by Paul Grant
‘Are you okay?’ It was a stupid question in the circumstances, but Maria couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Fine.’ She uttered the word with defiance.
‘Do you need anything else?’
‘The food’s fine. You can go now.’
Maria was taken aback by her reaction. She had expected a needy girl, not a seemingly independent, defiant, young woman.
‘Will you stay here?’ Maria said, looking around.
Hannah shook her head quickly. ‘It’s just a meeting point. I have other places.’
Maria nodded. She was right to be cautious.
‘Well, don’t worry, I will bring some other food soon.’
‘Can she help me? The Sommer woman?’
‘Like I said, I will bring you food. We’re trying to find you somewhere to stay, with an identity.’
The girl stopped eating for a moment. She looked at Maria as if she was assessing her, the initial mistrust waning slightly.
‘I won’t be a burden to anyone. I just need help to get out.’
‘You’re not a burden...’
‘You don’t have to be nice. I’ve been a strain on so many people for the last two years, an additional mouth to feed, another body to keep warm. Friends, family, I have been a passenger to them all. You know the worst thing?’
Maria shook her head, grateful for the fact that she was opening up slightly.
‘I feel guilty. I feel guilty for eating their food. The food they could eat themselves or give to their kids. I feel guilty for invading their family privacy and, worst of all, for putting them in danger. So, I am a burden, but I don’t want to be that anymore.’
Maria could understand what she was saying. She sensed there was still a young girl inside. She’d had to be so careful, been through so many tragic events, that the last of her childhood had been stolen from her. She had been so preoccupied with the constant struggle of survival that she had not had time to grieve her parents.
‘I will give Fräulein Sommer your message. I will do whatever I can.’
The girl’s eyes bored through her. Maria wondered how many times she had heard that before.
‘I will leave a note in chalk, in amongst all the others. There’s a place over the street, you will see it. I will sign the name Gretchen Friedrich. Next week, same time, I will leave another address.’
She was in business mode again; the business of survival. Maria couldn’t help feeling this tough woman was a front, a façade she’d been forced to erect around her to protect her from the horrors of war. As bad as Maria’s war had seemingly been, she had been sheltered compared to Hannah.
‘It’s best you go now.’
‘Hannah, I know things have been hard for you, but you can trust me. I will come back and I will do anything to help you.’
She looked doubtfully at Maria for a moment then went back to rifling through the bag.
Maria felt she had better get back to the children. She walked towards the cellar steps, knowing she had meant everything she had said. She knew she would help this poor girl, even at risk to herself.
‘Maria.’
She turned and Hannah cracked a sad smile.
‘Thank you.’
CHAPTER 16
1943, RUSSIA
Vorkuta was only a name to us. The journey from Bekabad, in the very south of Russia, lasted more than two months. The tedium and monotony was enough to finish a man with the strongest of wills. The cold was nothing like that we’d previously encountered. The snow fell and the wind howled to herald our arrival, the guards could only herd us into position as we were chained to our partner. All we were able to do was to follow the man in front with our heads on our chests. We were alone with our thoughts.
There were around eight hundred prisoners of war at our small lagpunkt, as each individual settlement was known. However, this was only one of hundreds which made up the Vorkuta gulag. We were mainly German, although there were other Axis soldiers among us such as Romanian and Ukrainian. We slept in a bunker dug into the earth, supported by timber and filled with moss and soil. Not that we could see any of this on our arrival due to the weather, but evidently this bunker-type accommodation was suited to the wall of snow and ice which greeted us.
We’d been in this place for more than six months, felling and cutting trees in the forests. It was demanding work and we were constantly cold and hungry, but we were away from the front line, away from the war. My thoughts were only of survival. I felt my responsibility to get home to Maria, and Ulrich and Eva. My war was done. It was just a question of waiting it out in Russia. Others in our small group had more expansive ideas. Some of them felt they had a duty to escape. I was content to let them get on with it.
It was night. I pulled back the door to our bunker and heard hissed insults from those trying to keep warm in their beds. The guards were complacent. They could afford to be. In this cold, they didn’t feel the need to patrol the camp at night. I slipped out and made my way quickly across the snow. I hid behind the next bunker, ensuring the way was clear. As I peered out into the main yard, the cold wind made my eyes water. It wasn’t quite winter yet, but it was getting there. I could see my target at the back side of the assembly yard. I could see the puffs of Marz’s warm breath emanating from the ground.
From the moment Oskar Marz had started his escape attempts, I knew it would have consequences for the rest of us. Marz’s boundless energy had to be channelled somehow. He chose to put all his cunning and guile into escaping from the camp. It was madness. As much as I was desperate to get home, the odds were stacked against any escape from that place. There was a reason there were no gates or fences around our settlement; if anybody left, they weren’t expected to survive out there in the Arctic wilds. Yet Marz went on attempting to escape, much to the ire of the camp commandant, Valenkov.
I made the fifty metres across the open ground to “the hole”. “The hole” was an apt description. It was three metres deep and one metre square. There was no place to lie down. Marz was resting his back against the wet wall. I put my head over the iron grill which covered the top.
‘Lovely evening.’
