by Sven Hassel
The idea of burning the village had come from Himmler himself, and it seemed an excellent one. An act so terrible, on such a scale, would set the whole world by the ears. They would understand at once that it was a reprisal: an act of revenge against the Tchechoslovak resistance movement, which had supposedly assassinated Heydrich. And in the face of such an orgy of slaughter, of burnings and shootings and hangings, all for the death of one man, the people would surely turn and curse the resistance movement for bringing such misery upon them?
The only trouble was that the English almost immediately became suspicious. They lost no time in broadcasting their views on the affair, with the result that many hundreds of volunteers from Bohemia and Slovakia at once deserted and joined the Resistance movement instead, while the recruiting offices fell suddenly silent and empty. Heydrich had been exterminated, certainly, but the rest of the plan had gone sadly astray. One might even say, thought Bielert, closing the drawer again, that it had backfired. And serve them right, too.
He turned his attention to Lt. Ohlsen, who was frowning as he read through the warrant for his arrest. Bielert leaned back in his chair and smiled contentedly through a cloud of cigar smoke. It was a good idea – and his own – to give these intellectual types the chance of acquainting themselves with a few of the facts before the interview began. It unsettled them, made them less sure of their ground and more disposed to open their mouths and try to talk their way out of trouble. And in Bielert’s experience, the more a man talked the more trouble he made for himself.
He waited patiently. Ohlsen was now reading through the warrant for the third time, going through it with desperate care, to make sure he had missed none of it. They always did that. The first time they skipped through it and only half understood it; the second time they slowed down sufficiently to grasp a few of the essentials, although even then their minds still refused to accept the hard fact of their arrest; but the third time round, their nerve began to go and they began to be far more malleable. So Bierlert sat back and bided his time, looked at his well-kept fingernails and savoured the aroma of his excellent cigar.
Lt. Ohlsen appeared to be no exception to the general rule. He was reading the document with painful slowness, still tending towards incredulity and yet with a growing horror of awareness which spread from the deepmost pit of his bowels and steadily up through his body, making his palms sweat and the hair follicles prick at the back of his neck.
‘To the President of the People’s Tribunal, People’s Tribunal, 7J.636/43 (52/43 – 693)
Hamburg, 3rd April 1943
8 Stadhausbrücke
Hamburg 2.
Warrant of Arrest
Lieutenant Bernt Viktor Ohlsen, born 4 April 1917 at Berlin-Dahlem, currently serving with the 27th Armoured Regiment, is required to be interned by the State Secret Police. The 27th Armoured Regiment is at present stationed at Hamburg, at the Altona Barracks.
An official inquiry is to be held into the conduct of the said Bernt Viktor Ohlsen. He is accused of seeking to disrupt public order by spreading alarm and despondency and by generally encouraging acts of sabotage and insurrection. The facts are as follows:
1) On 22nd January 1943, while the Regiment was at the Eastern Front, the Accused made the following declaration to a fellow officer:
‘If you ask me, the Third Reich won’t even see its centenary, let alone the millenium . . . everyone knows the war’s as good as lost. It’s not going to be long before the English and the Americans come up through the Balkans and Italy and invade Germany herself . . . and then Adolf and his pals can go jump in their ovens and burn themselves to cinders, and the sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.’
2) On or about the same date, the Accused showed to a junior officer some Russian propaganda inciting German soldiers to desert.
The offences committed are in violation of Paras 5 and 91, Article I of the Penal Code. The arrest and preliminary investigation of the Accused shall be carried out by the State Police, 8 Stadthausbrücke, Hamburg 2.
The arrest and detention of the Accused are subject to appeal before the President of the People’s Tribunal.
(Sgd) Dr Micken
President of the Court of Appeal.’
Lt. Ohlsen came to the end of the document for the third time. He laid it on the desk and looked across at Paul Bielert, with a gesture of resignation.
‘What am I supposed to say?’
Bielert blew out a cloud of smoke and hunched an indifferent shoulder.
