by Sven Hassel
He sat down on the bed beside the Lieutenant and jabbed him in the ribs.
‘What’s it matter which side you’re on? So long as they pay you a good whack and you don’t have to work too hard? I got a real cushy number here, and I reckon the enemy’ll be pretty glad to keep me on when they take over – I mean, they won’t have enough of their own men to keep the place going, they’ll need people like me, stands to reason . . . And so long as they pay me, why should I care? So long as they pay me enough to go and get my oats whenever I feel like it . . .’ He nodded and winked again. ‘You want to get an eyeful of the bird I got at the moment! She not only knows a thing or two, she’s got red hot knickers into the bargain . . . Go on all night if you let her. And do it just about any way you fancy – sit on you, give you a blow, you name it and she’ll do it . . . talk about the Kama Sutra, it’s got nothing on her!’
He licked his lips and glanced sideways to see if he was whetting the prisoner’s appetite, but Lt. Ohlsen appeared not even to be listening. Stever stood up, scowling. He objected to wasting his efforts.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘if you don’t appreciate my conversation I’ll take it elsewhere and leave you to talk to yourself.’
He walked to the door.
‘You’ll soon get browned off with your own company,’ he said.
There was still no response. Stever left the cell as noisily as he could, slamming the door behind him and rattling his keys. He peered in through the spyhole, but Lt. Ohlsen was sitting in the same position and with the same expression as before. He seemed not even to have noticed Stever’s exit.
On the following Monday morning, Major von Rotenhausen paid an official visit to read out their sentences to the various condemned men. He trembled nervously throughout, twisting one foot round the other and pinching his thighs together as if he needed desperately to relieve himself. At his elbows stood Stever and Greinert, PMs at the ready. Major von Rotenhausen had a deep-seated dread of violent outbursts from the prisoners, and he was not a man who believed in putting on a brave front at the possible expense of his own safety.
Shortly before mid-day, a large fishy eye appeared at the spy hole of cell number nine and stared long and calculatingly at the occupant. It remained there for almost ten minutes, and then silently removed itself.
An hour later, Stever came on his rounds and stopped for a chat.
‘The executioner’s here,’ he cheerfully informed Lt. Ohlsen. ‘He’s already had a look at you . . . Do you want to see his axes? He’s brought three of them with him, they’re in one of the cells up the corridor. Bloody great sharp things, make a cut-throat razor look like a kid’s toy. He keeps them in special leather scabbards . . . The Vulture’s already had them out and played with them. He’s got a thing about knives and axes. Anything that cuts. He’s dying to have a go at someone’s neck . . .’
‘The padre hasn’t been round yet,’ said Ohlsen. ‘They can’t do anything until he’s been.’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be here. Not even the Prussians are that bad. They wouldn’t send a man off without letting him say his prayers first.’
‘So when will he come?’ insisted Ohlsen.
‘Soon. He always rings up first to check if he’s needed, and then he arrives about two hours afterwards. I don’t know whether he’s rung yet or not. Probably not. I think he’s out blessing some troops what are going off to the front. Something like that.’ Stever laughed, reflectively. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Priests and chiropodists, they got more work than they can cope with just now. Before the war, nobody wanted to know. Now it seems people can’t live without ’em.’
‘Or die without them,’ murmured Ohlsen.
That evening, the long, wailing cry of a human soul in torment echoed round the building. The prisoners woke up shuddering in their cells. The guards either cursed or crossed themselves, according to their temperament and beliefs. The cry rose and fell, dropped to a moan, then gathered forces again and became a slow shriek of mental agony. Seconds later, Stahlschmidt appeared on the scene. There came the sound of blows. The wailing ceased and an uneasy calm descended on the prison.
The priest arrived next morning at half-past ten. He was a small, bent man, with a receding chin and a mouth like a goat, mild blue eyes mat swam in pools of excess liquid and a nose that had a constant trembling pearl at the end of it. He had forgotten his bible and had to use the one that belonged to the cell. But he brought some artificial flowers wrapped in pretty paper and a small figure of Jesus wearing a rather crumpled crown of thorns.
