Weaver

by Stephen Baxter

  Lights blazed in the camp offices, and in the assembly hall, dining hall, gymnasium and other large rooms. On the chill dewy grass of the football field the men lined up behind the senior officers of their own nationalities; as well as British there were Poles, French, Belgian, Dutch, and empire troops like Canadians and New Zealanders. Gary was the only American, as far as he knew, and he stood with the British, as indeed did Ben, somewhere in the dark, a fake American.

  The SS, with the Wehrmacht senior officers, walked up and down before the lines, inspecting the men casually. They spoke softly, too quietly for Gary’s bits of German to be any use. SBO Danny Adams and the other senior officers were called for a brief conference.

  Then the men were formed up into parties. The British, the largest contingent, were split into three, each of about fifty men. Gary dodged around a bit to be sure he was in the same third as Ben. Willis was here too.

  A guard called briskly, ‘Come!’ Gary’s group was the first to be led off towards the assembly hall. As the men shuffled forward Gary could smell mouldy greatcoats and the sweet stink of bodies not properly bathed for a year, and he sensed their gathering fear as they were marched around in the middle of the night by the SS.

  The men filed into the assembly hall. It was brightly lit. Gary glimpsed a row of trestle tables set up at the head of the hall, before the stage where schoolboys had once received their school colours. SS officers sat in a row behind the tables, black as rooks on a wall. They shuffled piles of paper. There were a few scientist types too, anonymous in white coats, fiddling with bits of equipment. Wehrmacht guards stood around, their rifles to hand, looking as tired and resentful as the prisoners.

  At the back of the hall an area had been fenced off by a curtain. The prisoners were led behind this. A couple of guards stood on chairs so they could see over the group. One guard, a brisk and competent hauptmann, clapped his hands. ‘Clothes off,’ he said. ‘Socks too, gentlemen. Make a pile over there. Then three lines.’ He made chopping signs. ‘One, two three.’

  ‘Come off it, Hauptmann. What about the blessed Geneva Convention?’

  ‘Get on with it, please.’ The hauptmann turned away.

  ‘What larks,’ Willis Farjeon said.

  Grumbling, moving slowly, the men complied. There was muttering. ‘Maybe it’s just a delousing.’

  ‘No. Bloody SS. They’re probably testing some new type of gas on us.’

  ‘They wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why bloody not? I don’t see any Swiss flags out there. No, we’re for it, I tell you. Hang onto your bollocks, lads.’

  The heap of clothes quickly grew. The men were all much diminished by being stripped like this, their joints like bags of walnuts, their genitals little knots of flesh beneath their flat bellies. No doubt Gary looked just as bad. And Ben, small and skinny anyhow, looked tiny, even boyish in this company.

  They formed up into their three lines. Again Gary made sure he was in the same group as Ben. He ended up right in front of him, with Willis behind Ben. Willis winked, grinning.

  The curtain was drawn back. The prisoners were marched in their lines up the assembly hall, until the leaders were at the desks manned by the SS officers. Some kind of testing began on them, and Gary saw the flash of cameras.

  As the lead blokes were processed the men shuffled forward slowly, naked, humiliated. The bare shoulders of the man in front of Gary were striped with scars, as if at some point he’d been whipped. It all felt unreal to Gary, a strange incongruity of uniforms and weapons and naked prisoners in a school hall, and all in the deepest pit of the night.

  He turned and murmured, ‘Hans? You all right?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Ben whispered. ‘This doesn’t look too good, Gary. Not for me.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be all right,’ Willis said, right behind Ben. ‘I’ll give him a stiffening if he needs it.’ He placed his hand on the back of Ben’s neck, so Ben was made to lean a bit, and he made thrusting gestures with his hips at Ben’s buttocks.

  Some of the men looked disgusted. Others laughed. ‘Hey, you’re getting a hard on there, Farjeon.’

  ‘No, that’s a Heil Hitler.’ More laughter.

  Gary swung an arm at Willis’s shoulder. ‘Get the fuck off him.’ A guard stepped closer, pointing his gun warningly. Gary turned away, and Willis backed off. ‘Just leave him alone, Willis,’ Gary muttered. He’s not some doll for you to play with.’

  ‘It’s all right, Gary,’ Ben said.

  ‘No, it isn’t. I’m not sure this asshole is even a faggot. He’s just dominating you.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Ben said, a bit more defiant. ‘But it’s, well, it’s the way it is. You know. I need a bit of contact. We all do.’

  ‘Better an abusive relationship than none at all? Is that it?’

  ‘I think you’re jealous, Corporal Wooler,’ Willis whispered spitefully. ‘But of which of us, I wonder?’

