Standing on the head of the stairs looking down at Iullia, the sterile Ernst Rasch felt, for the first time in his clinically proper life, a rush of passion. He needed to have her, there and then, to love, dominate and shield her from the trials ahead.
He pulled her to him and stooped to press his face to hers. His urgency was blinding and swift but she turned and, with surprising strength, broke away from his grasp.
"No, Herr Doctor, not here." She stepped back from him and started to walk away.
Once more rejected and humiliated, Rasch’s confusion turned gradually to anger. The burn of rage simmered in his gut like a malevolent octopus, slowly stretching its tentacles to engulf his entire body. "What do you mean? I thought … ” he spluttered.
Iullia turned around and smiled at him. "Not here, Ernst,” she smouldered. "Come with me to my room where we won’t be observed.”
Rasch wordlessly followed like an obedient puppy and Lilith inwardly cackled with glee.
Chapter 23
Dachau
The SS officer sat behind his desk and looked intently at Smith for some time before talking. He recited in rapid, clipped bursts of unintelligible German what seemed to be a well-rehearsed speech.
Smith stood before him at the attention and stared blankly ahead, saying nothing. He didn’t understand what was being said and felt uneasy and confused, but there was no way he was going to let it show to the condescending imbecile seated opposite.
Dazed by the maelstrom of events over the last couple of weeks that had been enough to keep any man off-balance, to find himself a prisoner in a concentration camp seemed to be the cream on the top of a bloody awful cake.
Smith disliked the German officer on sight. He knew the type; more at home with a typewriter than a rifle. The troops who had escorted him to the camp had been of a different cut to the supercilious idiot behind the desk in front of him. The four of them - an officer, a dreadfully scarred NCO and two privates - had been professional and practised in their handling of him as a prisoner, their insistent force tempered with courtesy and humanity. Their uniforms were frayed and shabby but the weapons they bore were pristine and cared for like their own children. They hardly spoke to Smith on the journey except to offer him food and drink. The officer in charge had asked a few questions in accent-free English but in the main they had left Smith to his own thoughts.
In stark contrast, the camp guards were surly and abrupt. Polished and well turned-out, they took him off his escort’s hands at the main gate of the camp, and the shouting and browbeating started almost immediately. Smith didn’t understand what it was they wanted him to do and the resulting inaction led to a shove from one of the guards. His reaction was quicker than his thoughts and the SS guard was laid out in one punch.
The downed man’s comrades pounced on him at once, wrestling him to the ground to put the boot in. He curled into as tight a ball as was possible as the Germans kicked him repeatedly. The struggle with the three guards stopped abruptly and he looked up to see the officer who had delivered him shouting at the camp guards. Grey faced and ramrod straight, they were obviously not used to such a verbal barrage and sheepishly turned to pick him up when the officer had finished.
Smith nodded his unsaid thanks and turned to the gate. He would like to have said more, to communicate his gratitude, but it seemed inappropriate, so he didn’t.
He read the words on the gate and wondered what they meant. "Arbeit macht frei”.
The sentence didn’t make any sense to him and he wished he’d taken more time to learn the language of his enemy before he’d let himself be dropped into its lap.
They marched him, two in front and two behind, around and to the right of a large drill square. On its left were the long lines of barracks that made up the camp. Armed guards held cruel-looking dogs that snarled hungrily at the running lines of prisoners. The inmates were emaciated, downtrodden and dressed in a bizarre striped uniform. They kept their eyes to the ground; not daring to look a guard in the eye in case it attracted the unwanted attention that could lead to a beating or worse. The oppressive air of terror filled his nostrils and Smith felt a knot tighten in his gut. What the hell had he done to deserve this?
On their right was another set of buildings running adjacent to the main square. They marched to the end of the block and halted outside the door. One of the guards turned to him unexpectedly and said in English, "So, Englishman, this is your new home. Welcome to the Bunker”
Smith was at first taken aback by the English and another knot tightened as he contemplated the connotations of a building being called the Bunker.
