by Paul Grant
Maria sat, huddled in her night-time hiding place, blanket over her shoulders. She’d been forced to leave Ulrich to look after Eva during the hours of darkness, whilst she hid in the space between the floors of the apartment block. It had worked. For two weeks, the soldiers hadn’t found her. She was safe, others were not. She had been forced to listen to the screams each night. The screams were the worst thing to deal with. Maria didn’t need to see what was happening when the shrieks alone made her retch.
It was enough to shred the nerves of any sane person. She listened to the dripping water, wondering how long she could go on like this, hiding away each night. She thought about Klaus, fearing now that he could not survive as a prisoner of the Russians. If they did this to defenceless women, what would they do to enemy combatants? The way it went on unchecked, all over Berlin, night after night, meant the Russian authorities condoned such behaviour. Perhaps they felt it was their victorious soldiers’ right.
Maria heard a scream. This time it was just above her. There were boots thudding on the boards. She thought she heard a muffled shout for help. It sounded like Helmi. She’d given up hiding with Maria, sick from the lack of sleep, and had decided to return to her apartment.
Something crashed to the floor, then there was loud laughter. Maria knew there was more than one of them up there. She held her head in her hands. She had had enough. She was sick of hiding like a rat between the boards.
‘Maria! Help!’
She knew now it was her friend for sure. They had her. They were going to do what they’d done every other night around the city. Maria couldn’t stand by and leave Helmi to their mercy. A voice in her head told her it was no use going up there, but another voice, her dominant voice, was urging her to push out the panel with her feet and go to her friend’s aid.
Maria was out of the shaft in no time. She scuttled down the stairs to her own apartment, forcing open the door. She was in the living room, not sure exactly what she had planned.
‘Mother! What are you doing?’
Ulrich held a sleeping Eva, wrapped in a blanket.
‘Get back to your hiding place, please. You can hear them up there,’ he hissed.
His face pleaded. He’d already seen the damage they could do, even if Maria had tried to keep it from him. She knew he felt helpless, just like they all did. And above all, she didn’t want him to do anything stupid, because they would kill him without compunction.
She searched the kitchen, opening and closing the cupboards in a trance. She selected the heaviest pan she could find. She was angry now, angry for the ones that had taken her. It had been more than once, and there had been more than one of them each time. Finally, when it was over, they’d left her a pack of cigarettes, the second time a loaf of bread. Not only had she been defiled, degraded, she’d also been paid for the privilege. At some time during the night, the anger had engulfed the fear. Now, it was almost blind.
‘You cannot go up there, mother. Please listen to me.’
Ulrich blocked the doorway, tears in his eyes. He’d already saved her once, from Reitsch. She loved her son with everything she had, but sometimes, a woman had to fight for herself, whatever the consequences. Maria Schultz’ mind had passed reason.
‘Go back and take care of your sister. I have to see if Helmi is okay.’
‘With a bloody great pan in your hand? They’ll shoot you.’
‘If I don’t go up there, they’ll keep doing this night after night.’
Ulrich’s face reddened. It was shame. Maria felt terrible for saying what she had. He couldn’t protect her, but this wasn’t about him, it was about her. She pushed past him. Her mind was on what she had to do. She couldn’t bear to look at her sleeping daughter as she passed through the lounge.
She was up the stairs in three bounds. Helmi’s door was swinging open. There was little noise coming from inside, not like before. She crept soundlessly down the hallway. For the first time in the past ten minutes, she felt fear. What was she going to do anyway? What could she do? She gripped the pan tighter.
She peered around the corner into the small living room. There was a smashed vase on the floor in the doorway. One of the Russians lay on the couch sleeping, bottle on his chest, trousers by his knees. The smell of hay and horseshit pervaded the room. She almost gasped as she saw Helmi. Her legs were bare, spread, the pale skin scratched and bleeding. Her face was swollen and bloody. She didn’t move.
As she tiptoed into the room, she saw the other one. There was always more than one. He was on his knees, his back to her, giggling inanely, trying to re-dress himself, but seemingly incapable. He lurched forward onto his hands, laughing as he did.
She glanced back at Helmi, next to him. There was blood between her legs, her underclothes were shredded. Her best friend lay lifeless.
The anger rose in Maria Schultz.
The Russian had made it back onto his knees, just where Maria wanted him.
She couldn’t help what she was about to do.
She raised the pan high above her head and brought it down with all her strength.
***
Ulrich couldn’t allow his mother to go up there alone. Why wasn’t anybody doing anything to help them? Why were the Russians allowed to do this night after night? He’d had enough of standing by and watching all this go on around him. There was no time to wait, he had to get after her before something terrible happened. He wrapped Eva up on the couch; she didn’t stir. He hated leaving her like this, but the greater threat was elsewhere. He briefly considered taking a weapon of some kind for protection, but decided against it. He wanted to save his mum, but he didn’t want to get shot in the process.
He left the apartment, closing the door silently behind him. He could hear nothing above him. He was up the stairs as fast as he could. His feet were bare, more through the need for speed than through forethought, but at least his movement was virtually soundless. He saw the door was open. Straining his ears, there wasn’t a sound from inside. Peering down the hallway, he was just in time to catch his mother inching on her tiptoes into the lounge area. Ulrich’s heart raced. He wanted to call out to tell her to stop, but it was too late.
