die Stunde X

by Shaun Stafford

  “I made a statement, but … it’s been taken out of context.”

  “Herr Varley, did you say those words?”

  “I suppose I might’ve done.”

  “Now, do you understand why you have been issued with a Schutzhaft Order?” Loritz asked him, his blue eyes staring unforgiving and accusingly at Ross.

  “Look, that was a slip of the tongue, you know. It wasn’t mean to be taken seriously.”

  “I can assure you that the Geheime Staatspolizei takes such statements seriously, Herr Varley,” Loritz said. “Very seriously.”

  “I … I can apologize, can’t I?”

  “You can, Herr Varley,” Loritz replied. “If that is your choice, you can certainly apologize.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ross said loudly, looking at both Loritz and Keitel, and then at the tape deck behind them. “I really am. It was a stupid thing to say, and I … I truly regret it.”

  “It was, in the eyes of the Deutsches Reich, Herr Varley, a treasonable statement.”

  “I understand that, and I’m deeply sorry.”

  “Treason carries the Todesstrafe, Herr Varley,” Loritz said quietly. “Do you know what the Todesstrafe is?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The death penalty, Herr Varley. Do you understand that?”

  “I didn’t commit treason,” Ross said quickly. “I just …”

  “Your statement was treasonable, Herr Varley, you even admitted as much yourself. Furthermore, you were inciting others to assassinate our great leader, the Führer.”

  “Yes, but I meant nothing by it. It was a stupid remark. I meant no harm to the Führer.”

  “Herr Varley, shall I tell you what I can do for you?” Loritz said, and now he was smiling. The smile was one of friendship, but his eyes betrayed the mouth. The eyes told Ross that the owner of the face intended to cause pain. Nonetheless, Ross nodded his head. “I believe that you can provide us with information, Herr Varley. Useful information that can help the Deutsches Reich. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t …”

  “Herr Varley, do not let me down. I am here to help you. You see, it is I who will be issuing a report to the Volksgerichtshof. You are aware that the Volksgerichtshof is the People’s Court. The People’s Court deals with political crimes against the Deutsches Reich. The Judge will consider that report carefully before sentencing. A favourable report would prove to be an invaluable asset, Herr Varley, and it is I, and I alone, who can issue such a report. Understand?”

  “I understand, but …”

  “Herr Varley,” Loritz said, getting to his feet, “please follow me.” Keitel stood up and walked across to the second door. He opened it, but still Ross could not see beyond it. He had a feeling he knew what was contained within, but since he had never witnessed such a thing firsthand, he could only guess as to its true appearance. “Herr Varley,” Loritz said once more, startling Ross out of his frighteningly lucid daydream. “Please, follow me.”

  Reluctantly, Ross hauled himself to his feet. He knew he wasn’t going to like what he found on the other side of the door, but he had little say on the matter.

  Loritz was in control now.

  Absolutely.

  4

  SS-Obersturmführer Wolf Loritz stared at the man who was suspended from the horizontal bar that ran across the width of the chamber eight feet above the floor and shook his head. Some people, he thought to himself, were just too stubborn for their own good. Loritz decided to air that view publically.

  “You know, Herr Varley, I am doing my best to help you, but … well, some people,” he said to Keitel, who had resumed smoking, but for a good reason, “just do not want to be helped.” Keitel shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

  The interrogation chamber was the same size as the interview room it was attached to, but the walls were darker, and there was a small window high up on the far side that threw a narrow shaft of light across the opposite wall. The heavy bar that Ross Varley was handcuffed to stretched across the room eight feet above the ground and was supported in four places by vertical bars that ran upwards to the ceiling, where they were bolted firmly in place. All the same, as Varley struggled, the bar moved rather disquietingly, though Loritz paid it little attention. He had seen it move before, and knew that no amount of struggling could wrench it free from its mountings, just as no amount of struggling would free Ross Varley from the handcuffs that were cutting into the Engländer’s wrists.

