Assignment Gestapo (36 page)

‘The foreign armoured divisions must be destroyed, gentlemen! Must be destroyed before they manage to reach Germany and cause a congestion . . . The essential in a battle of this kind, d’you see, is to make sure the enemy run out of munitions . . . What’s a tank without shells? Eh? Like a railway without a train . . .’

And the officers would nod their agreement and conscientiously begin moving the pieces as he directed. But somehow, no matter how hard they tried, they never were able to devise any scheme for cutting the enemy’s supply line. In the end they hit on a solution, and at the start of each game they would solemnly announce to the General that the enemy lacked munitions, whereupon, quite contented, he would rub his hands together and beam his approval.

‘Well done, gentlemen. That means we have won. All we need do now is bomb the enemy’s factories and then we shall have them at our mercy.’

And off he would fall to sleep, convinced of his own brilliance as a military strategist.

One day the garrison cat upset the whole field of battle by depositing a litter of kittens in the middle of Hill 25. All the little tanks, all the little field guns and all the little armoured cars, were scattered pell mell about the table, some upside down, some on their side, some even on the floor. It looked as if a miniature bomb had scored a direct hit. And the cat, as is the way of cats, had chosen a particularly inapposite moment to give birth, as the garrison had invited then neighbours in to partake in a game.

Van der Oost lost his temper for the first time since he had been there. He demanded that the cat should be hauled up before a court martial. There was nothing for it but to humour him and join in the fantasy. Two Feldwebels cornered the cat and held her throughout the trial. It was the nearest they had come to danger during the whole of their military careers. The cat was sentenced to death on the grounds of having sabotaged the officers’ instructions course in the art of warfare. However, the next day found the General in a better temper. He reprieved her on condition that his batman attached her to a collar and lead and looked after her. Some time later the cat disappeared: the General’s batman had sold it to a butcher and the General fretted his heart out until another cat was found to take her place.

Two years had passed swiftly and pleasantly since the terrible advent of Colonel Greif and his brief reign of terror. The garrison was a happy and hedonistic place, and Major Rotenhausen increased his sphere of influence from day to day. He had discovered that the Brigadier General had a passion for cognac, and he had also discovered where he could lay hands on a continuous supply of it. Major Rotenhausen and General von der Oost understood each other very well.

Humming briskly to himself, Rotenhausen marched across the dark courtyard to the prison – to his prison, the prison he commanded and where he kept his prisoners. He smiled and flicked his riding crop against the side of his leg. He never went riding, he was terrified of horses, but the crop looked good and was useful for bringing recalcitrant prisoners to heel.

Stabsfeldwebel Stahlschmidt had been warned by telephone of the visit, and he came to meet him. Rotenhausen rather distantly returned his salute. Stever was also there. They had had to search half the town for him and had eventually run him to earth in a private club, where he had been watching an obscene film in which naked people of various shapes and various sexes committed atrocities upon one another. Stever had still not completely returned to the mundane world of the prison.

‘Very well, Stabsfeldwebel. I suggest we get down to business straight away,’ said Rotenhausen, vigorously switching at himself with his crop. ‘I’m a busy man, as you know, so let’s waste no time.’

Stahlschmidt led the way to his office. It was not only clean, it was not only tidy, it was impeccable in every detail: every single object in it was placed according to the rule book. Rotenhausen walked about it a few times, peering into hidden corners for patches of dust, examining the wire baskets for papers that had no right to be there, taking out a metal rule and measuring the distance between the edge of the desk and the edge of the in-tray, the edge of the desk and the ink well, the ink well and the out-tray, the out-tray and the blotting pad. Stever stood stolidly at the door watching him. Stahlschmidt walked about behind him and every now and again closed an eye in Stever’s direction. What fools these officers were! He knew that Rotenhausen had long cherished a desire to fault him on some small point of order. Had he himself been an officer, thought Stahlschmidt, he would not have taken so long about it. But then, he was smarter than Rotenhausen and that was why Rotenhausen would never catch him out.

Having measured everything on the desk that was even remotely measurable, Rotenhausen sighed with weary boredom and demanded to see the list of the prisoners. Smiling, Stahlschmidt handed it over to him. He read it through with the aid of a monocle, which he had great difficulty in keeping in his eye.

