The Danzig Corridor

by Paul R. E. Jarvis

  Buffeted by the spray, Henry scrambled onto the float and edged along the fuselage, inching closer as the plane gained speed. O’Shea leant out of the hatch, his arm outstretched, trying to reach his sergeant. Henry felt something hot hit his right shoulder. A searing pain shot through his body, causing him to lose grip. Like a prize-fighter, disorientated by successive punches, Henry’s legs buckled, and he fell backwards into the water.

  In indescribable agony, he saw the aircraft rise from the surface and then disappear into the night sky, the soldiers at the water’s edge continuing to fire at it.

  A couple of men from the crowd waded out and dragged Henry’s soaking body back to the shore. Expecting another bullet, he lay in the shallows, paralysed by pain, cold and exhausted. One of the soldiers kicked him repeatedly about the chest and abdomen, spurred on by the cheers of the onlookers. Each jarring blow exacerbated the ache in his shoulder, making him wince, but he was determined not to cry out. He tried to raise his hands to protect himself, but moving his arm hurt more than the actual blows, so he just lay there. An angry face stared into Henry’s eyes; his uniform was different from the others. Henry presumed he must be an officer, but he could not see any insignia.

  The officer cleared his throat, producing a droplet of saliva which hung from his lips. Its slimy, pendulous attachment gradually narrowed, before the globule started to fall towards Henry. Instinctively, he turned his head, causing a searing pain in his shoulder. The baying crowd roared victoriously as the saliva splattered onto the corner of Henry’s mouth.

  Barking an order, the officer walked away, and another soldier moved into Henry’s line of vision. Menacingly, the grim-faced infantryman held his rifle butt above Henry’s head. It hung for a few tormenting seconds before it was rammed into his forehead. He heard a sickening crunch, accompanied by a brief explosion of colour before everything went black.

  22

  ‘Morning!’ Viktor’s mother said, entering the room. ‘After all your travels, I thought you’d want breakfast in bed.’

  ‘Thanks, Mama,’ Viktor grunted without opening his eyes.

  ‘Your father’s up in the top field doing something to the fence,’ she added, placing the tray on the bedside cabinet. ‘Apparently, it was windy last night. Not that I heard anything, mind you. I slept like a log.’

  They laid there with their eyes closed, hoping his mother would leave, but after several minutes of banal chatter, she showed no sign of going.

  ‘What time is it?’ Viktor asked eventually.

  ‘Oh, it’s just after six,’ she said before returning to her ramblings. Six! Why had she woken them up so early? He did not have to go to work. After the events of the last few days, would it have been too much to ask to be allowed to wake up naturally?

  ‘Are the boys awake?’ he asked, now quite sure she was not going to go away.

  ‘Not yet. I was about to get them up, so they could have breakfast with me.’

  His mother pulled back the curtains, letting in streams of early morning sunlight. He screwed up his eyes and Zofia wriggled down in the bed, pulling the bedding over her head.

  ‘Your father’s going to the market at nine. He wants a hand butchering the pig hanging in the barn,’ his mother said.

  ‘Okay, okay. Give me a few minutes, then I’ll go and find him,’ he said with an air of resignation.

  Slowly, Viktor opened his eyes. He rolled over to kiss Zofia, but she was cocooned in the eiderdown with no visible part of her exposed. He interpreted this as ‘Do not disturb,’ so he staggered to his feet and stumbled his way over to the water bowl.

  Through the yellowed, net curtain he could see a figure, presumably his father, working on a distant hill. Viktor dipped his hands in cold water from the previous night and splashed his face. His skin tightened, but he was not fully awake.

  After drying himself with a rough towel, he slipped on a clean shirt, then put on his trousers, which were hanging untidily over the back of the chair. From the tray his mother had left next to the bed, he helped himself to a slice of toast, leaving behind the jam, butter, and coffee she had intended to accompany it.

  Before climbing the hill, he poked his head through the door of the stable where Miedziak had spent the night. The horse was eating happily, making Viktor feel guilty because his father had not only risen early to repair the wind-damaged fence but had done some of his chores too.

  He walked across the cobbled courtyard, then through a metal gate. He ascended the muddy path alongside a rugged, stone wall. Halfway up, his breathing became laboured. Three-quarters of the way to the top, his legs ached, and he was red-faced and blowing hard.

  ‘Good morning,’ the old man greeted him with a cheery smile.

  ‘Morning, Dad,’ he said between breaths.

  ‘That’s what happens when you’re surrounded by flour dust every day. When we first moved here, I used to be like that.’

  Viktor knew the old man was being kind.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked, trying hard not to pant too loudly.

  ‘Nah, I’ve nearly finished up here. The fence only wanted a few nails, but I’ll need a hand to butcher the pig.’

  As his father completed his work, Viktor sat on a grassy mound and admired the view of the city, having walked up the hill for nothing.

  ‘Did you sleep okay?’ his father asked as they strolled down the path.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Until Mama woke us, that is.’

  The old man smiled. ‘She’s so excited you’re all here. I told her to let you rest, but her excitement obviously got the better of her. She probably couldn’t wait any longer,’ said the old man. ‘You’re her only son, Viktor. Give her a break.’

