BERLIN: Reaping the Whirlwind (The Schultz family story Book 2)

by Paul Grant

  Schram and Marz dropped down from the car.

  ‘See what you can rustle up.’

  Marz chuckled. ‘A nice beef goulash be okay for you?’

  I turned to check on Scharner and Meissner. I’d not wanted to look at Scharner’s foot on the journey. He’d been threatening to take off his bandage at regular intervals. We knew it wasn’t a good idea and actively discouraged him from doing so. We were well aware what had happened in the bunker and, even though we’d laughed at that time, further infection would have finished him off. Meissner, on the other hand, was delirious. His dysentery had been getting worse since the day we left Stalingrad. Like all other serious cases, he had no control of his bowels.

  I heard a shout from the back of the truck, ‘There’s one here, Doc. Schröder hasn’t moved since yesterday.’

  Hans Vogel, one of the battalion doctors, was in our carriage. He had no medication, or implements for that matter, but it was always good to be certain one of your comrades was actually dead before you dropped his body on a railway siding. There’d be no chance of burial; the ground was frozen solid. Besides, we didn’t have the strength to dig graves.

  The Doctor nodded solemnly. I looked on as Koegel deposited the fourth body on the makeshift platform. The battalion chaplain knelt over each corpse in turn, giving them a blessing. The loss of Meissner or Scharner would have been hard to take, as it had been with Wiebke. I felt like we had to do something more to help them.

  ‘Get everyone else out of the truck,’ I shouted.

  There were one or two grumbles, but nobody really questioned my authority. This wasn’t about taking orders in the field anymore; this was about survival. Slowly, all those that could move themselves helped to move the really sick. Dysentery wasn’t pretty by sight or smell. We’d constructed a makeshift snow shovel to carry out a crucial job, only it wasn’t to clear the snow. It was ironic that the “shit shovel” was the only item afforded a modicum of its own space in the cramped truck.

  I volunteered to scrape the floor. The men had to see I was willing to do the worst jobs sometimes. Schram appeared with some straw and, after I’d finished, spread it over the carriage floor. Marz returned with our ration under armed guard. Steam was wafting from the inadequate sized pot.

  Koegel quipped, ‘Is that just for you, or all of us?’

  Marz pulled a sarcastic face. ‘Very good, big man.’

  Whatever the contents, hot food was not to be scorned. An orderly queue formed. The administering of rations was something the Russians left to us.

  Schram lifted the pot lid and immediately turned away in disgust. ‘Jesus, this gets worse.’

  Marz started serving the men, careful not to spill a drop, as we all waited eagerly for our turn. I reached the head of the queue; I realised what had caused Schram’s ire. Two rotting fish heads bobbed on the surface of the thin gruel. Schram muttered something under his breath. Marz winked like he did when he’d been up to something. I looked down at my mess tin to see two soggy potatoes swimming in the liquid. I smiled, thankful for the smallest of mercies.

  Gingerly, so there was no chance of spillage, I wedged myself up against the station wall. Within a couple of minutes, Schram and Marz joined me. I glanced to my side and noticed their tins had exactly the same contents as my own. It was very important that the sharing of rations was seen to be equal by all the men.

  I felt Marz nudging me. ‘Open your hand,’ he whispered.

  I did as I was asked and felt warm bread in my palm. Marz only stared forward so he didn’t draw attention.

  ‘Danke.’

  Schram continued to eat with a scowl on his face.

  ‘We have to find some medication for Meissner,’ I said. ‘He won’t last much longer.’

  ‘I noticed a Red Cross station when we got the rations. Maybe I could get something for him, if we stay here long enough. I’d need something to trade though,’ Marz said.

  ‘We’ll need to distract the guards’ attention as well,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something,’ said a grinning Marz.

  Schram was still on another track, ‘It’s disgusting. They can’t keep treating us like this. We’ll all be dead by the time we get to where we’re supposed to be going.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, ‘Maybe that’s their plan.’

  Marz and I laughed.