He was led inside to an office where the self-satisfied looking officer sat behind his desk. A small cardboard sign told him that he now stood in front of Obersturm Parzich. Smith guessed that he was in charge so, in an attempt to point out that he was a soldier, Smith stood to attention.
After the initial speech in German he turned to the English speaking guard.
"Did you understand that Englishman?" asked the guard.
"No, not one bit. What did he say?”
"SS Obersturmführer Parzich welcomes you to Dachau concentration camp. You will be here until you are deemed no more to be a threat to the Greater German Reich. Your status as an honour prisoner entitles you to wear civilian clothes and to keep a civilian haircut. Your cell will not be locked but, believe me Englishman, escape is impossible. You will not be required to work. You will obey the camp rules at all times, and although you are not subject to any of the camp punishments, any attempt at escape and you will be shot.”
"Honour prisoner?" He was confused, "What ... what is an honour prisoner?”
"Honour prisoners are the politicians, religious leaders and royalty who are sent to the Bunker to sit out the rest of the war. Be thankful, life outside these walls is hard and unpleasant. Your connection to the Romanian nobility has saved you, Englishman. You are a VIP prisoner and thus will be treated differently. The Jews and the Communists in the rest of the camp do not enjoy the same standard of living as you will. Even the SS prisoners next door endure a harsher treatment. I will translate for you if the need arises but I think your time here will go better if you learn German.”
Obersturmführer Parzich didn’t like being left out of the loop and he sneered something to Smith’s interpreter.
"Obersturm Parzich asks if you saw the sign on the gate as you came in.”
"Yes, I did. 'Arbeit macht frei', I think it said."
"Indeed,” he nodded, "Liberty through work. I’m afraid, though, that as you won’t be required to work here, the Obersturmführer thinks your liberty will be a long way off.” He delivered the last line without a smile whereas Parzich banged his desk in delight and laughed raucously. As if on cue, he stopped laughing and nodded to the translator.
"I’ll take you to your cell now.” He turned and shot his hand up in salute. "Heil Hitler!”
The young officer lazily lifted his hand in return and looked down at some paperwork on his desk. Smith was dismissed. The guard followed him out and nudged him in the right direction.
The corridor was narrow and the cells were small. They stopped outside an empty one at the end of the row.
"Englishman, a word of advice. You attacked one of my Kammeraden earlier.”
"He attacked me, from behind.”
"It does not matter. The fact is you struck a Watchman. Normally you would have been shot. You were lucky. If that Waffen SS officer hadn’t been there … ” He shook his head slowly and let the statement dangle before carrying on. "The man you hit is also the NCO in charge of the Block we are in. Be careful of him. His brutality is outweighed only by his capacity for hatred.”
"I’ll bear it in mind." He paused as if to consider something. "Where did you learn such good English?”
"Englishman, I think it would be wise to forget my English and concentrate on your problems with Oberscharführer Müller." The guard walked past him and into the cell. "Your bunk ha
s blankets and a pillow. The washrooms are at the other end and the canteen is around the corner. The cells are not locked and you are free to roam the building. As Obersturm Parzich explained earlier, you are not required to do any work. You are, though, required to clean your own cell and cooperate in any form deemed necessary. Passive resistance will be treated as sabotage and you could find yourself wearing the striped uniform in another part of the camp. You do not want that, Englander, take my word on it. Any questions?”
A thousand flitted through his head but none found their way through to his mouth, so he contented himself with asking for the guard's name in case he needed a translator.
"Heinz, Heinz Inselman. Don’t forget what I said about the Oberscharführer.”
Although he hadn’t smiled the whole time, Smith felt a connection to him. The episode with Oberscharführer Müller seemed distant and unimportant, and despite the warning, he felt quite safe in his status as an Honour Prisoner. A mere NCO wouldn’t be able to harm him, he was sure.
