Winter Men

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  A grenade landed in front of him, and a dense cloud of dust bloomed over the street. He penetrated the dust cloud and entered a thick mist of sand and grit. He saw a head emerging behind an overturned horse cart. There was a whiny, metallic hiss and a bullet grazed August’s helmet. I can’t die now, he thought, as he fell to the ground. More heads appeared. Gun barrels leaned against the walls. An arm rose in the air and waved at him. It was Reichel, his lieutenant. August got to his feet and sprinted the rest of the way, faster than he’d ever thought possible.

  Reichel grabbed him, but he didn’t stop running. He had to get away—all he was thinking was that he couldn’t die, not yet—but the lieutenant clutched him firmly, and August finally dropped to the ground behind a pile of debris. Reichel let go of him.

  “Falkendorf. Get him out of here.”

  The sergeant picked him up. Dangling limply in the big man’s arms, August began to cry. Not that he wanted to; he simply couldn’t hold back his tears. Falkendorf stopped, put him down, and gave a mighty swing. August fell backward, reeling with pain from the punch. Falkendorf then yanked him to his feet and dragged him away, shouting that war wasn’t for tender souls and that he’d have to get his shit together if he wanted to survive.

  Kiev fell that day. As evening approached, Reichel guided the platoon to a house that seemed relatively intact.

  “Go to the basement,” the lieutenant commanded.

  Four guards were posted on the ground floor of the house, while the rest of the men collapsed in the damp, moldy-smelling basement. The platoon had lost three men in addition to Christian, and eight had been wounded.

  August sat down, his back to the clammy wall. He tipped his head back and stared at the gloomy concrete ceiling that matched his mood. Although explosions continued to rock the city, the gray mass above their heads secured them—or at least made them feel secure.

  “Hotel Kiev.” Rolf Mertz showed his crooked teeth as he smiled at August. “Rumor has it that our headquarters are at the Hotel Continental. I guess our officers are stuffing themselves with caviar as they gambol in comfy beds.”

  August wasn’t in the mood to talk, least of all with Mertz. He’d mocked August, calling him a worthless soldier. He knew exactly what the others thought of his actions today, but he couldn’t change what he’d done. He’d never be a good soldier, he knew that, but he was trying. He did the best he could, but it just wasn’t enough. He turned from Mertz and looked at Stanislav, who was already asleep. Impressive, August thought. He closed his eyes but knew he’d be unable to sleep. He tried to think of something pleasant. Karin, the family’s servant girl, came to mind. He daydreamed about her often.

  Swiftly moving boots hurried down the stairs, and a major from the pioneer troops rushed into the basement. “Out, all of you. We need all hands on deck.”

  “But the men need rest,” Reichel said, stumbling to his feet.

  “It’ll have to wait.”

  “But—”

  “The city’s burning. You’ll have to catch up on your beauty sleep later.” The major kicked at Stan’s boots, and Stan opened his eyes in confusion.

  August overheard the officer’s short exchange with Reichel: One explosion after another had left Kiev in flames. Hotel Continental had been blown up, and hundreds were dead. Before the Russians left, they’d distributed mines all over the city, and the flames from the detonations were threatening to spread. The major explained that they’d lost an entire company when a bomb exploded while they were putting out a fire.

  For the next five days, August and his companions became firemen instead of combat troops. Meanwhile, the fighting continued outside the city. On September 26, after ten days of fighting, the last Russian troops capitulated east of Kiev. Reichel announced that four Russian armies had been decimated and more than half a million soldiers were surrounded and taken prisoner. August found that hard to believe but soon had other things to think about; their next target was Poltava, and after that Kharkov, somewhere between Kiev and Lubny. They met a dispatch rider from the Sixteenth Panzer Division, who told them the story. German troops had captured a Jewish saboteur in Kiev as he was slashing fire hoses with a knife. From then on, the Jews were blamed for every explosion in the city. As a result, all the Jews in Kiev had been required to meet at selected addresses under the pretense of being transferred to work camps. They were asked to bring their documents, money, and warm clothing. This happened on Yom Kippur, the holiest of all the Jewish holy days, the day of forgiveness between individuals and between people and God, the day when God determines everyone’s fate.

