Ogpu Prison

by Sven Hassel

  ‘Might be a good idea,’ admits Porta. ‘Be something new in the fight game, having two heavyweights drop from the sky!’

  Chief Mechanic Wolf takes out a cigar, and ignites his gold cigarette lighter with an expensive sounding click. He holds the cigar between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and takes a couple of deep draws. He blows out smoke in a heavy cloud across the table.

  ‘We’ll buy the cage with the panther,’ he says, consideringly, ‘but only if we can get another cage exactly like it. We put the German in the one cage, the untermensch in the other.’

  ‘What do we do with the panther?’ asks the Old Man, thinking with trepidation of other animals No. 2 had taken on strength.

  ‘We can probably find a use for him,’ laughs Porta, taking one of Wolf’s cigars without asking.

  ‘I won’t have him inside the tank,’ says the Old Man decisively, and realises too late that he is half-way to having given in.

  ‘You couldn’t. Not without takin’ off ’alf the turret,’ Tiny grins, noisily. ‘I’ve seen ’im. Even though ’e still is a kind of a cub, that ain’t learnt ’ow to bite proper yet. When ’e does find out, the war’ll speed up rapidly.’

  It is late when we break up and go down to the pet-shop.

  Tiny falls hard for an old gorilla, which can imitate all kinds of laughter and drink beer like a human. The pet shop dealer won’t sell it, however. He regards it as one of the family. A brother, almost.

  ‘What you goin’ to use them cages for, then?’ asks the pet-shop man, blankly, when the deal has been completed, and we begin to carry the cages out.

  ‘We’ve started slave dealing,’ whispers Porta, secretively, ‘but you mustn’t tell anybody.’

  ‘Well, now?’ cries the petshop dealer, opening his eyes wide. ‘Is there money in that?’

  ‘Queer looking animal,’ thinks Porta, peering through the bars of the cage at the panther. ‘His legs are too long and his feet are too big.’

  ‘He’s only a cub,’ answers the animal dealer, ‘no more’n eight months!’

  ‘He looks, though, as if he wouldn’t mind chewing my hand off,’ says Porta. He jumps back, as a great furry paw, with claws like curved knives, bangs against the bars.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of him,’ the pet-dealer says, soothingly. ‘He’s very easy to deal with. Put a joint of meat in front of him, and he forgets everything else. He’s a little bit scared of humans yet, but just wait a couple of months. Black panthers are notorious for going at anything or anybody they come near. They’re more dangerous than ten Gestapo men with machine-guns.’

  Around midnight loud screams and roars sound down the Umanskaja. Inquisitive heads peep from doorways, but not for long. The doors are soon banged shut when Tiny comes along, dragging the cage with the protesting panther inside.

  Cursing and shouting loudly, he tugs and pulls the cage into Wolf’s office. It is hard on the furniture and various packing cases and sacks. Finally, he manages to get it into an empty room behind the office. He takes an entire ham from a meat hook and pushes it through the bars to the panther, then pulls the door to, and bolts it.

  ‘A puss like that can really go to town,’ cries Porta, admiringly, as he bandages Tiny’s countless, deep scars. ‘And he’s only playing, so far. He’ll really be something when he grows up, and realises what he’s got teeth and claws for.’

  ‘ ’E ain’t doin’ too bad just at present,’ says Tiny, trying to open an eye which the panther’s last attack has closed completely.

  ‘Only bring trouble, he will,’ says the Old Man, blackly. ‘Oberst Hinka’ll jump clean out of his boots when he hears about him. Since we had that bear1 he’s forbidden the keeping of animals of all kinds!’

  Before we leave Tiny throws a large bagful of chopped meat in to the panther. It looks up at him with golden, glowing eyes. Two overlarge paws catch the bag in the air. The contents go down in one gulp.

  ‘Jesus,’ cries Tiny, pleased. ‘See that? Just wait till we start givin’ ’im people.’

  The last plank has not yet been nailed in place when the fans start crowding in. The atmosphere is animated. Sports maniacs commence arguing, both with one another, and with others who couldn’t care less. German patriots scream ‘Heil’! People from the Rhineland whistle with their fingers, in the French fashion.

