eyes for a Yid, Ikey!’ Schulze said, as he thrust home first and prepared to tackle the hill.

  ‘It is because I have such good eyes that I have survived, dear sir,’ the little man answered. ‘Yids, as you call us, need good eyes, and a good nose for danger. We die young if we don’t have them.’

  Just before darkness fell, their luck ran out. They had left the country lanes because of the deeply packed snow and were driving cautiously down a second-class road. By now they were all exhausted; even Schulze’s giant frame was tired after a day’s driving in those terrible conditions. Perhaps it was for that reason that none of them spotted the big, six-wheeled armoured car with the dull red star on its turret until it was almost too late.

  ‘Russian!’ the old man yelled in alarm.

  Schulze acted instinctively. As the armoured car came out of its harbour at the side of the road and fired, Schulze swung the wheel desperately to the right and went skidding and bouncing up a narrow trail which led steeply upwards through the close-packed firs. An instant later the 37mm shell exploded in a spurt of angry scarlet on the spot where they had been a moment before.

  The four-wheel drive whining in first, Schulze drove the VW jeep up the incline, fighting the terrain, skidding time and time again, and threatening to roll backwards.

  ‘They come other road!’ Chink cried, as he caught a glimpse of the big armoured car through a gap in the forest. The armoured car was tearing up the road almost parallel to them. A moment later Schulze swung round a bend and discovered that the two vehicles were on converging paths.

  Schulze put his foot to the floor. The VW bowled along, the crossroads only fifty metres away now. The armoured car saw them. Its machine guns chattered. Tracer zipped through the green gloom towards them. Schulze just made the crossroads before the armoured car which swung round and headed after the bouncing, bucking VW. The vehicle’s 37mm cracked into action once more. A sudden brown hole appeared in the surface of the snow to their right like the work of some gigantic mole.

  The gun fired again. To their left the firs were sheared away and went crashing down in a flurry of snow like matchsticks. They reached another steep slope. To their right the mountainside fell steeply. Now the armoured car’s massive horse power began to tell, and it started to gain on them again, its machine guns chattering furiously. Schulze’s eyes strained through the flying snow, trying to make out the top of the ascent. If they did not make it soon and swing round the cover of some bend, they would be finished. The armoured car would overtake them. The snow cleared for a moment and Schulze saw with an overwhelming sense of defeat that there was perhaps a quarter of a kilometre of straight road ahead of them to the next bend. They could not make it!

  But he had not reckoned with the old Jew. Suddenly he seemed to forget his fear. He thrust his skinny hand through the flap
at his side and began undoing the strap which held the spare jerrican of petrol fixed to the side of the VW. Supporting himself in the wildly swaying VW as best he could, he managed it and ripped open the filler cap. The VW was suddenly full of the stink of petrol. He let go of the can. It fell behind them, bouncing and tumbling on the hard-packed snow of their tracks, right into the path of the armoured car. The driver had no time to manoeuvre. Next instant, there was the hollow clang of steel striking steel. What was left of the petrol – perhaps ten or so litres – washed up and covered the whole front of the armoured car’s glacis plate.

  Abruptly Chink realized what the old man was up to. He did not hesitate, but, plunged his clenched fist through the thin plastic of the rear window, and pulled out a stick grenade. Schulze watched fascinated in the rear view mirror, at the armoured car, dripping petrol, looming ever larger. Then the Russians were close enough. ‘Urrah!’ Chink yelled and flung the grenade.

  It exploded exactly where he wanted – on the link between the turret and the petrol-soaked glacis plate. The grenade itself did no harm to the hardened steel of the car, but the heat of its explosion ignited the petrol.

  In a flash, the whole front of the armoured car was alive with bright red flame, completely blinding the driver. Instinctively he hit the brakes. It was a deadly thing to do on that slope and in that snow. The armoured car skidded crazily to the right. For one long moment it teetered on the edge of the cliff. But there was no holding it now.

