She had wanted to scream and shout. Every muscle, every sinew of her body, every nerve ending had seemed to explode at the same glorious moment. It was a crazy, stupid moment, one that if discovered would have ended up with them both facing the firing squad. She recalled the story her father had told her about the poor girl pregnant with the Frenchman’s child. She trembled with fear as she realised the sheer magnitude of the danger they had placed themselves in. No matter how good the feeling, how exciting the moment, it had been senseless.
Rosa looked over at her father in conversation with the commandant. What would have become of him? Would he too have been castigated for failing to control his daughter? Perhaps he too would have faced the German rifles with a blindfold. She had been selfish, headstrong. It would not, could not happen again.
Horace was working on the far side of the camp, the door to the workshops clearly visible. He tried not to look, tried not to remember that wonderful moment of passion. It was difficult. He pictured inside the workshop, the machines, the dirty bench. It was still so fresh in his mind, so vivid. He wished he’d been working somewhere else. Why did she have to be there, walking around as if she had not a care in the world, smiling, laughing with her father and the guards? And those riding trousers and the beautiful shape of her thighs. Each time he lifted the sledgehammer his eyes scoured the camp, pinpointing the exact location of Rosa. She was like a magnet, almost hypnotic. Rosa toured the camp with her father, never far from his side as he checked on the men drilling into the marble, and the civilian workers handling the explosives charges that would break the huge slabs apart.
Several times they went into the camp offices and twice the camp commandant came out and joined them on an impromptu inspection. On one occasion the commandant and Rosa’s father came over to where Horace and Garwood were working. Rosa had lingered near the door to the offices. This was it, thought Horace, the cold shoulder, the end of a sweet but oh, so short relationship.
Lunchtime came round. It was as if the German guards had analysed the mood of the prisoners all morning, assessing the dangers of any potential escapees. Once again, because of the geographical location of the camp, they decided they were minimal and the four guards patrolling the area became one. They were hungry and bored, and the pattern was familiar. The lone guard would sit on a log and five minutes later one of his colleagues would bring him coffee and a snack. For one hour he would sit alone, and sheer boredom and the heat of the sun would send him to sleep within 20 minutes.
John Knight noticed him first. ‘He’s kipping, Jim. Whose turn is it today?’
The POWs drill had been well practised. As the guard drifted into his peaceful slumber the prisoners could take a break too. There was no official lunch break, no food, but a sleeping guard meant the prisoners could down tools and take a rest. Some would chance forty winks and with one prisoner effectively on watch against the guard waking up or anyone coming out of the offices unexpectedly, it meant they could relax for a while.
‘I’m not tired, John. I’ll take watch,’ replied Horace.
Knight was a little puzzled. It had been Horace’s turn only three days back.
‘But you took your…’
‘I’ll do it, John. Hush your mouth; I’m not in the mood.’
Knight shrugged his shoulders.
‘Suit yourself, Jim. But I’m telling you, you need to take it easy.’
‘Maybe, but not today. Give the signal.’
Knight shrugged his shoulders. Like a turf accountant’s tick tack man, he gave a series of hand movements that indicated Horace was the man on watch. The men settled down. A few of them chatted among themselves; most sought a spot in the shade and closed their eyes. Horace’s eyes scanned the camp. Rosa was nowhere to be seen. Likely having lunch with her father and the commandant, he thought as he took the opportunity to stretch his legs. He walked over to the guard whose mouth lolled open, a trickle of saliva rolling down his chin. Two arms cuddled his Karabiner 98k rifle like a sleeping baby.
Thoughts of escape were never far from Horace’s mind. He’d been instrumental in negotiations to form an escape committee. Only last week they’d had their first official meeting. To a man they all agreed that the very idea of escape was preposterous. The Germans had chosen the location of the camps well. Security wasn’t tight because it didn’t need to be. No perimeter fence, a handful of guards, and hundreds of miles of hostile, German-occupied land. Impossible.