  A watchdog2 unit, not wearing the provocative steel helmet, do their best to keep the crowd in order. The thump of batons is heard, when an Unteroflizier from the Tyrol pushes a sausage, covered with ketchup and strong mustard, into the face of a watchdog-Gefreiter and calls him ‘a noisy Prussian swine’.

  The witches cauldron quietens down a little when the bell goes for the first round of the first bout. It is between a skinny-looking little Bulgarian and a sour-faced, sinewy Westphalian. The match is over in the second round. The Westphalian wins on a knock-out, decided on in advance by Porta and Wolf.

  When the second and third encounters also end in a victory to the national colours, it seems as if the patriotic roar will never end. When the fourth match goes to Germany they go amok, and begin to sing ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über alies’, and ‘Wacht am Rhein’. They embrace one another, stand to attention, salute and roar: ‘Germany for ever!’.

  ‘Must’ve been like this when they got back from France in 1871,’ says the Old Man. ‘God love us, they’re stone, staring crazy!’

  The fifth match is between a Greek, Konstantino, who is middle-weight champion of his village, and an Austrian from Salzburg whose name is Rudolph, and who looks as if he deserved it.

  ‘Wanna say a prayer ’fore I kill you?’ asks the Greek with a wicked grin.

  ‘You don’t have to take that,’ howls Oberzahlmeister Saul, from Corps HQ.

  ‘Flatten ’im!’ roar the Italian Alpinos from the back row, forgetting that the Greeks are their hereditary enemies.

  With an animal roar the Austrian rushes the Greek, and hammers his fist into him well below the belt. A dangerously low blow, which can put a man out of a fight immediately. The Greek doesn’t seem even to feel it. He butts Rudolph in the face. Also a foul. At the same time he trips him. This last foul brings the referee into action, with wildly waving arms. The Greek manages to give Rudolph a left, a right and a hook, before the Austrian can get to his feet. The crowd demands the match re-started, which is done. The Austrian wins by a knock-out in the 18th round.

  ‘This’s made this whole damn World War worthwhile, man,’ shouts Albert. He joins in with the jubilant roar of the delighted crowd, despite the fact that he has no time for Austrians, as a rule.

  ‘Wait’ll we get to the main bout,’ says Wolf, lighting a Brazilian cigar with his usual aplomb.

  Three times as many people have been packed into the ordnance stores than it can hold. By any form of calculation. They have come from far and wide, and a lot of petrol, much-needed in wartime, has been burnt in the process. Men sit on beams high up under the roof, balancing like hens roosting on a perch. And still they keep coming. Punters push and shove and pant to get into the small concrete cell where Porta and Wolf sit taking the bets. Through the small openings they can see only hands. Hands pushing money at them. Hands grabbing receipted betting-slips. Hands of all shapes and sizes. Fat hands, thin hands, pale hands, tanned hands, clean hands, dirty hands.

  All eyes are fixed on the two cages which hang, swaying, up under the roof.

  A roar erupts, seemingly endless, when the trapdoors in the bottom of the cages swing open, and the two boxers drop almost twelve feet through the air to land with a thud in the ring. The Russian from the Caucasus is on his feet first, and lifts a pair of club-like fists confidently above his head. The German, hairy as an ape, moves round the ring with hands hanging down lower than his knees. He looks like an ape waddling about with knuckles to the floor. He roars out his challenge: the Caucasian untermensch is going to get smeared all over the hall before the end of the first round.

  The Caucasian’s mouth splits open in a
n animal grin. He draws the edge of his hand, speakingly, across his throat, so that everybody can see what he is thinking of doing to the German. An excited roar goes up from the crowd. Several rows of seats breakdown under the concerted tramp of feet.

  The bell sounds and the two monsters go at one another slavering and frothing. Iron fists hammer into taut stomach muscles and crack against heads which are equally as hard. An uppercut lands cleanly. It would have torn the head off an ordinary man, but seems not to have any effect on the recipient.

  ‘Hell’s bells,’ mumbles Barcelona nervously. ‘Those two dumb-bells do know who’s supposed to win, don’t they? The way they’re goin’ at it they look like they’re plannin’ a double suicide!’

  ‘Take it easy,’ grins Wolf, sure of himself. ‘They ain’t that thickheaded they don’t know what’s best for themselves. It’ll be in the last minute the dumbum from Leipzig lies down. We got to give the crowd somethin’ in return for all the lettuce they’re handin’ over, or they just might start wonderin’, an’ then anythin’ might happen!’