  As Schulze pressed the brakes gently and brought the VW to a stop, the flaming armoured car went over the side and then tumbled from view. He heard the outcome far below: the long jarring crunch as it hit the first rocks, followed by the brittle shattering of steel as it struck outcrop after outcrop until it came to rest in one great echoing crash at the bottom.

  Schulze wiped the mixture of sweat and snow from his broad, scarlet face gratefully and looked down at the little Jew, who was beaming at him. ‘You know, Ikey, you saved our bacon just then.’

  ‘We survived,’ the little man said easily.

  ‘Here,’ Schulze said spontaneously, ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He reached inside the Russian greatcoat and tugged out his Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. ‘Stick that round yer skinny Yiddish neck,’ Schulze said.

  Janosz the Pedlar looked down incredulously at the gleaming black and white decoration now hanging from his neck. Then shaking his old head, he followed the other two back to the bullet-holed jeep.

  ‘Oi,oi,’ he muttered to himself as he clambered inside again, ‘a Yid with the Iron Cross. Meschugge!’

  Moments later they were on their way towards Budapest.

  Note

  1. Imperial and Royal. Title applied to the old Anglo-Hungarian Army, prior to 1918.

  FOUR

  ‘Otto, we request Otto?’ the radio operator’s cracked hoarse voice was the only sound in the little stone barn. ‘Great Hawk do you read me…we need Otto urgently.’

  Habicht, standing next to Kreuz, seemed unconcerned that Europa had been unable to raise Division – ‘Great Hawk’ – all day, and that there was no ‘Otto’ – fuel – forthcoming. But Kreuz knew that inwardly the C.O. was worried. They had slipped through the Russian lines quite easily, and now they would make their last dash for Budapest. But to what purpose, if there was no Division Viking to follow them up?

  With a sigh the radio operator took off his sticky headphones and turned to face Habicht, dark violet circles under his blood shot eyes. ‘Sir, I don’t think I’d raise them if I tried till I was blue in the face. It’s almost as if they’re not there, sir,’ he ended a little desperately.

  ‘Of course Division is there!’ Habicht snapped. ‘Try again, man!’

  Reluctantly the radio operator put on his earphones once more, while Habicht dismissed his young officers.

  ‘What about you, Kreuz?’ Habicht asked, when his second- in-command showed no signs of moving.

  Major Kreuz had had enough. He was not a professional soldier like Habicht. He had joined the pre-war Berlin Reitersturm1 of the SS because it was the chic thing to do. In this way he had come to the SS and he had fought their battles loyally enough throughout the war. But he had not the self-sacrificing fanaticism of the regular SS officer. Now he wanted to save his skin while there was still time.

  ‘Obersturmbannführer, I would like to speak to you – outside.’

  Habicht looked at him curiously and nodded agreement. Slowly they walked through the sleeping village, the only sound the crisp slow tread of the sentries on the hard snow. Kreuz stopped and faced his commander.

  ‘Habicht, you must be realistic.’

  Habicht looked at the pale, unshaven, self-indulgent face in the cold-blue light of the moon and knew his second-in-command was deathly afraid. ‘What do you mean, Major – realistic?’

  ‘About the Division. We couldn’t get the Division, because it is simply not there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at the horizon, to the west.’

  ‘I see nothing.’

  ‘Exactly, Habicht. For the simple reason that the Division has pulled out – isn’t that obvious?’

  ‘Impossible,’ Habicht snapped icily. ‘Absolutely impossible!’ In sudden anger Kreuz went the whole way. ‘The offensive has failed, I tell you, and we are all risking our necks for nothing.’ He stared at the tall C.O., his face flushed with emotion.

  ‘You and your precious neck,’ Habicht said contemptuously. ‘We are exactly ten kilometres away from Budapest now. So far Schulze has done his job. With the same luck tomorrow, we could well be in the capital by nightfall.’

