Ogpu Prison

by Sven Hassel

‘And him a member of the “Ring” too,’ Porta spits contemptuously.

  ‘Ring?’ asks Tiny, doubtfully.

  ‘Yes “the Ring”. All members of it have been behind the fence for at least three years.’

  ‘You lookin’ for the dwarf?’ asks a prostitute in a red dress.

  ‘You must be clairvoyant,’ laughs Porta, happily.

  ‘Take a peek in “The Transvestite”,’ she smiles slily, batting her long false eyelashes fascinatingly at him.

  ‘Funny him being in “The Transvestite”,’ says Porta thoughtfully as they go back across Gendarmenmarkt. ‘Usually its only crazy sods, with cream-puffs instead of bollocks who come in there, wearing high heels and stinking of whore’s petroleum!’

  The dwarf is in there. Sitting right at the back of the room. He is extinquishing his cigarette on a prostitute’s naked breast, to make her remember to pay her protection money next time.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward madly to meeting you again,’ whispers Porta, who has come up silently behind him and is pricking the back of his neck with a pointed combat knife.

  The dwarf gives out a shrill scream and falls down off the bar-stool. He bangs his head on the wall, picks himself up, and rushes through the door, only to find Tiny alongside him. He emits another shrill scream, and dives head-first through a closed window, without considering the fact that he is up on a high first floor.

  ‘Plop, plop!’ goes Tiny’s silenced Walther.

  ‘You can sleep a week with me for nothin’ if you shoot the balls off that sadistic little sod of a gnome!’ the girl the dwarf has been using as an ashtray promises.

  ‘Sleep?, grins Tiny, waggling his ears. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I’ve been in ’ospital, an’ won’t need to sleep for at least a week!’

  ‘You are a nice girl,’ Porta says in a tone of gallant flattery, slipping his hand between her thighs. ‘You’re pretty enough for old Odysseus to have sailed the wrong way for.’ He cranes out of the window. ‘Where the hell’s the pygmy got to?’

  ‘You’ll find him in the Tiergarten,’ says a girl with silver stockings, and a red garter round her thigh. ‘When things get hot for him, he always hides out with one of the keepers. You can’t mistake it. A round, white house, there when you get a bit into the park where the riding paths start and the place stinks of horseshit!’

  ‘We’re on our way,’ shouts Porta, eagerly. He takes the staircase in two jumps, with Tiny thundering after him like an avalanche.

  A pimp, standing in the doorway keeping an eye on his girls, is knocked down and tramped almost flat.

  ‘Is it the Russians?’ he shouts, in confusion, gazing in terror after Tiny and Porta as they go roaring down the street.

  A few yards into the Tiergarten they catch sight of the dwarf. He sees them at the same time and with a long, penetrating death scream, sprints down the path leaving a cloud of dust behind him. Then he makes a tactical error and dodges into the deserted water tower.

  ‘Got him,’ chuckles Porta. ‘We are going to see’ somebody fall from a high place. This is much better than Siegessäule!’

  Tiny puts his head back.

  ‘Bleedin’ ’igh, it is,’ he says, admiringly. ‘When ’e goes off of that, ’e ain’t gonna get away with just one limp. What about if ’e won’t jump though? ‘E’s got to get up over the railing an’ ’e’s that little a shit ’e can’t even reach the top of it with ’is ’ands stretched up an’ standin’ on tip-toe!’

  ‘We don’t want him to strain himself,’ says Porta. ‘We’ll lift him up!’ He grins delightedly, already seeing, in his mind’s eye, the dwarf whirling down from the water tower.

  They force open the iron door, the clang of it sounding hollowly inside the empty tower. The dwarf has pressed a shovel up under the door-handle. They hear his feet drumming on the metal stairs.

  ‘He’s in a hurry to get up there,’ laughs Porta.

  ‘Be in more of a ’urry comin’ down,’ answers Tiny, with a broad grin. ‘Oh, but won’t it be lovely to see that little bleeder droppin’ like a Anglo-American bomb on its way down after the Führer’s HQ?’

  They reach the topmost platform on the heels of the dwarf, who is whining and screaming with fear. They circle the platform four times, before Porta turns and goes round the opposite way with the result that he and the dwarf run into one another head on.

  ‘You’ve had it, lover-boy,’ roars Porta jubilantly, reaching for the little man’s throat.