  In the first two rounds it looks as if the Caucasian is not looking to get hit too often. He fights on the defensive, goes into clinches to avoid the German man-killer’s attack. Then, suddenly, in the third round, he goes over to the offensive, dances forward and sinks two lightning-fast punches into the German’s midriff.

  The crowd holds its breath for a second or two. Those punches would have sent a horse to the ground. But the fighter from Leipzig merely shakes himself like a wet dog, and grins wickedly. His left shoots out, as his opponent follows up. It lands square on the Russian’s nose with a sickening crack. They dance round one another, spitting and breathing hard through their noses. A punch lands on the German’s face, splitting his eyebrow open. Blood stripes his cheek. His lips swell. His face seems partially paralysed.

  ‘Holy Mary,’ whispers Gregor, his eyes bulging. ‘It’s like hitting bulls with your bare fists!’

  ‘Bulls couldn’t take that,’ considers Porta, biting thoughtfully into a sausage he has taken from the hand of a Bavarian, who is staring, glassy-eyed, at the scene of violence in the ring.

  The Caucasian begins to go for the face, but this does not seem to worry the German. He ducks neatly, allowing the punches to pass closely above his head, and replies with a wicked left. It looks as if he is attempting to open the Russian’s guard with his left, and several hooks land heavily. To the crowd’s amazement the Caucasian only gives a grunt, and dances round in the ring.

  ‘Murder ’im! Smear the sub-human bastard out!’ howl the true-blue Germans, clashing their mess-tins and steel helmets together. ‘Stamp ’im back into the ground where he come from!’

  The 6th Westphalian Cavalry goes at the 5th Prussian Panzers with a roar. ‘Bastards! Sausage-eaters! Swine!’ they scream.

  The battle between the two regiments sways back and forth in the great artillery storehouse. The noise can be heard miles away.

  Bavarians from the 8th Panzer, and the 116th Infantry choose sides and fling themselves happily into the fight. Watchdogs, with drawn batons, pour in through every entrance, and hammer at the heads of the excited crowd, indiscriminately.

  ‘Death to Germany!’ roars Tiny, fanatically, from an upended empty beer barrel.

  ‘Hey there! You there! Cannibal!’ shouts a Bavarian, throwing a case of empties at Albert which knock him off the table he is sitting on.

  ‘Drop dead!’ howls Tiny, lifting a Watchdog up above his head.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ screams the MP, desperately, kicking his boots about in the air. One of them comes off and hits a QMS, who looks as if he has been rolling in mustard and ketchup, on the head. ‘In the name of the Führer, I order you to let go of me!’

  ‘Order heard and obeyed,’ yells Tiny. He throws the watchdog at two Bavarians. They go over backwards and slip down underneath the stands. Their wildly kicking feet are all that remains visible of them.

  At last the MP’s manage to quieten the crowd sufficiently for the fight to continue. They retire and hold themselves in readiness behind the church, where they pray to God they will never have to go inside the stores building again.

  ‘That kind of sporting event should not be allowed,’ says their leader, an elderly major. All his men nod their heads violently, in agreement.

  The fight is on again, and it seems as if both heavyweights have gone amok. They show a complete disregard for the rules of the game. The German rushes at the Caucasian and kicks him in the stomach. In reply the German gets a bite on the cheek. Blood spurts over both fighter’s faces.

  ‘Jesus’n Mary,’ yells Tiny, excitedly, knocking over a beer barrel. ‘Now they’re eatin’ each other!’

  The referee, a tiny rat-like Jugoslavian, tries to separate the two boxers. Suddenly, he finds himself jammed between two murderous mountains of muscle. It seems as if he will be crushed. He wrenches himself free and staggers to the ropes where he hangs, arms dangling, until two medical orderlies take him away to the M.O. for treatment.

  A new referee takes his place. He talks seriously to the two boxers, shaking his finger in their faces. They look as if they feel like throwing him out of the ring into the roaring crowd of spectators.