Outside the cell stood Stahlschmidt and Stever. Stahlschmidt had his eye glued to the spy-hole and was ghoulishly noting every detail of the scene. He kept up a low running commentary to Stever, ceded his position for a few jealous seconds, then brutally elbowed his subordinate out of the way and resumed his gloating watch.
‘It’s nearly over now . . . They’re sitting on the bed, side by side, holding hands . . . Very touching. Very nice . . . Now the old bloke’s starting to cry . . . there he goes! Blarting his bleeding eyeballs out . . .’
‘What for?’ said Stever, in surprise. ‘It’s not him they’re chopping up.’
Stahlschmidt shrugged his shoulders, not sure of the answer.
‘I reckon it’s because he’s a priest,’ he said, at length. ‘Man of God, see? He probably feels it’s part of his duty to show a bit of emotion when he’s preparing someone for the other life.’
Stever tipped up his helmet and scratched his head.
‘Yeah . . . Yeah, I reckon you’re right.’
They moved away from the cell. Stahlschmidt jerked a thumb back towards it.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ he said. ‘You and I won’t ever be in that position. We’re not going to have any bum priest fluffing and farting over us and telling us stories about God and the angels. We know how to keep our mouths shut and our heads on our shoulders.’ He looked at Stever. ‘Don’t we?’ he said, meaningly.
Stever gave a faint, imbecilic grin. The idea was still with him to contact the Gestapo and safeguard his own position. He glanced involuntarily toward Stahlschmidt’s thick red neck, and he wondered if even one of the razor-sharp axes from Berlin would manage to cut through it at one blow.
‘What are you staring at?’ asked Stahlschmidt, suspiciously.
‘Nothing,’ babbled Stever. ‘I was just – just looking at your –your neck . . .’
‘My neck?’ Instinctively, Stahlschmidt raised a hand to his throat. ‘What about my neck?’
‘It’s very strong,’muttered Stever.
‘Of course it bloody well is! It’s the neck of a Stabsfeldwebel, isn’t it? And the necks of Stabsfeldwebels, my dear Stever, do not easily part company from their bodies. Unlike the necks of other people, such as lieutenants and captains and Ober-gefreiters . . .’
Stever shuffled his feet on the stone floor.
‘The axes they use are very sharp,’ he muttered.
‘So what?’ asked Stahlschmidt, coldly. ‘What’s the matter with you today? Are you losing your nerve? Do you want me to send you to a head shrinker? Or are you drunk? Is that it?’ He peered closely at Stever, who took a step backwards. ‘Surely you’ve learnt by now that Stabsfeldwebels are never amongst those executed? Have you ever seen one here, in this prison? Of course you haven’t! We’re the backbone of society, that’s what we are, and they wouldn’t dare lift a finger against us . . . Have you ever thought how it would be, if we were to go on strike? Chaos! Complete chaos! Adolf, Hermann, Heinrich, they’d all collapse like a pack of bleeding cards.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Stever.
And he reflected that if he went to the Gestapo, Stahlschmidt, in his own prison, might be the first Stabsfeldwebel ever to face the firing squad.
‘Bloody right I’m right!’ roared Stahlschmidt ‘And you just remember it in the future!’
During the afternoon exercise period, Stever and Braun searched the cells of the condemned men, Steve
r taking one side of the corridor and Braun the other. They made one or two interesting discoveries.
In cell 21, Braun unearthed a slice of hard black bread hidden inside the mattress. In cell 34, Stever found two centimetres of cigarette butt pushed down a crack in the floor. In the cell next door was a pencil stub. And in cell number nine was the most interesting find of all . . .
They collected up all the treasures and tied them in a blue towel, taking them along to Stahlschmidt’s office for his inspection. These few pathetic scraps of personal belongings were objects of intense emotional value to the condemned men, and he enjoyed gloating over them.
Lt. Ohlsen returned from the tortures of the exercise period and stopped in dismay on the threshold of his cell. Bare though the room was, Stever had succeeded in turning it upside down, and it was immediately obvious to its occupant that the place had been searched. Lt. Ohlsen flung himself at the bed and felt frenziedly under the mattress: nothing was there. He fell sobbing to the floor as the door opened and Stever crept silently in. He was holding a small yellow capsule between finger and thumb.
