by Sven Hassel
‘It’s a piece of piss!’ Heide rubbed his hands together. ‘Can’t fail!’
‘Only one thing,’ I said. ‘Suppose the Old Man finds out? There’ll be hell to pay . . . You realize it’s premeditated murder?’
‘What, killing a shit like that?’ said Porta, in surprise, ‘That’s not murder, it’s a bloody service to your country.’
‘Yeah? You just try telling that to the Old Man—’
‘Look,’ said Heide, coming over to me and holding up a clenched fist by way of warning, ‘you don’t have to come in with us on this, nobody’s forcing you, but one squeak and you’ve had it—’
I pushed his fist away.
‘I’m shedding no tears for Leopold,’ I said. ‘I just don’t fancy swinging for a bastard like that.’
‘Nobody ain’t going to swing,’ said Porta. He took some dice from his pocket, crouched down, blew on them, rattled them in his hand and blew on them again. ‘Fancy a game?’
Tiny squatted down to join him. He looked on with interest as Porta repeated his performance with the dice.
‘What’s all the show for? Everyone knows they’re loaded.’
Porta looked up, indignant.
‘That’s just where you’re wrong. I wouldn’t dream of using loaded dice with you . . . As a matter of fact, I’ve got two sets. This is the good one.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Heide.
Slowly, Porta turned his head to look at him. Slowly he tossed the dice from hand to hand.
‘That reminds me,’ he said, ‘you owe me two litres of Slibowitz and twelve pipes of opium. Due yesterday. Should have kept your mouth shut, I might have forgotten about it . . . and from now on, the interest goes up to 80 per cent. You know, Julius, you’ll have to start taking a grip on yourself. Too many debts aren’t good for’a man.’He pocketed his dice, stood up and took out a small black notebook. He smeared a tongue liberally over his finger and began leafing through the pages. ‘Let’s have a look, see where we stand . . . here we are. Julius Marius Heide, Unteroffizier, 27th Regiment, 5th Company, 2nd Section, 3rd Group . . . that’s what I’ve wrote down.’ He fixed Heide with a stern eye. ‘I suppose you won’t deny that IS you?’
‘You know bloody well it is!’ snapped Heide. ‘Don’t be a damn fool!’
Porta raised a warning eyebrow. He held the book nearer to his face and bid Tiny shine the beam of his torch over it.
‘Fourth April – 9 bottles of vodka. Seventh April – 3 bottles of Slibowitz. Twelfth April – I’ve got that down as your birthday. That’s hard, that is. You owe more from that day than any other . . . 712 marks and 13 pfennigs, 21 bottles of Slibowitz, 9 pipes of opium, Danish eau-de-vie, a half-case of Dortmunder, free entry to the brothel for a month . . .’
Porta’s voice droned on with the long list of Heide’s debts.
‘Then we come to the 20th – that’s Adolf’s birthday, that is. Let’s have a gander what you had on that day . . . should mean something pretty special to you, Julius.’ Porta gave him a knowing leer. ‘After all, you was a member of the Party, if I mistake not?’
‘Was,’ agreed Heide. ‘You know bloody well I’m not any more.’
‘Only because they threw you out,’ said Porta, brutally. ‘Couldn’t stand the sight of you any more . . . Anyway, on Adolf’s birthday you lost 3,412 Reichsmarks and 12 pfennigs. And you can add 80 per cent on to the whole lot. The rate you’re going, doesn’t look like you’ll ever be free of debt, does it?’
‘Hey, I wish I could write!’ exclaimed Tiny, suddenly snatching the notebook from Porta and wonderingly examining the entries. ‘I bet you if I could write I’d be a millionaire by now . . . Know what I’d do? I’d nobble one of them rich types and pinch his cheque book! Then all you’d have to do is sign a few cheques and grab the lolly.’
He beamed round at us with a grin of triumph on his face. No one had the heart to disillusion him. Porta returned to his pursuit of Heide.
‘Look here,’ he said, in friendly tones, ‘we’ve been mates a long time, you and me. I don’t like to feel you’re worried about being in debt to me all the time . . . how about wiping it off?’
‘You what?’ said Heide, unable to believe his luck. ‘You mean cancel it?’
