by Sven Hassel
He looked back at Bielert, little grey man hunched in his armchair, indescribably evil, with a power that was terrifying, and he suddenly saw Bielert as a seagull: crouching over a warm body, sucking out its eyes and cramming them into his mouth . . .
Ohlsen stretched out a hand for the pen. He signed the declaration without even looking at it. He no longer cared. And besides, it was true. He had said far harsher words about the Führer than Bielert had accused him of. Perhaps, after all, he would be dying for a good cause . . . But he wished to know who it was that had denounced him. He wished there were some way of getting word to Porta and the Legionnaire. They would take his revenge for him, no matter who it was, and revenge would be sweet even by proxy.
Paul Bielert leaned forward with a slight grunt and took the declaration. He looked at the signature and nodded, then offered the box of big cigars to Ohlsen.
‘There! It’s done . . . and it wasn’t really so difficult, was it?’
Ohlsen said nothing. There was really nothing to be said. He knew he could have prolonged the matter, denied all the charges, refused to sign, but he knew also that it would have been futile. The Gestapo had all the power and there was nothing the individual could do.
Ten minutes later, two SD Unterscharführer entered the room. One laid a heavy hand upon Ohlsen’s shoulder.
‘We’re just going for a spin in the car, Lieutenant. We’ve come to take you with us. You’ll enjoy the outing.’
They laughed uproariously. Unterscharführer Bock was reputed to be something of a joker.
Lt. Ohlsen left the room in silence, continued in silence through the building and out to the car. Unterscharführer Bock sat in front, next to the driver, and kept up a running commentary as they passed through the city. Down Mönckebergstrasse, across Adolf Hitler Square; détour on account of the bomb damage, along the Alster, past the hotel ‘Vier Jahreszeiten’, across the Gänsemarkt; down the Zeughausalle and into the Reeperbahn. The Reeperbahn was crowded. It seemed to be full of people who had nothing better to do than drift from one bar to another growing progressively and squalidly drunk as they did so.
‘Pity we’re in such a hurry,’ said Bock. ‘We could have stopped for a beer.’
Along the length of Kleine Maria Strasse stretched a long queue of people.
‘They’re waiting to try out the new whores,’ explained Bock, hanging over the back of the seat and addressing Lt. Ohlsen, who made no attempt to show any interest. ‘We’ve just installed another twenty of ’em. There’s service for you! Don’t never let me hear anyone say the Third Reich isn’t well organized . . . Tell me, Lieutenant, have you ever stopped to think exactly what National Socialism really is?’ Ohlsen kept his head turned away, staring bleakly through the window. ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Bock. ‘It’s the one and only workable form of Communism.’
Ohlsen turned slowly to look at the man.
‘How do you make that out?’ he asked, wearily.
Bock laughed, flattered that he should at last have gained Ohlsen’s attention.
‘Well, now, the way I see it is, over here we’re what I call national communists. We want to make Germans out of the whole world. Anyone got the wrong shape nose, the wrong type of hair, the wrong colour skin, he’s out. And that’s as it should be, because they’re not Germanic . . . Right? Now, the Russians, they’re not nearly so choosy. They don’t care what you look like, it’s enough for them just to tap you on the shoulder and say, from now on you’re a Bolshevik and you’ve got to think like a Bolshevik. And that’s all they care. No feeling of nationality at all . . . Mind you, I’ve got to admit it, in some respects the Russians know what they’re doing a damn sight better than we do. Take priests, for example. Over here, we let ’em walk about quite freely, don’t even make ’em wear a swastika . . . Over there, they hang the bastards. Hang ’em and be done with it. And I say that’s the way we should treat ’em. Because otherwise we’re just storing up a parcel of trouble for ourselves, you mark my words. A parcel of trouble . . . It doesn’t pay to be too soft, and they’re stronger than what you probably think they are. People are suckers for that sort of thing, all the jiggery pokery and the bowing and the scraping and the going to confession and all the rest of it. For myself I wouldn’t have nothing to do with any of it. Catch me going anywhere near a bleeding priest!’
He laughed, and the driver laughed with him.
‘Why is that?’ asked Ohlsen, mildly. ‘Do you have so much on your conscience?’
