I do not know how long we flew, yet it certainly seemed forever. And I did not see very much, as for most of the journey my eyes were clamped shut. The engines roared like a carpenter’s lathe and a freezing wind sliced through the rattling compartment, and I remembered as a child being forced by my father to ride the great carnival wheel in Vienna’s Prater, and how I had peed in my trousers, an urge I barely contained at this moment. At one point, long into the horrible flight, someone slapped the top of my helmet, and I opened my eyes to see the grinning face of Captain Friedrich, his steel blue eyes merry and his flaxen eyebrows arched in utter thrill. He suddenly pinched my cheek with what one might suppose a gesture of comradely affection, yet it hurt so much I nearly yelled. But it was then I looked to the fuselage’s windows, and realized we were in fact skimming at breakneck speed through a deep and winding valley, and we were well below the peaks of its sides. I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut once more, and it required every muscle of my stomach not to regurgitate its contents.
We flew on into a breaking dawn; I could feel the growing light upon my eyelids. I heard someone bellow, “Stukas!” and I managed to take a peek. We were flying much higher now, and astride the helicopter was a pair of the Luftwaffe’s ugly fighter-bombers. I managed to twist my head a bit, achieving a glimpse of our other two transports bobbing in the cold blue air not far behind, and then the Stukas flipped over and dived away from us. Understanding nothing of such raiding tactics, I did not know that they were there to first bomb the perimeter of the target, with the intent to shock the British commandos and force them to take shelter. Nor did I realize that in order to maintain this tactical advantage, we would immediately assault into the still-raining debris of the bombing.
I yelled then, for the helicopter suddenly tilted nose downward, and I believed we were crashing. I flung my arms out and actually hugged myself to Himmel’s back, like a girl gripping a reckless horseman, and I cared not what the men would think of me or call me later on. Then all at once the horrible machine swooped up again, seemed to stop in midforward motion, and settled to the hard ground with a resounding thud of steel.
Still gripping the Colonel, my cringing face pressed against his battle harness, I was dragged from the compartment as he leaped out. I smashed to the ground, a rag doll of flopping arms and legs, and then someone yanked me up, and I saw that Himmel was already running away at full tilt and I chased after him. Following that madman into battle was not an hour before the very last intent I had, but now I wanted nothing more than to see his back filling my field of vision, and absolutely nothing else.
I do not really know what happened on that peak that morning. I was the poorest witness to history, for I saw little more than my master’s form, his waving arms, the spent brass shells spinning from the chamber of his pistol. I heard nothing of distinction to remember, save the gunfire that began almost immediately upon our birthing from the helicopters, muffled and unrecognizable shouts, punctuations of screams and thudding explosions that filled my quickly deafened ears with a sensation of cotton fiber. The stench of ordnance scorched my nostrils and throat, but my hammering heart pumped my lungs to take in every breath of oxygen that would surely be my last.
All around us the men were sprinting forward in concert with Himmel’s incredible pace, firing their machine pistols and hurling their grenades. It struck me at once that he ran with the utter arrogance of a man in his own backyard, though he certainly had never set foot in this place before. At one point, he suddenly stopped before a huge concrete bunker, and of course I smashed right into him and bounced off his pelvis. When I gained my footing again, I saw through the heavy smoke a wide entrance to the redoubt. I bent over to try and catch my breath, and just then a figure wearing a Tommy helmet suddenly appeared from around the corner of the edifice and Himmel reached out his arm and shot the man point-blank. I did not see the victim fall, for my eyes instinctively shuttered, but when I opened them again Captain Friedrich was emerging from the bunker. He was grinning from ear to ear, his face spidered with streaks of blood that flowed from his now hatless blond hair, and his hand gripped the elbow of a Wehrmacht Panzer general.