‘Something like that,’ agreed Porta, with a sly grin.
Heide turned instantly to Tiny and me.
‘You heard him! You bear witness to that!’
‘All right,’ said Porta. ‘No need to get so excited. Wait till you’ve heard my conditions.’
‘What conditions?’ asked Heide, at once suspicious, as well he might be.
‘Well, to start with, I want those three bales of cloth you’ve got hidden away in Beanstick’s room . . . and then I’ll have the two barrels of Dutch herrings what you left with that dentist in Hein Hoyer Strasse.’
Heide’s amazement was pitiful to behold. His mouth dropped open and his eyes widened, and he stammered as he spoke.
How the heck did you know about that?’
Porta’s little baggy pig’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
‘I know a lot more than you think! I know everything there is to know about you. I make it my business to know, when people owe me as much as what you do.’
‘The – the carpets in Paulinen Platz?’ asked Heide, too shaken to be circumspect.
‘Of course.’ Porta hesitated a moment, then, obviously making a shot in the dark: ‘Give me the carpets as well and I’ll overlook the rest and we’ll call it quits.’
His shot in the dark hit its target: it was obvious from Heide’s reaction that there was, indeed, something in addition to the cloth, the herrings and the carpets.
‘How do I know you won’t try blackmailing me?’
‘Give you my word.’
Porta raised his arm, with three fingers held up in salute.
‘Your word!’ scoffed Heide. ‘I wouldn’t trust you further than I could throw you . . . You can have the herrings and the cloth and I’ll go halves with the carpets.’
‘Who’s calling the tune round here, me or you?’ Porta wanted to know. He jabbed a finger into his chest. ‘It’s me you owe the money to and it’s me as says what I’ll take for it . . . I’ll have all the carpets.’
‘That’s a bit steep!’ protested Heide. ‘Eight hundred flaming carpets! That’s a hell of a lot more than I owe you—’
‘Take it or leave it,’ said Porta. ‘But you don’t play ball with me and I certainly don’t play ball with you, mate.’
‘You mean you’d shop me?’ asked Heide, indignantly.
‘You bet . . . over and over, for everything I could bloody well think of! I haven’t forgotten what you did to that peasant that time.9 I’ve had it in for you ever since. I don’t forget that easy.’
Heide shrugged his shoulders.
‘Oh, well, if you’re going to keep raking up the past . . . But I’ll tell you one thing. Both the herrings and the carpets are hot as hell, so don’t blame ME if you get picked up for them . . . Just remember that I shan’t know anything about them.’
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ said Porta. They nab me and I’ll make damn sure they nab you as well.’
‘Well, now, you just listen to me,’ hissed Heide. ‘I could shop you right here and now if I wanted . . . You know why? Because I happen to know a bloke who works in one of the SS depots. And I happen to know that they’re after someone who’s nicked a hefty load of steel helmets . . . they’ve already got a cell ready and waiting at Fuhlsbüttel.’
‘So what?’
‘So it’s you that stole the bloody things!’ screamed Heide.
‘For God’s sake,’ I said, nervously. ‘You’ll bring half the flaming Gestapo down on us if you go on shouting like that.’
Heide dropped his voice to a venomous whisper.
‘You go on pushing your great beak into my affairs and you’ll find yourself breaking stones at Torgau before you’re very much older.’
It was Tiny, with one of his totally irre
levant remarks, who intervened and prevented probable bloodshed.
‘The day we bump off Leopold,’ he remarked – quite suddenly, it seemed to the rest of us, though he had doubtless been turning it over in his mind for some while – ‘I’m going to have a binge of bangers and Slibowitz.’ He licked his lips and rubbed a hand over his belly. ‘I’m going to have a real celebration, a real blow out.’
‘One thing,’ I said. ‘Leopold and his pals ought to be bloody proud of us. They’re always bawling at us about being hard as Krupp and his flaming steel . . . well, pretty soon they’re going to find out that we are . . . They’ve done a good job on us, I reckon.’
‘Krupp and his steell’ scoffed Tiny. ‘Soft as butter, that stuff . . . You watch this!’