  “They were led, one hundred at a time, to an enormous ravine called Babi Yar,” the rider explained.

  Mertz grinned. “Sounds like a Russian nursery rhyme.” He began to sing: “Babi Yar, Babi Yar.”

  Rochus Gildehaus jabbed him in the rib with his elbow, and he stopped.

  “The children.” The dispatch rider had tears in his eyes, and his voice had grown unsteady. “They didn’t even shoot the children. They just threw them into the ravine.”

  “Who did?” Gildehaus asked.

  “Special task forces from the SS, people from SD, a platoon from a police battalion. And the Ukrainians.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Yes, for Christ’s sake. I watched them line up at the edge of the ravine, naked. I watched them fall into the ravine, dead and wounded alike. I saw how the soldiers beat the survivors to death with shovels as they waded around in a sea of bodies. And I saw . . .” He couldn’t go on. His face was pale, his eyes vacant.

  August couldn’t bear to hear any more and wanted to take a few steps back. But something compelled him to stay within the circle of attentive men, a circle that continued to grow. An illogical craving. A craving that made him want to know everything about these cruelties, a craving that compelled him to stay—despite his aversion to hearing a story he didn’t wish to know. It was a craving that sought a bizarre gratification.

  When the dispatch rider finally continued with his story, an image of evil took shape—evil converted into unspeakable acts. The executions had lasted from dawn until late at night over the course of several days. When they were finished, the only thing that returned from Babi Yar were trucks filled with the clothing of more than thirty thousand people.

  What the hell does filling ravines with dead Jews have to do with war? August wondered as the group slowly broke apart. Sure, in the Hitler Youth they’d been inculcated with the notion that Jews were subhuman. And of course the Jews had too much power in Europe, especially in Germany, but he saw no reason to hate them. Or murder them.

  Gildehaus put an arm around the distraught rider’s shoulder and gently guided him away. He clambered slowly onto his motorcycle. Without a word of farewell, he put his bike in gear and headed down the road.

  August wanted to cry. He tried to force his brain not to think of what he’d just heard. But his brain wouldn’t obey, and images of naked, frightened people and bloody bodies filled his head. No one cried or pleaded, but empty faces stared at him as if he were the guilty one. He was shaken, and the feeling spread through his body. He trembled at the thought that his own countrymen—Germans—had done such a thing. People from the same country as Schiller and Goethe. People from Hamburg, from Cologne, Stuttgart, and Munich. People like him.

  Hamburg, Germany, October 4, 1941

  They went outside. Gerhard glanced up at the three-foot-tall clock on the façade of the main entrance. It was quarter to two. Von Amrath lit a cigarette and offered one to Gerhard. They smoked in silence. He could tell that von Amrath was tense, and he could understand why; he wasn’t particularly excited himself about the meeting ahead of them. He couldn’t help but notice how von Amrath’s lips tightened around his cigarette every time he took a puff. His face seemed tired, and the smile around his eyes was gone. Gerhard noted how his own hand shook when he tossed his cigarette on the ground. To draw attention away from his hand, he crushed the butt emphatic
ally with the toe of his boot into the cobblestoned square, swiveling his heel from side to side in large arcs.

  They’d arrived at the Hannoverscher Station well ahead of time. Too much time, really. Gerhard’s work had once been a distraction, but suddenly it had become something concrete, an insistent reminder of what awaited. A cold gust swept across the square, and he buttoned his black uniform jacket up to his throat. He pulled up his red armband, which kept sliding down. It irritated him that he hadn’t properly cinched it and that he still wasn’t used to the uniform.

  When they’d walked beneath the Roman arches at the main entrance, he had expected the place to be buzzing with activity and life. He’d imagined suitcases and other baggage stacked on the platforms that divided the various tracks, sweaty railroad workers loading and unloading cargo from the trains, signals shifting from green to red and back again, conductors blowing their whistles, and kiosks selling fruit and flowers at the entrance. But the station was terrifyingly silent and the signals turned off, and the few freight cars he saw were all empty. A man in tattered clothing had approached them carrying a bundle, and when von Amrath asked him where all the trains were, he’d shrugged and hurried on. Von Amrath looked at Gerhard with a puzzled expression on his face.

