Assignment Gestapo

by Sven Hassel

  Stever elaborately cleared his throat before speaking.

  ‘Herr Stabsfeldwebel,’ he said, ‘I’m quite sure you’ll be able to find a way out.’

  And he looked Stahlschmidt straight in the eye, very firmly throwing the ball back in his court. Stever intended to make it quite clear that he had had nothing to do with the affair.

  Stahlschmidt outstared him. He waited until Stever dropped his gaze, then grimly smiled.

  ‘If I go under, you’ll be coming with me,’ he murmured, too soft for the other to hear. ‘Make no mistake about that . . . I don’t drown alone!’

  For ten minutes more he paced about the room, watched furtively by Stever, who had no desire to stay but was too scared to go.

  The monotony was broken by the sudden screaming wail of the sirens. The two men looked at one another.

  ‘Here they come again,’ said Stever.

  ‘That’ll be the Canadians,’ said Stahlschmidt.

  They stood listening a moment, then Stahlschmidt jerked his head towards the door and picked up the whisky bottle.

  ‘Come on. Down in the cellars and pray like heck they drop a bomb on the Gestapo.’

  ‘And Major Rotenhausen?’ suggested Stever.

  ‘And Major Rotenhausen,’ confirmed Stahlschmidt. ‘And Rinken, as well, if it comes to that . . . I should send a personal note of thanks to the head of the Candian Air Force.’

  They hurried down to the cellars, stayed there for the duration of the air raid, approximately twenty minutes, and finished off the bottle of whisky between them. When they emerged, it was only to discover that the attack had concentrated on the southern area of the port and had been nowhere near the Gestapo. Or Major Rotenhausen, or Rinken.

  ‘Not even an indirect hit,’ mourned Stahlschmidt, as they returned to his office.

  He looked at Stever and Stever looked back at him. There was no hope in that direction. Stever was not a man to come up with bright ideas.

  ‘Well, there’s only one thing for it . . . Ill have to take a chance and ring the bastards . . . see if I can’t explain it to them . . . It’ll be worse in the long run if they find out for themselves.’

  The trembling of his hand as he dialled the dreaded number of the Gestapo – IO OOI – belied the bravado of his voice.

  ‘State Secret Police. Stadthausbrücke Section.’

  Stahlschmidt swallowed a mouthful of saliva. Stumbling over his words, stammering, stuttering, gasping for air, he managed to stagger through his report.

  ‘Just one moment, Stabsfeldwebel. I’ll have you transferred.’

  Stahlschmidt moaned gently and ran a finger round the inside of his collar. A new voice came on the telephone; crisp and sharp and authoritative.

  ‘Hallo, yes, can I help you? This is the Executive Service here, IV/2a.’

  Once again Stahlschmidt tripped and tumbled through his story. Even to his prejudiced ears, it no longer seemed to have any ring of truth or probability about it.

  ‘So who signed this pass?’ the voice demanded.

  ‘Herr Standartenführer Paul Bielert,’ croaked Stahlschmidt, and he humbly inclined his head to the telephone.

  ‘You can drop the “Herr”!’ snapped the voice. ‘we gave up that plutocratic fawning a long time ago.’

  Stahlschmidt at once let loose a flowing string of apologies and excuses, almost prostrating himself across the desk as he did so.

  ‘If you’ve quite finished?’ said the voice. I’ll hand you over to the Standartenführer himself.’

  Stahlschmidt gave a terrified yelp. The telephone went dead. He looked at the hated instrument and knew a moment of intense desire. If he could only wrench it away from the wall and hurl it into the courtyard, might not all his troubles be ended? Or perhaps if he were to be taken suddenly ill . . . he felt ill. He did feel ill. He felt very ill—

  ‘Hallo?’

  Stahlschmidt clutched in terror at his throat.

  ‘H-hal-hallo?’

  ‘This is Paul Bielert speaking. What can I do for you?’

