Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (35 page)

A cheer rang out from the crowd as the escape hatch suddenly broke free. The hands of Russian soldiers and
Czech nationals clawing at the cover peeled it back like a can of tomatoes. Three or four attackers seemed to reach inside and physically pull a man from within. As soon as his body was exposed to daylight the crowd attacked him with fists and clubs. One man used a wheel jack, blow after blow raining down on the German’s skull and shoulders. He was nearly unconscious as the main body of the mob joined in with their boots.

Oberfeldwebel Lorenz Mayr was in no condition to know the horror of being burned alive. He was stripped of his SS uniform and strung from a lamppost with a rope in an undignified state of undress. As the crowd cheered, he was hauled 15 feet in the air. Blood rushed to his brain and escaped from the fractures and holes in his skull. It was all too much for him and he lapsed into an unconscious state from which he would never recover. He knew nothing of the petrol that doused his body and even less as the flames licked around it.

Then the crowd turned their attention to the other SS man cowering in the depths of the tank. Their patience was exhausted; this time they turned to the power of petrol as they poured gallon upon gallon into the small space. The crowd whooped and cheered as the terrified SS officer, soaked to the skin in combustible fuel, emerged with his hands held high in a pathetic demonstration of surrender.

Horace closed his eyes as the first match hit the German’s sodden clothing. He screamed as an uncontrollable fireball erupted around him and he ran down the street. As he screamed, the mob cheered. Within ten seconds he had fallen to the pavement. He was silent. It was all over. At first Horace thought the crowd were stamping at him to put the flames out. But even after the fire had subsided they still stamped at the man, still kicked at his face and body long after he’d breathed his last breath on earth.

Ivan stood in the doorway and watched in horror. ‘
Mbl
Haųucma
,’ – we are worse than the Nazis – he muttered to himself.

A week had passed, and most of the pockets of German resistance – the tail-enders, the desperate men who had been left behind for whatever reason – had been flushed out and murdered. The ex-POWs were getting restless now, a little agitated that the planes had still not been sent to take them home. The Russians explained that hundreds of thousands of Allied prisoners were waiting to be sent back home and they would need to be patient. There required number of aeroplanes simply wasn’t available.

It was a lie. Although they didn’t know it, the prisoners were being used as bargaining tools, pawns in a bizarre negotiating game. Stalin had insisted that 1.5 million Soviet prisoners of war were to be sent back to Russia. These POWs had surrendered voluntarily to the Germans; thousands had even joined the German war effort; others were simply anti-communist. Repatriation to Russia would mean certain death in the gulags, and both Churchill and Harry S Truman – the new president of the United States – had flatly refused Stalin’s request. Stalin was simply biding his time as the people of Britain and America demanded to know when their men would return home.

It was 6 June 1945, the day the Allies agreed to divide Germany into four areas of control. The Russian army sent to rid Prague of the Nazis had stood down. Many were on their way to Berlin. Those remaining in the city had seemingly calmed down after three weeks of violence, rape and mass murder; some played football in the parks and streets. For the first time Horace noticed the normal people of Prague trying to rebuild their lives, going about their daily business. For the first time, the girls and women of the city ventured out onto the streets.

Ivan and Horace, Jock Strain and Flapper were walking along the banks of the Vltava river in the shadow of Hradcany Castle. It was a stiflingly hot summer day but the sun had not yet made an appearance. The river mirrored the dark grey, sinister-looking sky, and reflected the mood of the men. They were free to walk the city, to talk and eat where and when they liked, and free to come and go from their camp on the outskirts of the city at any time, as long as they were available for a roll call at nine each morning. But all the men wanted was to get back home.

Horace suspected that Ivan had his orders to watch over the men, make sure they didn’t run off or attempt anything stupid. He carried his rifle at all times. The men questioned him from dawn till dusk, but it was clear to Horace he knew nothing about when exactly the Allied planes would take them back. Horace and Ivan sat down on a bench by the river and gazed out over the troubled waters that had witnessed so much death and destruction during the past few weeks.