He sent his fist crashing into the concrete wall: his fist remained unbroken, but the wall shuddered violently and a small crack appeared in the centre and branched out in two directions. We looked at it wonderingly, impressed as always by Tin’s feats of strength. He was a giant compared to the rest of us, and on many occasions we had seen him split open a brick with his bare hands. He had once broken a cow’s neck with one flat-handed blow across its throat. Porta was also able to split open a brick, but it always took him a couple of attempts. Steiner had once tried it and broken every bone in his hand. The rest of us were content to stand by and watch, and Tiny had latterly taken to practising with an iron bar, contemptuously dismissing bricks as child’s play.
We heard footsteps approaching, and we stood listening. They sounded like the measured steps of a soldier.
‘Who is it?’ whispered Porta. ‘Tiny, go and have a gander.’
Noisily, Tiny emerged from our shelter.
‘Halt or I’ll shoot!’
The footsteps stopped abruptly and we heard a well-known voice.
‘Stop buggering about, it’s only me.’
‘Who’s you?’ demanded Tiny.
‘For crying out loud!’ said Barcelona. ‘If you can’t recognize my voice after all these years you need your flaming ears tested!’
‘Can’t help that,’ said Tiny, obstinately. ‘Got to have the password before I can let anyone through.’
‘Piss off!’
We heard Barcelona’s footsteps start up again, then abruptly cease at a wild shout from Tiny.
‘Give me the password or I’ll fire!’
‘Look, you perishing great fool, it’s me, Barcelona! Put that rifle down and stop arsing about!’
Heide crept up to Tiny and hissed urgently at him through the darkness.
‘What’s got into you? Let him through before there’s a nasty accident.’
‘I got to have the password,’ chanted Tiny. ‘I’m a good soldier, I am. I know what’s expected of me, I can’t just let any Tom, Dick or Harry walk past.’
It seemed to be deadlock. Barcelona stood uncertainly a few yards off. I held my breath, wondering what new maggot had got into Tiny, but knowing from past experience that it was asking for trouble to cross him when he was in one of these moods.
‘Ah, for Christ’s sake!’ snapped Barcelona, suddenly losing patience.
He launched himself at Tiny, hurtled past him and fell headfirst into our midst. Tiny lowered his rifle and came in after him.
‘That had him worried,’ he announced, in satisfied tones. ‘Nearly shitting himself, he was.’
Barcelona turned on him.
‘What d’you think you were playing at, you brainless ape? What the devil is the flaming password, anyway?’
Tiny shrugged a shoulder.
‘How should I know? You’re the Feldwebel around here, not me. If you don’t know what it is, how can we be expected to?’
‘Are you out of your tiny bird-brained mind?’ asked Barcelona, witheringly. He saw the bottle of Slibowitz and held out a hand. ‘Let’s have a swig . . . The Old Man sent me round to tell you that with any luck we’ll be having a quiet time of it tonight. The Gestapo’s busy having a witch hunt through the ranks, and Bielert’s putting his own men through the hoop, so they’re not likely to have any time to spare for us.’
‘What’s brought this on all of a sudden?’ I asked. ‘What’s the point of it?’
‘It’s the great periodic purge,’ explained Barcelona. ‘They do it now and again, just to keep ’em on their toes . . .’
‘What are they getting them for?’
‘Just about everything you can think of. Everything from first-degree murder to pinching a handful of office paper clips . . . thuggery buggery rape and incest . . . you name it, they’ve done it . . . Bielert’s got half the bloody Gestapo lined up downstairs waiting to go into the cells. I tell you, if he carries on like this all night he’ll be the only one left there in the morning.’
‘Sodding good job, too,’ I began, when Porta suddenly interrupted with a wild cry.
‘Hang on! We ought to be able to cash in on this, if we volunteer to give ’im a hand—’
‘Who?’ said Tiny, looking startled. ‘Bielert?’
‘Of course Bielert! Who else, for God’s sake?’
‘But what for?’babbled Tiny.
Barcelona gave a wolfish grin.
‘Qui vivra, verra,’ he murmured. (Who lives will see.)
Fifteen minutes later the guard was changed and we were free to return to the guard room. Barcelona had already gone back with news of Porta’s suggestion, the Old Man had already offered our services to a surprised Bielert, and the scene was already set. We swaggered in together, and Porta at once took command of the situation.