  The voice was low and agreeable; kind and soft and somehow inviting. For one rash, mad moment Stahlschmidt was almost tempted to make a full confession of his folly, to grovel and to sob and to go down on his knees. Instead, he opened his mouth and began jabbering the utmost futilities into the telephone. The story fell out pell mell, disjointed and rushing forth at a hectic pace. At one moment he was declaring on oath he had known straight away that the signature had been forged; the next moment he was flatly contradicting himself by saying that even now he was unsure on the point and wanted only to check up. He denounced Rinken, he denounced Rotenhausen, he denounced the entire prison staff. They were all lazy, useless, deceitful bastards and hadn’t a clue. He, Alois Stahlschmidt, was left to carry the can for everyone. He was left to—

  ‘One moment, Stabsfeldwebel.’ The voice broke in, persuasive and almost apologetic. ‘I dislike to interrupt you in full flow, but has anyone ever told you that you are not, perhaps, as bright as might be desirable?’ Stahlschmidt gulped noisily into the telephone and his neck grew slowly scarlet. ‘If this pass really were a forgery,’ continued Bielert, still in his soft, persuasive voice, ‘does it not occur to you that the names of the visitors might also be assumed for the occasion? Have you already checked on this? Have you checked on their company? Have you searched the prisoner since the two men left him? Have you searched his cell?’

  ‘Ah, yes! Now that was Obergefreiter Stever’s job, Standartenführer.’

  ‘And has Obergefreiter Stever done it?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Yes, yes, indeed yes! I saw to it myself!’

  ‘And what did he find?’

  ‘Ah – well – nothing, actually, sir.’

  And Stahlschmidt turned to look accusingly at Stever, who was staring with bulging eyes, sheeplike and incredulous.

  ‘In that case, it must surely have been a very superficial search?’

  ‘The trouble is, sir, you see, as I was explaining, it’s quite impossible to trust anyone in this place to do a job property. I find myself quite unable to delegate. Unless I set to and—’

  The voice again broke in upon his frenzied explanations. It was no longer quite so gentle as it had been.

  ‘Now you listen to me, Stabsfeldwebel! I hold you and you alone to be responsible for the whole of this miserable affair, and if the prisoner is found dead in his cell because of it you may rest assured that I shall personally arrange for your execution.’

  Under the desk, Stahlschmidt’s kneecaps began to bounce and his legs to knock together. For the first time in his life, he wished he were out fighting at the front.

  ‘As for the pass,’ continued Bielert, ‘you can bring it round to my office yourself. I suppose by this time you’ll have managed to alert half Germany?’

  Slowly and brokenly Stahlschmidt recited the list of people who knew of the affair.

  ‘One can only be thankful,’ said Bielert, sarcastically, ‘that you haven’t yet written to the newspapers about it . . . Or perhaps you were on the point of doing so when you decided to telephone me and ask for my permission?’

  An odd sound, a strangulated yelp of panic, forced its way out of Stahlschmidt’s mouth. Stever looked at him in awe. He had never seen his chief in such a pitiable state. Thank God he himself was only a miserable Obergefreiter!

  Stahlschmidt slowly let fall the receiver and stared round the room with red-rimmed eyes. Who knew but that fool of a prisoner might not even now be in the act of swallowing smuggled poison in his cell? He turned wildly to Stever.

  ‘Obergefreiter! What are you standing there for? Get a move on, for God’s sake! I want the prisoner’s cell searched from top to bottom . . . I want the PRISONER searched from top to bottom . . . Jump to it, man, don’t just gawp!’

  Stever made a sudden dive for the door. He shot through it and sprinted up the passage, crashing headlong into Greinert, who was coming in the opposite direction at a more leisurely pace.


  ‘So what’s up with you?’ he asked. ‘What’s all the mad rush all of a sudden?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough!’ panted Stever. ‘Get a couple of men and bring them along to number nine. We’ve got to search the bastard inside and out.’

  Greinert shrugged his shoulders and sauntered off. A few moments later he returned with two companions and together the four men began the search. They tore off Lt. Ohlsen’s clothes, they ripped up the mattress on his bunk, they heaved at the iron bars on the window, they broke everything that was breakable, including the chamber pot. They tapped the walls, the floor and the ceiling, and the Lieutenant sat naked on the bunk, watching them with an amused smile.