‘Stabsfeldwebel, this list is deficient. I see no mention of the number of new prisoners . . . I see no figure for the number of men who are to be transferred . . .’

‘There we are, sir.’ Stahlschmidt jabbed a fat red finger at the foot of the page. ‘I think you’ll find these refer . . . seven new prisoners, sir. One lieutenant colonel, one cavalry captain, two lieutenants, one Feldwebel, two privates. Fourteen to be transferred, sir. All of them to Torgau. There’s one brigadier general, one colonel, two majors, one captain, one Hauptmann, two lieutenants, one Feldwebel, three corporals, one marine, one private. There are also four men condemned to death. Their appeals have been rejected and all necessary arrangements have been made for their execution.’

‘Well done, Stabsfeldwebel’ With a twist of the lips, Rotenhausen dropped his monocle and laid the paper on the desk. ‘It gives me great pleasure to find everything so well organized. You obviously know your work and take care over it. You’re a man in whom one can have all confidence. Hm.’ He beat himself hard with his riding crop. ‘No slovenly ways here like there are at Lübeck, eh? Everything goes like clockwork with you, doesn’t it, Stabsfeldwebel?’

‘I do my best, sir.’

‘Let me just give you one word of warning, however: watch out for accidents . . . You know the sort of thing I mean? If a prisoner happens to break an arm or a leg, that’s perfectly all right by me, but do try to avoid breaking their necks!’

‘Me, sir?’ Stahlschmidt frowned. ‘Me break their necks, sir?’

‘You know what I mean!’ said Rotenhausen, irritably. ‘Just take great care, that’s all I’m asking . . . If not, we shall both find ourselves in trouble. There’s a man called Bielert at Stadthausbrücke. You may have heard of him. A most disagreeable type. He’s started taking rather too much interest in our affairs these past few weeks. Nosing about the garrison, asking questions about the prison, the way it’s run, how many people in it, you know the sort of thing . . . He even had the infernal nerve to come bursting into the casino at two a.m. the other day. Such behaviour would never have been tolerated in the days of the Emperor. A man like that would have been thrown out on his ear . . . A lieutenant who didn’t know him took him at first for a priest. I ask you! Strange type of priest . . . He was one of Heydrich’s disciples, you know. Not a man we should be wise to cross, Stabsfeldwebel. We know better than that, don’t we?’

‘Well, if I’m to understand you correctly, sir—’

‘If you are to understand me correctly, Stabsfeldwebel, just remember this: that unless you want to end up in the forests of Minsk fighting partisans, you will behave with circumspection and do nothing that might bring this man Bielert down on our heads . . . If you want to hit tie prisoners around a bit, I’ve already said that’s all right by me. God knows they deserve it, and in any case I should be the last person to interfere with a man’s pleasures . . . But use a bit of discretion, that’s all I ask. There are plenty of parts of the human body you can bash to your heart’s content and nobody any the wiser. Remind me to show you when we start on the interviews . . .’

In the corridor, the guards had lined up all those who were to have the honour of being presented. First of all, die new-comers. And to start with, a forty-eight year old lieutenant who had been sent there on a charge of refusing to obey orders. His introduction to Rotenhausen took exactly three minutes and four seconds, and he was then carried away almost senseless by two Gefreiters. There was hardly a mark on his body.

‘Well, you didn’t last long, did you?’ sneered Stever, jabbing the groaning man in the belly. ‘Three minutes! Hardly a record, is it? We had a Feldwebel here once, he held out for two hours. Still on his feet at the end of it. Rotenhausen had to give up and take a rest in the end, before he could get strength enough to finish him off.’

Lt. Ohlsen was in the corridor with all the other guests. They were standing in a line with their faces to the wall, their hands clasped behind their necks.

Two heavily armed guards marched up and down, ready to fire on the least provocation. It had occasionally been known for a prisoner driven to desperation or blind rage to leap at the Major and attempt to throttle him. No one, of course, had ever survived such a foolhardy attack. They always ended up as lifeless bodies in one of the discipline cells, down in the cellars, trussed like chickens with a label tied round one ankle.

Stever yelled out Lt. Ohlsen’s name. Ohlsen jumped round, marched into the office where Rotenhausen conducted his interviews and sprang smartly to attention.