  ‘No, no!’ howls the dwarf, jumping back, and kicking out with a size twelve hob-nailed boot.

  Porta dodges too slowly, and the. boot catches him on the shin. As he doubles up in agony the dwarfs stiffened figure arrows into his face. He makes a bound, dodges between Tiny’s legs, and, spinning round like a top, lands a terrific kick between the big man’s legs.

  Tiny screams like ten wretches being stretched out on a mediaeval rack all at once, and grabs at his crotch with both hands.

  ‘You’ve had your fun,’ roars Porta, aiming at the dwarf with pistol arm outstretched. He gets off three rapid shots, but without getting a hit.

  The dwarf springs up onto the top of the platform railing, and stands there, wavering dangerously, for a moment.

  Porta lowers his pistol and stares, open-mouthed, at the tiny man, who stands there, thrashing his arms to keep his balance.

  ‘Jesus’n Mary,’ cries Tiny, forgetting the pain in his testicles. ‘That pygmy shit don’t seem to realise ’ow far down it is there!’

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ yells the dwarf, desperately. He rocks backwards, but regains his balance with a flailing of arms.

  ‘If he lives through this, he could make a packet in a show,’ says Porta, thoughtfully. ‘Wonder if we could sell him to a travelling circus?’

  Tiny puts out a hand to give the dwarf a push, but a gust of wind gets there before him. The little man leans out from the platform at what seems an impossible angle. He stretches his hands out in front of him, but there is nothing he can take hold of. He topples, and falls straight down through the foggy air.

  Porta and Tiny lean out over the railing and watch him go.

  ‘Use your arms,’ shouts Tiny, ‘use your arms like the seagulls do. Then you’ll land soft an’ not crack open your napper!’

  A Schupo, standing talking high treason with a park-keeper by the entrance gate, looks up and catches sight of the dwarf on his way down. He gives a grunt, and his legs give way under him. They called him ‘Gutsy Peter’, and he had a reputation for bravery earned in the roll-up units at the end of the twenties, where he was one of their best men with a baton or a rifle-butt.

  The park-keeper goes down flat behind a garbage container. He thinks the dwarf is a new kind of Allied bomb on the way down.

  The dwarf’s size twelves, sticking up through the broken roof of one of the Tod organisation’s sand-coloured VW’s, are all that remain visible of him. The rest of his body is mixed up with the steering wheel and the gear lever, or splattered over the instrument panel.

  ‘Think, he did it himself,’ shouts Porta, wildly, as he and Tiny run down the iron staircase, their footsteps echoing. ‘We are completely innocent!’

  ‘Our ’ands are as clean as the spaghetti feller who nailed Jesus up on the plank said ’is was,’ crows Tiny. He is moving so quickly, he almost falls over his own feet.

  A few minutes later a whole row of telephones begin to ring at the Alex Station. The Commissioner, ‘Murder’ Schultze, who got his name from being second-in-command of the Homicide Squad, can hardly believe his ears.

  ‘What did you say? Jumped off the water tower and smashed up one of the Fatherland’s vehicles? Must be a foreigner, or a Jew, or something. No true German’d be that stupid. Sweep up the pieces. I’ll take a look at it. Be there immediately!’

  As soon as he arrives ‘Murder’ Schultze, has ‘Gutsy’ Peter and the park-keeper arrested for not preventing the madman from jumping off the tower and damaging government property.
r />   When they find out it is the dwarf who has taken a dive, ‘Murder’ lights a big cigar and begins to think hard. The little swine’s been pushed, he says to himself, blowing out a cloud of blue smoke. If I knew who did it I’d shake hands with him and offer him one of my good Brazilian cigars. The air of Berlin’s a lot cleaner now that little shit’s turned up his toes.

  The good result is cause for a celebration in Sally’s office.

  ‘A drop like that — seventy-five and a ’alf metres it was —,’ laughs Tiny, noisily, ‘can certainly fix things up. They’ll be queuin’ up now to pay their debts! We’ll ’ave that much cash I don’t even know what the figure’s called!’

  ‘Hurry up and collect,’ advises Sally, looking over at Porta. ‘You’ll be going back to the cruel war on Sunday. I can’t hide you away here. They’ve already traced one of the shooting-irons to us, and asked some painful questions. You’ve got to be off before GEFEPO takes over the case from KRIPO. Our boss, an empty-headed Oberst, has begun to make noises with his brains for the first time in ten years. He rang me a little while ago and asked if any of my department’s people were going around shooting other people.’