Was suicide a more viable option? Surely it couldn’t be any worse than this existence? They’d heard the stories about the Japanese kamikaze pilots, hell bent on taking as many of the enemy with them as they could in a mission of death for the glory of the emperor. He’d laughed at how small minded and stupid they were, and yet here he was thinking exactly the same way. It would be suicide, but how many Germans could he take out before they overpowered him?
‘Don’t do it,’ a voice behind him whispered, ‘you’ll be killed.’ Rosa tugged him by the shirt sleeve, conscious of the sleeping guard.
‘Do what?’ he asked. Rosa looked into his eyes. She knew exactly what he was thinking. He could smell her now, a sweet feminine perspiration mixed with a delicate perfume.
‘You have a life, Jim – a life after the war.’
Horace shrugged his shoulders. ‘And when will that be, Rosa? How many more months or years do I have to spend in here?’
‘The war is turning Jim. The Germans are fighting on too many fronts.’
‘“The Germans”, Rosa? Why do you say “the Germans”? They are your men, but you speak as if you are not one of them. We were told your father is German.’
Rosa looked over Horace’s shoulder; the guard was still snoring.
‘Come.’ She walked away out of earshot of the guard. Horace followed. She looked angry as she turned to speak.
‘I am not German. Do not ever call me a German again.’
Horace stuttered ‘But you speak German. You…’
‘The Germans marched into Silesia many years ago. They raped and murdered my ancestors; the pure blood of my family stains the soil of Silesia. Silesia will never be a part of Germany no matter what the politicians and the generals say.’
Horace stayed silent as Rosa continued, tears in her eyes.
‘Silesia has been part of Poland since time immemorial, but we have always felt a deep independence, a country within a country so to speak, not unlike Scotland in your country. Silesia has its own language, its own culture. My parents taught me the traditions and history of our land as a small child.’
Her eyes glazed over; she stared right through him.
‘But alas, it seems man must always conquer, must always kill and must always want more land, more power, more territory. It seems our small country has always been involved in some sort of conflict. In recent times the country has changed hands many times. Poland then Germany, a brief spell of independence and then we belonged to Germany again.
‘1871 was a dark year in Silesian history. In 1871 the Germans forbade us to speak our own language, play our traditional instruments or even wear our own clothes. They made everything associated with past Silesia a crime, as if they wanted to wipe everything Silesian off the face of the earth. They brought in thousands of German nationals to dilute the population. They brought them in to teach in the schools; they took the best jobs in the town halls and any prominent position in Silesia was taken by a German official given money to relocate. We were in effect second class citizens in our own country.’
‘You are Polish?’
Rosa shook her head.
‘I am Silesian, neither Polish nor German. The Silesians rebelled against the German occupiers many time. Each time we were crushed with a brutal force. It is the German way. Whatever you feel you are suffering at the hands of the Germans, my people have experienced it all before. And now they do it all over again. They massacre anyone and any country that stands in their way. The stories filtering through from Russia and Poland – an
d indeed from our friends and family in Germany opposed to the Nazi regime – you do not want to hear.’
She turned and stood before him. Her face was flushed red, a tear trickled from her eye and Horace followed its slow trail down her delicate soft skin.
‘I’m not sure if I believe them all… they are so bad. Tales of women and children and…’
She broke off. Her hand covered her mouth. She took a minute to compose herself. She continued, the tears flowing freely now, dropping onto the dusty ground where Horace watched them form a small damp hollow in the parched earth.
‘However much you hate your captors, Jim, I hate them just as much.’
Horace stood in stunned silence. A thousand thoughts ran through his head.
‘I would simply ask of you never to think of me as a German.’
He thought of the sex in the workshop and how at one point he had hated the female he was thrusting into.
‘I am a Silesian and I am Jewish.’
‘You are what?’
‘My family is Jewish.’
‘But your father… the camp, he is the owner and…’
‘The name Rauchbach is not German, Jim. It’s from Israel.’