‘You took your time,’ Marz growled.
‘Greetings from our gourmet restaurant.’ I dropped the hard piece of black bread between the railings.
‘Where’s the steak?’
‘Sadly, not on the menu today, sir.’
I glanced up and around the camp to check it was clear.
‘I wonder how much longer that bastard is going to keep me down here.’
‘Well, you will keep running away,’ I chided.
‘I can’t stand being in one place too long. I don’t like the grass growing under my feet.’
‘I don’t see too much grass around here, Oskar.’
He grunted.
‘I’d better be heading back.’
‘That’s right, you get yourself back to your warm, cosy bed.’
I laughed. ‘Well, whilst you’re down there, why don’t you start thinking about what you do after you escape?’
‘What do you mean?’ he said defensively.
‘I mean, get yourself a plan, Oskar. Store some food, get some other provisions for a long journey. You’re the one who knows how to acquire things.’
There was no response.
‘Sweet dreams.’
I left Oskar Marz to think about my suggestion.
***
We stood in the freezing cold. They were counting us once again, but it wasn’t necessary. We’d been one short for three days now. Dragging us out to the courtyard in the middle of the night, with the snow blowing around us, wasn’t about the count. It was about the control and the common punishment. I could have kicked myself. I knew I shouldn’t have encouraged the boy. Valenkov’s tall figure marched across the yard in his warm felt boots, slapping a stick against his thigh. The man meant business as he clambered onto the wooden stage. This was the place where he liked to make all h
is announcements. He cleared his throat to speak and the men fell silent, eager for news of their comrade.
‘As you all know, there was an escape three days ago...’
His words were interrupted by our cheers. I didn’t move, fearing what would come next.
‘I am pleased you seem so happy about this escape.’
Valenkov waited before speaking again. He turned his head up and down our lines, seemingly looking every man in the eye.
‘From now on, until your comrade is captured, the whole camp will be on half the minimum ration.’
The commandant turned on his heel and left us to a chorus of catcalls and cheers. Once again, this was all about Oskar Marz. He had escaped again, unbowed by his time in the hole. I wished I’d kept my mouth shut and not advised him to change his methods. But as it had been three days now, out there on the open tundra, I did wonder if his planning had been more thorough this time. When he’d first disappeared, the search team, headed by a pack of eager, straining huskies, had been duly despatched. Valenkov was seen pacing up and down in front of his office like a father waiting to mete out discipline to one of his sons. The search team had returned a few hours later, empty-handed. Valenkov had exploded like a Katuysha rocket battery, and he didn’t care who witnessed it.
This was his response. As we trudged our way back to our respective cabins, I wondered how long the men could last. They were already hungry. Working in harsh conditions, the cold, the heavy labour, cutting the rations by half could only lead to trouble. I cursed myself. I should have advised Marz against these crazy attempts to escape.
***
I had my feet up on my concrete bunk, trying not to think of food. I felt half-crazed. It was two weeks now since Marz had escaped, two weeks on half the minimum ration. At first, the men were buoyant about his escape. We’d do anything to get one over on the Russians, anything to get over the tedium of our new life. Nobody had really expected Marz to evade capture for so long. We all expected him to be caught in a few days, or at least, his body to be found. However, as Marz’s absence turned from days into a week, the atmosphere changed. Arguments broke out among the men the more hungry and desperate they became. The Russians still expected us to work on those meagre rations and tempers had frayed. I blamed myself, the others blamed Marz.
I turned over on my bunk thinking of Berlin, thinking of home. Wherever I went down the streets of my birth, I couldn’t help smelling food. The Bratwürst, the donuts, the bread, those smells filled my nostrils as if I was right there. Every man was thinking the same, although nobody dared to talk about it. Food was strictly not for discussion.
‘He’s back.’ One of the men burst into our cabin. ‘It’s Marz.’
I jumped up from my bunk. ‘Is he alive? Is he okay?’
‘Who cares if the bastard is alive?’ grumbled one of the men.
I’d sensed the mood turning against Marz sometime during the second week. Most of the men couldn’t see it because their minds were blinded by their hunger. I’d discussed it with Schram; he saw it like me. Valenkov had been clever. He’d turned German against German by his action. Cutting the ration had been his master stroke, his way of ensuring future escape attempts would be limited, if non-existent.
In the past when Marz had been apprehended, he’d been sent to the hole. I wondered if Valenkov would do that this time. I feared for Oskar Marz. We’d just finished work. It was the worst possible time; the men would normally be receiving their second ration of the day, but not since Marz’s escape.
Schram was by the door, giving us a commentary. ‘Valenkov’s talking to Marz now.’ Others jostled for position to see what was happening.
‘My god, he’s dismissed him. Marz is walking towards us.’
The murmur went around the bunker. I sensed it was about to turn ugly. I had my head in my hands. Valenkov had no need to send Marz to the bunker. He knew the mood of the men and he knew they would mete out their own punishment if the guards didn’t intervene.
I was up like a shot trying to restore some discipline and order. ‘This man is one of your comrades, think about that before you act.’
The men were angry, half-starved beasts and I feared the worst.
