He looked for the face of the person talking, but could only see shadows.
‘Maybe the head injury has affected your memory. So, I’ll ask you again, what is your name?’
He attempted to talk, but could only utter a faint whisper. ‘Henry Taylor.’
‘What?’ the voice asked. ‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Henry Taylor,’ he said, slightly louder.
‘What is your rank?’
‘Sergeant.’
‘Good! Now we are getting somewhere. What is your serial number?’
‘Six four two three five,’ he said, his voice growing stronger each time he spoke.
He looked down and saw heavy strapping had been placed on his right shoulder.
‘What is your purpose in Poland?’
‘Sorry, Sir. Under the Geneva Convention, I don’t have to answer that.’
Someone kicked the back of Henry’s chair.
‘What is the name of your unit?’
‘Again, Sir. I am unable to comment,’ Henry said defiantly.
‘Sergeant Taylor, you are a prisoner of the Third Reich. It is in your interest to cooperate with us. Do you understand?’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve given you all the information I can.’
After a long period of silence, the voice spoke again. ‘Okay, take him back.’
Replacing the sack over his head and securing his hands, the guards cajoled Henry back into his cell.
That went better than I expected, he thought, hearing the door being locked.
He was thankful for the interrogation training he had received back in Aldershot. The well-rehearsed ‘Geneva Convention’ line seemed to have done the trick. Inside the hood, he smiled to himself.
Not sure how long he had been asleep, he was awoken by the click of the lock. From what he could tell, several men were in the room, shouting at him. The guards heaved him into a corner of the room, turning him to face the wall despite his hood. He felt a strange low-pitched rumble as his captors dragged something into the room.
After a few seconds, a gramophone started blaring out some Wagnerian operatic aria. Henry smirked. Was this the best they could do? He hummed along loudly with the familiar tune.
Several minutes later, the music stopped. Only the white noise of the needle grating on the revolving record remained. It caused an irritating, repetitive sound. Whoever operated the gramophone turned up the volume, so the noise became so loud it set Henry’s teeth on edge. It was relentless. His brain screamed for the din to stop. Meanwhile, the guards yelled, taunting him about king and country, roast beef and all things quintessentially English.
Every time he moved, someone swiped him across the back of his legs with a cane. To start with, only his larger movements were punished, but the slightest readjustment of posture was enough to warrant a beating. Henry blinked back the tears.
The gramophone stopped abruptly.
‘Why don’t you make it easy on yourself?’
The voice belonged to the person who had identified himself as Roehm during his interrogation.
‘Tell us what you are doing in Poland, and all this will stop.’
He strained to catch a glimpse of Roehm’s face through the fabric, but his actions were greeted with a swipe across the legs.
‘Sorry, under the Geneva Convention, I can’t answer that.’
Another lash followed, making him yelp.
‘Henry, you don’t need to do this,’ Roehm said softly. ‘All this can stop if you just talk to us.’
‘Sir. I cannot say any more.’
‘Very well,’ the hauptmann said. ‘Carry on.’
The music started again. Henry stood to attention as best he could, almost statue-like, afraid of more beatings on his throbbing legs. Once the aria stopped, the white noise returned. He blocked out the sound by thinking about his brother, but he soon imagined David being captured. This disturbed him, and he quickly erased it from his mind. His mind went blank, and he found the disorientating sound seducing. He forced himself to think about something else. His thoughts turned to the mission. Apart from the casualties, it had been a relative success. They had successfully destroyed the target and, consequently, the industrial estate would be out of commission for quite some time.
He prayed for the noise and the beatings to stop. Surely, his captors knew Henry and his men were responsible for the destruction of the dam. So, why was Roehm asking for him to confirm this? Maybe, if he told them what they wanted, they would leave him alone. Instinctively, his training kicked in. He had been taught to give nothing away. The smallest piece of information, even confirming what they already knew, could provide them with inroads for other, more pressing questions.
Eventually, it fell silent, but a high-pitched ringing sensation persisted in his ears. His head spun from the hours of white noise and the repeated beatings. Once again, Henry was pushed out of the room and then dumped unceremoniously onto the chair. Like last time, Roehm spoke from behind the light as his hood was removed.
‘Sergeant Taylor, I hope you appreciate our hospitality. I can say that we are enjoying your company. So much so, our chef has prepared this magnificent meal for you.’
A plate containing a delicious-looking roast dinner was placed in front of him.
‘You must be hungry. I’m sure you’ll agree, this smells wonderful, and it can all be yours. All you have to do is tell us why you are in Poland and who your contacts are?’
The food smelled so good. Henry savoured the aroma before answering, fighting the temptation to give in. Despite extreme hunger, he shuffled back in the seat obstinately and stared straight ahead.
‘Sorry, Sir. Under the Geneva Convention, I do not have to answer that question.’
‘Are you sure? This meal does look good, doesn’t it? There’s roast beef with horseradish, cabbage, turnips, and potatoes. All covered in a deep, rich gravy. I’m becoming hungry just looking at it.’