‘Is this what you’re after, by any chance?
He stood, jeering, inside the door. Lt. Ohlsen scrambled to his feet and made a despairing lunge at the capsule, but Stever’s truncheon crashed mercilessly down upon his head and shoulders, beating him half way across the cell and cornering him by the window.
‘Stand to attention when there’s an Obergefreiter present! You ought to know the rules by now!’
Lt. Ohlsen shakily pulled himself upright, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. Stever looked down at the capsule and shook his head.
‘You’re a deep one, you are. Where’d you get it from? How long have you had it? You can’t have had it long or I’d have known about it’ He held it tantalizingly just out of reach. ‘Going to swallow it just before they led you out to the scaffold, were you? All the trouble they take to get up a nice funeral for you, all the money they spend on you, and this is the way you try to repay them! Ought to be ashamed of yourself, you did . . . Mind you,’ said Stever, sagely, ‘I can’t say I’m all that surprised. I sort of guessed you were up to something. You were taking it all too calm . . . You got to remember I’ve had a lot of experience in these matters. I seen more men die than you’ve had hot dinners . . . Some people,’ said Stever, ‘think I’m slow. And that’s where they make their mistake, because I know everything what goes on in this prison, and I’ve even got eyes in the back of my bum . . . That way, I save myself a packet of trouble. I know all the rules by heart, and I stick to them. Anyone tells me to do something that sounds a bit off, and I get ’em to put it down in writing. That way, see, they can’t never get me for anything. Someone comes up and says, “Stever, you’ve committed a murder, you’ve done something wrong,” I just show ’em the order, written down in black and white. And I’m only an Obergefreiter, I only do what I’m told . . .’
He held the capsule in the palm of his hand and looked at it curiously.
‘How do these things work, then? Kill you straight out, do they?’ He laughed. ‘I think I’ll give it to Stahlschmidt’s cat. It tried to scratch me the other day and I told it at the time I was going to wring its bleeding neck as soon as I got the chance . . . Thisll do just as well!’
Lt. Ohlsen stood to attention. His lower lip was trembling and his vision was blurred by the tears that coursed down his cheeks and splashed to the floor. That capsule had been the ace up his sleeve, his precious trump card, his one salvation. The knowledge that he had it in his power to decide when and where he should die, by bis own hand and no one else’s, had sustained him during the long weeks of imprisonment. And how he cursed himself bitterly for a fool not to have taken it the minute the trial was over. Who but a pathological optimist would have hung on so long, despairing and yet hoping for a last-minute reprieve that would never come?
He looked across at Stever and held out an appealing hand.
‘Give it to me, Stever. For God’s sake, give it to me!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stever. ‘I just can’t do it. Against the rules, you see. Besides, the Gestapo’s out for blood and if they don’t get yours the chances are they’ll want mine instead.’ He shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t ask that of me, would you?’ he said, reasonably. ‘We’re both bound by the same laws, you know . . . But look here, I’ve got something else might interest you. I couldn’t give it you before, Stahlschmidt never lets condemned men have letters in the case the ink’s poisoned. It did happen once – not here, in Munich. Quite a song and dance, there was, and now Stahlschmidt always holds on to any letters that come. But I managed to smuggle this one out for you. Against the rules, of course. I was taking a big risk. You ought to be very grateful . . . I thought it might be from that little guy with the scar. The one that come to see you that time . . .’
Lt. Ohlsen wiped his eyes on his sleeve and listlessly took the letter. Stever watched him with narrowed eyes.
‘Just read it,’ he said. ‘Don’t try eating it.’
The Lieutenant ran his eyes quickly over the few lines of writing. They were from the Old Man, but nothing could interest him, nothing could comfort him, now that his capsule was gone.
Stever held out an impatient hand, snatched the letter back and began himself to read it.
‘Who’s this bloke Alfred he’s on about? It’s that character with the scar, ain’t it?’ He looked across at Ohlsen, who nodded. ‘I don’t know what it is,’ said Stever, ‘but I still got the feeling he holds a sort of grudge against me. I don’t see why he should. After all, I’m only an Obergefreiter, it’s not my fault if people got to die . . .’