  Ross Varley was almost naked, except for a pair of underpants. They had made him strip the moment he entered the chamber. His clothes were folded in a neat pile on a small table in the corner of the room. His shoes had been placed on top of the pile.

  The interrogation had started only five minutes earlier, but already Ross was showing signs of the brutality. His stomach was red, his lower ribcage bruised, and there were already two or three cigarette burns on his thighs.

  As Keitel held one of the less painful but nonetheless effective tools of his torture session in his mouth, he also held a thick rubber truncheon in his right hand. Thick and heavy enough to cause pain, but pliable enough to prevent broken bones. Broken bones came later, Keitel knew, and only if there was definite proof that Varley knew something but wasn’t talking.

  “Herr Varley, I will ask you again,” Loritz said calmly from the seat beside the table in the corner of the chamber. On his crossed knee was a notepad. A pen was in his hand. “I will ask you again, and this time you had better give me a satisfactory answer. Am I making myself clear, Herr Varley? Do you understand?”

  Ross only whimpered, which annoyed Loritz further. The interrogation had only just begun and already the subject was cracking up. That could only mean one thing. Either he was very weak minded or he knew nothing at all about the topics Loritz had chosen to discuss. And Loritz had an idea that Ross Varley was of the latter category – in which case, he was of no use whatsoever.

  All the same, he thought with a sneer, the Engländer had committed a treasonable act and that, by its very nature, was a serious offence, punishable by death.

  Loritz, as he stared at the pathetic creature hanging from the bar, had already decided that he would recommend to the presiding Judge the Todesstrafe, or death penalty, for Ross Varley.

  There was, in that case, little point in continuing with the charade.

  But Loritz liked to interrogate.

  And Keitel liked to torture.

  “Are you listening, Herr Varley? Herr Varley, tell me about the Combat UK terrorists working at the Volkswagen Autofabrik in Brent. What are their names?”

  From the bar, Varley groaned and shook his head, his face contorted in agony, not just from the mild beating, but from where the steel of the handcuffs had cut into his wrists and drawn blood. Loritz had seen men flail the skin from their hands in an attempt to free themselves from the handcuffs and the torture. “I … I don’t know … any terrorists. Why won’t you listen to me?” The last sentence was shouted out. Varley was pleading now. Clearly, he’d had enough.

  “Herr Varley, my patience is at an end. Tell me, what is your role in Combat UK?”

  “I know nothing about Combat UK,” Varley gasped.

  Keitel looked at Loritz, who nodded his head. Cigarette in mouth, the torturer swung the truncheon around and caught Varley on the left kneecap with a sickening thud. Varley bucked on the handcuffs, a mist of blood spraying out, and he let out a loud cry. He struggled even more fervently to free himself, but to no avail. Keitel struck him again, on the same kneecap. This time, there was a slight crack, and Varley wailed in pain, before letting out a string of obscenities. This seemed to excite the German, and he went to work on the other kneecap. He hit it three times before Loritz loudly clicked his fingers. Keitel stopped, and took a couple of steps back, breathing heavily.

  “I am sure you are not a stupid man, Herr Varley,” Loritz said, consulting his watch. “You can plainly see that we are capable of inflicting pain – agonizing pain – to extract information. If I
were in your situation, I would most certainly talk.”

  “I don’t … don’t …” Varley tensed himself up, and then fell limp. His left knee was swollen to the size of a football, and the right one was quickly following suit. Bloody saliva dripped from his open mouth and landed on the stained, steel mesh floor below him.

  Loritz curled up his lip in disgust, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. He’d seen subjects shit and piss themselves. That was part of the reason why the floor was a mesh beneath the torture bar, as opposed to concrete. So the mess from the subjects could be easily washed away like slurry. All the same, the mesh covered what amounted to an open sewage drain and as such, the chamber, at times, stunk like a pile of rotting human excrement. Today, Loritz was fortunate. The chamber still smelt relatively clean, with only the stench of bleach filling his nostrils, and almost masking the odour from Keitel’s vile cigarettes.