  Stever did a disappearing trick with the packet of cigarettes he had pressed on the prisoner earlier in the day. Greinert ran howling and shouting up and down the cell. The other two men took hold of the Lieutenant and searched him thoroughly, peering in his mouth and down his ears, forcing his legs apart, examining his body in minute and unscrupulous detail. Lt, Ohlsen bore it all with weary patience. He opened and shut his mouth a dozen times for them, but they failed to discover his false tooth where the little yellow phial was secreted. There was enough poison in that phial to kill ten people. The Legionnaire had brought it back with him from Indochina.

  All the time the search was going on, Stahlschmidt was pacing back and forth across his carpet, and had soon blazed a perceptible trail from the door to the windows, from the windows to the bookshelves, from the bookshelves back to the door.

  The bookshelves were full of fat legal volumes, most of which Stahlschmidt had ‘borrowed’ from libraries or smuggled out of shops and other people’s offices. He fancied himself as something of a lawyer. He always told his mistresses that he -was a prison inspector, and in his local bistrot, ‘Le Chiffon Rouge’, he was known as Herr Inspektor. He had learnt a number of legal paragraphs by heart and he was accustomed to quote them parrot fashion whenever the occasion arose. He had quite a following in the Chiffon Rouge and his advice was frequently sought on legal matter’s – though rarely by the same people twice. Too many had been disappointed in the past to go back for a second helping. The fact was that Stahlschmidt never could bear to confess to his own ignorance on a subject: whenever he found himself at a loss he simply quoted an imaginary precedent, invented on the spur of the moment, and based all subsequent advice upon it.

  As Stahlschmidt paced past the windows for the sixth time, the telephone rang. He stopped in his tracks, staring distrustfully at the instrument. He blamed all his sudden misfortunes upon the telephone. Slowly, he walked across to the desk; warily he picked up the receiver. He spoke in a voice that was low and reluctant.

  ‘Garrison prison . . .’

  As a rule, he would snatch up the receiver and scream, ‘Stabsfeldwebel Stahlschmidt speaking! What do you want?’ But not any more. Never again. That wretched pass had ruined all that for him.

  ‘You sound a bit down,’ said Rinken’s voice, maddening and full of cheer. ‘What’s up? Spoken to the Stapo, have you? Any luck?’

  ‘Get knotted!’ snarled Stahlschmidt. ‘I’m sick to death of this place, and so I tell you! I’ve a good mind to put in for a transfer. You work hard, you do your best, you’re a damn sight more conscientious than anyone else, INCLUDING your commanding officer – and what happens? I ask you, what happens? You get kicked in the teeth for your pains, that’s what happens!’

  ‘Ah, well, we live and we learn,’ said Rinken, in an annoying, jollying-up sort of voice. ‘But look here, don’t give up hope. If you really want a transfer, I’m sure I can arrange it: that disciplinary company I was telling you about still wants N.C.O.s. They’d welcome you with open arms . . . Shall I give ’em a ring?’

  ‘Sod that, I’d sooner you gave me some good advice for a change! I’ve had Bielert himself on the phone to me. He wants me to take the pass round to him personally.’

  ‘So? You’re not scared of Bielert, are you? There’s no need to be, unless you’re suffering from a bad conscience . . .’

  ‘Don’t come the innocent with me, Rinken! You know bloody well there’s no one in the whole of Germany with a completely clear conscience. Even the SD guards at Fuhls-büttel and Neuengamme shit blue bricks when they have to go anywhere near Stadthausbrücke.’

  ‘Best put your brown trousers on!’ joked Rinken.

  Stahlschmidt swore violently and slammed the receiver down.

  Of course, what he could not possibly realize was that there was far more to the affair of Lt. Ohlsen’s visitors than met the eye. For a start, he did not know that a few days ago the Legionnaire, the little Legionnaire with his scarred face and his hard eyes and his supple hands with their long fingers, had paid a visit to Aunt Dora at the ‘Ouragan’. (That was the very day before Aunt Dora had disappeared. Officially, it was understood that she had gone to Westphalia to visit a sick friend, the widow of a Gauleiter. Unofficially – well, unofficially, one wondered . . . )

  However, the Legionnaire had visited her at her establishment and they had sat down at a table in the corner and pulled the thick curtains together until they were in a private alcove of their own. Before them, on the table, were two glasses, a bottle of Pernod and a bowl of roast chestnuts. They gnawed the chestnuts open with their teeth and carelessly spat the skin to the floor. Aunt Dora bent her head to her glass and sucked up a mouthful of Pernod.