He brooded uncomfortably a few moments, then his face slowly cleared.
‘I tell you what. You could do me a good turn, if you felt like it. After all, I done you a good turn bringing you this letter . . . All you’ve got to do is write a few words about me on the back of it. Obergefreiter Stever is a good soldier what always carries out his orders . . . He has treated me well . . . Something like that. How about it? Eh? With a PS saying about how I’m a friend to all the prisoners . . . And then put your name and rank and the date and all, that’ll make it official, like.’
Stever pulled out a pencil and offered it to the Lieutenant. Ohlsen raised an eyebrow.
‘Prove it,’ he said. ‘Prove you are a friend to a prisoner and I’ll do it for you.’
‘Prove it?’ Stever laughed. ‘You’ve got a nerve!’
‘You don’t think you’ve got an even larger one?’ mildly suggested Ohlsen.
Stever bit his lip. He looked down at the letter and read again the dreaded name of the type with the scar.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, sullenly.
‘Give me back the capsule. That’s all I ask.’
‘You must be raving! I’d be for the high jump myself if they found you’d gone and killed yourself before they could get their hands on you.’
Lt. Ohlsen shrugged. He was suddenly past caring.
‘It’s up to you. I’ve got to die anyway, so I’m not that interested. I thought I was, but I’m not. Now that it’s actually come to the point, I’m not . . . But if I were you, Stever, if you value your, life at all. I should think very seriously about getting a steel corset made for yourself . . . You can’t escape from the Legionnaire, you know. He always catches up with people sooner or later.’
Stever gnawed anxiously at his bottom lip.
‘I’d like to help you, I really would. I’d do anything to get you out of this fix . . . only I can’t give you the capsule, it’s more than my life’s worth . . .’
‘Please yourself,’ said Ohlsen, turning away and not bothering to stand to attention. ‘I couldn’t give a damn either way.’
They came for him just after the evening meal. They took him out to the courtyard through an underground passage. The priest led the way, intoning a mournful prayer. The executions were to take place in a small, enclosed courtyard mat was safe fro
m the prying eyes of unauthorized persons. The scaffold was set up, and on the platform were the executioner and his two assistants, dressed in frock coats, top hats and white gloves.
The condemned men were to be executed in pairs, and Lt. Ohlsen’s partner in death was already waiting. When they were both present, the prison Governor checked their identities and the first assistant stepped forward and cut off the epaulettes, depriving them of their rank and finally dishonouring them.
Lt. Ohlsen stood watching as his partner slowly climbed the ladder. The priest began to pray for the salvation of his soul. The two assistants helped the man to position himself and tied him down. The executioner raised his axe. The crescent-shaped blade flashed bright in the sinking rays of the sun. The executioner opened his mouth and shouted out his justification of the deed he was about to perform.
‘For the Führer, the Reich and the German people!’
The axe fell. It met the resistant flesh with a faint thump and sliced straight through it. It was a clean blow. Strong and well placed by a man who was an expert. The head rolled neatly into the waiting basket and two jets of blood spurted from the surprised neck. The body twitched and contorted. With quick, deft movements the assistants tipped it off the platform and into the waiting coffin. The head was snatched up and set between the legs of the corpse.
The audience relaxed. Oberkriegsgerichtstrat Dr. Jeckstadt, President of the court which had passed sentence, slowly lit a cigarette and turned to Dr. Beckmann.
‘Say what you like about execution,’ he remarked, ‘but you can’t deny that it’s quick, efficient and simple.’
‘When it goes according to plan,’ muttered a Rittmeister, who was standing behind Jeckstadt and had overheard him.
‘I must confess,’ said Dr. Beckmann, ‘that I find it an unpleasant spectacle. I never seem able to stop myself wondering how it must feel to be up there, waiting for the axe to fall . . . a curious sensation—’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Jeckstadt, comfortably, ‘why torture yourself with fruitless speculation? These people have betrayed their country and they deserve their just punishment. But you and I—’ He smiled, as at an absurd idea – ‘you and I are never likely to find ourselves in such a situation! One thing is quite certain, my dear Doctor; if it weren’t for us legal fellows, the country would soon be in chaos. We are, if I may make so bold, virtually indispensable.’