  “Herr Varley,” he said, standing up, “I think you have already wasted enough of my time. I am afraid that I cannot offer you any help at the Volksgerichtshof. Not if you cannot help me in return. I am sorry, Herr Varley, but I am going to have to recommend that the Judge deal with you in the most severe way he sees fit.”

  “Please,” Varley gasped, moving his head and looking down at the German. “Please … I’ve got a family.”

  “There are Germans with families, Herr Varley, who are killed every week by your friends in Combat UK. Shot dead in their homes, when they are defenceless, when they are enjoying time with their families, murdered in cold blood in front of their children. This is why treason is dealt with in the strictest manner. You could have helped yourself, Herr Varley. Instead, you have chosen to die as a martyr, which I can begrudgingly admire.” Loritz walked across to the door and opened it. “I just hope that your partisan friends appreciate your sacrifice. I kind of have a feeling that they will not.”

  And with that, Loritz walked from the interrogation chamber. He had a report to write. The SS-Oberstgruppenführer, the man in charge of security for the Deutscher Staat von Grossebritannien, was obsessive with details, and he had given instructions that all Geheime Staatspolizei prisoners were to be dealt with quickly.

  Loritz had little doubt that Ross Varley would be up before the Volksgerichtshof later that day.

  In which case, he would be dead by tomorrow.

  5

  Jerome didn’t want to leave his mother, not in the state she was in, but what choice did he have? He looked down at her as she sat on the sofa, a cushion clenched across her stomach, tears streaming down her pale face, her eyes clenched shut. She was sobbing almost uncontrollably.

  Behind Jerome stood his brother, Campbell, who was twelve, and his sister, Nicole, who was sixteen. Campbell, like his mother, was crying. Nicole, it appeared, was putting on a brave face. Either that, or she was too stunned to react. Jerome crossed the room and sat down beside his mother, his eye ever mindful of the time. He had to be at work. Already, he was going to be late, which meant his pay would be docked, and his report card marked.

  Jerome had only been working at the factory for three years, ever since he was seventeen, and his card, as far as he was aware, was clean. He was fairly confident he had no black marks, because every year each member of the workforce was called in to see the mangers – Germans, of course – and was given a rating by them. So far, Jerome’s ratings had been good. One black mark for being late would not ruin his career at the factory.

  Then again, his father’s fate might already have marked his card for him. Either way, Jerome didn’t want to have to explain the reason for his lateness. He knew he’d have to, but all the same, he didn’t want to.

  “Mum, I’ve got to go to work,” he said softly, putting an arm across his mother’s shoulder. “I have to. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I understand, all right,” snapped his mother, looking up, her expression one of sheer hatred, intermingled with sorrow and disbelief. She saw her two younger children, and then looked down again, embarrassed.

  Campbell muttered, “Mum?” in between sobs. Nicole remained impassively silent. Jerome looked at the digital clock on the Grundig VCR – it was already quarter to seven. He’d have to catch the bus to work, and that meant he’d definitely miss the early start of the compulsory overtime.

  That didn’t really matter, though. What mattered was that his father, the man with whom he frequently argued on the way to work each morning, had been dragged off by the Gestapo – or rather the Geheime Staatspolizei, as they like call themselves now, as if they could hide the horror that the word Gestapo conjured up.

  Jerome turned to his brother and sister, and smiled, telling them, “You two, leave me and Mum for a minute please.” Campbell nodded his head and disappeared through the door. His sister remained rooted to the spot, but then she always was awkward – she was sixteen, after all. “Please, Nicole.”

  “I want to stay.”

  “Nicole, please,” Jerome said quietly. Something in his eyes told Nicole that he didn’t want her to be messed around, not this morning. Other mornings, other days, she could get away with being objectionable and annoying. This morning, she could see, was different. “Make us a cup of tea, eh?”

  “I suppose so,” Nicole finally said, and she slinked out of the room like a sulking cat.

  “Mum, now listen to me,” Jerome said quickly, “I’ve got to go to work. You know that. If the Gestapo have taken Dad, then that means they’re watching the whole family. We can’t step out of line. We have to remain calm–”

  “Remain calm? Are you stupid, boy?”