  In the third round the Caucasian plants a punch below the German’s ear, which causes him to stagger and go into a clinch. The referee moves forward, but before he can shout ‘break!’ the German has broken the clinch, and goes at the Caucasian with an attack the like of which has not been seen since the Carnera-Sharkey bout in 1933.

  The crowd is dead silent for a few seconds. Then an infernal roar breaks loose. Everybody is slapping the back of the man next to him, and shouting his approval. If the man next to him does not agree with him, then everybody is ready to knock the next man’s block off!

  ‘Hurra!’ shouts the sporting fools in the ringside seats.

  The Caucasian drops his head like a water buffalo about to charge, and drives a steel-hard fist, with terrific force, into the German’s kidney region. The sport-lovers scream in furious protest, naturally. The German’s killing left hand goes to work again. As it lands he emits a short scream. The hand has gone. The noise of its breaking can be heard at the ringside. A thrill of perverse horror runs through the knowledgeable.

  There is no doubt now that the boxers have forgotten all about any prior agreement which may have been reached. They go at one another like wild beasts. Murderous intent is expressed in every bone of their bodies. Chief Mechanic Wolf gets nervous. Tiny and Porta have to hold him back physically from rushing up into the ring with an Mpi, and reminding them of their agreement.

  The roar of the crowd threatens to lift the roof of the ordnance stores. It must be audible over on the other side of the front, 50 miles away.

  The boxers are no longer civilised human beings. They have gone completely ape! Their screams would have made Tarzan green with envy.

  ‘We’d ought to’ve given that Caucasian sod a coupla ’orseshoes in ’is gloves,’ mumbles Tiny, worriedly. ‘Then ’e’d ’ave been certain to ’ave smashed that German bastard’s bleedin’ face in!’

  ‘Hell! Hell!’ curses Porta, viciously. ‘We’re ruined if that bloody German goes and knocks the Caucasian twit for a burton!’

  ‘He promised,’ moans Gregor unhappily. ‘He promised to lose. Rotten German lies, as usual. Propaganda!’

  ‘Jesus,’ cries the Old Man, terrified, as the German lands a terrific punch which lifts the Caucasian from the floor and drapes him on the ropes.

  ‘I’ll cut your soddin’ mother’s tits off! I’ll piss on your grave! Oh you fuckin’ German shit, you!’ roars Tiny, shaking his fist threateningly at the German.

  ‘Lets cut his crazy head off,’ suggests Albert, ashen-faced, ‘an’ send it in a parcel to his wife!’

  Gregor puts his hands together and sends up a silent prayer as the German buries his fist in the Caucasian’s solar plexus. The blow is followed by a terrific uppercut which seems as if it
must rip the man’s head from his shoulders.

  ‘Man born of woman, an’ created in God’s image,’ stammers Albert, hiding his face in his hands. ‘I can’t stand to look at it, man!’

  ‘Shit, we’re ruined! Poor as when we started!’ babbles Barcelona.

  ‘We can’t allow this,’ roars Wolf, excitedly, chewing his cigar to bits. ‘Poor, Goddamit! Poor! When you’re poor they piss on you! An’ you’re dumb! Dumb as snot!’

  Seating breaks under stamping feet. The crowd roars with excitement. Men embrace one another, all differences forgotten, when the German smashes home a left hook, and follows it up like lightning with a right hook with the whole weight of his body behind it. It lands on the Russian’s shoulder.

  ‘Its all over,’ declares Gregor in despair. ‘Now we’re goin’to have to live off Adolf’s tiny, little wage packet!’

  But now the fortunes of the fight seem to change. To the advantage of the Caucasian. The German’s left hand has gone. It cannot stand up to much more. It is already swollen to twice its normal size. He is using his right as much as possible, and protecting the damaged hand. The Caucasian has changed his tactics. Now he is going for the German’s throat.

  ‘Cojonudo, ’ screams Barcelona, happily. ‘He’s gonna get that German shit!’

  Porta opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again, engrossed in the scene in the ring. The Caucasian attacks the German, who has more than enough to do to avoid the whirlwind of punches smashing at him from every angle. He is up against the ropes. A punch crunches into his temple, and he goes down on one knee. Blood streams from his nose. He is bathed in blood. As he rises, a brutal kick stretches him to the canvas.

  ‘Smash ’im! Tramp ’is guts out!’ roars Tiny’s huge, beery bass.