  ‘Blessed be the fruits of the earth,’ intones Tiny, solemnly. He pushes a fat leg of goose into his mouth, and washes it down with a great gulp of wine.

  ‘And all, who partake thereof,’ continues Porta, scooping up a whole handful of prunes from the dish.

  ‘Amen,’ sighs Sally, drinking from the neck of the bottle.

  Your laughter is an interrupted song,

  and death found you friendly and cheerful.

  Siegfried Sassoon

  When he awakes Porta’s head feels as if a hand grenade had exploded inside it. He looks about him in confusion. He is in a strange bedroom. The entire colour scheme is in red, a colour Porta likes. To his amazement he discovers there is another person lying beside him. A black-haired girl, with almond eyes.

  ‘What the devil?’ he cries. ‘Am I dead, and gone first class to heaven?’ Slowly he begins to wake up and to think like a soldier. He reaches out of bed, picks up the vodka bottle, and takes a couple of long swigs at it. ‘You are alive,’ he says to himself. ‘You’re not in heaven at all. You’re in fat Natasha’s knocker, and you’ve paid 500 reichsmarks for this bed, service included.’ He feels for his wallet. It isn’t there. Heaven’s a damned expensive place, he thinks. He reaches out again for the vodka bottle.

  The almond-eyed girl wakes up and looks as if she is wondering what a strange, naked man, with his cap still on, is doing in her bed. She stretches herself, and yawns.

  ‘Germanski, you want fuck, you fuck now! You pay only 8 o’clock. One quarter hour go you bugger off to hell with you. Panjemajo, Mr. Germanski soldier?’

  ‘I’ve got a headache,’ answers Porta. ‘But thanks for the offer, anyway!’

  ‘You no want,’ answers the girl, turning over on her side, ‘then me go sleep. You put lock on door when fuck off, Mr. Germanski!’

  1 A.W.A. Allgemeine Wehnnachtsangelegenheiten: General Army Affairs.

  2 Geheime etc: COMMAND FILES - SECRET

  3 See ‘Court martial’.

  4 Heeresdruck ... etc: Army Service Regulations Directorate.

  5 Alex: Alexander Platz Police Station.

  7

  The Boxing Match

  ‘I ’ave no doubt of where we are,’ says Tiny, with an unhappy laugh. ‘So this is Russia! I just found me first louse. The poor bleeder was dead. ’Ard luck!’

  ‘You were lucky,’ grins Porta. ‘The family that’s staked a claim on me’s a real lively lot!’

  ‘I thought I was lucky too,’ sighs Tiny, sadly, ‘but eight ’undred guests came to the funeral, an’ they seem to ’ave made up their minds to settle down ’ere!’

  ‘I’m off,’ says Porta, ‘I’ve more important things to do than stand here discussing the funeral of a louse.’

  A moment later he stops and examines, with interest, a large, bright-yellow, sign. It says, in large black letters:

  GEHEIME SONDERKOMMANDO IV/3 z.b.v.

  ADMISSION STRICTLY FORBIDDEN FOR

  UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL

  As usual he is completely convinced that he is authorised. He struts airily in, and salutes, in passing, Chief Mechanic Wolf’s favourite cat, which has been promoted to Unteroffizier and sits washing itself on the radiator of an Army vehicle. He saunters down a long, narrow corridor, and stops outside a heavy door with a white sign:

  COMMAND OFFICE

  ADMISSION STRICTLY FORBIDDEN

  The word ‘strictly’ has been underlined. He cocks an ear, then kicks the door open with a crash, and enters. He finds himself in a large elegantly furnished office, which would make even a Prussian general of aristocratic birth lick his lips.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ asks Chief Mechanic Wolf, the army’s uncrowned emperor of supplies and equipment. He is standing in front of a full-length mirror enjoying the sight of his own image.

  ‘Can’t you see I’m gettin’ ready to go out?’ he says, without a trace of friendliness, as he pours half a bottle of eau-de-cologne over his shiny black hair. He pulls back his lips, and admires the sight of his gold teeth. ‘How’d you get in anyway?’ he asks, obviously displeased. ‘Didn’t you see those signs, “Admission Strictly Forbidden”?’

  ‘Get in?’ smiles Porta, superciliously. ‘Through the door, of course. How else? What’re you putting all that “Whore’s Dream” on for? Going after Russian cunt, are you?’