The Major was enthroned behind the desk. Before him lay his riding crop. Stahlschmidt stood at his elbow. He was holding a rubber truncheon, coated with the crusted and coagulated blood of ages past. Stever stood inside the door, just behind the prisoner.

‘Heil Hitler,’ remarked Rotenhausen.

‘Heil Hitler,’ responded Ohlsen, tonelessly.

The Major smiled. He leaned forward and picked up a sheaf of papers.

‘I’ve been reading through your file,’ he told Ohlsen. ‘To me, your case doesn’t look to be too good. In fact in the light of my past experience I can confidently predict that you will be sentenced to death. Probably decapitated . . . unless you’re lucky, which I doubt. If you are lucky, of course, you’ll be shot, but I shouldn’t hold out too much hope if I were you. I have a feeling for these things.’ He looked across at Ohlsen. ‘Death by decapitation is both dishonourable and unaesthetic. There’s too much blood, and a headless body is not a pleasant sight . . . absurd and revolting at one and the same time . . . Do you have any comments you wish to make? Do you want to ask me for anything? Do you wish to lodge any complaints?’

‘No thank you, sir.’

‘I see.’ Rotenhausen leaned back in his chair and squinted at Ohlsen. ‘The prisoner is not holding his head straight,’ he observed.

Stahlschmidt at once stepped forward with his right arm raised and his fist clenched. Stever moved in to help with the butt of his sub-machine gun.

‘Better,’ said Rotenhausen, appraisingly. ‘But still not quite right . . .’

A pain ripped its way through Lt. Ohlsen’s body. It came so suddenly and was so intense that he felt it must surely be tearing his inside to pieces. He staggered and swayed and only just managed to remain on his feet.

Rotenhausen turned with raised eyebrows to Stahlschmidt.

‘He moved!’ he said. ‘Don’t they teach people how to stand to attention these days?’

Stahlschmidt bunched his fist again. Stever moved in with two ramrod blows from the butt of his sub MG hard into the kidneys.

Lt. Ohlsen fell forward on to his knees. Tears sprang from his eyes and he felt as if red hot pokers were being rammed up the muscles of his back.

Rotenhausen shook his head.

‘This is too bad,’ he remarked, gently reproving. ‘Does the prisoner now refuse even to stand up? Must he grovel on the floor in that obscene fashion?’

He nodded at Stahlschmidt. Lt. Ohlsen lay on the floor, screaming. Stever was hitting out with the frenzy of a maniac. Stahlschmidt concentrated on kicking. After a few moments a thin trickle of blood oozed from the prisoner’s mouth. Rotenhausen at once banged on the table with his crop.

‘Obergefreiter, get that man on his feet!’

Stever dragged him up. Lt. Ohlsen groaned then shouted as new pains tortured his broken body. Thoughts of his son suddenly flitted through the dark mists of his mind and he muttered to himself.

‘Is the prisoner daring to complain?’ asked Rotenhausen, outraged.

They didn’t know what he was doing, but they beat him up a bit more, just to teach him a lesson. They then disposed of him, throwing him back senseless into his cell.

From the new prisoners they passed to the old; to those who were to be transferred to Torgau. Each man had to sign a declaration to the effect that he had been well treated and had no complaints to make.

One brigadier general refused to sign.

‘I suggest, for a change, that you listen to my point of view,’ he said, very cold and calm and reasonable. ‘I’m being sent off to Torgau for a maximum period of two years. It might very well be less, and it certainly won’t be more. If I choose to tell the authorities of the things I’ve seen in this prison – two cold blooded murders, just for a start – you’d be sent down for about twenty-five years. Now just reflect a moment what that means. It means, first, that after I’ve served my sentence I shall be transferred to a disciplinary regiment. I shall almost certainly be given back my old rank of brigadier general and end up in command – they’re short of experienced officers, so they’ve really no alternative. And once I’m back in a position of authority, I can promise you I shall move heaven and earth to have you people sent to my division.’

His words fell into a shocked silence. Stever looked hopefully for guidance at Stahlschmidt, but Stahlschmidt made no move. It was plain from his expression that for once he was nonplussed. He had met stubborn prisoners, foolhardy prisoners, prisoners who tried insulting him or even attempted physical violence; but never in all his career had he encountered one who dared to threaten. Prisoners were not in a position to threaten, and he wished Major Rotenhausen would explain as much to the Brigadier General.