Bock looked out at the Königin Allee, with its church lying in ruins.
‘I’ve not got nothing on my conscience, don’t you worry. All I’ve ever done is carry out orders. Done what I been told to do. It’s no concern of mine what the orders are, nor who gives ’em, so don’t you try blaming me for anything.’
The car drew up outside Headquarters and a sentry bent down and spoke to the driver.
‘Where from and where to?’
‘Gestapo IV/2a, Stadthausbrücke 8. We’re going to the garrison prison.’
‘Let’s see your pass.’
The sentry glanced for a moment at Lt. Ohlsen, and his thoughts were written clearly on his face:
‘Last time he’ll ride in the back seat of a car, poor devil . . . probably the last time he’ll ride anywhere at all . . .’
He walked round to the front of the car to check the number plate. Resolutely, he saluted Ohlsen.
The big Mercedes drove on into the barracks. Lt. Ohlsen caught sight of a group of officers in white jackets walking up the broad steps to the casino. He himself had been to that casino, in earlier, happier dayswhich now seemed a lifetime ago.
They drove on across the square and pulled up outside the prison. Bock laughed.
‘Here we are, Lieutenant! A five-star hotel, all for your delight . . . private bathroom and a soft bed, what more could a man ask? Don’t be alarmed that the doors are locked and barred. That’s not to keep people from getting out, it’s to keep ’em from getting in . . .’
He pressed a button at the side of the door, and far away in the depths of the prison could be heard the faint ringing of a bell. Soon there were heavy footsteps and the sound of keys turning in a lock. The door was swung slowly open by an Obergefreiter. Bock announced the arrival of Lt. Ohlsen as if he were the Queen of Sheba in person, and the Obergefreiter accepted delivery in phlegmatic silence as if he were taking receipt of a crate of vegetables.
‘Is he one for the chopper?’ he asked, laconically, as he handed back the official forms, duly signed.
‘Who knows?’ laughed Bock.
He saluted and turned away, leaving Ohlsen standing helpless ön the wrong side of the stout iron-clad doors. He was marched along to a reception office, where an artillery Stabsfeldwebel lorded it behind a large empty desk. He was short and squat, with a bald head and an enormous chest, an overhanging forehead and small round eyes like boot buttons. He took his time reading through Lt. Ohlsen’s papers, either because he had difficulty in reading or because he enjoyed wallowing in a sense of self-importance before a disgraced officer.
‘Crimes against the state,’ he said, slowly running a square-tipped finger along the line of print. ‘Crimes against the state . . .’ He looked contemptuously across at Ohlsen. ‘I don’t like people that commit crimes against the state. I’d rather have your real honest crook than scum like you. You can trust the green uniforms, but you can’t never trust the red. I’d even rather have a yellow than a red. They might drive you bleeding barmy reading the bleeding Bible all day long, but at least they don’t give no trouble. You people, though – you’re just a load of idiots that won’t never learn. Tilt at windmills,’ he said, scornfully. ‘That’s what you do. Tilt at windmills . . . Now, you listen to me.’ He abruptly changed his tone to one of official barking. ‘Empty your pockets and lay everything out upon the table. And when I say everything, I mean everything . . . and that includes all the little goodies what you’ve tried stuffing up your arsehole. You
can just hook ’em all out again. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know: I’ve seen it all before . . .’ He leered. ‘That’s right, put ’em on the table. Work from left to right and. make sure you keep ’em in a straight line. Use the edge of the table as a guide . . . space ’em out proper, two fingers between each item . . . lighter and matches over on the right, money down at the end on the left . . . and get a move on, can’t you, we haven’t got all day, there is a war on, you know!’
Lt. Ohlsen stood back and looked at his personal belongings spread out in a straight line along the edge of the table: lighter, pen, watch, pipe, notebook, and all the other oddments that a man normally keeps in his pockets. At the end, on the left, were 32 marks and 67 pfennigs.
Stabsfeldwebel Stahlschmidt noted every article, in detail, on a sheet of paper, and then attached a label to each one. On Lt. Ohlsen’s notebook was a red star: the cockade of a Russian commissar, and a souvenir of Kharkov. Stahlschmidt tore it off with an oath, hurled it to the floor and trampled it vigorously underfoot.