  The two men entered one of the outhouses next to the stable block. Inside, the carcass of a pig hung from a hook in one of the roof beams. The animal dangled lifelessly, a small pool of blood collecting on the sawdust-covered floor.

  ‘Do you remember how to do this, son?’

  Viktor smiled, his mind racing back to the last time he had done this almost fifteen years ago.

  ‘Yeah, what was it you always said? The most important thing is to sharpen the knives, otherwise...’

  ‘There’s no point in starting,’ they said together.

  ‘Well, I’m glad some of the things I taught you have stuck,’ his father said, rolling up his sleeves and selecting a long, pointed butcher’s knife from the table.

  Making the first tentative incision along the midline of the pig’s belly, his father spread the wound, letting the bowels spill out. Viktor looked away squeamishly.

  ‘Living in the city has made you soft,’ the old man said with a wry smile.

  ‘But you lived there for most of your life too,’ Viktor replied, swallowing bile.

  ‘Yes, but we always kept our own animals,’ the old man said, looking at the pig. ‘You’re pampered, going to the local butcher. It’s important you remember where your food comes from.’

  Up to his elbows in the animal’s abdomen, his father made three precise cuts, causing the entrails to fall to the floor. Viktor felt decidedly queasy, stepping outside to get some fresh air.

  ‘You okay?’ his father said.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just give me a few seconds.’

  The old man smirked to himself and continued his work.

  Moments later, having composed himself, he returned to find his father wrestling the pig’s body to a workbench. Taking hold of the tail end, he helped heave it onto the rough wooden surface.

  ‘Glad you could join me,’ the old man said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Take one of those cleavers and divide the legs up.’

  Viktor nodded.

  ‘Remember, trotters, hocks, then hams,’ said Viktor’s father. ‘Try and keep as much meat on the ham as possible. Looking at the size of the pig, we should get a fair price for those.’

  As his father separated the joints from the carcass, Viktor chopped them with the cleaver, separating t
hem effortlessly. He wrapped them individually in waxed paper, ready to sell later that day. Within the hour, the job was done. The various cuts of pork had been placed neatly in baskets to be transported with the other meat his father had prepared the previous day.

  ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ the older man asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll ask your mother to put the kettle on. After that, we should head off for the market. Otherwise, all the best pitches will have gone.’

  Viktor realised he had not spoken to Zofia this morning. He knew she would be less than impressed if he spent the whole day out with his father, leaving her and the boys with his mother.

  The two men walked back through the courtyard into the warm kitchen, where Zofia and Viktor’s mother were around the table chatting.

  ‘Morning, darling,’ Viktor said, kissing his wife on the forehead. ‘Did you sleep okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What have you two been up to?’

  ‘Oh. We’ve been sorting out the pig so we can take it to market later today. Where are the kids?’

  ‘They’ve gone off to play in the bottom field. I can see them through the window—they’re okay,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ his mother said. ‘It’ll do them good to run around in the fresh air.’

  ‘When are you going to the market?’ Zofia asked.

  ‘I guess we should leave in the next half hour,’ his father butted in before Viktor had time to speak.

  ‘When will you be back?’ his mother asked. ‘So, I know when to have dinner ready.’

  ‘We’ll try and be back for five,’ the elder of the two men said. ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Viktor’s mother. ‘What will you do for lunch?’

  ‘We hoped you would make us some sandwiches. Have I told you how much I love you today?’ the old man said playfully, putting his arms around her waist and giving her a kiss.

  ‘Get off, you soppy old man,’ the old lady laughed. ‘Men!’ she said in mock frustration. ‘They’re no different than little boys. Take my word for it; they never grow up, no matter how old they are.’

  Viktor and his father looked sheepishly at each other.

  ‘I thought you two would need something, so I made you some earlier,’ she said. ‘I’ve put them in the larder. There are some apples and a few slices of cake to go with them.’

  ‘Thanks, Mama,’ he said.

  ‘Right, we’d better be off if we’re to get any work done,’ Viktor’s father said.

  Viktor looked at Zofia. It was clear she was not impressed. He mouthed an apology, but she scowled back. He tried to give her a hug, but she did not reciprocate, so he pecked her on the cheek and then left.

  The market nestled in the heart of the medieval city. Soon they were setting out their small stall opposite a haberdasher’s. The two men placed the baskets containing different cuts of pork and beef on the wooden counter, with the two freshly butchered hams taking pride of place in the centre of their display.

  While they stood behind the counter, waiting for their first customer, Viktor observed the people walking past and could not help being fascinated by what he saw. Young, old, fat, and short; every conceivable combination came to town on market day. He sniggered at the sight of a tall, attractive, dark-skinned woman walking with a short, plump blond man.

  Clearly, opposites attract, he thought.

  Seeing the thriving stalls helped him forget about the troubles in Danzig. It was refreshing seeing other people go about their everyday lives.

  Suddenly, over to Viktor’s left, there was a commotion. It drew his attention away from his thoughts. To his horror, three SS soldiers tipped over the stall of an elderly Jewish goldsmith. The guards hurled abuse at the old man, who was cowering on the floor, trying to protect his wares. Two of the soldiers laughed openly as the third set about kicking the powerless man.

