by David Young
*
Another cold night, but that is nothing new. It was always cold when we had to sleep down in the tunnels for months on end, bunk piled upon bunk, with only a barrel for a latrine.
When dawn comes, the remaining Kapos try to organise us. We’re divided into those too weak to be useful workers, and those judged still capable of physical work. I’d managed to get a bandage and iodine for Marcellin’s wound and dressed it as best I could the previous night, but one of the Kapos spots the bandage. We’re about to be separated. I cannot stand that. I will not stand for that.
‘No,’ I shout. ‘He is my brother. He stays with me.’ The blows from the Kapo’s baton rain down on my back, but one of his colleagues pulls him off, and gestures with his head to Marcellin, indicating he can get back in our line. Of course, we don’t know whether it’s better to be judged still fit for work or not. We don’t have any idea what will happen to us. But after losing Grégoire I know one thing: we must stay together.
*
We’re being marched somewhere. They won’t tell us where we are going. But clearly the days of this camp are over. We don’t know whether the bombing has finally rendered it useless, or whether the Allies are too near for it to be safe for the Germans. Many are left behind. Many bodies are still scattered around the smoking remains of the camp. Some are finally succumbing to starvation, but most are dead from untended wounds sustained in the unrelenting carpet bombing. And not all of them are prisoners. We pass an SS guard, still in his bloodied, torn asunder uniform, lying where he fell. His eyes are still open, staring unseeing at the sky.
War is a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible thing. Whichever side you are on.
*
We march, and march, and march. The only thing keeping out the cold and rain are our two thin blankets, our striped, zebra-like prison uniforms, and our next-to-useless wooden-soled shoes.
‘Where do you think we’re going?’ Marcellin asks.
I sniff. ‘I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s good. We’d have been better off staying with the injured and ill at the camp. I think the Allies will be there soon. That must be why they’re moving us.’
‘We won’t make it, Philippe. We won’t get to see the island again.’
‘We will. We’ll be back on the boat in no time. You’ll see. And then chatting up the girls in St Martin.’ It’s bravado on my part. I don’t want to chat up any old girl. I simply want to sit on the sea wall, next to Marie-Ange, running my fingers through her flaxen hair, teasing her that she looks more English than French. And I want to finally say those words: I love you. I try not to think what she might have been doing in the intervening years. What she would have had to do to survive. Which German soldier, or soldiers, she might have had to sleep with.
Despite our desperation, he manages a weak laugh. ‘That never works. They always smell the fish and run a mile. Anyway, you were always the one with the chat. If I had your way with women, I’d have married that Marie-Ange and whisked her off for a new life in America, before all this hell blew up in our faces.’ He doesn’t mention his own girl, Violette. They were already going through a rocky time, even before all this.
One of the Kapos glowers at us. We fall silent rather than risk another beating.
*
It’s hard to know how far we have walked, or for how long. It feels like several hours, and perhaps twenty kilometres, but in reality is probably much, much less. I know I am exhausted, and I can see the same in Marcellin’s face. But it seems as though we’ve arrived. We’re in some sort of railway marshalling yard, with what looks like a bomb-damaged station up ahead. But not everything is wrecked. The steam from a locomotive rises up through the morning air. Behind it there are ten, perhaps twenty open wagons. Usually, no doubt, they would carry goods, or possibly livestock, perhaps even the parts for the rockets we’ve been assembling for months and months underground. But I can predict what is going to be their next cargo.
Us.
And I’m right.
We’re shoved into the wagons. The first of us sit down to rest, hoping things will get better from now on. But more and more prisoners are pushed in, until we have to stand or be squashed. The wagon becomes an almighty crush. Marcellin yelps in pain as someone leans against his wounded arm.
Then I realise: things are going to get worse. Much, much worse.
And I’ve lost faith that I will ever be able to say those words I should have said to Marie-Ange.
17
July 1977
Estedt, Bezirk Magdeburg, East Germany
The Stasi representative’s obstruction at the power plant was simply someone doing something rigorously by the book. But Müller was surprised that there hadn’t been a more active attempt by the Ministry for State Security to thwart their continued investigations, since her team had been officially removed from the case.
Lothar Schneider had been confirmed as dead – and the pathologist’s initial examination said everything pointed to murder, and that the man had been killed some minutes before his body was dumped. With this knowledge, there was nothing to stop Müller and Tilsner approaching his widow at her school. Nothing except for the fact that Tilsner was now saying he was feeling unwell, and would have to return to the Hauptstadt.
‘Can’t you hang on until we’ve interviewed her? It would be useful having a second opinion.’
‘Seriously, Karin, I feel as though I’m going to throw up any minute. It must have been something I ate. I want to get back to Berlin and lie down.’
‘Are you sure this isn’t just an excuse to get back to your new girlfriend, and lie down with her? It seems to be what you’ve been aiming for since the start of this case – or cases.’ Although she was dubious, he was looking pale.
Tilsner just gave a long sigh, as if her question wasn’t deserving of an answer.
‘And how exactly will you get back?’