He surveyed the cell. On the wall were the rules he had to follow, written in German, and by his bed was a small table. It all looked clean and the blankets folded into a bed block gave it a military edge that Smith felt he could adjust to. Despite his situation, he felt strangely confident and on known ground.
He sat on the bed and thought back to what had happened the last month. His brother had betrayed him to the Germans, Michael had left him to die as soon as he’d found what he needed, and Maria had turned out to be on the German side too.
He couldn’t remember much after they had found the book, but he sometimes had vague flashbacks of hinged swords, sex with Iullia and huge dogs. All very peculiar and most disconcerting.
Could it get any worse, he asked himself. Surely not. However, he was dreadfully wrong. That night Oberscharführer Müller and his cronies came for him as he slept. Five of them raided his cell carrying truncheons. They dragged him from his bed and beat him pitilessly until he was knocked out cold. They woke him with a bucket of cold water and started over again, this time concentrating more on the stomach and kidneys to prolong consciousness.
When they were finished, Müller knelt on his chest to discharge his fermented threats into Smith’s face. Battered and exhausted, with one eye closed and a nose and mouth that seemed to have grown into each other, Smith didn’t have the energy to turn his face from the German’s sour bluster, and so he lay under him and endured the spittle shower.
His head was pounding, his ribs seemed to be stabbing his lungs and the dull ache of fractures pulsed through his arms and hands. He knew what Müller had said. His German was non-existent but the message was clear and Smith prayed with his whole heart that he was wrong.
Chapter 24
Transylvania
They had spent nearly a fortnight learning to ride horses. Von Struck, Rohleder, Gruhn and Nau could already ride so they had travelled with Smith to Dachau. Henning, Muschinski and Grand were left behind to prepare for the coming months in the field with the Count’s men. Though Schneiderat could ride, he had stayed with Rasch simply because there was no need for so many men to accompany Smith up to Dachau.
Rasch, who had been forced to learn to ride by his outdoors loving father as a child, taught them how to saddle and ride their mounts and how to take the due care and attention of a horse in the field.
Fortunately, the 22nd SS Cavalry Division was due to be stationed in Hungary as part of the coercive force sent to ensure Hungary’s sustained collaboration. Rasch telephoned Himmler to request mounts and the appropriate tack for the troop and suggested raiding the 22nd’s stores.
Himmler had been beside himself as Rasch told him of the plan to teach the men to ride and had approved the request on the spot. His imagination running riot, he envisaged the Bolshevik hordes being vanquished by mounted SS by daylight and night stalking vampires during the hours of darkness. The 22nd Cavalry Division was due in March but Himmler had the saddles - the old Armeesattel 25 models with the new issue saddle bags - sent down with the special SS issue Cavalry webbing for the men. The M1934 saddle bags were situated behind the saddle and held all the equipment they would need to be self-sufficient in the field for a number of days.
The supplies for the vampires came in on the train with the first prisoners. The first lessons were given a day later.
Andreas Schneiderat picked for himself a five year old brown mare called Stephanie. She had a long fringe, huge eyes and long lashes that batted at him almost seductively when he patted her neck. The stable boy, who knew a horse expert when he saw one, had nodded approval at his choice. Andreas had been very careful in his selection of a mount, knowing only too well that the choice of horse could well be a matter of life and death in the months to come.
By the time Von Struck had returned from Dachau, the whole squad could ride and look after their mounts. He had yet to pick a horse for himself but he had no special needs unlike Henning, who, as Rohleder pointed out, needed a draft horse just for his rations, so he let Schneiderat pick one out for him.