Henry stared into the darkness rather than look at the plate. The aroma caused him to salivate and his empty stomach to rumble. He glanced fleetingly at the food. It looked good. Briefly, he considered telling them what they wanted to hear, just to be able to eat it, but he knew he had to resist.
‘No, Sir, I am unable to tell you any more information.’
‘So be it,’ said the German officer. ‘Take him back to the cell.’
Henry remained undisturbed for several hours. The bruises on his legs and the wound to his shoulder ached, but nonetheless, he slept soundly until the jangling of keys woke him. The routine was becoming familiar. He was dragged roughly from his bed before being pushed into the interrogation room.
‘Hello, Sergeant Taylor,’ Roehm said jovially. ‘I trust you have rested.’
Henry kept silent, suspicious of what was going to happen.
‘You’ve had enough time to consider your options. Let’s call an end to this pretence. Tell us what your mission is, and who your contacts are, then all this silliness will stop,’
‘Sir, I am sorry, but I have told you all I can,’ he replied.
‘Very well. Please let me introduce you to one of my colleagues, Herr Lehrer. He is keen to meet you.’
Without any further words, the sack was forced over his head again, and then he was dragged down the corridor. Henry fought against his captors, but their grip was too strong. They took him to a different room before his back was slammed against something cold and hard, the guards fastening his hands and feet again.
The hood was removed once again. Piles of junk lay untidily around what was presumably a storeroom. Alarmingly, his ankles and wrists had been fastened with thick leather straps to an upended metal bed frame.
A well-built, bald man appeared in front of him.
‘My name is Lehrer. I have been asked to persuade you to talk.’
Henry shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.
‘I admire your arrogance. Let’s see if you feel the same way in an hour.’
Lehrer unbut
toned his shirt, revealing a well-defined, muscular torso. A tattoo of an eagle perched on a swastika adorned his right pectoral region. Without warning, the interrogator kicked him hard in the abdomen, causing him to crease in the middle. The tattooed man beat him with a hammer-like blow.
‘Do you want to remain silent?’ Lehrer lifted Henry’s head by his hair.
Henry stalled for as long as possible before nodding.
His interrogator slapped him across the face, rocking the whole frame. Rivulets of blood began to trickle from his nose. Henry tried to catch his breath as he received another kick. The blows fell relentlessly, one after another. Henry haemorrhaged profusely, spitting a large clot feebly onto the floor. As Lehrer continued, Henry focussed on the solitary lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. As every blow landed, he concentrated on the bulb, working hard to blank out the pain.
The interrogator turned his attention to Henry’s injured shoulder. The muscular German took a bamboo cane from under a counter and started slashing the right side of his chest. Henry broke into a cold sweat and almost vomited.
After an hour, he was ready to talk, but to his surprise, Lehrer stopped. The interrogator walked away, perspiring and panting hard.
His head hung down, blood dripping from his nose. A smartly dressed SS officer entered the room, and immediately started speaking to Henry. ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell us?’
This was Roehm, the man from behind the light.
Struggling to look up, he caught sight of the officer’s angular face and black, curly hair. Henry spat at the hauptmann. The German officer walloped him across the face, sending a shower of sweat, blood, and saliva into the air.
‘Your insolence will be your downfall.’
He turned and walked towards the door. ‘Carry on,’ he said coldly.
The interrogator smiled, walking to the desk on Henry’s left. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Lehrer adjusting dials and switches. Suddenly, electricity crackled through the metal bed frame which supported him. The current coursed through him, causing his muscles to contract. The pain was excruciating, causing him to scream uncontrollably before the power subsided.
After a few seconds, the surge returned, more agonising than before. His body deformed by another spasm; unable to catch his breath. As the electricity was turned off, his muscles relaxed. He slumped forward, his aching body supported only by his restraints. Panting, he waited for the next shock. When it came, it was unbearable, as if every one of his nerves was being torn from his body. The tendons in his limbs pulled wildly at his tired bones, hideously contorting his wrists and ankles. The last thing he remembered was his bladder emptying before he passed out.
24
‘Oh my God,’ Viktor’s mother screamed as the two men walked up to the house. ‘What happened?’
‘Don’t fuss, woman!’ the old man said sternly.
‘Look at you—you’re plastered in blood,’ she replied.
Zofia looked at Viktor who, up until now, had said nothing, but he only shrugged.
‘It is nothing, just a bloodied nose. I’ll be fine,’ his father said.
‘Will someone tell me what’s going on?’ the old lady said, becoming increasingly frustrated.
‘I had a slight altercation with a German soldier,’ he said, not making eye contact with his wife. ‘There! Are you happy now?’
‘It doesn’t look slight to me!’ she said. ‘You’re old enough to know better than to pick a fight.’
‘Three young guards were up to no good. I swear they would’ve killed Ben Feldman if I hadn’t stepped in.’
‘Oh!’ After a long pause, she said, ‘Is Ben all right now?’
‘Yes. Now, we shall say no more about it.’
With that, he went into the farmhouse and disappeared upstairs.