Ivan spoke. ‘I have been here since early May, in this beautiful city that the Germans have occupied for many years. I have heard the tales and the stories of the uprising and how the citizens of Prague fought the Nazis with bare hands and stolen small arms.’ He paused and looked at Horace. ‘And still my comrades raped and murdered them for fun.’

‘It’s not your fault Ivan, you mustn’t blame…’

‘It is my fault. It’s my fault Sergei died,’ he snapped, ‘my fault that I did not lift a hand to stop them raping and killing, my fault… all my fault.’ Ivan buried his head in his hands and the tears flowed. ‘Always my fault.’ He spluttered through steepled hands as his body heaved up and down through the sobs. Horace took his hand.

‘It isn’t your fault, Ivan, it’s the fault of the playmakers, the politicians and leaders who allow normal men to commit such
acts. It’s the fault of the captains and generals who do nothing to stop it.’

Ivan looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, the tears streaked his face and he raised a false smile. ‘You are right, comrade.’ His bottom lip trembled as he wiped the tears from his face. ‘It isn’t my fault; I didn’t ask to be sent to the war.’

‘Me neither,’ Horace smiled, ‘me neither.’

As the group of men walked away from the river, Horace asked the question.

‘Tell me who Sergei was, Ivan.’

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

T
wo days later the same group of men found themselves on the same bench overlooking the river. It was Ivan who heard the commotion. A dozen Czech citizens were screaming and pointing across the street. ‘Come quickly!’ he commanded the men. ‘They have spotted a Nazi in that furniture shop.’

By the time the group arrived, a large crowd of civilians had gathered at the doorway of the old store. Horace looked up at the imposing, boarded-up three-storey building as Ivan spoke to one of the citizens. The district below Hradcany Castle was in one of the more elegant parts of the city and Horace imagined the store in another, pre-war era, the successful owner reaping the rewards of a lifetime’s labour – a pleasant house in a smart suburb of the city, a pretty wife and several children. What had become of the owner? he wondered, as he dragged his finger through the dust on the brass hinges and fingered a bullet hole two inches from the opening.

Ivan interrupted his thoughts. He pointed to an old lady. ‘This woman spotted an SS man at the window on the top floor.’

‘She’s sure?’ Jock asked.

Ivan nodded. ‘They have no weapons. They are too scared to go in.’

Flapper took a step back. ‘It looks like it’s up to us, then.’ He ran at the door with his shoulder and the rotten wood frame splintered on impact. Flapper took another two running kicks at the door and eased himself through the gap he had made. Ivan and the rest followed.

‘Here,’ Ivan unclipped his holster and handed his Russian-made Nagant revolver to Horace. ‘Be careful, comrade. I have a nasty feeling that the old lady may be right.’

The four men heard the noise at the same time.

‘What was that?’

‘Sounded like a child crying.’

The sound came from the basement. Flapper walked towards the door he’d just broken down. ‘I’ll guard the door, you three check it out.’

Horace handed the pistol to Flapper and they made their way down a darkened stairway that led to some sort of cellar. A door was slightly ajar and this time there was no mistaking the sound of a child. But she was not crying: the child was wailing, a girl’s cry, screaming as if her life depended on it. When the three men reached the girl she cowered away. Her arms and legs were twisted at a grotesque angle. They were broken. Ivan knelt down and spoke in Czech. He talked slowly, he soothed the child, and after a few seconds she spoke. The girl groaned, raised her broken limb barely an inch and pointed to the corner. The tiny crumpled body of her small brother lay in a heap.

Jock rushed over. ‘He’s still alive – barely. He’s unconscious. Jesus fucking Christ, his little arms and legs are snapped in two.’ Jock fought back the tears. ‘What sort of bastards could do this?’

Ivan spoke. ‘The SS.’

The little girl spoke in her native tongue between the tears and through the pain barrier as Ivan listened and relayed her words to Horace and Jock.

‘The girl and boy found an opening at the back of the store. It was a playground to them; they thought they were the only people that shared a secret. They played among the boxes and bounced on an old sofa to see who could jump the highest.’

Ivan put his hand over his eyes and shook his head.

‘And then the SS came in two days ago.’ He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘They demanded money and maps and food and water and held onto the little girl while her brother ran home to fetch what he could.’