Horace was shaking his head, thinking that it wasn’t possible. Rosa’s father was working with the Germans; he seemed to be respected, almost looked up to at times.
Rosa continued with her stunning revelation.
‘It was my great grandfather Isaac who first brought the family to Silesia. Even back then he sensed how dangerous it was to be Jewish. He was a wonderful man by all accounts and never forced any religious practices on his children; he allowed them to make up their own minds. My father’s father passed on the same ideals to his sons and daughters. Father made up his own mind and when Hitler came to power he cleared the house of anything that told of our past. Even the photographs of his parents on a visit back home to the Holy Land were burned. Books, small trinkets, Hebrew teachings and clothes – everything went into a big bonfire in the back garden. It was just as well; the Nazis made a visit to the house when they took over the quarry. Father knew exactly what it was they were looking for but he was one step ahead of them.’
Horace thought of how the beautiful girl standing in front of him was no longer a plaything, no longer a piece of meat. She’d taken on a new look, her features seemed more delicate, her face kinder.
‘And I’m on your side whatever happens.’
She was no longer the enemy. She could be trusted; he could talk to her.
She took his hands. ‘Listen to me, Jim, please.’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘I hate the bastards, Jim… hate them.’
He thought about escape and how this girl might be willing to help him.
Rosa looked him in the eyes then looked down at their hands. In an instant she broke the grip, looked around the camp, praying that no one had noticed, praying that the guard was still sleeping. All was quiet. They breathed a mutual sigh of relief and quickly put space between their two bodies.
‘This is dangerous,’ she said. ‘We mustn’t be seen together.’
She turned and glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. Was there any emotion in her face, a sign of a smile, maybe a twitch of a facial muscle as she spoke those few short words?
‘The workshops… quickly.’
Horace walked past the snoring guard. He listened. The camp was silent. A few POWs dozed too, those that sat around talking seemed oblivious to the rendezvous that had taken place in the middle of the camp. Surely somebody must have seen them talking, that brief moment of contact? His eyes scoured the camp again. Garwood sat near the entrance of the forest – normally out of bounds – glad of the shade, his cap covering his eyes. He slept.
As Horace entered the workshop Rosa stood against the same bench. They fell into each other’s arms. She felt different, no longer the tarnished German citizen he once thought she was. They ate each other greedily, their kisses passionate as they pawed each other like two lovers meeting after an eternity. He took her hair, looked at her beautiful face, that puzzled look, before kissing her again with more fervour, more tension, more frenzy. He pushed against her, his erection in full bloom once again, and she felt it immediately.
‘Quickly, Jim, quickly… no time.’
This time she broke away, reached for the buttons on the waistband of her trousers, and within seconds they were at her knees. Horace stood back in bewilderment as her small panties followed. Without hesitation, without instruction she turned around, bent over the workbench and parted her legs as best as she could. It was an awkward stance with a pair of knee length leather riding boots and trousers gathered tightly at her knees but it gave Horace a chance. He stepped forward, reached for her with his hand as the other hand took hold of his stiff penis. Within a few seconds he was inside her. As before her hand covered her mouth in an attempt to contain her noisy pleasure. He held the position, wanting the moment to last. He groaned as he leaned back, looked up to the ceiling and began a slow rhythmical movement.
The guard was puzzled. He was displeased. The prisoners had taken advantage of his moment’s weakness. Who could blame him? It was so very hot and such boring work looking over the 20 or so prisoners, none of whom had the slightest intention of escaping. He tried to tell the commanding officer time and time again, but he had insisted they be watched at all times. Two were clearly sleeping, others were leaning on picks and shovels. Idle bastards. He’d make them pay. And where was the one that spoke some German? Jim. Where was that bastard? Did he dream or had he seen him going into the workshops as he dozed in the afternoon sun? He hadn’t dreamed it. He eased himself to his feet using his rifle as leverage. He cursed his arthritic knee as it stiffened and a pain shot down the length of his shin bone. And the girl, where’s the girl? ‘Bastards,’ he whispered. ‘Someone is going to pay.’