  A black car parked nearby and a chauffeur stepped out. With long strides he went around to the rear door and opened it. A man of medium height climbed out; his face was pockmarked, and he looked to be about thirty years old. The chauffeur continued around to the second rear door, from which a slightly older man with a fedora in his hand appeared. He put the hat on and glanced about confidently. As the men started toward Gerhard and von Amrath, the pockmarked man remained a few steps behind the other. The elder of the two introduced himself as Detective Chief Superintendent Otto Glienicke of the Gestapo, before offhandedly remarking that the other man—who carried a brown leather case under his arm—was Martin Hornow. Glienicke was a tall man, taller than Gerhard, with a stiff manner and a voice that commanded one’s attention. He wore black leather gloves, and both men had donned trench coats.

  “We’re all here, then,” a high-pitched voice said right behind them. Gerhard hadn’t heard anyone approaching, and they turned around in alarm.

  “Heil Hitler.” A hand was offered, and they shook it firmly. “Franz Fuchs, German Reich Railways.”

  Gerhard watched as Glienicke slowly removed his gloves. With his opposite hand’s thumb and index finger, he clutched the tip of his pinkie and loosened the glove in three short tugs: one hard tug, then a gentler one, and finally another hard tug before the finger emerged from its hole. He moved on to the other fingers, then handed his glove to Hornow, who was standing behind him; he repeated this procedure with the other glove as if he had all the time in the world. It was clear that he’d performed this little routine often because he did it with the meticulous precision that comes only as the result of practice. When Hornow had received the second glove, the gray-haired chief superintendent removed a shiny cigarette case from his coat pocket.

  Fuchs took the four men on a tour of the premises. The empty platforms and the large train station with its four towers reminded Gerhard of an old fortress abandoned by its defenders because of some epidemic. Between the towers curved an enormous barrel roof of wood and glass, which provided shelter for much of the platform. Gerhard noticed that it smelled of diesel. It wasn’t the same smell as at the harbor, but a sharper, more pervasive odor that occasionally tickled his nostrils.

  “It’s perfect,” Glienicke said. “It has everything we need.” He had difficulty concealing his enthusiasm as he continued. “It’s centrally located and yet remote, so we can avoid getting too much attention, and there’s room, plenty of room, for all the people.” He threw up his hands and turned toward the four men on the platform.

  The man was right, Gerhard thought. The station was ideal. It was in the center of Hamburg, close to downtown and the harbor, but isolated on the small island of Kleiner Grasbrook. People didn’t walk here unless they had an errand to do, and the high walls on either side of the railway tracks would keep the curious from seeing in. He glanced at von Amrath, who nodded curtly to convey his agreement with Glienicke’s remarks.

  “Who is in charge of this operation?” von Amrath asked to fill the silence.

  “Claus Göttsche from the Gestapo’s Jewish Department. But we can thank Kaufmann for the fact that they’ll be removed.”

  “Ah, Kaufmann,” von Amrath said, without revealing his true feelings about Hamburg’s regional party leader. Karl Kaufmann, who had controlled the city and the entire district of Hamburg since 1933, had long been concerned about a lack of housing. Thousands were homeless as a result of Allied bombing campaigns in the residential districts, but now he’d come up with a solution. He would simply get rid of Hamburg’s Jews so their homes could be given to the Germans. Von Amrath had clashed with the capricious Kaufmann on several occasions and had never had anything good to say about him when talking to Gerhard. Kaufmann was the type of man who ensured that the entire machine ran smoothly. It was men of his ilk who made Hitler’s dreams possible.

  Fuchs scribbled diligently in his notebook, then paused to look up. “Are you planning to move only the Jews? It’s easier to recognize them now with the yellow stars on their chests.” He smiled at Glienicke, who ignored his ingratiating style.

  “The Jews and the gypsies,” Glienicke replied promptly. He hastened to add proudly, “But we’ve already thrown most of the Sinti and gypsies out of the country.”