‘I can get the train to Magdeburg, and from there it’s easy to get to the Hauptstadt. At least on the train there’s a toilet in case I am actually sick.’
Müller felt little sympathy. If things continued like this, she knew she would be recommending to Reiniger that he look for a new deputy for her. A functioning deputy. A deputy who didn’t look as though he was going to be ill at the sight of a dead body. Or who put his personal problems, his love life, ahead of the needs of the Volkspolizei.
‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘You can get the People’s Police in Gardelegen to write you out a warrant for the train ticket.’
*
Müller set off with Hauptmann Janson at her side in the Lada, instead of Tilsner. They drove round the inner ring road around Gardelegen old town, and then turned off Schillerstrasse into Jägerstieg, the road that led to the school where Herr Schneider’s widow worked as a teacher.
They’d only travelled two or three hundred metres when, up ahead, Müller saw what at first appeared to be a road closure and diversion. A barrier across the road. But then she saw figures on the pavement each side of the barrier.
As they approached, one of the figures stepped forward.
The man leant down as Müller wound down the driver’s window.
‘Could I see your documents, please?’ he asked.
‘I’m from the police. Kriminalpolizei. I need to visit the school in connection with a murder inquiry.’ She showed her Kripo ID.
The man took it, nodded, and smiled. ‘I understand. But I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We represent the Ministry for State Security. The school is in lockdown under our control. We’ve been expecting you, Comrade Major. But I’m afraid there can be no exceptions, not even for the police.’ He took out his notebook, and glanced at it. ‘And we have a message for you. Please could you ring or radio through to Keibelstrasse and talk to Comrade Oberst Reiniger immediately.’
*
‘It’s happened again,’ she said as soon as she got through to Reiniger on the radio, having driven a couple of blocks to calm down. Jan
son was beside her in the passenger seat, but she didn’t really care what he overheard.
‘I know, Karin, and I’m sorry. But we have to obey this order. You’d better come back to Berlin. There’s nothing more you can do in Gardelegen. The Stasi insist the latest death is part of their inquiry, and again linked to the Committee for the Dispossessed.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Müller. ‘This was very different.’
‘I’m not in a position to countermand a Ministry for State Security order, Karin. But I can give you orders, as you work for me. And I’m ordering you back to Berlin – now.’
Müller tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, and shook her head to try to work the stiffness from her neck. After all this, she’d need another holiday in the sun. One that wasn’t interrupted this time.
‘If you insist, then of course, Comrade Oberst,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive straight back.’
‘Thank you, Karin. It’s for the best, I assure you. There will be other cases.’
Müller replaced the handset, breathed in slowly, then let the air out of her lungs gradually.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Janson, ‘and I know it won’t be, what I hate most about this job is when that happens. I feel for you.’
Müller gave a wry laugh. ‘It’s not the first time. And it won’t be the last. Anyway, before I set off back for the Hauptstadt, I’ll give you a lift back to the station.’
*
After dropping Janson off at Gardelegen People’s Police offices, she should – by rights – have joined the main road straight back to Stendal, or headed south to pick up the motorway near Magdeburg.
But she didn’t. She decided to do a little sightseeing instead, and headed for Gardelegen’s historic centre. After parking the car, she walked to the market square.
There it was in all its majesty. A lovely building, that she guessed dated from around 1600 – possibly earlier. An historic town hall, ivy clad, with a steep red-tiled roof punctuated by low dormer windows, above a grand-looking first floor which in turn straddled the arches of a colonnade at ground level. It was exactly how it had looked in the photograph from the 1930s. The only difference: here she was looking at it in colour, and the young couple dressed in thirties fashions – no doubt Nazis like most of the rest – were nowhere to be seen. It didn’t matter.
This was the link.
This was where it had all started.
18
4 April 1945
Niedersachswerfen, southern Harz mountains
We see more prisoners arriving through the cracks in the wooden-panelled side of the open-topped wagon we’re crushed into. They look to be in an even worse condition than us, their prison clothes ragged and mud-spattered. It has rained a cold, hard rain overnight. We feel the wagon judder as more freight cars are attached.
We eke out our meagre rations. One loaf of bread and a tin of inedible-looking meat paste for a journey of indeterminate duration to an unknown location. I tear off a piece from my loaf and fashion a blob of the paste onto it. Without water to wash it down, I gag on the mouthful, but try to force myself to eat.
We spend our whole time scanning the skies above, waiting for the next air raid. It’s a strange mixture of excitement and terror. Excitement that things might be about to end. That we might be free. Terror that the fighter bombers will see a train as a target – not knowing it contains prisoners from their own side.
*
Night falls. The temperature is thankfully slightly warmer, as though spring may be around the corner. Our train is marooned in the station. No one tells us what is happening, and there is little talking. Every now and then I see Marcellin wince as someone touches his arm. I worry that it may be becoming infected. I hope he lasts long enough for us to get it properly seen to in a hospital, after their final defeat, which surely must be only days away.