  “Mum.”

  “They’ve taken my husband – your father – away, Jerome,” Abigail said, stabbing a finger towards the front of the house as if the Gestapo officers were still there. “He’s not gonna walk back, is he? They’re not going to let him come home. Not now.”

  “They’ve made a mistake.”

  “They had a bloody Schutzhaft Order, Jerome,” snapped Abigail. “They don’t issue one unless they’ve good reason to.”

  “Mum, you’ve got to stop thinking like this.”

  “Why? Tell me, Jerome, why? What hope have I got of the man I love walking back through that door?” She began to sob loudly. “Oh, my God, they’re going to kill him. They’re going to kill him!”

  “Mum,” Jerome said, patting his mother’s shoulder. “Come on, please, pull yourself together. For Nicole and Campbell’s sake, pull yourself together. How do you think they’re feeling?”

  “The same as me,” hissed Abigail viciously, jabbing a finger into her chest. “They’re not stupid, Jerome. You might want to walk around with your head in the clouds, but–”

  “Mum, just shut up, please,” Jerome said, shaking his head. “Look, I’ll call up Aunt Mary. She can come round and sit with you.”

  “I don’t want my bloody sister, Jerome, I want my husband.”

  Jerome got to his feet and walked across to the telephone. He dialled his aunt’s number, and the phone was answered by his uncle, who enquired pleasantly, “Not at work yet?”

  “I’ve got to speak to Aunt Mary,” Jerome said quickly. There was an urgency in his voice that his uncle could sense. Jerome couldn’t hide it, and cursed himself for doing it.

  “What’s wrong, Jerome?”

  “We’ve had some kind of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “It’s Dad,” Jerome said, looking back to his mother. She was holding her head in her hands and sobbing loudly. “The Gestapo came and took him.”

  “What?”

  “This morning, about twenty or thirty minutes ago.”

  “What … what for?”

  “I don’t know. They had a Schutzhaft order, and they just dragged him out of the house.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “Mum’s in a state. I need Aunt Mary to come over and sit with her.”

  “Jerome, why did they take your father?”

  “I don�
��t know.”

  “I have to know, Jerome.”

  “Why?” Jerome asked – then he understood. “Oh, I get it,” he snapped. “Don’t want to get mixed up with a marked family, is that it? Don’t want your cards marked?”

  “It’s not like that, Jerome–”

  “Don’t lie to me! I know exactly how it is!” Jerome heard a shout from the other end of the phone, then a few knocking sounds, and finally his aunt was on the line.

  “Jerome, what the hell is going on?”

  “The Gestapo took Dad.”

  “And you don’t know why?”

  “They don’t tell you why, do they?”

  “No, I don’t suppose they do,” agreed Mary. Jerome could hear his uncle shouting something in the background. “Listen, I’ll be over in – what? Shut up for God’s sake – I’ll be over in ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Mary. But what about Uncle Derek?”

  “This is nothing to do with him,” snapped Mary viciously. “He can go to hell if he doesn’t like it.” Jerome heard a shout of protest. “Damn you! She’s my sister, and I – where are you going? – oh for Christ’s sake! Jerome, I’ll speak to you later.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” Mary said. “Bye.”

  Jerome replaced the handset, and looked at his mother. Her sobs had quietened down, but she was still crying, rocking back and forth. Nicole stood in the doorway with a tray containing three mugs of tea. “Great, Nicole,” Jerome said with a smile that managed to hide his true emotions. He stepped across the room and took the tray from his sister. “Sit down next to mum. Listen, Mum, Nicole, I’ve spoken to Aunt Mary. She’s on her way over. I’ll stay here until she arrives.”

  “What about school?” asked Nicole, looking up at him with wide, nervous, dark eyes.

  “See how it goes, eh? See what Aunt Mary thinks when she gets here.”

  “What will happen to Dad?”

  “Nicole, let’s not talk about it,” Jerome said, and he picked up a mug of tea and started to drink it. Nicole did likewise. Their mother didn’t touch hers.