  And after that it’ll be those with crooked teeth, then the left-handed, and then those with an overbite, Gerhard thought. He pictured people on the platform, their suitcases stuffed with all the possessions they could carry. There would be no one to wave good-bye to them, since all of their family members would be on the same train. It would be just the Gestapo and SS on the platform, and all they ever waved were rubber truncheons.

  “We won’t be in carambolage with other railway traffic here,” Fuchs said, addressing each of the men.

  “Excellent,” Glienicke said. “Excellent.” Without looking at Hornow, he extended his hand back toward him, and the gloves appeared in his palm. Following a stern “heil Hitler,” the two men vacated the train platform, and Gerhard soon heard the squeal of the car’s wheels on the cobblestones. Fuchs remained standing, apparently unsure whether he needed permission to go. Von Amrath intuited his hesitation and gave him permission to leave. They watched him head down the platform and vanish through a side door. Some time passed before either of them spoke.

  “And when do they expect the first transport?” Gerhard said, giving his superior a questioning glance.

  “In three weeks.”

  “Oh, we’ll have our hands full, then,” Gerhard stammered.

  Von Amrath nodded without looking at him.

  Gerhard would have to translate this experience as swiftly as possible into numbers, breaking down reality into simple figures. In his world things were easier to deal with if they were written in numbers. He would have to convert people into figures, and he would have to begin his calculations immediately.

  “How many will fit in one compartment?”

  “Compartment?” snorted von Amrath. “They’ll be shipped in stock and freight cars.”

  Gerhard stared at him, dumbfounded. “But then we’re treating them just like animals.”

  “Many people believe that’s exactly what they are.” Von Amrath began to walk toward the exit, and Gerhard followed him.

  “And you?”

  “You know very well what I think about this,” he said angrily.

  “Walter, we can’t do this.” Gerhard stopped, throwing his hands up in despair. He watched von Amrath’s retreating back as it continued past the enormous “Departure” sign near the exit.

  “Carambolage,” von Amrath said. “When the hell did the national railway begin speaking French?”

  Near Belgorod, Russia, October 23, 1941

 
; A rusted chain stretched across the uneven forest trail. A dilapidated sign inked with black letters hung from the center of it.

  “Whorehouse, 1,500 feet,” Mertz said laconically.

  “That’s what it says?” August instantly regretted asking the question. The others laughed. He didn’t know whether they were laughing at Mertz’s comment or him.

  “Good, my crabs could use some company.” Bernd Carstens’s remark now drew the laughs, and August was relieved.

  Mertz put his arm around August’s shoulder. “You know what people do in a whorehouse, Blondie?”

  August tried twisting free of Mertz’s forceful grip, but Mertz only squeezed harder. He licked August’s neck. August smelled the foul odor of Mertz’s yellow teeth.

  “Leave him alone, Mertz. Go bother someone else,” said Rochus Gildehaus, a powerfully built cabinetmaker from Bad Oldesloe, giving Mertz a shove. Laughing, Mertz tumbled forward before regaining his balance.

  “You two don’t need a whorehouse. You’ve got each other.”

  “Shut your mouth, Mertz.” Lieutenant Reichel had come up beside them. “If this shitty map is right, then we’re almost out of the woods. We should be able to see a city soon.”

  The city consisted of nothing more than a few abandoned houses. They weren’t arranged in any kind of order, and instead looked as though they’d been dropped out of the bomb bay of some plane. The handful of buildings hardly deserved to be called a city, but they had nevertheless been given a name.

  They took shelter in an old cabin. It had been a week since they’d last slept indoors. August could hardly believe the world’s greatest army was sleeping under the open sky in below-freezing temperatures. It was clear that the grass-roofed cabin had once housed people, horses, and goats, and the soldiers cursed the former residents who had taken their animals with them, therefore depriving the men of a decent meal. The people had lived at one end of the house. In the center of the room was a small fireplace, a kind of clay oven that allowed the heat to spread; a dented metal pan hung from a hook above the fire pit. A table, four stools, and two beds whose mattresses were feed sacks stuffed with straw made up the sparse furnishings; one corner of the room seemed to be a shrine with religious icons on the wall, crosses, and tapers in a three-armed candelabra. On the other side of the house were three stalls where the animals had lived. Now the little cabin provided shelter to what remained of the platoon.