From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories

by Smythe, B. P.

  The day before at morning roll call, the guards had hanged a French Jew. Someone had placed the Croix de Lorraine resistance flag, made from a cut-up shirt and some paint, in one of the hut windows. Hut 41 had wanted to show the advancing liberators they still had spirit. As they had burst through the door, the guards had jumped on the first prisoner they could grab, to make an example of.

  The body, still clad with its striped rags and oversized cap, swayed and twisted in the breeze.

  It was on the Sunday morning of the 29th that they first saw them. Martin with three others was on duty at the main gate. Two Americans had driven up within a hundred yards then climbed out of their jeep and just stood there. After a while they had got back in and driven off.

  The guards in the tower had reported the incident at once to SS 2nd Lt. Heinrich Wicker who had remained in charge of the camp.

  A few hours later the Americans had been back again in force with two divisions of the US Seventh Army, the 42nd Rainbow Division and the 45th Thunderbird Division.

  At the gates, a surrender party had met Brig. Gen. Henning Linden and his men. This consisted of SS 2nd Lt. Wicker, a few guards and a Red Cross representative carrying a white flag. The SS Lieutenant dressed in full military regalia sporting his medals had clicked his heels and raised his arm with a, ‘Heil Hitler.’ The salute had not been returned.

  During the day, helped with the aid of prisoners that could walk, American soldiers walked through the camp and uncovered atrocities. Now and again, German guards were singled out and shot, or beaten to death at random.

  Martin had been on duty up in the watchtower with three of the SS guards. Some incensed American soldiers had fired their rifles up at them, and immediately a white flag had appeared. The Americans had ordered them down. They had all had their hands up. Martin had shaken uncontrollably. Not far away a group of prisoners had surrounded a German soldier and beaten g him to death with his own rifle. It had been mayhem. Shots had been fired with screams and shouts.

  An American corporal with some others GI’s had stood in front of Martin and yelled something in broken German. It had all happened in slow motion for Martin; the fear, the sights, the shock of it had made him deaf in that instant.

  The American had pointed in the distance to the railway yard and shouted again, his face twisted with rage. Martin had seen his mouth moving and the froth of anger, but no sound. Then he had opened up with his M1 carbine killing the three SS guards with him. Martin had known he’d be next. He had closed his eyes, shaking. He hadn’t been able to plead with his jaw frozen in fear. He had clenched his fists, waiting, his whole body shivering.

  After what had seemed an eternity, he had opened his eyes. The corporal with his group had gone. Spared because of his age, Martin thought? Then someone had prodded him in the back. An American with his rifle had forced him to walk with a large captured group of Germans. The soldier had shouted,

  ‘Rouse! –Rouse! Move you Nazi bastards.’

  The camp inmates that had the strength had lashed out at them. Martin had raised his arms to try to protect himself from the blows. He had known this was his last day. He hadn’t been going to get out alive. Then he had seen his friend Carl. Carl, with his face all bloody, badly beaten on the ground. Five emaciated prisoners, one with a pistol loaned from an American sergeant standing nearby, had surrounded him. The prisoner with the gun had walked around Carl pointing and shouting,

  ‘POW! – POW!’

  Carl had seen Martin and weakly shouted for help. Then the prisoner had put the pistol at Carl’s head and shot him.

  Martin had been herded past the scene with the rest of the SS garrison. Eventually, they had come to a long, high wall at the rear of the camp that separated the crematorium from the huts.

  With around three hundred captured Germans, he had been forced at gunpoint to stand with his face against the wall with his hands up. Martin had been jabbed in the back by an American with the muzzle of his M1carbine. With shouts of,

  ‘Hände hoch - hände hoch,’

  He had done as he was told, stretching up his trembling arms.

  It had been then he had relieved himself; he hadn’t been able to help it. The American had stepped back as urine had splashed down onto Martin’s boots. The American had laughed and carried on down the line counting the Germans.