‘That, of course, is entirely up to you,’ he said, smoothly. ‘I am only the person in charge of the preliminary investigation. It is not up to me to tell you what you should say. However, there is one word of advice I can give you.’ He leaned forward across the desk, gesticulating towards Ohlsen with his cigar. ‘Remember always that we at the Gestapo are not idiots. We know what we’re about. We never arrest anyone without very good reasons . . . and we never make mistakes. We check the facts most carefully before we even go to the lengths of bringing in a suspect for questioning. In a case such as yours, therefore, you will only make it worse for yourself if you attempt to deny any of the charges . . . particularly since, in the final analysis, you will end up by saying just whatever we wish you to say.’
He smiled, and leaned back again. His eyes glittered with malevolent enjoyment behind his thick-lensed spectacles.
‘If I were you, I shouldn’t worry your head too much about the details. When it comes to it, it resolves itself quite simply into a question of choosing whether you walk out of this room on your own two feet or whether you’re dragged out like a sack of potatoes . . . it is entirely up to you. But whatever you decide, it makes no difference to me. Either way, you don’t leave until you’ve made a full and satisfactory confession.’
He held his cigar under his nose a moment, delicately twitching his nostrils as the smoke curled up. He looked across at Ohlsen and smiled amiably.
‘Of course, you can make things far easier for yourself if you do decide to be sensible. If you’re willing to make a confession straight away, it saves both your time and ours. We don’t have the bother of going through all this rubbish—’ He disdainfully tapped a finger on a pile of papers and documents that lay before him on the desk – ‘and you will probably be detained in Torgau no longer than two to three weeks, which I think you. will agree is quite reasonable. After Torgau, of course, you’ll either be sent to a disciplinary regiment as an ordinary soldier or possibly put in an FGA12 for a few months.’
Lt. Ohlsen ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end like a brush. He met the glittering grey eyes of Bielert, and he refused to flinch.
‘Everything you say sounds perfectly straightforward,’ he allowed. ‘Even, in the circumstances, quite tempting . . . I suppose most of the poor fools you have sitting in this chair would be gullible enough to believe you. The only thing is, I’ve already served three years in a disciplinary regiment and I’m perfectly well aware of the fact that no one – I repeat, no one –has ever survived more than two months in an FGA.’
Bielert hunched a shoulder.
‘You’re exaggerating, of course. I have personally known several people who have been through the ordeal and are still very much alive to tell the tale . . . naturally, they are the ones who have been sensible and co-operative, I will grant you that. But anyone who is willing to be reasonable is always given a fair deal. And frankly, Lieutenant, I don’t see that you have any real choice in the matter. Owing entirely to your own lack of discretion you have succeeded in landing yourself in your present position, so why not confess to your crimes and have done with it? I have, I can assure you, sufficient evidence against you to have you executed if you don’t choose to co-operate with us.’ He picked up his pen and pointed it towards the Lieutenant ‘When I say executed, I mean – executed. Decapitated . . . Have you ever seen anyone decapitated, Lieutenant? It’s not a wholesome experience, even for the audience . . . Anyway, that is the position in whi
ch you find yourself and it’s up to you to take your pick. But whatever you do, don’t underestimate the Gestapo. I don’t exaggerate when I tell you that our information services are so efficient that we even know what people say in their sleep . . . My men are all over the place. And I make no bones about it, some of them are pretty unscrupulous people. I don’t care who they are or where they’ve come from, whether they’re generals or whether they’re prostitutes, whether I’ve met them at society dinner parties or in the urinal of some stinking bistrot, so long as they can do the job, that’s all I ask . . . If I felt so inclined, Lieutenant, it would take me no longer than a couple of weeks to have the whole of your life history from the moment you were born, even down to the minutest details that you yourself have probably never known . . . I daresay I could find out the colour of the very first dummy you ever sucked, if it were of any interest or importance to me.’
Lt. Ohlsen made to interrupt, but Bielert held up a hand.