The man was clearly in shock. He was middle-aged and gray all over, from his hair and through to the pallor of his skin, with his tanker’s tunic torn and blood spattered. I saw his jackboots angle forward as he began to crumple, and then Himmel gracefully stepped in, bent and slung the officer over his shoulders like a bear rug.
“Nach Hause!” the Colonel yelled, and then he was running back toward the helicopters, the entire complement of men close behind, spinning and firing their weapons madly as cover. I thought I had nary a breath left in me, but my legs instructed that now was not the time to quit, and I managed to shadow my master as he ran, the general’s form bouncing upon his shoulders like the fallen victim of a house fire.
The men hurled themselves into the helicopters, whose blades had never ceased to whirl, and some of them took to a knee and fired their machine pistols without end at the enraged survivors of the British hideaway. My teeth were set like those in a naked skull and my back compressed with every shot, my heart pounding in its anticipation of a bullet from behind.
Himmel suddenly stopped just at the lip of the helicopter compartment. Then he turned quite casually, the general limp upon his back.
“Did you get a photo?” he yelled at me.
Only then did I realize that the Leica had never left its pouch. I stared at it, amazed that it was still in the death grip of my fingers, and I looked up and wagged my head from side to side. The helicopter pilots were shouting, something was banging repeatedly off the iron sides of the machine, and I knew it was the impact of British bullets.
“Well?” the Colonel shouted again. “Take one!”
My mouth fell open. He could not possibly be serious! But I quickly saw that indeed we would not leave this hell unless the master had his souvenir. Somehow, my fingers managed to open the pouch and I extracted the camera. Something kicked at the mud next to my boot and I leaped a bit, while my quaking hands lifted the Leica; yet I could not even see through the viewfinder, as my eyes had filled with the tears of the absolute conviction of my death. More bullets rang off the helicopter, the blades were churning up a thunderous wind, the pilots were shrieking, and I saw Himmel grin like some ungodly and calm white hunter in the African veldt as I clicked the shutter.
And then I fainted.
III
IN JUNE OF 1943, I became a corporal in the Waffen SS.
I shall not insult the reader with a host of limp excuses, or in any way deny that I coveted the rank and title which only months before would surely have repulsed me. However, I do beg patience in the hearing of my explanation.
Had I remained in all technicalities a civilian in the employ of the army, I would have continued to receive the concomitant pay, which amounted to essentially nothing. On the other hand, as a field draftee, and instantly granted a rank suited to my tasks as Colonel Himmel’s adjutant, I would be rewarded the monthly stipend stipulated by Wehrmacht rules and regulations. Most of that pay would be recorded in my Soldbuch, yet issued directly to my mother in Vienna, while I retained some pocket money for the occasional purchase of a black-market treat. One might say that my motive here was purely mercenary, although the benefits to my mother, especially were I to fall in battle, assuaged my discomfort upon being issued the Rottenführer collar tabs.
Thus were the rewards of becoming an official member of Himmel’s Commando. The drawback, at least so far as I considered it at the time, was Himmel’s stipulation, which he informed me of prior to my promotion.
You see, I was still a virgin.
And the Colonel refused to have a virgin serving in his order of battle.
He was not, as far as I could assess, a sexual deviant of any sort. He simply believed that a sexually naive soldier was an incomplete man, spending too much time engaged i
n fantasy and wonder, carrying a needless mental burden that could prove a dangerous distraction.
“A man who has not bedded a woman spins in circles,” he explained. “The hormones remain unreleased and his potential bottlenecked. Take care of this, Shtefan, and you shall receive your rank.”
He was ever surprising me with some unexpected and outlandish task. But this one surpassed all other previous orders. I had by then survived three additional combat adventures with the unit, admittedly all of them barely witnessed as I crouched in the lee of the Colonel’s charging silhouette, yet the prospect of my deflowering summoned a fear beyond that of physical wounding.
