by Leo Kessler
‘Hire a unit of the Armed SS to protect a trainload of Yids!’ Schulze looked incredulous.
‘It is my last chance to get to Palestine, Schulze, I must take every precaution. Now listen. Admiral Horthy’s1 armoured train is still in the sidings at Buda main station. The locomotive and the carriages are all armoured and have machine-gun-turrets and that sort of thing. You’ll probably know what I mean? Now for a large consideration – and as we have already obtained a clearance from the good Marshal to leave Buda – the station master of Buda Station will let us have that train, already fuelled and with a trusted driver at the controls. Again for a large consideration, the rail track staff at Buda and throughout Western Hungary will ensure that the train passes safely into Austria.’
‘You mean they’re going to arrange it so that the train doesn’t go east, as the Ivans expect, but westwards?’
‘Exactly. My plan is to pass through Western Hungary into Austria, which is still in German hands. Hopefully, Christian charity will still prevail there among your fellow countrymen – at a price naturally – so that we will be able to continue into Italy. There with luck, the British and their new Italian allies will not stop us getting to the port. The Hagannah –’
‘The what?’
‘A Jewish underground organization to which I happen to belong.’
‘You would,’ Schulze said, completely mesmerized by the little Jew.
‘As I was saying, the Hagannah will ensure that there is a ship organized for us to run the British blockade off Palestine.’ He paused and looked up at the big NCO expectantly. ‘What do you think, Sergeant-Major?’
‘I think – what do we get out of it?’
‘A free trip out of this hell-hole.’
‘Not enough, Yid,’ the Chink said before Schulze could speak. ‘You pretty shit-smart man. You pay more.’
‘Yes,’ Schulze grunted ‘What’s in it for us?’
‘One kilo of coffee, a half bottle of schnapps, one carton of cigarettes – American,’ Janosz said, his eyes on the ground sadly like a man whose heart had just been broken. ‘Per soldier.’
‘Make it two cartons and you’re on?’
‘One American – and one Turkish?’ Janosz asked swiftly.
‘Done!’
‘Good!’ Janosz beamed at him and stuck out his skinny hand. ‘You will receive them on the day.’
‘And when is that?’ Schulze asked.
‘Tomorrow night, at eight.’
‘Where?’
‘We assemble in the yard of the old locomotive factory. You will meet us there with your men in Russian uniform. It is better.’
‘We’ll get it,’ Schulze said and rose to go. As the woman extinguished the light so that they could pass out unnoticed into the darkness, Monsignor Janosz intoned in his most saintly voice, ‘And may Jesus Christ, Our Lord, watch over you, my son.’
‘Ballocks!’ was ‘his son’s’ sole reply.
Note
1. The recently deposed dictator of Hungary.
FIVE
On the following morning, 12 February, 1945, Marshal Tolbuchin launched his final assault on the German SS divisions grouped around the Burg in Buda.1Heedless of the civilians still there, he began a massive two-hour long artillery bombardment as a preliminary to his advance.
One after another the German strongpoints at the University, the museum, the radio station were knocked out and the surviving SS men sent streaming back to dig in furiously elsewhere. The bombardment ended as abruptly as it had started and the T-34s – hundreds of them, supported by infantry – began to move in.
For a couple of hours, a group of SS men from the 8th Cavalry managed to hold the Moricz Zsigmond Square against a huge force of Soviet tanks and Guards infantry. But in the end they broke too and fled towards the old castle, which dominated Castle Hill, and was the main German headquarters.
Made cautious by the defence of the square, which had cost him twenty tanks and a hundred Guards killed, the commander of the Narva Tank Regiment, leading the attack, radioed his HQ for artillery support.
To the surprise of the German interception experts crouched over their radios in the castle’s ancient cellars, Marshal Tolbuchin himself replied from somewhere on the other side of the Danube. ‘The hour of decision has come,’ he barked over the air. ‘Now we must chop the paws off the German beast. Comrade Colonel – attack now, or don’t bother to come back here!’ The threat was undisguised and the commander of the Narva Regiment knew it. He threw in his tanks.