  Thinking for a moment, I felt the watch in my pocket. It had been a gift from Maria when we’d first married. I hated parting with it, but if it helped one of my comrades survive, I couldn’t justify holding on to it. The fact that I’d managed to hide it from the Russians for so long was a miracle. They were known to be partial to the odd watch, especially those of the German or Swiss variety. With some reluctance, I reached into my pocket.

  I handed the watch to Marz. ‘Use this.’

  He stopped eating and looked at me incredulously. ‘What the...?’ When he regained his composure he quickly grabbed it from me before anybody else could see.

  Schram dipped his head so he could see past Marz to look at me. ‘Are either of you listening to me?’

  ‘Not really,’ Marz said.

  ‘Meissner needs sorting out, Markus, sooner rather than later. You’re only whining,’ I said.

  Markus looked chastened, then after a moment’s reflection, he held out his hand to Marz. ‘Hand it over.’

  ‘What?’ Marz said.

  ‘The watch; hand it over.’

  Marz laughed, ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Well, as far as I could see, the Red Cross station had a guard on it.’ I flashed a look at Marz - he’d failed to mention that point. Schram continued, ‘Forgive me for saying, but I imagine the guard won’t speak German and then, once you’re actually inside, you’ve got to be able to read the labels of the medicines to make sure we get the right thing. Do you read Russian, Oskar?’

  Marz looked hurt for a moment and he turned to look at me. I nodded and Marz reluctantly handed the watch to Schram. His ability to speak Russian had served us well in the past and would probably turn out to be even more valuable now.

  ‘Good. Now all I need is a diversion,’ Schram said.

  I leaned forward so I could see him. He looked no older than sixteen. His boyish face often attracted the Russian housewives who were keen to take him home and mother him, and no doubt do other things to him. Behind those youthful looks, however, was an astute mind.

  ‘You know, Markus, you’re absolutely right about our treatment. We should make a protest,’ I said.

  ‘A protest?’ Marz blurted out. ‘Are you trying to get us all a bullet in the neck?’

  ‘They can’t shoot us all; besides, like Markus here, most of the men feel the same. It’s about time we let them know our feelings, even if it serves another purpose, if you know what I mean?’ I winked.

  Marz looked perplexed, but Schram knew exactly what I had in mind.

  ***

  Word had been passed to the other trucks. Marz still thought we were crazy to consider it, but if it all worked out we might just kill two birds with one stone. All the usual signs of inactivity had given the game away; the train wasn’t likely to be moving for some time. We formulated a plan between the three of us.

  By the time they’d arrived back with the latest rations, I swore I saw a twinkle in Marz's eye. Even if he hadn’t initially liked the sound of my plan, I suspected he was going to enjoy the role he would play in its execution.

  Once again we formed a neat line, this time being careful not to gather directly in front of the serving pot. The fact there was no steam coming from the pot this time meant I didn’t feel quite as bad about what was to happen.

  The guard peered over the pot, turning his nose up as Marz lifted the lid.

  ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you fancy it, Ivan?’ Marz said. The guard nonchalantly waved him away, probably because he didn’t understand.

  In spite of that, Marz continued his protest, ‘You cannot serve us this
shite anymore. We won’t eat it...’

  A look of bemusement spread across his face.

  ‘We not eat.’ Marz used the simple Russian words Schram had taught him in preparation.

  The men in the queue started to grumble. One or two were even tapping their spoons on their mess tins. I was anxious about the plan, but didn’t feel we had any choice if we were to do something for the sick. We had to get things moving, and this was where it would begin. The guard looked around him warily. We stood and stared right back at him. The thump of the spoons took on a rhythmic, challenging beat. After a moment’s thought, the guard scurried off for help.

  ‘Get ready!’ I signalled down to the other trucks.

  A squat-looking Captain appeared, looking slightly flustered.

  ‘What’s the problem here?’ The Captain looked around us. The rattling of spoons on mess tins ceased suddenly, adding to the feeling of a stand-off.

  Marz wasn’t missing his moment. Pointing to the pot, he shouted, ‘We’re not eating anymore of this shite.’