  Kreuz stared at him aghast. ‘You’re crazy, Habicht! You have lost all contact with reality,’ he exploded, knowing now that there was no turning back; he had said it. ‘There is no bloody follow-up! We will be just joining the rest of the poor bastards trapped there by the Russians.’

  ‘We shall have made history,’ Habicht harked, iron in his voice. ‘Europa will have led the first successful German offensive for nearly two years.’

  ‘Do you really think anyone cares? You might want to waste your life, Habicht, but I’m not going to let you waste mine and those of all your young men. I don’t suffer from your kind of death wish.’

  ‘What do you mean, Kreuz?’

  ‘I mean that I am going to rouse the officers out of their beds and tell them what the real situation is. I shall recommend to them that the Regiment should withdraw, while there is still time, to our lines at Bickse.’

  ‘That is mutiny!’

  ‘Not when one is led by a maniac. And don’t believe you can frighten me with the threat of a court-martial. Germany is falling apart too quickly for that to worry me. You can’t stop…’

  His voice died in his throat. Habicht was holding a pistol pointed directly at him.

  ‘What the devil, Habicht,’ he began, his face suddenly contorted with terror.

  He never finished the sentence. The pistol kicked in the Hawk’s hand, shattering the silence of the night. Kreuz screamed and flew backwards through the night, the blood seeping through his shattered guts. Calmly Habicht walked over to where he lay in the suddenly darkened snow and placed his pistol against the side of Kreuz’s head. His face expressionless, he blew his skull apart.

  ‘Major Kreuz has just met with a fatal accident,’ he said to the running sentries, alarmed by the shooting. They stopped short and looked down at the mutilated body, lying crumpled in the ever-growing red star of its own blood, their young eyes wide with shock and bewilderment.

  ‘You’d better throw some snow over him or something,’ Habicht said carelessly. ‘I wouldn’t like the men to see him like that at dawn.’

  Up in front, Habicht’s oddly assorted reconnaissance team had hit trouble. Just before dusk they had reached the river which formed the Russian second-line around the western suburbs of Budapest. No way across was apparent and to make matters worse, as soon as it had grown really dark, the Ru
ssians had switched on huge searchlights, which probed the night with long fingers. They abandoned the jeep, which was too conspicuous, and vanished into the snow-heavy pine forest which lined the western bank of the unknown river.

  Now the three of them crawled ever closer to a little ford which the Jew knew of. It, too, was illuminated, but according to Janosz unguarded. Between the trees they could make out the river across which searchlights threw sinister patterns at ten second intervals.

  ‘What do you think, Ikey?’

  The little Jew stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘You need me, Sergeant-Major. I need you. You will be able to get through the river and beyond the wire before the searchlights illuminate it again. I am too slow, too old, too frail –’

  ‘Knock it off,’ Schulze interrupted him brutally. ‘You’ll have me breaking down and crying in a minute, you short-cocked kike!’

  Janosz continued imperturbably: ‘I shall send you, Sergeant-Major to get through the barbed wire, where you will leave our Chinese friend here. Then, you put out those search lights and our friend here will come back and fetch me.’

  Schulze looked at him open-mouthed. ‘And why,’ he asked finally, ‘should a senior non-commissioned officer of the Armed SS and his Chink servant come back and collect one scruffy docked-tailed Yid who we don’t need any more, eh?’

  The Jew smiled, as if at the folly of human understanding. ‘But you do need him, Sergeant-Major. My dear German friend, you might just want to come out again,’ he hesitated for only a fraction of a second, ‘and who will there be to show you the way?’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Behind them, Chink beamed and said: ‘Jew, him pretty smart feller.’

  Jonasz the Pedlar allowed himself another smile.

  Note

  1. SS Cavalry Unit.

  FIVE

  Schulze waded cautiously through the shallows hoping the faint hollow boom of the guns at the front would hide the noise. Behind him Chink, laden down with the radio, struggled in the freezingly cold current.