‘Fuck you, Schultz. Nobody is interested,’ one of the men chirped up.
There were grumbles of agreement around the cabin. I could see some of them were holding lumps of wood in their hands. Schram was looking at me, pleading with his eyes for me to do something. Marz couldn’t have been far from the cabin door.
‘Marz was doing his duty for his country. He wasn’t to know how Valenkov would react.’
My words were having no impact whatsoever. The men were simply not listening, their eyes glazed over, thirsty for revenge.
The door swung open and a blast of cold air brought a roar from the men gathered around the door.
‘Run Oskar!’ I shouted.
I was shoved to one side by the mob and given a dig in the ribs for my troubles. Marz barely made a few metres before he was dragged into the doorway and set upon. He ran the gauntlet of flailing fists, boots and work tools. Schram pulled me out of harm’s way. As I rolled to one side, I could hear the grunts of these men, my comrades, as they inflicted blows on Oskar Marz. I was convinced he was going to die.
We could do nothing to help him. I shielded my eyes. I could see Markus Schram next to me, shaking his head in bewilderment. The beating went on. We were forced to witness the whole terrifying episode.
It was coming to an end. Marz’s head appeared on the far side of the scrum. Those who had started the beating were now sat on the floor, exhausted, some in shame, some due to the emotion. What made it worse, at the end of the scrum, just as Oskar Marz emerged as a bloody pulp, one of our own was raining blows down on his comrade. The lack of food had made Arthur Koegel lose his mind. He was too big to drag away, but eventually I caught his eye. In that moment, he realised the depths to which he’d plummeted. Schram dragged Marz free, bloodied and beaten, but not quite dead.
CHAPTER 17
AUGUST 1943, BERLIN
The Major had been right. Berliners had been forced to swallow some more unwelcome news on the war front in the last month or so. Mussolini had been deposed. Hamburg had been levelled by carpet bombing with countless thousands of civilian casualties and a large tank battle at Kursk had been lost. None of the news pleased Maria Schultz. In every headline there was human suffering and loss. However, if it brought the day forward when the war would end, then this could only have been good news as far as she was concerned, as far as poor Hannah Hirsch was concerned.
Maria made her weekly visit to see Hannah, this time to an address in Schöneberg. This was the fourth such meeting. Slowly, but surely, Maria felt she was gaining Hannah’s trust, gradually breaking down the barrier the girl had erected around herself. She felt closer to her, able to talk to her and pass on the progress of the war. This time Maria had better news for her.
Maria knew the extent to which she had relaxed in her presence because, when she arrived through the back of the bombed out apartment, Hannah was washing herself.
‘Pass me the towel, would you?’ she said, standing nonchalantly, totally naked. The confidence of the girl never ceased to amaze her. When Maria didn’t move, Hannah widened her eyes and nodded towards the back of the chair where the towel hung. The sideboard was still stacked with plates, albeit covered in the perennial brick dust.
‘I had to have a good wash. It’s the first time this week. My smell was making me feel sick.’
Maria couldn’t help laughing.
‘I have some good news for you.’
‘Hitler is dead?’
Maria laughed again. ‘Not that good, I’m afraid.’
‘Well?’
‘We’ve found a place for you. Somewhere to live, just for now.’
‘Oh?’
Not for the first time, Maria was shocked by her reaction. ‘You don’t seem too pleased.’
She had dressed q
uickly and joined Maria at the kitchen table, which was held up by stacked bricks.
‘Where?’
‘A summer house in Grünewald.’
‘There are other people there already?’
‘Yes, another Jewish family.’
Maria could see the concern on her face. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. It can’t be easy living like this.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Don’t you miss somebody to talk to?’
Hannah gave Maria a look that made her feel naïve, like her statement was ridiculously sentimental.
‘When I’m alone, I only have myself to worry about. I only have myself to blame if I get caught.’
‘You trust me enough to visit you.’
‘You bring me food.’
Maria felt slightly hurt by her frankness, but she knew she was being pragmatic, realistic.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Hannah said. She put her hand on Maria’s. It was the first time there’d been any physical contact between them. ‘I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I just prefer to rely on myself, and after that, as few people as possible. I have my reasons.’
Maria could understand. This young woman had been dealt a bad hand in life. She knew experiences shaped a person’s beliefs, their behaviour. Despite that, Maria couldn’t help feeling some company would do her the world of good.
‘I still think it would be a good idea,’ Maria persisted.
Hannah didn’t answer. Maria could see her mind was somewhere else now and, by the furrow on her brow, it wasn’t a nice place.
‘Hannah?’
Maria reached out again to touch her hand, but she snatched her hand away. ‘What the hell do you know?’
Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She turned away as if to hide from Maria. When Maria tried to comfort her, she stood up and walked away, unwilling to look at her. This was the child in her, Maria thought; hurting yet stubborn.
Maria walked to her and took her shoulders from the back. She could feel Hannah sobbing silently. Maria turned her around and pulled her to her chest. They stayed like this for some time. She stroked her head whilst she sobbed uncontrollably. Maria realised nobody had probably showed the girl any affection for a long time. She wasn’t surprised Hannah was so scared.