  By now, a sizeable crowd had gathered, hissing and jeering at the Jewish man. Viktor was appalled. Most of them had known this man for many years, so why should they turn on him now? He could not tell whether this was latent anti-Semitism or part of an elaborate pantomime to placate the German guards. Whichever it was, he was not going to stand by and let this old man be victimised. He turned to find his father, but the old man was no longer next to him. Looking through the crowd, he saw his father pushing through the throng.

  Viktor fought his way through the mob in time to see his father step between the goldsmith and the soldiers. The intervention of his father provoked resentment from the gathering crowd. Infuriated by this old man’s audacity, all three of the SS infantrymen raised their rifles towards him. Viktor’s heart raced.

  ‘Get out of the way, old man,’ one of the guards said. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ his father said boldly. ‘What’s he ever done to you?’

  ‘Don’t make me shoot you, old man.’

  ‘Is Hitler afraid of elderly Jews?’ his father asked defiantly.

  ‘Move out of the way, or we’ll kill both of you,’ the other soldier said tersely.

  ‘Answer me one thing,’ his father said stubbornly. ‘What kind of army has to fight defenceless old men to prove your manliness?’

  Their frustration was becoming apparent. Viktor could not bear to watch as his father continued to antagonise them. The guard who had done most of the talking stepped forward, kicking his father in the leg, but the old man did not flinch. The SS guard starting shouting at Viktor’s father. Another lifted his rifle, thrusting the butt into his father’s abdomen, causing him to double over, but he stayed on his feet.

  ‘Go down, you stubborn old fool,’ Viktor muttered under his breath.

  The angry guard struck the old man with his weapon again, catching him on the nose. It caused an eruption of blood which streamed down his face. The tone of the watching crowd changed. They were no longer hostile; instead, they appeared appalled. The soldiers sensed it, the uncertainty visible in their eyes.

  From the back of the group of onlookers, an SS unteroffizier barked a one-word command, causing the guards to stand to attention, their faces now concerned. The officer shouted another order, and the three guardsmen marched solemnly out of the square.

  ‘Broni, are you okay?’ the frail Jewish man asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, rubbing his leg. ‘If I’d been twenty years younger, I would’ve thrashed all three of them all the way back to Germany.’

  ‘I am very grateful,’ the Jew said. ‘My family and I are forever in your debt.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Viktor’s father. ‘I wasn’t going to let three young boys, barely out of nappies, take advantage of you.’

  ‘Less of the old, if you don’t mind,’ he said with a pleasant smile. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, you’re the same age as I am.’

  ‘I think you’ll find I’m three months younger than you, and at our time of life, that makes all the difference!’

  The two friends embraced, laughing together.

  ‘Dad! Are you all right?’ asked Viktor, breaking through the rapidly dispersing crowd.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, now don’t fuss. They’re mindless bullies, and this is their playground.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous. The people watching thought it’s acceptable to beat old Jews, but not Poles. What kind of nonsense is this?’

  ‘These are the times we live in,’ the goldsmith said. ‘To some people, being Jewish means we are lower than animals.’

  ‘Ben, this is my son, Viktor,’ his father said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Ben, Ben Feldman. In the few years I’ve known your father he’s always been a little hot-headed, but this time I’m grateful.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked his father.

  ‘No, only my pride has been damaged.’

  23

  Slowly, the lucid periods became more frequent; a nauseating throb developing deep within his head. In a moment of clarity, Henry realis
ed he was blind. Panic overwhelmed him. Had the blow to his head taken his sight? Once he had regained control of his breathing again, he noticed a hessian sack had been secured over his head. Feeling claustrophobic, he tried to raise his arms to remove the blindfold, but his wrists were fastened behind his back, and his shoulder throbbed.

  Unfamiliar noises startled him. Unsure what was happening, he rolled into the fetal position, trying to protect himself. The unmistakable creak of a door hinge preceded the sound of hob-nailed boots on a stone floor.

  ‘So, you’re awake!’ a deep voice said in heavily accented English.

  Henry did not reply.

  ‘Stand up!’

  He struggled to sit up but was not quick enough.

  ‘I said, stand up!’ the voice repeated, more aggressively.

  A hand grabbed him and manhandled him to his feet. Rocking a little, he tried to find his balance. Another voice spoke, this time from further away, prompting his captors to shove him out of the room.

  ‘Sit!’ came a harsh voice.

  He felt for a chair with his legs but failed to locate one.

  ‘SIT!’

  The chair was thrust into the back of his knees, causing them to buckle. He fell backwards onto the seat. A searing pain shot through his shoulder, making him whimper.

  Henry sat silently, waiting for his guards to speak. After several minutes, someone loosened his hood before forcibly removing it. A bright light shone directly into his eyes, causing him to blink repeatedly. Someone behind him released the bonds which held his wrists.

  ‘Let me introduce myself. I am Hauptmann Andreas Roehm of the SS. What is your name?’ the accented voice said from behind the light.