At their posts all around the Castle, the men of the 8th and 22nd SS and of the Europa, watched open-mouthed as the T-34s started to crawl up the twisting, turning streets which led to the heights. On all four sides the heights were black with the crawling metal monsters. It was as if a ring of steel were about to garrotte them to death. The SS commanders knew that their young soldiers might well panic and break, if nothing were done. General Rumohr, who like General Zehender and Colonel Habicht had taken up his place in the fortified line, grabbed a panzerfaust out of the hands of a mesmerized grenadier. ‘Follow me!’ he shouted, springing out into the open.
A handful of his staff followed. Tearing down the hill, he stopped a hundred metres away from the nearest T-34. Standing completely in the open, ignoring the tracer cutting the air wildly all around, he aimed as calmly as if he were standing at some peacetime range. Blue flame jetted from the back of the anti-tank weapon. The long wooden projectile with its squat round metal head wobbled clumsily through the air. In the same moment that a burst of Soviet fire cut Rumohr down, the bomb exploded directly underneath the tank’s turret. At that short range, the impact was tremendous. An instant later the bomb exploded and the turret rose into the air. Within seconds the rump was a sea of greedy red flames.
Rurnohr’s sacrifice broke the spell. Everywhere the young grenadiers opened up with their panzerfaust weapons. The air was suddenly full of the awkward projectiles. Tank after tank was hit, its covering infantry running wildly for the safety of the nearest house, tracked by German machine-gun fire. But still they kept on. It seemed Regiment Narva had an inexhaustible supply of T-34s. Slowly the panzerfausts began to give out.
Deep in his cellar HQ, filled with dead and dying grenadiers a drunk, desperate Pfeffer-Wildenbruch asked for volunteers to tackle the tanks with adhesive bombs. But there were no men left to volunteer, save the wounded and the medical personnel. In the end it was the men of the X-ray unit, pale-faced bespectacled medics, who seized the sticky bombs and went out to do battle with the metal monsters.
The ‘X-Ray Commandos’, as they called themselves during their short-lived existence, proved themselves bold, daring infantrymen. Perhaps it was because they did not realize the risks they were running. Time and time again one of them would dart out of the rubble and stick his bomb to the side of a T-34. The hollow clang of metal adhering to metal would alarm the Russian crew and they would swing their machine-guns round to deal with their attacker in one swift burst of fire. But there was nothing they could do about the bomb stuck to their metal side like a deadly limpet. A few managed to bail out, but only a very few. The rest remained in their battened down vehicle and waited for death with almost stoical resignation.
Within the hour the slope was littered with the bloody white-robed figures of the ‘X-Ray Commando’ among the smoking burning hulks. But the Russians still kept coming on. General Zehender’s remaining positions were overrun. His SS Cavalry had no heavy weapons left to stop the tanks. The tankers ground their 30-ton vehicles round and round over the SS men’s slit trenches until the sides began to give in and the whole weight of their T-34s descended upon the terrified screaming men below. When they emerged their tracks were red with blood. Zehender’s SS Cavalry started to break. Here and there, panic-stricken young soldiers dropped their weapons, sprang out of their holes and raised their hands in surrender to the advancing Russian infantry.
Angrily Zehender attempted to stop the rot. ‘Get down you bastard
s!’ he cried and sent a furious burst from his machine-pistol flying over the heads of the men with the raised hands.
The Russian infantry concentrated their fire on the man who had suddenly appeared only a hundred metres away, dressed in the uniform of an SS general. He didn’t seem to notice. He kept firing at his own men running towards the advancing Russians, his heavy face flushed an angry red. The first slug struck him. He staggered, but kept after his men, crying, ‘Come, back, come back, do you hear?’
Another bullet hit him. He staggered badly. The machine-pistol fell from his hands and he sank to his knees. ‘Come back,’ he cried desperately, the tears rolling down his cheeks.
‘General!’ a Russian in an earth-coloured blouse cried and pointed his tommy-gun in the direction of the dying German.
‘Capture him and he’s good for a medal and fourteen days’ leave.’ The infantry surged forward with a guttural ‘urrah!’
