Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (12 page)

The sleeping quarters of the prisoners never saw any sun, never felt the warmth of an oil-fired stove or a burning log. It had been badly designed; Horace sympathised with the poor horses that had once been stabled there. The temperature in that basement hell rarely crept a few degrees above the temperature outside. The only heat generated in there was the body temperature of the men who slept there.

To a man they dreaded the hours of darkness as the temperatures plummeted in January. The basement slept five prisoners to a stable stall, a space given over to one horse when the barracks were in use. The men huddled together for warmth, but snatching a few hours’ sleep was nigh on impossible. They shivered collectively, changing positions through the night so that the man on the end of the stable stall would not freeze to death. Inevitably, some still did.

Horace described the cold in a small diary he wrote during his captivity. He asked for some paper to keep the records of the prisoners’ conditions with body lice, and the camp commandant supplied him with a small notebook and two pencils. He wrote:

One could not imagine how cold it was down there. Take the coldest you have ever been back home in England and double your discomfort. Imagine the coldest, most severe winter’s day you had ever the misfortune to be out in. I cast my mind back to a walk home from school in early February 1929. We had all been caught out by the severity of a winter blizzard as we made the two mile trek back home. That morning had been relatively mild, none of us had bothered with hats or gloves, but temperatures had plummeted as the day went on. By the time we left the school gates the snow had begun to fall gently and we all thought it a great wheeze. A mile into the journey home a full scale blizzard had developed and I don’t know yet how we all made it home. I sat in the kitchen propped up against the black lead stove like a block of ice as Mum thawed me out with warm sweet tea.

I remembered that day. I remembered that day well as I lay shivering in my icy tomb in Poland, my warm breath freezing instantly as it left my mouth. I would have gladly traded ten of those days against one night in this stinking, shivering, frozen shit hole. But the worst of it was that it went on night after night, week after week, month after month. There was no respite from the cold.

The endurance of the men holed up in that basement was staggering. They were walking, talking zombies. In the morning they were simply glad they had survived another night and prayed that their daily ration of cabbage soup served a few hours later would be hot. Some days it was not. Occasionally the German guards whose job it was to keep the fire going under the huge cauldron had simply let the fire go out as they could not be bothered to make the short journey
to the log pile. They did not care; they had had their daily breakfast of ham and eggs and hot coffee, and within an hour would be back in front of an open fire toasting their feet. Horace could not believe the pure selfishness and the mental torture these brutal SS soldiers doled out.

Every day, no matter what the weather, they would be forced to complete the formalities of a roll call, and the worse the conditions the longer some guards would make it last. During a snowstorm the guards would often take a heat break, as the prisoners called it, and would reappear after 20 minutes, their faces reddened by the fire they had been sitting in front of. They would grin and laugh among themselves as they looked at the poor emaciated souls covered in a thin layer of snow as the icy wind whipped through the camp.

Why? thought Horace. He tried to put himself in their shoes, wondered what his reaction would be towards German prisoners of war if he had been on the other side. As much as he hated the men now smiling at him he could not imagine in his wildest dreams that he would treat a fellow human being this way.

None of it made any sense. They wanted the men to work yet they kept them in conditions worse than a dog’s. They kept them in such a malnourished state that a day’s work was nigh on impossible. They beat the prisoners, tortured them both physically and mentally. Horace wondered if they had ever thought about what would happen to them if they lost the war. He looked out for a kind soul in his time in that first camp. Perhaps just one SS man who would not kick out at the prisoners, would not be so handy with a rifle butt. Perhaps just one soldier with an ounce of compassion who would give an extra ladle of soup on a specially cold day or keep the cauldron fire burning an extra hour or two to give the prisoners some relief from the biting cold. He looked to the
officers giving the commands, looked into their eyes for just a glimmer of concern as one of their number doled out a beating to a prisoner who had not moved quickly enough or who had dared to question an order.

Horace looked, but found nothing.

It was mid-March 1941 before the weather started to turn. At least a dozen men had died simply from the cold during that awful winter. The snow turned to rain, the droplets carrying the smell of death, of hopelessness.