‘We don’t keep that sort of trash here. I should have thought that was a crime against the state in itself, carrying about rubbish that belongs to the enemies of Germany.’
He looked across at Lt. Ohlsen, his eves gleaming with malicious anticipation: they had now arrived at the point where the Lieutenant must be stripped of his medals and his uniform and be subjected to a search. Stahlschmidt always enjoyed that more than anything.
He licked his fleshy lips and rubbed his sweating palms down the side of his legs, regarding Ohlsen through half-closed eyes. This one, he estimated, was not likely to give him any trouble, although prisoners in the past had been known to produce the most unlikely reactions and it never did to take too much for granted. The essential, as far as the Stabsfeldwebel was concerned, was to push the prisoner over the borderline, where rage or panic or general desperation would prompt him to lash out against his tormentor. Then, and only then, could the Stabsfeldwebel really begin to savour the joys of his position; then, and only then, could he pass to the counter-offensive. With Obergefreiter Stever standing foursquare and solid like a human Mount Everest at the door, blocking any possible escape route and complacently witnessing the fact that his superior was acting purely in self-defence, Stahlschmidt could work out all his problems, all his neuroses, on the hapless prisoners.
Still watching Lt. Ohlsen, he picked up a long slender riding switch and began tapping it pensively against his calf. He was remembering the scene that had been played out only a few days ago, with a fool of a colonel from the 123rd Infantry Regiment, who had been accused of sabotage. The man had borne all manner of insults and rough treatment with soldierly dignity until it came to the point where he was ordered to remove his clothes. And there he had stalled, and, indeed, had lost his head and become completely hysterical. That had been an unexpected turn-up for the books!
Stahlschmidt’s thick wet tongue flicked out again and moistened his lips as he remembered the apoplectic colonel.
‘You may be an officer and the commander of a regiment,’ Stahlschmidt had sneered, secure in the safety of his own position; ‘you may be covered in bits of tin and honour and glory and all the rest of the gubbins, and you may come from a bleeding blue-blooded family, but by Christ, as far as I’m concerned you’re nothing but a lousy stinking bastard that’s broken the law and that’s here to be punished! And if you live long enough you’ll be taken out and shot, and nobody’s going to give a damn if your blood’s as blue as the bleeding Med . . .’
At this, the Colonel had exploded. Obergefreiter Stever, watching from the door, had leaned forward and pushed him neatly in the small of the back, so that he lost his balance and cannoned into the waiting Stahlschmidt. For a few moments they had tossed him back and forth between them, punching him in the stomach, jabbing him with the butt of a rifle, until the Colonel, seizing his chance, had shot through the door and gone galloping up the passage with his shirt tail flapping against his stringy old thighs. They had chased after him, up and down the corridors, and finally cornered him with the aid of Greinert, otherwise known as the Vulture. While Greinert and Stever had held him between them, Stahlschmidt had pulled out his pistol and forced him to take it in his right hand, pressing it against his temple.
The Colonel had died badly. He had begged and pleaded and babbled hysterically, with tears down his cheeks, of the favours he could arrange for them if only they would spare his life. His last despairing words had been to offer them free use of his wife and daughters . . . Stahlschmidt had laughed as he forced the Colonel to press the trigger and blow his brains out.
Naturally, one could not expect all prisoners to put on such a good show, nor to commit suicide, but looking at Lt. Ohlsen Stahlschmidt found himself hopeful that this young man might also prove an entertaining proposition.
He scraped his throat and swallowed hard in anticipation.
‘Will the prisoner now please remove his garments and lay them out on the two chairs provided. Undergarments on the left, all the rest on the right. Boots to be placed half way between the two.’