  ‘So, Paul’s nabbed your little Lieutenant, has he? For opening his big cakehole too wide . . . Well, all I can say is, he must be a bit soft in the head, going round blabbing like that to all and sundry. I mean, it’s asking for trouble, isn’t it? Might just as well climb on to the roof tops and shout it through a megaphone, eh?’

  The Legionnaire shrugged his shoulders and picked up his glass, squinting at it through narrowed eyes.

  ‘You’re quite right, of course. Some people just aren’t fit to survive . . . Now you and me, we know how to look after ourselves, but Ohlsen—’ He shook his head. ‘A babe in arms! Gestapo could run rings round him . . . Still, I’ve known the fool for a long time, I can’t just leave him there to rot. I’ve got to do something for him.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Aunt Dora spat out a mouthful of chestnut and looked at it in disgust. It was brown and bitter. ‘Bloody woman! Can’t even roast chestnuts, now. You’d never believe the trouble I had getting a cook. And now that she’s here I’d almost sooner do without her and get on with the work myself. She’s useless. Quite useless!’ She tossed off the remains of her Pernod and poured another glass. ‘It’s the same with all the staff these day. Even the girls aren’t what they used to be. Just lower-class whores, most of ’em. Straight off the street, no style at all . . . And you can’t rely on them, you know. Take that slut, Lisa. The one that’s supposed to be at the check desk . . . She’s been off sick four times already this month . . . Sick, my fanny!’ Dora picked out another chestnut and crammed it into her mouth. ‘I know what she’s up to, thank you very much! There aren’t no flies on old Dora!’

  ‘I’m quite sure there aren’t,’ agreed the Legionnaire. ‘The thing is, why on earth don’t you get foreign girls? I thought they were two a penny these days?’

  ‘They are, but I wouldn’t let them anywhere near the place,’ said Dora, bitterly. ‘Half of them are Gestapo spies. You think I want foreign trash breathing down my neck, reporting my every moment? I’d be whisked off to Stadthausbrücke in no time!’

  The Legionnaire smiled.

  ‘Why, now, Dora, I’m sure you don’t have anything on your conscience!’

  Dora cackled and punched him amiably in the chest. She leaned across and poured out more Pernod.

  ‘How about this lieutenant of yours, then? What have they got him for? One of their famous paragraphs?’

  ‘Ninety-one b,’ said the Legionnaire, taking a chestnut and grimly surveying it. He sank his teeth into it and ripped off the outer shell. The long scar which ran down the length of his face looked red and painful. ‘I’m a
fraid he’s for the high jump,’ he said, briefly.

  ‘Just for shooting his mouth off?’

  ‘You say “just”,’ said the Legionnaire, ‘but you know as well as I that’s fast becoming the number one crime of the century . . . And in any case, they wanted someone to hold up as an example of what happens to people Who talk too much. They’ve got it all planned out, I managed to have a look at his papers . . . Porta introduced me to a rather seedy character who works in the Commissariat. Goes under the title of “Doctor”, but almost certainly isn’t . . . Anyway, I succeeded in finding his weak spot—’ The Legionnaire gave Dora a wink and a charming grin – ‘and that’s how I got to see the papers. Easy when you know how. Some people will do anything to get what they want . . .’

  ‘So what do they plan to do to your lieutenant?’

  The Legionnaire frowned.

  ‘Execute him . . . Read out the list of his crimes in front of the execution squad . . . They reckon that way they’ll break even the bravest of them. It’s no fun, seeing a man executed. It’s not a question of shooting, it’s a question of—’ He chopped a hand into the back of his neck. ‘Takes a lot of courage to go away after that and commit any crimes on your own account’.

  ‘Courage!’ said Dora, scornfully. ‘Everyone talks about courage all the time! what’s courage supposed to be? Something you’ve got when your head’s safe on your shoulders and your belly’s full and you’ve got a glass in your hand . . . Don’t talk to me about courage! You try being in the hands of those bastards for more than ten minutes and see how far courage takes you . . . There’s only one way to deal with the Gestapo, and that’s to know something about them that they don’t want anyone else to know. You’ve got a hold over them, you’re all right. Without one, you’re buggered.’