Rosa exploded into orgasm. The sweat had soaked through her blouse and it clung to her back. It was time for Horace to join her and as he quickened his movements Rosa tensed up.
‘Please, quickly,’ she gasped as her head jerked back and forward. ‘I hear the guard talking.’
Panic welled up inside Horace as he heard the conversation too – half German, half broken English. Yet his pleasure seemed to intensify at the danger they were now in.
Within seconds they’d both climaxed, regained their composure, buttoned up their trousers and sneaked out one at a time into the bright sunshine – satisfied, but both wanting so much more. No foreplay, no experimentation, no teasing, no clumsy awkward moments, no laughter, no words of love and expression as he’d remembered with Eva. They’d often lain for hours in the bedroom of her small cottage in Ibstock while her mother and father had been at work. They’d frolicked in the cornfields and the meadows of Leicestershire, making love for hours on end, and he’d touched and stroked and caressed her whole body, teasing and arousing her again and again. Eva had done likewise as she insisted on fitting the French letter each time they made love. Horace lay completely naked with his hands by his side as Eva complimented him on his recovery time and the impressive quality of his manhood. And they’d left the fields laughing and joking, talking about their daring exploits. He recalled how Eva had positively glowed after one particularly energetic session. They’d often wondered if they’d been seen, what might happen if a farmer or even a family friend had discovered them.
It was so different now as he walked the long walk to where Flapper Garwood lay sleeping. No laughing and joking, no swaying cornfields, no touching hands nor a loving embrace – just thoughts of a firing squad and an even greater hatred for the German race. Deliberately avoiding eye contact, Horace focused on his sleeping pal as he walked straight past the guard.
Suddenly the German shouted behind him.
‘Was machen Sie, Scheißkerl?’ ‘You bastard! What are you doing?’
Horace froze, turned around as the German marched towards him, rifle pointing at his chest. The guard cocked the rifle and broke int
o a run, spitting his anger as he got nearer. Horace looked around. Thank God Rosa was nowhere to be seen. She’d disappeared – the guard hadn’t seen her… he hoped.
‘Sie meinen, ich bin so bloed?’ ‘You think I’m an idiot?’
Instinctively Horace raised his arms in the air.
But the German guard ran straight past him and stood over the snoring Flapper Garwood. Poor Flapper. He was now the focus of attention, and the guard vented his fury with a swift kick to the ribs of the sleeping POW.
‘You pig dog! Get up!’
A rifle butt hit the prisoner in the chest as the air was forced from his lungs. He gasped and scrambled to his feet in a sleep-induced stupor. Flapper picked up his work tool, ran over to the huge block of marble and began chipping away furiously. The guard followed, gave Flapper another kick in the pants and a cuff along the back of the neck.
He then turned to face Horace. There was hatred in his eyes, menace in his voice.
‘And you my English pig slave, where have you been?’
Horace was in a quandary. Had the guard seen him come out of the workshop? Had he seen Rosa? Had he seen them going into the workshop? The adrenaline of fear swam through him. It was fear for Rosa, fear for her safety. At that moment, as he stood in front of a German guard intent on meting out yet more punishment, he realised he needed to protect Rosa.
He realised too that he had developed feelings for her.
‘Speak, you bastard!’
Horace spoke in English. The guard’s vocabulary was reasonably good, but his sentence construction and verbs were poor.
‘You’re a piece of shit, you are.’
Garwood’s knees turned to lead. He couldn’t believe what his friend had just said. The German took a step forward, raised his rifle and pointed it between Horace’s eyes. He looked confused, almost shocked. Had he understood correctly?
‘What did you say?’ he snarled.
‘I needed to do a shit, sir.’
Horace stood to attention. The guard lowered his rifle.
‘Speak German, prisoner. I know you speak it well.’ He grinned – an evil smile. ‘It will be the language of the world in a few short years, you might as well get used to it.’
Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? Page 13