  The sound of a lorry had turned his head. Out the corner of one eye, he had seen soldiers climb down carrying a heavy-duty machine gun with its tripod. Martin had known his guns from the books he’d been given at Hitler Youth camp. This was a 0.5 calibre M2HB with 110 round bullet belts. Without bringing attention to himself, he had subtly looked behind. The Americans had been setting up the machine gun in front of him.

  Martin had suddenly realised that he was at the end of a firing squad.

  This had been finally it. There had been nowhere to run. He couldn’t run. His legs had been numb and wet, as if set in cement. His heart had begun to pound. Martin had begun to make a pitiful mewling, a pleading sound. Then he had heard the sergeant shout behind him, ‘Ready - aim - fire!’

  Amongst blood-curdling screams and cries of pain, soldiers to the left of him had begun to topple. Martin had screwed up his eyes and clenched his fists, ready for death. This time he had shit himself, but it hadn’t mattered. No one had been going to find out. The Rat-a-tat-tat of the bullets and bodies sliding down a blood-splattered wall had been getting nearer.

  Then, silence; apart from the sporadic moaning of some still alive. The smell of oil and cordite from the machine gun as well as human excrement had hung in the air.

  In shock, for a second Martin had thought he must be dead. He had looked to his left and seen some remaining Germans standing. Martin had tentatively turned his head and realised that they’d run out of ammunition. The Americans had been changing the bullet belts. His stay of execution would only have been a brief one. He had thought of making a run for it, but the fear had rooted him to the spot. A couple of minutes had passed. It had been like standing on the gallows wearing a noose, waiting for the trapdoor to open. Then the sergeant had shouted out those fateful words again,

  ‘Ready - aim - fire!’

  Martin had known that this was it; he had braced himself ready.

  ‘Nein! - Nein! Halt! Please halt! - Don’t kill him.’

  He had heard the shouts behind, then muffled talking. It had seemed an eternity. He had stood there shivering in shock, not knowing, wondering.

  ‘Rouse! – Rouse! Move!’

  Suddenly he had been yanked by the collar and pulled out of the line. He had stumbled over some bodies and got up in a daze. The corporal had prodded him with his carbine.

  ‘Get over there.’

  He had gestured to a group of American soldiers who had a female camp inmate with them.

  Martin had thought the worst. He’d been singled out to be tortured; given to the mob for their bit of fun like his friend, Carl. Perhaps it would’ve been better to be shot; over and done with. The corporal had continued prodding him along until he had reached the group.

  While the Americans had looked on, wearing a striped smock bearing the Star of David, the shaven headed inmate had hobbled slowly towards him. Whoever it was, had looked like a walking rag. She had been covered in filth and smelt terrible. He had wondered if she had a concealed knife or a gun - had asked the soldiers for permission, to have her little piece of revenge.

  Then, she had said those words he would never forget,

  ‘Martin, it’s me, Magda.’

  He had looked at her but it hadn’t registered. Then his sister’s features had begun to leach into his brain.

  ‘Magda, dear God! Is it really you? What have they done to you?’

  She had held out her dirty, trembling hand. Slowly, Martin had taken it, and dropped to his knees. He had held her hand against his face. He had started to weep, rocking backwards and forwards, the tears streaming down his face. ‘

>   Oh, dear God, what have I done? What have we all done?’

  The American soldiers had shuffled uncomfortably.

  Then the machine gun had started up again, but Martin hadn’t been able to look.

  Afterwards, two soldiers with pistols had made their way along the wall taking care of any twitching bodies.

  A cigar chewing colonel, his leg up on the front bumper of a jeep with a rifle resting across one knee, had joked to his men when he had looked at Martin. He had shouted to him,

  ‘You are one lucky Kraut. I’d have you sitting beside me in a crap game, any day.’ The other Americans had laughed. Then he had said to Magda, ‘If he’s your brother, we’ll put him in the compound with the others for classification.’

  As Martin had been escorted away, he had looked over his shoulder at Magda who had raised a thin arm and waved.