He edged along the hallway, wishing his mother had stayed where she was. Why did she have to come out from her hiding place? They had not found her there. Why couldn’t she stay where it was safe, out of the reach of these monsters? Something was smashed on the floor near the entrance to the lounge. The smell of alcohol and horse manure made Ulrich’s stomach turn. He took a deep breath. He peered with trepidation around the doorframe, fearing what he would see.
His mother held the pan high above her head, the Russian on his knees before her. She brought the implement down fast, hard. The pan hit his head with a sickening thud and he slumped to the floor. The Russian lay groaning next to Helmi. Ulrich noticed now the extent of her injuries. In fact, she looked beyond help.
He couldn’t believe she had hit him so hard. She didn’t seem content to stop either, as she stepped towards the prostrate Russian, snarling. She was going to hit him again. Then Ulrich sensed movement elsewhere. There was another one of them on the couch. He started to rise, his head lolling slightly, his eyes seemingly struggling to focus. His mother was oblivious to the threat, only intent on finishing the other one off.
The man on the couch saw what was happening. Ulrich tried to shout out, but he managed a barely audible squeak. Again, his mother had the pan above her head, her focus away from the coming danger. The bottle fell off the man’s chest as he arose. Ulrich’s mother turned, now aware, but it was too late. The Russian flung himself at her, crashing into her midriff. The pan flew out of her hand. Ulrich heard the thump as his mother’s head struck the table as she went down. He pressed his face into the wall, cringing at the sound.
He dared to poke his head back around the door, shivering violently now. His mother wasn’t moving. The Russian was on his feet, nudging her lifeless body with his boot. He stood over her, looking aro
und at the scene. It was carnage. Ulrich felt the tears rolling down his cheeks. He was frozen to the spot, unsure whether to shout or run for help.
The Russian made up his mind for him. He was already rolling his comrade, attempting to pull him onto his shoulder. Ulrich could see he was preparing to leave. He didn’t want to abandon his mother and Helmi, but if he didn’t move, they would catch him, too. Nobody would help them then.
Ulrich was back down the hallway in a flash. He shot down the stairs as fast as he could, taking them in threes. When he reached his own door, he could hear the Russian struggling with his comrade; they were already outside Helmi’s apartment. Ulrich opened the door, closing it quickly behind him. He slumped behind it, shaking, struggling to come to terms with what had just happened. He felt empty, lost. He could hear the Russian right outside the door now, his boots scraping moving with effort across the concrete.
Ulrich held his head in his hands. The vision of his mother’s limp body flashed into his head. He wanted to retch. He had to get back up there to help her. He wished the Russians would just leave them alone. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t hear anything on the stairwell now. He carefully pulled the door back until it was slightly ajar. It was quiet, but he wanted to be sure before he went anywhere.
Eva cried out on the couch, so he quickly pushed the door shut, fearful of the Russians hearing something. He rubbed his eyes. There were too many people relying on him now. He couldn’t worry about his own feelings.
Running back into the living room, he saw that Eva was still asleep. She must have been dreaming. He was glad she didn’t have to see what he had just witnessed. Quickly he crossed to the window. It was with some relief he could see the Russian, his comrade over his shoulder, stumbling off down the street.
He allowed himself to breathe. A vision of his father’s face came into his head, waving from the packed train, going back to the war; the last time he had seen him. How Ulrich needed him now. What would he do in this situation? The thought only made him feel worse.
He shook his head doing his best to focus.
He’d seen enough dead people over the last few weeks to know his mother and Helmi didn’t have much time, if they were still alive.
He had to get help quickly.
CHAPTER 28
AUGUST 1945, RUSSIA
I thought of home, of Maria. I wondered what it would be like back in Berlin now the war was over. I longed for those long summer days around the lakes of the city. I didn’t know if it was healthy to think of home too much; I’d seen men waste away in the camps, pining for loved ones and their homeland. Right or wrong, I couldn’t help doing it. I loved to think about those great times with Maria and Ulrich before the war. I wondered if it would ever be like that again.
‘I don’t trust them. It just doesn’t feel right,’ Schram said, laid out, his hands behind his head.
‘Nobody trusts them, you’d be a fool to do that, but the war is over. Where else would we be going?’ It was always so straightforward to Marz.
We’d not been told anything official. Rumours hummed around us like the mosquitos at night. After a two-week journey from Vorkuta, dirty and dishevelled, we’d been paraded around Moscow for the local population to see what vermin we really were. We were already a downtrodden rabble; it seemed somebody wanted to apply the finishing touches to our perennial downfall. Then, without explanation, like our fairy godmother had suddenly remembered we existed after all, we’d been taken to a barracks to shower and provided with clean German army uniforms. Now, we were in an open field on the capital’s outskirts (some wisecrack noted it was about as far as our advance reached in late 1941); a few thousand prisoners, clean and in fresh uniforms, awaiting something.