  Gary got to the head of the queue. As he stood there before the trestle table with his balls hanging out, he was examined by a team of three men, all bespectacled, all deadly serious. He was asked for his name and army serial number and stalag identification number, which he gave, and then he was asked about his family background, where he was born, his parents and grandparents, and that information he refused to give. He was also asked about illnesses, any congenital conditions, whether he had any relatives who were mentally unstable, any schizophrenia, manic depression or morphine addiction or homosexuality. More questions he refused to answer.

  The SS officers and scientists were clerkish, making notes, going through files, barely even looking at the man before them. Gary’s refusals seemed to make little difference, for they had a fat file on the table before them, each page stamped with his name and number. Though the text was German, he made out what looked to be family trees. And he managed to see, stamped on some of the files and papers, an acronym: RuSHA.

  Next he was photographed, his face in front-and-side mugshot style, his body full length front, back and sides. The scientists used colour charts to establish the precise hue of his skin and his eyes. Then his dimensions were measured, his height, chest and weight, the lengths of his limbs and fingers and toes - even, predictably, the length of his cock. With great care callipers were applied to his head. They measured the depth and width of his forehead, the length, breadth and circumference of his cranium, the length of his nose, the width of his mouth, the distance between his ears. All this was noted down. And the scientists conferred, referring to graphs and a file of photographs, a kind of compendium of people types, erect and stoop-shouldered, large- and small-eared, clear-skinned and dark. It was all routine, efficient, a bit like an army medical, though conducted with an earnestness that was both sinister and a bit comic.

  When they were done, one of the men actually smiled at him. ‘Congratulations, Corporal Wooler. Now please go to table number one, on the stage, for final logging.’

  He had to climb up on the stage, still stark naked. Here five small tables labelled one to five sat in a row, each manned by two more scientist types. At table number one, Gary again had to identify himself. The scientists gave him another cursory inspection, before nodding, smiling, and filling in a form replete with ticks.

  ‘So,’ Gary said, ‘you’re going to congratulate me again?’

  ‘We should congratulate your parents, or your grandparents,’ one of them said, an older man with a strangulated accent. ‘Your cephalic index is seventy-seven. We have classified you as a Pure Nordic type, Corporal.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Look in a mirror one day. Your long head, narrow face, flat forehead, narrow lips, tall, slender body. These are the required characteristics. And all this is backed up by your genealogy, of course, which shows a pure ancestry dating back to the time your forefathers emigrated from England. Why, if not for the present unfortunate circumstances, you would be eligible to apply for the Schutzstaffel itself!’ It appeared the scientist was ma
king a joke.

  Gary glanced along the row at the other tables. On table five, the furthest from this destination of the Pure Nordics, there was an orderly heap of yellow fabric stars.

  Gary was dismissed, and, escorted by a guard, allowed to file back down the length of the hall to retrieve his clothes. But there was a commotion. He looked back to his line. Ben Kamen was at the testing desk. The researchers there seemed agitated; they looked up at Ben and flicked through more files. Then one of them cried out, and stabbed his finger at a photograph. He called, ‘Standartenfuhrer Trojan! Standartenfuhrer!’ Ben shrank back against Willis, but guards rushed forward and grabbed his skinny arms.

  ‘I’ll get you out of this, Hans!’ Gary yelled. ‘I’ll get you out!’

  But now the guards came to grab him too. The hall erupted into chaos.

  IX

  23 September

  Gary found out that Ben hadn’t been returned to his barracks that night of the processing, or the next. And he learned that ‘RuSHA’ was the Rasse und Siedlungshauptamt der SS, the SS’s Race and Settlement Office.

  By the Tuesday of that week, after the Sunday night-Monday morning of the SS processing, something was clearly up. The afternoon shift on the monument was cancelled, and the work kommandos brought home. There was a quick appell on the football field, where the stalag commander told them all they must make themselves as ‘presentable as possible in the circumstances’. There was even to be hot water all afternoon in the shower block.

  Then as the day ended, around six p.m., the prisoners were called out to another appell, lined up behind their senior officers.

  Gary tried to avoid Willis Farjeon, but the RAF man worked his way to him as the ranks formed up. ‘Evening, Dunkirk Harrier.’

  ‘What’s going on, Willis?’

  ‘Not a clue, old chap.’

  ‘And where’s Hans Gheldman?’

  ‘Ah. Don’t you mean “Ben? Oh, don’t look so shocked. He told me his secrets long ago. We have been close, you know. Well, he’s clearly been found out. Jewish, isn’t he? That cute little circumcised willy is a bit of a giveaway.’

  ‘I don’t know why the SS were looking for him particularly.’

  ‘It is a bit rum, isn’t it?’ Willis sighed. ‘Well, I’ll miss him.’

  ‘I ought to rip your fucking head off,’ Gary hissed.