There is no room to lie down to sleep. To go to the toilet, we have to shuffle our way to a corner of the wagon and do our business. For Marcellin, even doing that, I see pain in each movement. The smell is awful, like the worst public toilet you have ever been to – and public toilets in France are awful, I can tell you. We are surely going to die here.
Fitfully, we doze off for a few minutes at a time, standing up, or leaning against the sides or a fellow prisoner. I try not to lean on Marcellin, but let him lean on me. If we do lie down, it has to be on top of each other and for Marcellin with his bad arm, that is nigh on impossible.
*
Dawn breaks and there is still no movement. We are stuck in this station in the middle of nowhere, wondering when the Allies will finally break through and save us, as they surely will. I still have faith, but as I look at Marcellin’s grey face, and sunken eyes, I wonder why. He is the oldest of us three, yet for some reason he always seemed to defer to me, and I became the de facto leader of our little gang of brothers. We liked to think of ourselves as the pirates of the Celestine, growing old before our time and taking charge of the fishing boat after Papa’s sudden death. Out of the three of us, Marcellin perhaps looked the most like a fisherman with his ruddy face, and broad smile, inherited from Papa. For some reason, I was the schemer of the group, always coming up with some plan to get us into trouble when we were younger. They said I had Maman’s brains. I don’t know about that.
The minutes tick by. We’re bored, tired, hungry, thirsty and cold.
Finally, after what must have been about five or six hours of daylight, the shouting from the German guards increases in intensity. The wagon rocks. I brace myself and try to hold Marcellin to stop him falling or banging his arm.
We are underway at last.
*
The relief from the boredom is only temporary. After a few kilometres, the train stops again.
‘Where are we?’ whispers Marcellin.
I squint through the gap in the wooden planks that form the wall of our mobile prison.
‘A station.’ I move slightly to see if I can spy a station name. ‘Ellrich. Wherever that is. It doesn’t look very big.’
‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’ There’s a note of desperation in his voice. ‘Are they just taking us somewhere to kill us all? I wouldn’t put it past them.’
Neither would I, but I don’t voice that thought. ‘Remember. We were singled out as the ones in the fittest state to work. They wouldn’t do that if they were planning on killing us.’
Marcellin glances down at his arm which I’ve been trying to protect by shielding it with my body. ‘I won’t be able to work, Philippe. You know that. I am certain they will kill me. And to be honest, it will be a relief.’
Anger wells up inside me, trying to burst out. But I fight it back. I have lost one brother. I will not lose another.
I take his good arm and squeeze his hand, bringing my mouth close to his ear.
‘I won’t let that happen, Marcellin. I will never let that happen. Stay strong. Believe. We will soon be free. We will soon see Loix again and you will be back with Violette.’ I try to inject the words with as much passion as possible. I see in my brother’s eyes that he half believes me.
I hate deceiving him like this.
*
After our short journey, we seem to be marooned again at this Ellrich – another station in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps the rail line further down the track has been destroyed by Allied bombs? Perhaps Allied troops are already closing in?
We spend another night of hell, not being able to sleep properly, unprotected from the elements. Just two blankets each to keep out the cold. Thankfully one body warms the other.
I must have fallen asleep for an hour or so, because I find myself dreaming of hugging and kissing Marie-Ange. I’ve tried not to think of her too much, because when I do her face keeps changing in my head until I can’t remember her properly any more. But I feel her now; the excitement she arouses in me.
Then someone punches me on the arm and wakes me. I shake myself awake, embarrassed. The body I’ve b
een clinging onto so tenderly was another prisoner, thankfully not Marcellin. He looks at me in disgust.
*
In the evening, there has been more bumping of the wagon yet no movement. I can only assume even more wagons were being attached. It’s hard to estimate how many, but looking through the cracks I can see the guards marching up and down for several trucks’ worth each side of us. Then at one point, further up the train, hundreds of Jewish prisoners, identifiable by their yellow stars, are herded on board. They look to be in an even worse state than us.
*
Soon after dawn, we set off again, shivering in our blankets. I try to brace myself to protect Marcellin from the buffeting again, but I have little strength left. I find myself shaking, trembling. I try to stop it. I know it will use up energy. But I can’t. I try to work out which direction we’re travelling, from looking at the sky. Maybe to the west? But then we seem to change direction, and I get confused. Perhaps we are travelling north now?
Occasionally we see – or hear – a plane overhead. At any moment, we expect one to dive down and attack us. But it doesn’t. The train continues its slow, uncomfortable progress.
*
It’s the screaming which alerts me.
Someone has died. We’re not sure whether it’s from the cold or hunger. It’s one of the Poles at the other end of the wagon, near the space we use as the latrine. The screaming comes from the man next to him once he realises. The dead body is simply left there, slumped in one corner. Two of the prisoners lay down on it, using it as a mattress of human flesh. Dead human flesh.
When we stop at the next station, at a place called Osterode-am-Harz, his fellow Poles bang on the wooden sides of the wagon and shout at the guards, until one of them opens it. I think for a moment the Polish prisoners are going to make a run for it, but the SS man has his gun trained on them. They point to the dead body. The guard forces them at gunpoint to simply throw it off the side, and there the dead man lies.