He scraped his throat again, waited a second, then looked up to see how the Lieutenant was taking it. To his acute disappointment, the Lieutenant was taking it quite indifferently. His face was unchanged. The lines round the mouth had perhaps hardened, the expression in the eyes perhaps grown a little ‘bleaker, but it was evident that he was not going to crack easily. The Stabsfeldwebel had seen the signs before. The signs of a man who could no longer find the energy to fight or to set himself up against the system. And they were the most tedious of all prisoners. They would do whatever they were told, accept all manner of insults and injuries without so much as raising an eyebrow; just sit quietly in their cells and wait to be interrogated, wait to be tried, wait to be found guilty and shot. All this without a flicker of emotion to indicate that they cared. And perhaps they didn’t care, and it was this which so irked the Stabsfeldwebel. Because a man who didn’t care was a man who was invulnerable, and a man who was invulnerable was a man without interest. You could jeer at him, taunt him, humiliate him all you liked, and it was only a waste of time and a source of frustration, for you might just as well pour a flood of scorn upon a brick wall and expect it to fall to pieces as expect a man who no longer cared to show any stimulating reactions.
Lt. Ohlsen slowly and impassively undid his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair.
‘Don’t take all day about it!’ snapped Stahlschmidt. ‘You’re not getting changed for a fancy dress ball!’
The Lieutenant obediently pulled off his shirt and trousers and flung them after the jacket His expression was still blank. He showed no signs of shame, or anger, or humiliation. Stahlschmidt chewed at his meaty underlip with a set of yellowing teeth. Wait till the bastard was up before the Governor! That would shake him out of his lethargy. That would teach him to sing a different tune. That would—
Lt Ohlsen stepped out his boots and stood naked between the two chairs. Stahlschmidt turned to regard him. His top lip curled up in a hoop of derision.
‘What a loath-some sight! Eh, Stever? What a horrible, loathsome sight . . . There’s something very disgusting about naked bodies . . . You didn’t look so bad with your uniform and all your lovely medals, but believe me, if you could see yourself now you’d want to crawl into a hole and the . . . Look at you! Look at those great bony knees! Look at those horrible hairy legs! Look at those huge horny toenails! Jesus Christ, what a specimen, eh?’
He winked at Stever and began pacing round the Lieutenant, casting derisory glances at him, every now and again poking or prodding him. The Lieutenant bore it all with an air of weary patience, as if the Stabsfeldwebel were a child to be humoured and tolerated.
‘All right!’ roared Stahlschmidt, coming to a stop. ‘Let’s have you down on your hands and knees . . . down on the floor, down you go! Ten press-ups, and no cheating . . . Stever, come over here and take a quick dekko up his backside, make sure he�
�s not got nothing hidden there . . .’
Obergefreiter Stever willingly left his post at the door and walked to the far end of the Lieutenant. As he reached the last of his prescribed number of press-ups, Stever suddenly placed one heavy booted foot on his rump and gave him a shove that sent him flying. Stahlschmidt did his best to get in the way –even the lightest touch by the prisoner and he could claim to have been attacked by him – but annoyingly the Lieutenant managed to control his fall. He crashed into the door, but he avoided the Stabsfeldwebel.
He staggered to his feet and stood patiently by the side of one of the chairs, awaiting the next absurd order. His eyes were blank, staring not so much at the Stabsfeldwebel as straight through and past him, and by his very indifference he remained aloof and impregnable.
Stahlschmidt breathed deeply. If this insolent Lieutenant persisted in his present course of action, his stay in prison was likely to prove very uncomfortable indeed. It was Stahlschmidt who for all practical purposes actually ran the prison. The Governor came round occasionally on a tour of inspection, but it was Stahlschmidt who made all the decisions and organized the general treatment of the prisoners. Whatever he chose to do, Major Rotenhausen would close his eyes to it. Too close an inquiry into their affairs would have pleased neither man, and so long as Stahlschmidt remained reasonably circumspect the Governor was content to leave matters in his hands.
‘Right!’ Stahlschmidt stepped forward to the chairs. ‘Belt and braces are left down here. We don’t want you taking them off to the cells with you and getting bad ideas into your head.’ He leered into the Lieutenant’s face. ‘We don’t have suicides in this establishment . . . not unless I personally arrange for them. Just remember that. I daresay there’s nothing you’d like better than to put an end to your lousy miserable existence before you have to face the tribunal and take the just punishment what’s coming to you . . . I daresay you’d like to deprive society of the pleasure of having its revenge, wouldn’t you? I know: I’ve met your type before. Think you can get away with things without paying for them. Well, you can’t, and I’m here to see to it that you don’t.’