Ivan bit into his bottom lip, drawing a thin trickle of blood. He trembled with rage as he fought for dignity, trying so hard not to break down in front of the tiny child. ‘The little boy brought back nothing. This… this… was their punishment.’

Still the little girl rambled on, almost delirious with pain. She spoke in a slur. Ivan fell back against the wall, his legs unable to support his weight.

‘My God… oh, my God.’

‘What is it?’ Horace asked

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘What?’

The little girl was pointing at some old tea chests.

Ivan spoke between the inevitable tears. ‘One of the soldiers held each limb against the box while the other bastard snapped them like sticks in a forest.’

The three men stood speechless as the horror of the torture sank in. Horace couldn’t quite contemplate the evil that had been dished out on two innocent children.

Ivan broke the silence. ‘The little girl says they are still here.’

Jock Strain carried the little boy over to his sister and tried to reassure the girl – in an accent and a language she’d never heard
before – that they were safe. She seemed to understand. Jock stayed with the children as Horace and Ivan climbed the stairs to where Flapper stood on guard. Horace relayed the story quickly as Flapper seethed with rage. Handing the pistol back to Horace, he took the stairs two at a time, such was his determination to root out these monsters masquerading as human beings.

They found them on the third floor, cowering behind some shelving. They held their hands up immediately and handed over their weapons. Horace inspected the Lugers. They were out of ammunition.

Flapper’s self-control broke. He flew at the first SS officer, fists flailing, punching him around the head and body in an uncontrollable fit of rage. As the man fell to the floor he continued with his boot, screaming out obscenities. Horace gave him two minutes then dragged him away. Flapper stood panting, looking down at the bloodied mess moaning on the floor. Ivan walked over to Horace and held out a hand. He gave the pistol to the Russian. The German SS officer started crying and begging for mercy.

‘
Bitte nein, Gnade! Erbarmen!
’ – Please no, be merciful!

Ivan turned and walked slowly towards the other trembling officer. He stood for a few seconds, stared, then spat in his face. The German begged even harder as the spit hung from his eyebrow and nose. It shook and trembled in time with the movement of the petrified man’s body.

‘
Gott, nein… Gott, nein… bitte… bitte!
’

Ivan lowered the pistol and looked out from the third-floor window. He shouted something to the crowd below through a broken pane of glass and Horace watched as the people parted slightly. He walked over to the German again.

‘Shoot the bastard!’ shouted Flapper from the far side of the room.

Ivan raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.

The 7.62 bullet shattered the SS man’s kneecap and he squealed like a stricken dog. Another bullet to the other knee and he collapsed in a hysterical heap, shouting and screaming for mercy.

Horace and Flapper then witnessed the impossible. Ivan Gregatov was a slightly built soldier, no more than five foot eight inches tall. The SS officer he’d just crippled once stood six feet tall and weighed at least twenty pounds more. But young Ivan found strength from his anger. He took hold of the crying man’s throat and with one hand lifted him up against the back wall. The German’s useless legs hung limply as he struggled for breath. The Russian’s other hand sought the man’s testicles and with a scream and a surge of adrenaline, he took the full body weight of the German and held him above his head for a second or two in a bizarre show of anger and strength. As he shuffled his feet, he turned towards the window and the pavement below. He took two unsteady short steps and propelled the whimpering German into the panes of glass. The man screamed for the two seconds it took him to hit the ground. He was barely conscious but still alive as the mob took over. In less than a minute they had kicked him to death.

A groan from the floor reminded the men that one SS officer still remained. The half-stunned German was unceremoniously kicked down every step from the third floor to the ground and into the street. There the children lay on makeshift wooden stretchers, attended by several women. A doctor injected the little boy’s arm with a clear substance. He was conscious and even managed to raise a half-hearted smile as Jock stroked at his hair. Jock waved as the children were ushered quickly away.

Now the baying mob turned their attention to the SS man, who lay whimpering on the pavement. Jock and Horace,
Flapper and Ivan looked on as a rope was tied around the German’s ankles. The other end was thrown over the street lamp and four or five men hauled him upwards as he swung like a pendulum, his terrified eyes scanning the crowd, awaiting the next move.