  ‘It’s your choice, but you’ll be given nothing else.’

  After looking around us all, he started to walk away. That wasn’t in the plan, so I stepped forward. As I did, I saw Schram slip off the platform. It was time for a speech.

  ‘I would like to say something on behalf of the men.’ I paused; not for dramatic effect, but to buy some time. ‘You see, Captain, we know you are allotted rations of meat and fat for each prisoner, yet we never seem to receive any. I wonder what your superiors would think about that.’

  Now, he had somebody to focus on; he narrowed his eyes. I wondered if I would be first for the bullet. ‘I doubt they would care about a train load of German prisoners.’

  ‘No, but they would care if they thought you were misappropriating state funds. Selling rationed meat on the black market is a serious offence, no?’

  The Captain hesitated for a moment, considering my words. Marz, however, had heard enough chat. ‘Right, until we get something decent, you can keep your fucking rations.’

  He put his foot on top of the pot and kicked it over. The majority of the pot’s contents splattered over the Captain, landing mainly on his boots. He sprang back, but it was too late. The men roared with laughter. I signalled frantically to the other trucks and they followed suit, emptying the contents of their own pots. The men shouted their approval and, once again, started to batter their tins. It was going better than I expected.

  The Captain looked like he was going to blow a fuse. The men started to swarm all over the platform, clattering their spoons on their mess tins. Their array of winter clothing, supplemented mostly by rags, gave the general impression that lunacy reigned. The Captain, and his soup-encrusted boots, stomped from the platform. I couldn’t help but smile. After all the utter dejection of our capitulation, I was beginning to enjoy myself.

  It took about fifteen minutes for the Captain to return with armed reinforcements. He pulled out his Makarov and fired two rounds into the air in an attempt to shock us. Nobody moved for a moment until the guards, bayonets fixed, started to push back in the direction of the trucks. We had to hold them there as long as we could. I knew it was a fine line; they could start shooting at any moment.

  I glanced anxiously towards the station building, willing Schram to get a move on. The platform now resembled the crush of football crowd, swaying to and fro. Gradually, though, the Russians were gaining the upper hand, pushing us back towards the train. Some men were even forced to scramble back into the trucks to avoid being trampled underfoot. I was starting to think we should call the whole thing off; saving the sick was no use if some of the healthy were to take a Russian bullet.

  Then Schram appeared, parcel in hand. He immediately forced his way between two guards and the melee closed around him. I signalled with a loud whistle and the men started to edge back towards the trucks. The Captain was surprised at the sudden return to order. Men pulled others up onto the bed of the trucks in a short space of time. Not wishing to miss his moment, the Captain barked out orders and the doors of the trucks were slammed shut.

  Doctor Vogel was immediately at Schram’s side. He was beaming when he saw what Schram had managed to get his hands on. He busily started to make a list of priority cases, careful not to waste any of the medical haul. Schram had gathered morphine for the pain, and sulphur powder for the frostbite victims.

  ‘You did well, boy,’ the Doc said.

  ‘It looks like I missed all the fun.’

  Marz laughed. ‘You should have seen that Captain, shit all over his soft, leather boots.’

  I was pleased the men had had their moment to vent their feelings. I was also hopeful the medication might save at least one or two lives. I did fear what the Russian reaction might be to our little party. Three hours later came the response. I have to say, it wasn’t what I expected.

  We heard the bolt of the truck door slide back. I held my breath, awaiting the onslaught, but rather than a bullet in the neck, out on the platform were three steaming pots of hot food and a pile of fresh bread.

  Marz was down first. ‘You might get that goulash after all, Sarg.’

  He opened the first pot. ‘Fish,’ he said. ‘Little ones.’

  Schram shook his head at his comrade’s ignorance. ‘Herring!’

  Koegel slapped me heartily on the back. ‘It looks like your little caper has paid off, Klaus.’

  I let out a huge sigh of relief. As I jumped down from the truck, I couldn’t help thinking we’d been rather fortunate for things to turn out the way they had.