On that glorious summer weekend, the troop, under temporary command of Captain Friedrich, was enjoying a brief rest and recreation in Munich. It was only the Colonel, myself and his driver, Edward, who traveled the bomb-pocked Autobahn down to Salzburg. I had never been to this magnificent city of medieval castles, classical concerts and springtime carnivals, and initially I felt blessed at having been selected for the venture. The Colonel was to attend a conference of high-ranking SS officers, hosted by Heinrich Himmler himself, and he had even invited his wife to join him at the Schloss Reichenhall Hotel.
Have I failed to mention that Himmel had a wife? Oh yes, the Colonel was married, and had three young daughters as well, all of whom lived on the outskirts of Munich. I had foolishly anticipated a rather relaxed episode, full of high-born officers and their gowned wives, all dancing Viennese waltzes and sharing feasts excavated from some secret privileged stores. Yet now, the summer excursion filled me with foreboding.
Arriving in the city, which did not at first glance appear to be suffering the later stages of the war, Edward and I escorted the Colonel into his hotel. We remained some paces behind, carrying his modest valises and map cases as Himmel strode into the wide lobby, stamped to a stop and threw his arms wide to the sides. A trio of small blonde girls in white frilled dresses ran to him and leaped into his arms, and as he laughed and kissed and tickled them, his wife approached as well. She was extremely small and trim, wearing a prim gray suit, with her dark blond hair pulled tightly into a bun, and she placed a white-gloved hand upon my master’s shoulder and offered him a taut cheek. In turn, he slipped a hand behind her head, angled his chin and kissed her hard upon the mouth, and then he roared with laughter as she stepped back, blushing and smoothing her suit coat as if it had been soiled.
A pair of bellmen quickly recovered the Colonel’s valises from our hands, and Himmel turned and strode to us.
“You will stay at the SS barracks on Wandersee,” he said. Then he looked at me with a harsh squint. “Execute your assignment, Shtefan, and report to me in the morning.”
I saluted and clicked my heels, Edward mimicked me, and we departed as I blew out a long, trembling sigh...
* * *
I sat stiffly beside the aging corporal in Himmel’s staff car as a cool night breeze wafted from between the dignified edifices of Salzburg and the wheels trundled over rain-polished cobblestones. I released the stay of my collar and pushed my field cap back onto my head, scratching my brow and trying to imagine just how to go about this. Edward was silent, though he smiled a bit and smoked as he drove, and initially I thought him not to be privy to the true nature of Himmel’s order. But then, he spoke.
“So, Shtefan. I assume you’ve been ordered to fuck.”
I looked at him. “You know?”
“Of course. It happens to every virgin in the troop, though there aren’t a lot of them by the time they get to us.”
He was clearly enjoying this and speaking loudly above the engine rumble, and I wanted to shush him, even though certainly none of the pedestrians we passed could possibly overhear.
“I...but I...really know nothing about this.” I fidgeted in my seat. “How to go about it...”
“Well, you’ve stroked your own cock, haven’t you?” he posed as he finger-brushed the tips of his graying mustache.
I must have blushed a deep purple crimson, for the corporal glanced at me and nearly choked on his own laughter. I had meant that I had no idea how to go about locating a willing volunteer, rather than the exact physical logistics of sex. Of course, that knowledge evaded me as well, but he went right on before I could explain.
“It’s pretty much the same,” he said with a shrug. “But here, once you get hard, you just stick it in and pump until you squirt. If she isn’t wet, you can slap some hair oil on her. But believe me, as soon as you see your first pair of tits you’ll come to attention right quick!”
I began to perspire, my heart palpitating. I wiped my palms on my trousers. We passed a pair of pretty young women in long dresses and high shoes, and I imagined in my panic that even if both of them stood naked before me in the most luxurious and inviting of bedroom suites, my body would simply freeze and refuse to do my bidding. What would happen if I were, somehow, somewhere, able to find a cooperative woman, and then be unable to perform? Would Himmel have me summarily shot? Would my war record file read, in summation after so many life-threatening combat excursions, “Executed for refusal to perform his duties”?