Their first patrol as a troop was like a schoolboy's outing. Nau and Gruhn had raced each other for a crate of Astra beer, to be bought on their return to Germany, only to be beaten by Berndt Grand and his huge gelding, Tiger. Rohleder had named his mount after the madam who ran a field brothel outside of Kiev, Madam Le Peau. The joke that Rohleder was finally getting a free ride from Madam La Peau after all these years as a loyal customer, had them laughing for over a half an hour. Even Rasch seemed affected by the liberty and pleasure they experienced on that, the first of a thousand patrols. The sinister cobwebs of that January morning in the barracks, and Jurgen Muntner’s transformation, were all but forgotten for the few hours it took to ride their route.
Von Struck rode a white mare called Aphrodite. She was, he had been told, even-tempered, swift when the need arose and, above all, experienced in battle. The stables had acquired her from the famed Romanian Calarasi Regiment and she had seen service at the sharp end of the Russian guns.
While the men raced and amused themselves on the patrol, Von Struck thought back to the Englander they had transported to Dachau. His dealings with the British were limited to the few prisoners he had met and the English teacher at his school. He felt no hatred towards his enemy but he was curious as to what he was doing here. Although he hadn’t asked the circumstances of his capture, Von Struck felt that the man had somehow been betrayed by the Count, or Maria, or both.
Rasch had called him in and shown him the unconscious Smith on the bed. His face and body were ripped as if from an animal's claws and tubes ran from his arm into a suspended bottle at his side. However, it wasn’t his wounds that shocked Von Struck the most, it was the expression on his face.
His features were frozen in an articulation of sustained horror. It was as if he were caught in the middle of a scream and transformed into stone. The expression told Von Struck everything he needed to know about what the Englishman had endured.
Rasch appeared calm and untouched by the man’s soundless anguish.
"He’s a spy, Markus. He is also the Count’s brother. Maria has assured me that he will be ready to travel tomorrow, though I must admit that I find that hard to believe myself.”
Rasch looked once again at Smith, shook his head and carried on,
”He is to be transported to Dachau and delivered to the camp authorities for processing … ”
The word 'processing' suggested unsaid, dire nuances to Von Struck.
"Do you speak English, Markus?" he enquired.
"Yes, well, school English, why?”
"Do not make any attempt at conversation with this man. Just deliver him to the camp and come back to continue your mission.”
"And what exactly is my mission here, Herr Doctor? It seems that we’ve accomplished all that we came to do, and more. Is there something the Reichsführer SS forgot to mention at my briefing?”
Rasch deliberated for a second before speaking. "You, tha
t is you and your squad, will go into the field with the Count’s men. By night, they will carry on with their role of spreading mayhem and panic behind Russian lines. By day they will rest and hide. It is your task to provide security for the Count’s men during their rest phase. You will be mounted on horses provided by Count Blestamatul, I take it you ride, Markus?”
"I do, but I’m not sure of the men.”
”A minor problem. Take with you three men who can already ride and the rest will stay here to learn. On your return you can take your men out on horseback and hopefully, within two weeks, you’ll be killing Communists for the Fatherland again.” Rasch endowed on Von Struck one of his abysmal smiles in an attempt to convey his good will, and turned to stalk out.
Von Struck looked at the Smith again. The resemblance to the Count, apart from the hair colour, was uncanny. There was no doubting the kinship. The wounds were dry and slowly healing but, thought Von Struck, the scars of what he had endured would be much worse inside.
The next day, as pledged, Smith was waiting for them at the main door with Maria. He was pale and the welts on his face looked raw and brittle in the frosty air, but he stood erect and, Von Struck thought, somehow angrily resolute. Of the terror he had born as he lay comatose there was no sign.
He had spoken with Maria and walked to the horse that one of the faceless minions who worked the stables had brought for him. The plan was to ride on horseback to the train station and from there with the Reichsbahn up to Dachau.
"Boss, he looks as bad as I do,” whispered Rohleder.
"Let’s just get him to Dachau and get back," Von Struck answered curtly and rode towards Smith.
"Good day, Englishman. My name is Standartenführer Von Struck. I will accompany you to Germany. I will dispense with the handcuffs but if you prove difficult, we will have to use them. Are you going to be difficult?”
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