  *

  Amongst the hospital smells of disinfectant and wax floors, they stared at each other in disbelief.

  ‘Borch, it’s you,’ the mother said, forcing a little embarrassed smile.

  ‘Irma Schulz, I don’t believe it.’

  The mother reached out her hand, but Magda didn’t grasp it.

  ‘I’m sorry about your son. I really am, truly sorry. …’

  Magda put her hand on Irma’s shoulder and gently squeezed it with affection. Then she nodded to Martin.

  ‘Please don’t go.’ Irma was on her feet in tears, the husband not quite understanding. ‘Please - please, I beg of you. Help us.’

  Magda carried on walking with Martin trailing behind. He was looking back, wondering what was going on.

  Irma was still shouting as Magda disappeared through the swing doors,

  ‘Please - please, I’m sorry. We’ll give you anything if you’ll help our Max.’ The others in reception were all looking at her. ‘He’s all we’ve got…’ Irma trailed off when she could see it was hopeless. She looked at the staring faces. ‘You see,’ she said to them through her red eyes and tears, ‘we can’t have any more children…’

  Love Me Do

  Jean Connaught flipped over on her expensive-looking heavily padded sun lounger. She’d had enough on her back. This was the first time she could relax after a messy divorce. They had only been married for nine months. The marriage had been more of a compromise; well, Jean had thought so.

  The divorce had left her very well off, so she’d decided to treat her 36-year-old body to a complete makeover at an exclusive health farm in Kent. After that, she had gone for a well-deserved three week break in Bermuda.

  It was midday and very hot at the Coco Reef five star resort, even though Jean was shaded by the designer parasol. She put down her holiday book and reached for her gussied-up rum punch with bits wedged around the rim and a fancy little cocktail umbrella. She took a sip and licked her lips. The frost around the top of her glass tasted of almond. She liked that. It was truly delicious and she felt an unusual warm glow as the Bacardi found its way.

  Jean felt good and knew she looked good. Jesus! Should hope so. The ten-day spar beauty package had cost £3,200. It had been her 1984 new year’s resolution to lose some weight.

  She’d lost half a stone on carrot juice and that bloody cross-trainer in the gym. However, the pampering including massages and those facials, with all the creams and oils and not forgetting the hair and nails with the sunbed pre-tanning, and of course the gourmet cuisine, had made up for it.

  They’d done her 5 foot 5 inch figure proud. Especially, the new look ash brown short hairstyle. It suited her hazel eyes and high cheekbones.

  She could still lose another half stone and perhaps have a nose job? Jean had always thought it was slightly long with just a tiny kink. However, what the heck, she could worry about that another time. She was on holiday now.

  Oh, and the last thing she had to do was change her will back. She and Shamad had made joint wills leaving everything to the surviving spouse.

  *

  Jean had met her husband, Shamad Al-Jilani, a tall, good-looking well-tanned Saudi with a beard and frizzy black hair, in a London gaming club. She’d gone there on a Saturday night out with a couple of friends who were members. Shamad had introduced himself and he and Jean had hit it off straight away.

  Shamad had told Jean he was in the hotel business based in Saudi Arabia. Apparently, he was currently trying to buy a half stake in a London hotel. Most of his time, he said, was spent travelling back and forth from the Emirates trying to negotiate a foothold for his company in London’s West End.

  Jean’s head had been turned.

  So had begun a round of steady dating at very up-market restaurants. He’d whisked her off to Paris, then Rome and St. Tropez. Eventually, after three months Jean had moved into his very swish Knightsbridge apartment. It had all looked too good to be true, especially when he’d proposed and she’d accepted.

  Jean had kept her job, working as an assistant in a solicitor’s office in Holborn. However, she’d decided, once the ring was on her finger, that that dreary job would be the first thing to get the elbow. And why not? Shamad could afford it.

  Then had come the revelation. One day while he was away on business and she was having a day off work, chilling out in his pad with a Vogue magazine and a coffee, the phone had rung.