“The very first time can be hard, though,” Edward continued. “No joke. If you’ve never had your hand up a girl’s dress before, you can panic and shut down, and your cock’ll just hang there like an earthworm.” He paused. “Have you?”
“What?”
“Stuck your hand up a girl’s dress?”
“No.” I swallowed.
“Outside? Ever felt one’s tits?”
“No.” I was growing sullen at this point.
“Well, then, you might have to drink some schnapps and loosen up. Of course, sometimes drinking too much can make you soft as pudding.”
“Edward.” I was gritting my teeth. “This isn’t helping. And where shall I supposedly find this sort of woman anyway? At this hour? In a strange city?”
“Listen, boy. All cities have whores, and I know where the whores are in every city. I can smell them from ten kilometers out.”
“Whores?” My nose bunched up in disgust.
“Yes, whores! Of course, whores. What’d you think, that you’re going to fall in love in one hour, buy her a ring, marry her and fuck her by dawn?”
“Gott im Himmel,” I groaned, and I reached up for my cap brim and pulled it down over my face, folding my arms and pouting.
We did not speak for a while. Edward smoked and hummed an annoying ditty as he drove, and although he issued no lyrics to accompany the melody, I was rather certain it to be some lewd rhyme which made him merry in his head. His gay mood depressed me even further. My mission seemed utterly impossible, no less than being ordered to steal a ring from the Kaiser’s finger while he bathed in a tower of his palace, surrounded by armed footmen. Yet I was determined, in my stubborn adherence to the slim precepts of romance, to at the very least seduce some young, lonely, comely, and desperately charitable female of my own age, or thereabouts.
“So?” Edward finally said. “No whorehouse?”
“No.” I pouted. “Never.”
“Fine, then.” He shrugged. “You can try here.”
The Kübelwagen broke out into a large cobblestoned square. In its center was a towering statue of Beethoven, and as the night was pleasant and devoid of the threatening drum of aircraft engines from high above, the Salzburgers had come out to stroll and chat. Small groups of various ages milled about, and surrounding the square were a number of brightly lit taverns, their music and the laughter of their patrons echoing between the edifices.
I fastened my collar, set my cap smartly on my head and disembarked from the staff car. Edward fixed the hand brake and exited himself, brushing cigarette ashes from his tunic.
“Where are you going?” I asked him.
“With you, of course.”
I frowned. The odds of my finding this night’s love dropped
like a brick from a Bavarian steeple, as I imagined his crude and portly form accompanying me.
“I think I can manage alone, Edward,” I said as sternly as I could.
“Maybe.” He arched his brows in doubt. “But if you make a pass at some officer’s daughter and wind up in the clink, it’ll be my ass as well as yours. So, I’m coming along, for my own safety.”
I placed my hands on my hips, mimicking one of Colonel Himmel’s most infamous postures.
“And how am I to succeed with you shadowing my every effort?”
He smirked at me then, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay in the shadows and just watch your back. At any rate, in two hours you’ll be begging me to help you find a nice, clean little whorehouse and get it over with.”
“Humph.” I straightened my shoulders and strode away toward the first tavern that presented itself, hearing Edward’s boots clicking on the stones close behind. I would certainly show him. Yes, I would. I would march into one of these merry little enclaves and have a drink at the bar and strike up a conversation with one beautiful young miss. And I would charm her with my Viennese gentility and regale her with jokes and compliment her person and her scents and her magnetism, and soon she would be batting her eyelashes at me and blushing and whispering hints of a private room nearby in the servants’ quarters of a town councilman. And long before dawn we would be making mad and passionate love, for perhaps the third or fourth time, upon all manners of furniture and with utterly ecstatic abandon!
Two hours later, I emerged from the fourth such establishment. I was utterly defeated, and hoping that the sheets of brothel beds were at the very least turned over after every ghastly visit.
The Soul of a Thief Page 3