‘I’m the one who’s going through their pockets.’
‘Fair enough.’ The Legionnaire nodded his approval. ‘You’ve certainly got a ncse for the loot’
‘Just watch your step,’ said the Old Man, grimly. ‘What you’re proposing comes under the heading of misappropriation of funds—’
‘Ah, stop whining!’ said Porta, with a contemptuous wave of the hand.
There was a knock at the guard room door. The Old Man walked slowly over and a secretary pushed three SD men into the room.
‘All candidates for the jug,’ he said, abruptly. Take good care of ’em.’
He tossed three yellow forms on to the Old Man’s desk and left the room. Barcelona opened the register and entered the details, the men’s names and ranks and the crimes for which they had been arrested. In the top left-hand corner of the yellow forms it was explained that the prisoner would be referred to an SS tribunal within forty eight hours, but that’ he was in the meanwhile being guarded by a disciplinary company. In other words, us.
Porta had taken his stand in the middle of the room. He leered a welcome at the three prisoners.
‘Take a good look,’ he offered, with false bonhomie, ‘and see what you think of me . . . We’re going to be stuck in each other’s company for the next few hours, so we might as well try to get on together. It’s entirely up to you, of course, whether we do or we don’t. Speaking for myself, I’m an easy enough bloke to get along with. But I’m like a cat, see? Rub me the wrong way and it does bad things to me. My name’s Joseph Porta of the 27th Regiment and I’m an Obergefreiter, backbone of the German Army and don’t you forget it . . . All right, let’s have those pockets emptied!’
Reluctantly, the three men laid out their possessions on the table. Unterscharführer Blank looked understandably anxious as he produced five marihuana cigarettes. Porta picked them up and sniffed at them.
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ he said. ‘Carrying this sort of trash around with you. You know bloody well it’s against the regulations.’
‘One of the prisoners gave them me,’ muttered Blank, in an attempt to make his crime less heinous.
Porta shrugged.
‘Sounds a good enough excuse . . . a prisoner give ’em you, and now a prisoner’s given ’em me.’ He put them carefully into a pocket and turned his attentions to Scharführer Leutz. ‘How about you, then? You had any little gifts given you, eh?’ Without waiting f
or Leutz’ reply, he picked up five paper sachets and opened one of them. ‘This gets worse and worse,’ he said, in tones of outraged piety. ‘We only want the pipes and we’ll have your actual opium den down here, won’t we?’ He glared at Leutz. ‘How could you bear to use the filthy stuff? You, what’s supposed to be one of the protectors of the Fatherland?’
Leutz lowered his gaze to the floor. I guessed he was smarting at his own invidious position, being rebuked by this fool of an Obergefreiter and unable to do a thing about it. He looked up again, his expression defiant. He moved forward slightly and I saw his muscles flex, and at the same moment Leutz, from the corner of his eye, caught sight of Tiny and stopped short. Tiny was idly toying with a spade; a big, sturdy spade with a thick wooden handle reinforced with iron bands. Even as Leutz watched, Tiny nonchalantly broke this spade in half and tossed the pieces away. He glanced across at Porta.
‘I’m getting out of practice,’ he complained. ‘How about lending me one of that crew to have a go on?’
‘Later,’ said Porta. ‘If they don’t behave themselves.’
He put the opium away with the marihuana cigarettes and turned to examine a gold wristwatch, picking it up and listening approvingly to its tick.
‘Not bad,’ he said, absently pocketing it.
Leutz took a few deep breaths but said nothing. Porta cast an avaricious eye upon Oberscharführer Krug and was at once attracted by the enticing sight of a gold ring on one finger. Two strands of gold were twisted round each other to represent snakes, and the heads were diamonds. Porta held out his hand.
‘I’d better take that off of you or you won’t get to sleep tonight worrying about it.’ Krug protested bitterly, and Porta snapped an impatient finger. ‘Keep you’re mouth shut when you’re addressing an Obergefreiter,’ he said, grandly. ‘And get a move on with that ring. I’d like to know who you stole it from in the first place.’
Krug changed his tactics. He put his hands on his hips and swelled out his chest. The Old Man wrote studiously at his desk, never once taking his eyes off the register.