Big Stoop had beaten another three men to death and had raped two more of the younger prisoners from the outside working party in the forest beyond the camp. He had chosen them himself, unable to control his homosexual desires. Homosexuality was not to be tolerated in German-occupied territory in 1941. The two young men were raped then beaten to within an inch of their lives, and left under no illusion as to what would happen to them if they dared breathe a word about the sexual attack. Big Stoop had loaded them, battered and broken, into a cart pulled by two prisoners and claimed to the commandant he’d caught them attempting to escape. Horace could not help noticing the look of sheer hatred on Garwood’s face every time Big Stoop’s name was mentioned. If Big Stoop was anywhere near, Flapper positively trembled with rage.

Mercifully, the temperature seemed to increase as each day passed. The men resumed their duties in the Jewish graveyards now that the frozen earth had thawed out, some work parties continued to stockpile wood and Horace went on cutting lice-ridden infected scalps.

Horace sensed the change of regime in the camp almost overnight. Their daily ration of soup had been increased and incredibly, an odd fleck of meat had made a most welcome
appearance in it. The camp commandant had begun to address the prisoners once a week, informing them that they were being treated well and that he had adhered to the Geneva Convention when it came to the treatment of prisoners. A cup of sweet tea had been introduced in the afternoons and the SS guards no longer seemed intent on physical confrontations for the slightest of reasons.

At last, the broken down, lice-infested straw in the sleeping quarters was removed and the urine, dried excreta and dead cockroaches hosed away. When the basement was dry, fresh straw was moved in and the prisoners ordered to spread it out in their individual stalls. Candles were issued to the prisoners, so not only did they have the luxury of light in their stables at night but they were able to burn the lice from their bodies and clothes. Things, it seemed, were beginning to look up.

A day or two later a German guard appeared in Horace’s barbershop with new scissors and a new cut-throat razor, and a small gas stove was made available so Horace could heat up the water, giving the prisoners the luxury of a warm shave. In the yard adjacent to the front gates a crudely constructed wooden outside shower was built, with rubber piping leading from the main water supply. The men were ordered to strip and file, 20 at a time, into the showers. The water was icy cold, but still Horace enjoyed what was his first real wash in nearly a year. He was freezing but he did not want to leave. The Germans supplied scrubbing brushes and soap and the men grasped the opportunity to rid their bodies of the filth and grime, of the caked-on shit, the lice and the eggs that had poisoned their bodies for so long. Some scrubbed so hard they bled.

As Horace and his pals lined up to be given fresh underwear, clean flannelette and the stolen but clean uniforms of Polish, French and Czechoslovakian soldiers long since
gone, he noticed that a few of his fellow prisoners were actually smiling. It was a sight that had been so alien to him. They were smiling; his comrades were bloody smiling. At last, Horace thought, the Germans were beginning to show a little compassion for their fellow man.

It was not the case. Two days later an inspection delegation from Geneva in Switzerland turned up at the camp. It had been a charade; the Germans wanted to show how they had complied with the terms and conditions under the convention. Horace and his fellow prisoners looked on in disgust as they were lined up for roll call in their pristine new clothes. Most of the men had gained a few pounds, their bodies clean, free from lice – not yet back on them, but they would return. The camp commandant smiled as he showed off the new showers, and gloated as he pointed out the fresh dry straw that made up the prisoners’ beds in the stable.

The men were asked if they had been mistreated in any way. Several SS guards stood menacingly behind the delegation, rubbing at their rifle butts, one of them drawing a finger across his throat. The prisoners almost in unison shook their heads.

Except one man.

Charlie Cavendish took a step forward and said that he wanted to speak privately to the delegation. The prisoners looked on in disbelief, as did the guards. The man was shaking, trembling with fear. He had not gained any weight and he looked sick. A German guard tried to persuade him otherwise and voices were raised. The delegation did not look happy and one member was quoting from a pamphlet held in his hands. The man was taken away and returned to the ranks after an hour. By this time the delegation was shouting and remonstrating with the commandant.