  It had been the Immigration and Citizenship Department, of the Home Office calling about Shamad’s application. After engaging in brief conversation, the man on the other end had apologised hastily and hung up. Nevertheless, it had got Jean thinking.

  She had gone to Shamad’s desk and sifted through the drawers. Being a solicitor's assistant, she was used to ways of investigating and researching information for a case when required. And sure enough, after thumbing through reams of paperwork, she had found the immigration file he’d marked up.

  From the correspondence, it hadn’t taken long to work out that he had used up all his time this year and was in trouble over an expired work permit. Also mentioned, the only way he could have continued to work in the UK and extend his visa would have been to marry a British National.

  Jean had smiled. So, that was it; Shamad had been desperate for a wife.

  Deciding to play along with it and keep what she’d found to herself, Jean had got used to the good life and there was no way she was going to give it up.

  As the wedding had drawn nearer, it couldn’t have happened at a better time than if she’d planned it herself. While still taking the odd peak in his desk drawers, Jean had also found love letters of infidelity, recently dated from a couple of women called Kate and Rita.

  Then one evening, over a fantastic evening meal at The Savoy, Shamad had pushed a prenuptial agreement under her nose and asked her to sign it. He had waved it off with his gold-toothed smile and said it was a mere business formality, and not to worry her pretty, little head.

  Jean already knew he’d gone past the point of no return.

  On a calculated risk, Shamad had recently increased his share stake for a top London hotel using a hefty down payment. This was on the back of their forthcoming wedding and being allowed to stay permanently under British immigration and visa laws.

  Jean had looked lovingly into his brown eyes and holding his face in her hands, told him she couldn’t sign it because it would bring them bad luck, and she wouldn’t sign anything that was so cold and negative because nothing would ever separate their love for each other or come between them. Shamad had smiled back weakly and told her she was so right. Jean had grasped Shamad’s hand in a tender way and asked him to tear it up because their love was so strong and they would always be together. Shamad had smiled weakly again and, urged on by another squeeze of Jean’s hand, slowly ripped the document in two.

  Five months later, with a honeymoon in Hawaii under her belt and moving into a nine-bedroom detached house in Weybridge, Surrey, Jean had filed for divorce. She had had all the ammo, love letters, photos and anything else her private investigator could dig-
up.

  Eventually, after a lot of out-of-court wrangling, including many threats from Shamad shouting, “I’ll get you for this, Bitch!” a settlement had been agreed.

  *

  Now, on her own and within two days of settling into her exclusive Bermuda beachside apartment overlooking the sea, Jean had a dinner invitation this evening. She’d met them at the welcoming cocktail party, an elderly banker and his wife with their good-looking late-forty-something unmarried son, from Palm Beach in Florida.

  The son, with an engaging smile, had chatted to her and politely kissed her hand. She was looking forward to meeting him again even though his parents would probably be there. Jean had also clocked his expensive gold Omega watch and his mother's rings. There was serious money in the family.

  Now it was 1:30 p.m. The sun had moved. Jean clicked her fingers and immediately Leon, the young black waiter in his smart white jacket, approached. He fussed and tilted the parasol to a suitable position. Jean thanked him and discreetly slipped a five-dollar coin into his hand. He smiled a thank you and flashed with a beautiful set of white teeth.

  Jean lay back on her sun lounger. She’d come a long way from being a kid living with her single mother in a council flat in Hackney. Growing up, she’d dreamed of marrying someone rich; anything to get out of the squalor.

  Her mother had worked hard to pay for private maths and English lessons for Jean’s eleven-plus. With a good pass, she’d got to Scaynes Hill Grammar School for girls, the best school in Hackney. However, it still had had its fair share of snobs and bullies.

  Jean reached for the tube and gently rubbed in the sun cream. She felt the hard line of the old scar below her left knee. Thoughts of Miriam flooded back. She touched the Star of David pendant at her throat. Jean hadn’t thought of her for a long time. It had to be twenty years now...