‘One moment before you speak. You shall be given all the time in the world very shordy. Let me first tell you some of the more salient facts as I have them. We know, to begin with, that you have frequently spoken to your men of treason and of sabotage and of desertion. You’ve treated the Führer’s name with disrespect and you’ve read and discussed prohibited literature –in particular, “All Quiet on the Western Front”, from which you’ve often quoted long passages. All this in direct violation of Paragraph 91. In addition, your wife is ready to make depositions as to other treasonable acts of yours . . . We have far too much against you, Lieutenant, there’s no point in trying to fight us. Why not take up your pen and make a full confession, and we can be done with the whole unfortunate business within the hour. You can cool off in the cells for a week or two, and then I imagine your sentence will be six to eight weeks in Torgau. After that, as I said, a disciplinary regiment. Stripped of your rank, of course, but at least a very much wiser man.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll know better than to open your mouth too wide in the future.’
‘It all sounds eminently reasonable,’ murmured Ohlsen. ‘Only one thing worries me: what guarantee do I have that everything will take place just as you’ve promised? I have heard of people being shot for lesser crimes than I’m supposed to have committed.’
‘One hears so many tales,’ said Bielert, carelessly. ‘Just as one should guard against talking too much, so, perhaps, one should guard against listening too much . . . As for a guarantee, of course, I’m afraid that’s not possible, As you will appreciate, I am not the person who will ultimately sit in judgement upon you . . . However, you can rest assured that I have had a great deal of experience in cases such as yours, and I do know what I’m talking about. Whatever sentence is passed has to come through to me for confirmation, and I am able to modify it as I see fit. If I find a judge has been too lenient, it is in my power to have both him and the accused put in a security camp. Equally, I can, if I wish, tear up an order for execution and have the prisoner released immediately. It all comes back to this question of willingness to co-operate. We are constantly on the look out for new talent, and to this end we are always interested in those who wish to co-operate with us. You, for instance, could do both of us a good turn if you chose to come and work for me. I should be particularly interested to learn certain details regarding your commanding officer, Colonel Hinka. Also, you have a cavalry captain by the name of Brockmann in your regiment. I have a very special interest in Captain Brockmann. I will be honest with you, Lieutenant: it would give me positive pleasure to see Captain Brockmann’s head severed from his shoulders . . . Still—’ He sat up very straight and squared his narrow shoulders – ‘let us get your affairs in order to begin with. Make your confession, serve your time in Torgau, and I can promise you that within three weeks I shall send an order for your immediate reinstatement in your company, with your present rank of lieutenant. It will all be made to appear perfectly normal to your colleagues, and once back you can quickly prove to me that you have regretted any past errors . . . Not, of course, that we ever force men to collaborate with us against their will. It is your own decision entirely.’
Lt Ohlsen gave a cynical smile.
‘It’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but there’s one flaw in it . . . You see, in the first place, I categorically deny all the charges made against me—’
Bielert sighed.
‘Ah, Lieutenant, I thought you had more intelligence than to start running your head against brick walls! Whether you deny the charges or whether you admit them is totally irrelevant. You yourself are irrelevant, if it comes to that. I have nothing against you in particular – it was more chance than anything which made me pick on you. It could have been any member of your family. I could, if I’d wished, have arrested the whole lot of them while I was about it, but I don’t require the whole lot of them, I require only one . . . One member of each family in Germany. That’s what I must have.’
Lt. Ohlsen stiffened.
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you. What does my alleged behaviour have to do with my family?’
Bielert tossed the butt of his cigar negligently through the open window and shuffled a few papers on his desk.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. The point I am trying to make is that it might just as well have been your father or your sister or your brother as you . . . It was there chance that you happened to be the one who was chosen.’ He looked across at Ohlsen with a cordial smile. ‘We could just as well have arrested your father.’
‘On what grounds?’ demanded Ohlsen, coldly.
Bielert glanced down at the papers before him.