The man who had made his point was smiling through the
tears that ran down his face. Horace looked at him. ‘What are you so happy about, Charlie?’

‘They’re closing this shithole down, Jim. You lot are on your way out of here. I spilled the beans on just what these cunts have been doing.’ He pointed to a man with a military-type hat. ‘That’s the gaffer. He said they’ve broken every rule in the book; he’s absolutely livid and told the commandant that the camp would be closed by the end of the week. I’ve shopped Big Stoop too, told them how many he’s killed, told them he’s a rapist.’

As Charlie wiped at the tears drying on his cheeks, Horace stood with a puzzled look on his face. ‘Then if we’re on our way out, why are you crying?’

The man cocked his head with a frown. ‘You didn’t listen to me, Jim, did you? I said you are leaving – not me, not us. You don’t think these bastards will let me live after what I’ve just done, do you?’

The following morning Charlie Cavendish was conspicuous by his absence at the roll call. Nobody had seen him leave; he’d simply disappeared during the night. He was never seen again. He had given his life voluntarily to save his friends and comrades.

Flapper Garwood had planned the operation meticulously. For many weeks he’d studied Big Stoop’s movements and patterns of work. He’d counted the guards on duty and timed their work patterns and meal breaks to the second. And over the last few weeks he’d thrown an occasional smile in the direction of Big Stoop. He’d flirted with the big German.

Garwood had almost thrown up when Big Stoop had winked at him earlier in the day. He’d bitten his tongue and smiled back. The German’s face had softened noticeably at his response. Garwood was not normally his type – he preferred
the younger, slightly effeminate prisoners – but this man seemed eager to please. The rapes were stimulating but it would be a pleasant change to have a willing participant. Big Stoop came over to Garwood as he stood in line awaiting his cabbage soup.

‘You, prisoner, come with me. I have a job for you.’

Garwood did as he was told. When they were out of earshot, Big Stoop spoke in a whisper.

‘You want a little fun, prisoner, is that right?’

Garwood nodded his head, tried to smile and wondered if the officer would see through the pretence. ‘Tonight,’ he replied. ‘At 9.45 when everyone is locked up.’

The German looked puzzled. ‘Why such a strange time, prisoner?’

Garwood stepped forward, pushed his hand into the German’s groin and squeezed.

‘Because we will not be disturbed. The prisoners will be locked up and your comrades will be in the mess hall.’

As the blood flow in his groin increased Big Stoop grinned. ‘You have planned our rendezvous well, prisoner. I will make sure I lock you in tonight but I will leave the main stable door open. No one will think to try it, no one ever does and we Germans do not make mistakes. We will meet at the door of the main office. No one will be there.’

The German leaned forward, his mouth open. Garwood could smell his sour breath and wondered how anyone could kiss such a monster. He almost ran for the door.

‘You must be patient…if we are caught now no one will get any pleasure.’

Big Stoop grinned and let out a grotesque, almost animal-like laugh. He watched the shape of the prisoner as he walked out of the door and shouted after him. ‘I only hope you don’t disappoint me, pretty arse.’

Flapper Garwood turned around. ‘I won’t disappoint you, my friend… Don’t you worry about that.’

Flapper took two steps into the fresh air, steadied himself and emptied what little contents he had in his stomach onto the parched earth.

At exactly nine o’clock Big Stoop walked into the filthy stable block and ordered the prisoners onto their straw beds. Horace was puzzled. Normally they only heard the key turn in the main door, anytime between nine and ten.

Big Stoop had washed; a distinct smell of cheap gentlemen’s scent permeated the air. Must be away out on the town, Horace thought to himself. As the German monster retired to the other side of the door he seemed to take a little longer with the intricacies of turning the key in the antique brass lock.

The German arrived a good five minutes early. He had anticipated his moment of sexual release most of the day, planning the acts he would perform on the prisoner. He paced around the building like a caged animal for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he picked out the unmistakeable figure of the big English prisoner. Unknown to him, Garwood had earlier located Horace’s cut-throat razor in the drawer of the officer’s desk where it was returned each night.