We were stretched out, trying to get comfortable. Some of us had blankets, others not. It wasn’t cold. I had to admit I’d been permitting myself to dream of home, but something was still nagging at me.
‘The war hasn’t been over three months,’ I mused. ‘Why would they send thousands of soldiers back to Germany so soon? It makes no sense.’
‘I agree. We’d be too much of a threat,’ Koegel said.
‘Listening to you lot is making me feel sick. We’re going home, I just know it.’ Marz beamed from ear to ear. He appeared convinced, but maybe that’s because that’s what he wanted to believe. It didn’t stop him working on us.
‘Why would they give us double rations for two weeks before we set off from the camp?’
‘I have to concede that one. They don’t give rations out easily,’ I said, more to placate the lad.
‘And why let us shower? Give us clean uniforms?’
There were no takers.
‘Do you know there’s a railway line along the side of this field?’
Schram grunted. ‘They’ve used the railway to drag us from one end of the merciful pit to the other? Why should that mean we’re going back home?’
Marz threw his arms up in the air. ‘I give up.’
He pushed his blanket dramatically aside. ‘I’m off to stretch my legs.’
Before he left, he bent down and playfully flicked Schram’s ear. Schram, in turn, aimed a petulant kick at Marz, but only ended up catching Koegel.
‘Don’t you two ever give up?’ Koegel grumbled.
A watery sun crawled lazily over the horizon. The one thing we’d learned to do during our time in Russia was to be patient. Time here seemed eternal. Everything moved like a snail. As well as the fact I didn’t trust the bastards, I couldn’t see how the bureaucratic machinery of this land had cranked its rusty cogs into life to send us home so soon after the end of the war. Maybe it was Marz’s impatience of youth that had persuaded him the opposite was the case. Maybe I was too cynical to allow such a positive thought to penetrate my mind. Perhaps I didn’t want to deal with the consequences if I believed it, then it didn’t happen after all.
I heard the distant chug of a steam engine. Schram shot me a look which told me he hadn’t lost hope. It was a brief flash, but behind those eyes there was a “maybe”. I shrugged, trying not to believe too much, but I couldn’t deny the buzz that went through me. I didn’t ask for my body to do that, in fact if I could have prevented it I would have done.
The train was closer now and I couldn’t help feeling something was happening, as much as I wanted to force it aside. Marz’s manner had got to us. Somehow, he’d infected us with his positive spirit. Now fully in sight, the train’s black engine was branded with red stars, the Soviet flag flying from the corner of the first carriage. I was becoming mesmerised by the sight of the thing. The rest of it looked like any old cattle truck which had already transported us the length and breadth of that godforsaken country. Could Marz have been right after all? I was a realist and even I had to shake myself to be sure it wasn’t the Orient Express in front of me, hissing steam on the siding.
A voice snapped me from my trance. I could only roll my eyes.
‘We’re going home! We’re going home!’ Marz screamed.
He was all legs and arms sprinting at the side of the train. As it edged to a stop, in a midst of steam and squeals, he was up on the step, hanging off one of the cattle truck doors. Everyone stood to watch Oskar Marz trying to whip the men into a frenzy. Our guards, who had finally shaken off their slumber, started to form a line between the mass of men and the train.
I shook my head in realisation that it was my view of the world that was still bordering on sanity, and not that of Marz.
I nudged Schram into action. ‘We better get him down before he gets himself shot.’
We forced our way hastily through the throng to get close to the train. The guards started to force the crowd back whilst, behind them, Marz continued to hang off the truck like a performing circus clown. Men were shouting at him to get down and come back and join them. He just waved happily like the Kaiser on a day trip.
Turning around, one of the guards finally noticed Marz and shouted a warning. He seemed oblivious. The guard raised
his rifle, aiming it in Marz’s direction. The shouting at Marz grew louder, more intense. The guard fired. The shot ricocheted wildly off the steel of the truck door. Marz dropped to the track side. The crowd went silent and I feared the worst.
It seemed like an age before Marz stood up, brushed himself down and scrambled over the gravel towards us. The guard trained his rifle on him again, but lowered it because Marz was too fast. He was in between our legs and away from the immediate danger like a ferret. He was pushed back into the field before the guards could spot him. Another warning shot was loosed off above our heads, for good measure. They’d given up the chase.
I caught up with him, all breathless and giddy.
I grabbed him by the lapels. ‘What the hell are you playing at? You think we’re about to go home and you want to get yourself killed?’
He was on his back, his eyes manic and slightly vacant for a moment. I wondered what was going on upstairs.
‘Oskar?’ No response. I slapped him hard.
‘I am...ok. I’ll be ok,’ he eventually said.
He looked like he’d lost his marbles. We’d seen it before, plenty of times; in captivity men suddenly took a turn for the worse and that was that. I shot a glance at Schram. He looked as uneasy as I felt.
Eventually, Marz sat up and started to come around.
‘What the hell were you doing up there?’
‘I don’t know what came over me,’ he said, quite innocently.
I suspected he was playing the fool now. He liked to do that when there was a crowd around, and he certainly had one of those.
‘You’re a very lucky boy,’ I said.
He winked at me. ‘It’s not the first time someone’s told me that.’