‘Twenty-sixth April 1941,’ he read out, crisply. ‘At a few minutes past eleven . . . he was discussing politics with two friends. During the course of the conversation he made the following statements: 1) that he no longer believed in the possibility of a Nazi victory, and 2) that he considered the State to be an idol with feet of clay. That may not seem to you a very grave crime, Lieutenant, but you would perhaps be surprised what we can do with it if we choose! And then, of course—’ He pulled out another sheet of paper – ‘there’s your brother Hugo. He’s serving at present with the 31st Armoured Regiment at Bamberg. We have information on him as well, you see . . . He has been known on several occasions to make some very curious remarks on the men who run the Third Reich. We could certainly issue him with an invitation to come along here for a chat . . . And then again, there is your sister.’ He selected a third sheet of paper and ran a finger down it. ‘Here we are . . . a nurse in an Air Force hospital in Italy. In September 1941 she was on a hospital ship in Naples. On the fourteenth of that month she was heard to remark that she held Herr Hitler directly responsible for . . . let me see . . .“for all this shameful and senseless slaughter” . . .’ Bielert collected his papers together and looked across at the Lieutenant. ‘And there you have it,’ he said, simply. ‘We possess similar information on virtually every citizen who has a tongue to speak with. I have here—’ He indicated a wire tray containing a bulky file – ‘a case against a top official at the Ministry of Propaganda. A man in his position, and he knows no better than to pour out his heart to his mistress! However, he was sensible enough to make a full confession and offer his services the moment I taxed him with it. He could well be very useful to me. I’ve long had my eye on Dr. Goebbels and his waste-paper Ministry! You see, Lieutenant, I believe in aiming high . . .’
He laughed, brushed a few ashes off the lapel of his jacket and tightened the knot in his tie.
‘You have an odd sense of humour,’ remarked Lt. Ohlsen, dryly.
Bielert abruptly pulled down the corners of his thin mouth. The grey eyes narrowed to slits.
‘I am not interested in having a sense of humour, Lieutenant. My work is far too serious for such frivolities. I do what has to be done and it takes up twenty-four hours of every day. The security of the entire country rests on my shoulders. Mine and my colleagues’ . . . We have a duty to perform. Anyone who is
unable to fit into our society must be exterminated for the good of that society. I think you will agree it is no laughing matter.’
‘Not if you put it like that,’ murmured Ohlsen.
‘Hm.’ Bielert cracked all his knuckles one after another, then tapped a hand impatiently on the table. ‘Well, I can’t afford to waste any more time talking to you, Lieutenant. Sign the declaration and I shan’t bother with the rest of your impertinent family. They deserve to be locked up, but as I said, I can’t be doing with the whole lot of them. One from each family, that’s all I require. It was Reinhard Heydrich’s idea, and like most of his ideas it’s fundamentally sound . . . Just wait until the war is over, Lieutenant. You’ll see the day when the entire population of Europe raise their hands in salute whenever an SS officer goes by. As they do in Japan, you know. I was in Japan for several months. It was a most enlightening experience. Dutch and English officers prostrating themselves before their Japanese masters . . .’ He leaned back luxuriously in the depths of his leather chair, his small, neat hands resting lightly on the arms.
Lt. Ohlsen tried to suppress a shiver and failed. It needed only a pair of glittering black crows to transform the chair into a devil’s throne, and Bielert into a creation dragged from the depths of Grimms’ fairy tales.
He turned and looked out of the window. A steamer hooted mourfully on the Elbe. Two pigeons puffed and strutted on the ledge. From the flagpole hung the red flag with its swastika, limp in the still air. A flight of seagulls rose up, squalling in a fretful heap over a crust of bread. Lt. Ohlsen turned his eyes away. He had never been able to bear the sight of seagulls since the day in the Mediterranean when he had been on board a boat that was torpedoed. Himself, lying wounded and unable to help, he had watched in horror as a pack of ravenous birds had alighted on the dying ship’s captain and torn out his eyes. He had loathed seagulls ever since. At least the birds of prey, the crows and the vultures, even rats and hyenas, had the decency to wait until their victims were dead before tearing them to pieces. But not seagulls. Seagulls tore the eyes out of their living prey. They seemed to him to be the Gestapo of the bird kingdom.