Zehender seemed to understand. His fingers fumbled with his pistol holster. Somehow or other he managed to get the Walther out. With a hand that trembled visibly, he raised the wavering pistol, placed the muzzle against his right temple, pressed the trigger and his head disappeared in a sudden spurt of scarlet.
After this sacrifice the heart finally ebbed from the German defenders of the hill. It would not be long before what was left of them started to surrender.
Habicht put down his glasses. ‘Schulze,’ he cried above the roar of the Soviet artillery.
‘Sir.’ Schulze dropped to his knees next to the Colonel outside the dugout CP.
‘The Cavalry are having a very bad time of it,’ Habicht said. ‘They’re taking tremendous losses: We must help them.’
Schulze looked at him in alarm. The three or four hundred survivors of the Europa were in a good position. There they could be overrun and taken prisoner without too many casualties. Schulze thought he had done his duty by the men; now it was time that he and his little picked band should make their way to the locomotive works. ‘What do you mean – help them?’
Habicht did not seem to notice that he had omitted the ‘sir’. ‘A flank attack. That is what is required. We could catch them off their guard. We’d be through them like a hot knife through butter. The Red bastards think they’ve got it all worked out. But they haven’t reckoned with the Europa, have they Schulze?’
‘Did you say – flank attack?’
‘Yes.’ Already Habicht was surveying his front, working out a rudimentary swift plan of attack. ‘We’ll go in on both sides, taking him down there where –’
‘But goddamit, they’ve got a score of tanks down there to our front!’ Schulze exploded. ‘How in Christ’s name are we going to break through them? – with tin openers?’
Suddenly Habicht became aware that the Regimental Sergeant-Major was shouting at him, his face crimson with rage, the veins standing out at his temples an angry red. ‘Why are you talking in this manner?’ he demanded coldly.
Schulze gasped for air. ‘Because you’re crazy!’
Habicht glared at him, his hand falling to his pistol holster. ‘You mean you intend to disobey my order, Sarnt-Major?’ he yelled.
‘Of course, I do, you stupid bastard!’ Schulze yelled back, beside himself with rage, not caring any longer. ‘Flank attack. What good will that do? We’re finished – kaput!’ He swallowed hard. ‘Let them surrender, run away, disperse, do any goddamn thing they like.’ He indicated the men dug in all around with a furious sweep of his big hand. ‘But don’t make them die – NOW!’
Habicht’s fingers fumbled with the flap of the holster, but the big NCO did not allow him to complete the movement. His boot lashed out and the pistol went flying from Habicht’s hand. He yelped with pain and cried, ‘This is mutiny, Schulze!’
‘Of course it is. You have had your day, Habicht. Let them go. If you want to die – then die.’ He extended his hand towards the Russian positions.
‘Die?’ Habicht echoed the words, his face completely mad now. ‘Of course – die.’
Words died on Schulze’s lips as Habicht pushed by him and ran down the slope towards the Russians. The enemy reacted at once. Bullets whined all around the running man, but he seemed to bear a charmed life. Nothing seemed able to touch him. He kept running and screaming that one final word ‘die…die…die…’ Suddenly he faltered. A burst of Russian tommy-gun had ripped his skinny chest open. He struggled on a few more paces. Another burst slammed cruelly into his stomach. Still he staggered on, his legs giving beneath him. ‘DIE!’ he screamed one last time in a voice that made the hairs on Schulze’s neck rise in terror. And then he slumped face forward on to the pitted snow without another sound.
For one long moment an echoing silence seemed to descend upon the battlefield. Even the Russians seemed to hesitate, as if awed by the manner of the Hawk’s death. Then Schulze pulled himself together, clapped his big hands around his mouth, and cried to the young volunteers crouching around him, ‘Bugger off, lads! It’s all over. Go home while you’ve still got a chance.’
The boys in their holes did not move.
‘Bugger off, I say, get back to your mothers, you stupid young sods!’ Schulze yelled, his eyes wild with rage.
Still they did not move. Schulze could not wait any longer. He had his own plans. He fired a furious burst at the Europa regimental flag still flying proudly over the CP. The pole splintered. Slowly the flag began to descend to the ground.