  ‘It’s so I don’t have to smell you, shithead,’ answers Wolf, sourly.

  ‘You are a nice-looking fellow,’ Porta flatters him. He tries to snap his fingers, but does not succeed.

  ‘Well, what’d you expect?’ asks Wolf, with celestial superiority. ‘You don’t expect a Chief Mechanic like me to go round lookin’ like you lot of coolies, the dregs of society, do you, then?’

  ‘Just my opinion,’ smiles Porta, falsely, keeping his own council. His real opinion is that Wolf looks for all the world like a braying donkey. ‘You are an exceptionally elegant person. Smell your rose-water five miles away against the wind you can. Nobody seeing you could be in any doubt about your being well aware of your own worth.’

  ‘You are right,’ answers Wolf. He does not attempt to hide the fact that he really enjoys Porta’s obvious admiration. ‘If you want to reach the heights, where high finance suns itself, you must carry with you an aura of respect. It don’t help one bit to go round lookin’ like you. You look like a feller who spends his time pushin’ oil drums around. You’ll not get far lookin’ like that. Class, you must understand, class is what it’s all about. If you’ve got it then the dummies’ll kiss your arse!’

  ‘I cannot deny it,’ admits Porta, smarmily. ‘They all say Chief Mechanic Wolf’s a really handsome man!’

  ‘And I bloody know it,’ answers Wolf, preening himself, and putting his head on one side to see himself from a new angle.

  ‘We’re having trouble,’ says Porta, miserably. He smears jam on his bread and cheese.

  ‘What?’ asks Wolf. ‘Won’t those shit-eaters buy tickets?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ explains Porta. ‘They’ve all bought tickets, but now they’ve begun to sell ’em on the black to the division alongside us. We’re oversold!’

  ‘Put in more seats then,’ says Wolf, indifferently. He throws out one hand. ‘Do you have to bother me with that sort of thing?’

  ‘Well its “Old Leatherlegs” that’s making all the trouble,’ sighs Porta. ‘He’ll only let us have that little hall where he’s got his fucking tractors. Those Russian Commie tractors. There’s only room for our lot in that place.’

  ‘Let’s think,’ says Wolf, taking a cigar, and sniffing at it like a Greek shipowner who has started at the bottom of the ladder. ‘Take one,’ he invites Porta.

  They light up for one another, exhale great clouds of smoke, and think! They are both men of affairs, who regard the war as a kind of high risk bus
iness. For them, front lines and enemies do not exist. At most, ‘difficult’ business associates.

  If anybody thinks they are going to let an opportunity pass they are wrong. To these two everything has its price, one way or another,

  ‘What about a little Enzian,’ suggests Porta, pointing at a large decanter, standing bombastically on a French table alongside Wolf’s personal steel helmet with the silver eagle. ‘One of those little mountain schnapps makes a man think better!’ He gets up and takes a swig straight from the decanter.

  ‘You’ll never learn manners,’ growls Wolf. ‘Not even if you get rich.’ Sourfaced, he takes two tiny schnapps glasses from a drawer.

  ‘You don’t have any smaller?’ asks Porta, pointedly.

  ‘Unfortunately no,’ answers Wolf, pretending not to understand him.

  The first three glasses go down in one gulp.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Porta begins, ‘it’s going to be a real big match. Our publicity people’ve properly gone to town on it. Every single dope in the entire Army Corps has bought a ticket, and they’ll be loaded when they come. Heavily loaded! With real money! Not just wooden army chips. But this silly sod “Leatherlegs” is plain stupid. A squareheaded dope, who wants to keep inside the law. He keeps on telling me that he is responsible for administering Army Defence Regulations.’

  ‘He’s that careful he never uses a strange shithouse without ringing to HQ in advance to find out whether its permitted! It’s not long since his whole unit got nothing to drink, and couldn’t wash themselves or brush their teeth for four days, because he hadn’t got written permission to turn the water on! The worst thing about him is he listens to what other people say, and believes it. I get that mad when I see him bring his shoulders up round his ears and make a face like a prize pig that can’t get an “oink” out quick enough.’ Porta bends forward, his own eyes taking on a piggy look. ‘Why don’t you let those Chinese gooks of yours play with him a bit. It just might be he could get to understand that a friend in need is a friend indeed, and find out who he owes a favour to. I can’t stand these people who’re always making waves, and won’t take life as it comes!’