  CHAPTER 11

  APRIL 1943, RUSSIA

  The truck rocked slowly back and forth. I was slipping in and out of a light sleep. Maria was pregnant with Eva, and Ulrich was running around the apartment. I’d finished my working day as a building site foreman. We’d sat down for dinner. With my family around me, I felt a perfect contentment; the smells, the noise and the chatter. For a moment, I was transported. I felt free and light, even if I knew it was a dream. The moment of familial bliss was interrupted by somebody shaking me roughly. It could only be bad news.

  Hans Vogel was next to me. ‘It’s Scharner, he’s close to the end.’

  There was little movement or noise around the truck apart from the clank of wheels on rails. Most of the men were sleeping as best they could. One of the men, grunting with the effort of relieving himself, was hovering over the hole we’d made to serve as a toilet in the centre of the floor.

  I knew the medication Schram had bartered in exchange for my watch would only manage the pain. The sulphur powder had barely touched the mess that was Scharner’s foot. The pain relief enabled him to move and even to crack a smile for a while, but we all knew, deep down, it was already too late. Even if that was the case, I couldn’t admit defeat.

  ‘We have to do something for him, Doc.’

  ‘Frostbite is one thing, but gangrene had set in before we even left Stalingrad. If you don’t remove the patient from the cause of the problem, it’ll only deteriorate. I can’t do any more for him.’

  ‘Can’t you take it off?’

  ‘With what? And even if I had some clean instruments, look at all the filth around you.’

  His eyes didn’t leave me as he whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Klaus. It’s too late.’

  After a respectful silence, probably to allow me to get used to the harsh reality, he said, ‘He asked for you.’

  As I tried to imagine what he wanted from me, I clambered over Schram to get to Scharner. There were one or two grumbles as I did, but in fact there was more space in the truck now. We hadn't counted the men when we’d set out from Pitomnik, but each truck held around 130 of us. Now, two weeks later, we were less than 80. Survival of the fittest, Rosenberg called it.

  I managed to place myself as close to Scharner as I could. My face was nearly touching his, and despite the cold, I could feel the burning from his head.

  ‘Erik, it’s Klaus.’

  His eyes f
lickered for a moment, then they opened wide. He choked slightly in the effort to open his eyes.

  ‘Take it easy,’ I soothed him, knowing the doctor wasn’t wrong about the end being close. Scharner tried to reach the pocket by his right side, but it was no use.

  ‘What is it?’ I whispered, ‘Do you want me to get something?’

  He just nodded once. It was no time for niceties so I started to rummage in his pockets. I quickly found what he was looking for. In the end, we all had to have something of comfort close by. For Erik Scharner, it was a photograph of a pretty blonde girl, probably in her early twenties. The photo was taken in better times, certainly in better conditions than we were enduring. She looked clean, well dressed and innocent. She was in a different world. I held the picture in front of his eyes.

  ‘Is it this?’

  ‘On the back...’

  I flipped the photo over and saw an address and realised what I was being asked to do; the last letter home to a loved one. I closed my eyes and hoped nobody had to do the same for me one day.

  ‘Don’t worry, Erik, I’ll sort it out.’

  He grabbed me harder than a man in his condition should have been able to. He was hoarse, ‘Tell her...’ I sensed the effort, the emotion that could finish him off, but I also knew he had to get it out, if only to be able to rest in peace knowing he’d had his say.

  ‘Don’t tell her what really happened.’

  And then, Scharner was gone, as if with those words his last dying wish had been fulfilled. His face was content and peaceful. One of the better men had been taken from us. I felt like I had an immense responsibility on my shoulders to ensure that whoever it was in the photograph didn’t really know about the horrible way he had died, and I knew, if I was around to do it, I’d lie through my back teeth if I had to.

  ***

  Our journey’s end was a camp at a place called Bekabad. We were somewhere in the southern reaches of the Soviet state. We felt a honeymoon period of relief at being released from the confines of the truck, but the scene that greeted us at the camp was a whole lot worse.