It did the trick. The survivors of SS Regiment Europa broke. Screaming and shouting in half a dozen languages, they fled, fighting and clawing at each other in sudden panic, running desperately from the men in earth-coloured blouses who were now beginning to advance on their abandoned positions. The great ‘European’ dream was dead.
Schulze doubled up the hill towards the ruined tram shed in which he had positioned the men he was taking with him. The floor of the shabby blue tram was lined with sandbags and the windows covered with corrugated iron sheeting, with slits cut in it for their weapons.
Schulze took it all in in a glance. ‘All right, Cheesehead, get in.’ The big Dutchman swung himself up into the cab and grabbed the twin brass steering handles in his big paws.
‘Are you ready, the rest of you!’ Schulze yelled above the hoarse triumphant cries of the advancing Russians.
‘Ready!’ the men, waiting to push the tram out of the wrecked shed cried back.
‘Now!’ Schulze bellowed and jumped in, Schmeisser at the ready.
The young men heaved. The train started to move. ‘More!’ Schulze bellowed.
The men shoved with all their strength. The tram edged out of the shed. Ahead of it stretched the steep twisting cobbled street, packed with advancing Russians. The men to the rear gave one last shove and scrambled hastily to swing themselves aboard. The old tram started to gather speed. The Russians were not slow to react. Bullets howled off the metal sideplates. At the driver’s side, Schulze swung his Schmeisser from side to side, hosing the Russians with lead. A group of soldiers caught unawares went flying out of the way, save one. The tram lurched unpleasantly and for one awful moment Schulze thought it was going to stop. But it continued its crazy progress, leaving behind it a dead Russian on the tracks, his head and legs grotesquely amputated.
They swung round another bend and before them loomed a hill which Schulze knew they would never get up. But they were through the Russians by now and the nearest entrance to the sewer system was only fifty metres or so away. It was time to go. As the tram began to lose speed, Schulze slung his machine-pistol and yelled, ‘All right, it’s time to abandon ship. Come on Chink, let’s go.’ Two minutes later the whole bunch of them were entering the sewers.
Note
1. Also known as Castle Hill.
SIX
Budapest was dying in flames, but the anxious group of middle-aged Jewish men and women had no eyes now for the city in which they had been born and spent half their lives. Budapest was the past. They saw only the future, symbolized by the ugly bl
ack armoured behemoth steaming in front of them on the siding.
‘Well?’ Janosz demanded, obviously proud of his achievement, ‘what do you think, Sergeant-Major?’
Schulze took a long look at the locomotive, the three coaches and the little guards van at the back, which would be occupied by the SS. It looked good. The locomotive had three-centimetre thick armour and a heavy iron reinforced prow to cut through any obstruction. The coaches were similarly armoured, with slits and gun-ports running their length, while the guards van, armoured too, had a raised towerlike structure on its roof, in which a machine-gunner and a look-out could be posted to cover the length of the coaches’ roofs. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘But with all that armour, it’s going to be slow, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ a guttural Magyar voice answered the question for him, ‘at the most thirty kilometres an hour.’
Schulze swung round. A squat man in greasy overalls stood there, wiping his oily hands in a piece of cotton waste.
‘Attila Pal, the driver,’ the Jew said.
‘Christ, what next?’ Schulze exclaimed. ‘Now we’ve got Attila the Hun on board too.’
We’ll hit plenty of snow and more than likely get stuck,’ the driver grumbled. ‘Then the switches will be frozen up and we’ll have to thaw them out before we can go on. And I don’t know if I’ve enough sand in the sandbox to scatter under the driving wheels on a slippery slope. And God on high only knows what would happen if the fire in the firebox went out, the pipes would freeze and burst.’ He shook his dark head sadly. ‘It’s not going to be easy at all.’
Schulze looked at him in awe, impressed by such unremitting pessimism. ‘Christ! what do you do for laughs – go and visit the cemetery? Get into that cab of yours and raise steam; we’d better get out of here before some nosey Popov comes checking up.’
Janosz hurried the last of his ‘flock’ into the coaches and followed up the steps himself. In front the locomotive, shuddered as it let off steam. ‘Well, my friend, we’re ready to go. Palestine ahead.’ He smiled at Schulze. ‘We’ve done it.’