  Willis blinked. ‘Well, that would be your privilege. But I didn’t harm him, you know. Oh, I pushed him around. That’s my way. But he took it, for that’s his way. Surely you know him well enough to see that. Submissive type, our Ben! We both got what we wanted, I think. But none of it matters, you know. None of it got in the way of his relationship with you.’

  Gary frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Willis eyed him. ‘Oh, come, Corporal. It’s you he truly loves, poor Ben. Surely you know!’

  Gary, shocked, could think of nothing to say.

  The senior officers called them to attention. They were swung around and marched out of the camp, maybe two hundred men, most of the stalag’s occupants.

  They followed the route Gary was driven every day with his kommando to Richborough and the monument site. But tonight they walked the few miles. Trucks topped and tailed the column, armed troopers sitting in the bodies watching the men, and they were escorted by more guards walking alongside them, both Wehrmacht and SS, some with dogs.

  The evening was darkling, and the guards had torches. The air felt fresh, the sky cloudy but dry, and Gary thought he could smell the sea.

  Joe Stubbs called out, ‘How about a song, lads?’

  ‘Pack it in, Stubbsy.’

  ‘“The Huns were hanged, one by one, parley-vous ...’

  The Germans near Gary looked anxious.

  ‘That’s enough, Stubbs,’ said the SBO.

  ‘Oh, come on, sir. “The Huns were hanged, one by one, / Every bloody mother’s son, inky stinky Hitler too—’

  An SS officer came storming down the line. The marching men stopped in confusion; there were shouts. With a gloved hand the SS man grabbed Stubbs by the hair, dragged him out of the line and made him kneel. He pressed the muzzle of his Luger to Stubbs’s temple.

  Danny Adams was there immediately. He tried to stand between Stubbs and the German. ‘Don’t shoot! Schiessen Sie nicht!’

  The SS man glared at the SBO. Then he raised his Luger and slammed the butt down on the crown of Stubbs’s head. There was a crunch, like the shell of a boiled egg cracking. Stubbs crumpled face forward to the ground. Two Wehrmacht guards, regulars from the camp, hurried forward, picked him up and carried him to one of the trucks.

  Adams faced the SS man, his face black. ‘After the war, Standartenfuhrer Trojan. Nach dem fucking krieg.’

  The SS man just grinned. He wiped the butt of the Luger on the grass, and holstered it. ‘As may be. Tonight - no more of this.’

  The SBO turned to his men. ‘Let’s just get through this ruddy business without any more dramas. Form up. Attention! ...’

  The men, shocked, angry, subdued, marched on into the night.

  Gary heard the murmur of the crowd even before they got to Richborough itself. The area inside the old Roman defences was a pool of light, illuminated by searchlights; in the shadows generators chugged. Somewhere off in the glare a band played, some sentimental German waltz.

  The prisoners with their escort were marched to one corner of the compound. Other groups had already formed up in the space around the monument; Gary saw units of the Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe and SS, including a group with the distinctive armbands of the Legion of St George, the British element of the SS. There were even formations of the Landwacht and the Hitler Jugend, all standing proudly under Nazi banners. The flag of Albion flew, the cross of Saint George with a swastika roundel at the centre.

  The centrepiece of it all was the monument. Only a fraction of it had been completed, but tonight immense Nazi flags had been draped from the scaffolding. Powerful searchlights had been set up in a ring around the base of the four legs, so that their beams made an arch of light in the sky, a dream of the finished monument that might one day exist.

  Now more spotlights picked out a limousine, a Rolls Royce, gliding into the compound. SS troopers jogged alongside, automatic arms ready. The band hurriedly switched to an SS marching song. A ripple of excitement passed through the massed ranks.

  ‘Who the fuck?’ the British murmured.

  An SS officer stood before the stalag prisoners, and began calling names. As they were called, men stepped forward. Gary was shocked to hear his own name called.

  ‘Wooler. Corporal Wooler, G. Step forward, please.’ A man nudged Gary in the back, and he stepped out of the line.

  He found himself posted to a row of maybe a dozen others - one of them Willis Farjeon. The SS man and the SBO stood before them, the SBO sombre and angry, the SS man grinning. He was the same man who had clubbed Stubbs earlier, Gary saw.

  Willis said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Quite a show, eh?’

  The SS man overheard, and stepped over. Willis was taller than he was, and the SS man had to look up. ‘Oh, better than that,’ he said in fair English. ‘Wait and see! What a treat is in store for you fellows!’

  Danny Adams said, ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d speak to my men through me, Standartenfuhrer Trojan.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Trojan said dismissively.

  The limousine had pulled up at the base of the monument. A trooper opened the passenger door. Various senior officers approached the new arrival, saluting him.