‘Are you okay?’ Zofia asked, giving Viktor a hug.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said. ‘Honestly, there was nothing I could do. I only turned my back for a second. When I turned around, Dad had waded in to protect his friend.’
‘I don’t understand. Why were they picking on an old man anyway?’
‘You’re not going to believe this; it was because he’s Jewish.’
‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Awful, isn’t it?’
‘I knew there’s been a lot of anti-Semitism recently, but are things really this bad?’
‘There was a story in the paper last summer,’ he said. ‘I didn’t pay much attention at the time, but looking back, I guess it was a sign of what was to come.’
Zofia looked at him blankly. Not one for politics, she had more important things in life to deal with, like bringing up the children and putting food on the table.
‘You remember, some rabbi in Danzig sold the valuables from his synagogue to a museum in New York so he could pay for his congregation to leave the country. You must have noticed fewer Jews around?’
‘Has it come to this?’ she asked incredulously. ‘I mean, these people have lived here as long as anyone can remember. Then, some idiot in Germany says the Israelites are evil, so the whole world turns against them. What’s happened to friendship and loyalty?’
‘You should have seen the people at the market, booing and jeering Mr. Feldman. Dad was the only one who tried to help him.’
Zofia stared at him, not believing what she was hearing.
‘While we’re on the subject, Mr. Feldman asked us over for dinner tonight. I suppose it is his way of saying thank you. You and Mama were invited, of course, but I said you’d be here looking after the children. Is that okay?’
Zofia nodded reluctantly. ‘Make sure you and your father get home in one piece this time.’
Viktor and his father had dressed in their smartest clothes and said their goodbyes before setting off into the city. A strong easterly wind plagued them as they made their way down the open road. As they entered the built-up area, the breeze dropped, and the two men were able to walk more comfortably.
‘Where does Mr. Feldman live?’ Viktor asked, replacing his cap after flattening his hair.
‘Down by the river. Not too far now. If you don’t mind me asking, I couldn’t help noticing Zofia didn’t appear happy about you coming out tonight. Is everything okay?’
‘She’s not seen much of me since we’ve been here. Give it a couple of days, and she’ll be fine.’
The old man said wisely, ‘As long as everything is all right.’
After a further fifteen minutes, they reached the home of Mr. and Mrs. Feldman. It was not a grand place, but the house was spotless. Dinner was served within half an hour of their arrival, and both he and his father ate until they could eat no more.
Sitting in an armchair next to a roaring fire, Viktor chewed on his pipe while his father shared a hilarious anecdote of one of his many adventures. An enjoyable evening was topped off by Mrs. Feldman bringing in a tray of rich coffee with some sugary treats. Viktor savoured the warmth of the coffee and could have stayed next to the fireplace all night.
‘How did it get this late?’ his father said.
‘It has been a pleasure spending the evening with you,’ said Mr. Feldman. ‘Once again, I cannot thank you enough for what happened earlier today.’
‘What are friends for?’ Viktor’s father shrugged.
The streets were relatively empty, the city’s inhabitants avoiding the fine rain which now fell. Despite the weather, they chatted about their night, the war, the Nazis, and the Jews. Through the window of a noisy bar, Viktor saw a group of German soldiers standing around a piano, swinging huge steins of frothy beer and singing loudly. They had not gone more than fifty yards when several drunken men spilt out onto the street.
‘Dad, I think it’s those fools from earlier,’ he whispered, quickening his pace.
‘Damn! Keep moving—act as if you haven’t seen them.’
‘Okay. Where can we lose them?’
‘C’mon. I know just the place.’
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Father and son walked swiftly.
‘In here,’ said his father, darting through a rusting gate.
‘Where are we?’ Viktor asked, glancing uneasily over his shoulder.
‘The old Jewish cemetery. Down at the bottom is a row of trees,’ he pointed. ‘On the other side of them is the lower field of our farm. Let’s split up and we’ll meet up at home.’
‘Shouldn’t we stick together?’
‘They’re bullies, but on their own they’re nothing,’ his father said. ‘They won’t follow both of us.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘Of course,’ his father smiled. ‘You don’t think I’ve done this before?’
Away from the streetlights, it was as black as pitch. The two men separated, running in opposite directions. Behind him, German voices shouted angrily. He hoped his father was safely away.
Viktor took a deep breath, then ran across several rows of graves. Crouching behind a large stone memorial, he watched their silhouettes moving amongst the gravestones. Panting hard, his eyes darted around. There was no trace of his father.
As he ran as fast as he could, the ground changed from gravel to mud. His ankle went from under him, but he regained his balance without breaking his stride. Out of nowhere, something hit him square between the eye. It took him a few seconds to recover. Of all the stupid things, he had run into a tree. He instinctively rubbed his forehead and struggled to his feet. As he rose, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, expecting to see his father, but a forceful punch greeted him, knocking him onto his back.
Gaps in his memory plagued him, some spanning several hours. In front of him, iron bars reached from the ceiling to the floor. The other three walls were made from unfinished bricks lined with benches occupied by around twenty other inmates. A narrow corridor ran on the other side of the bars, but his captors were nowhere to be seen.
Sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, Viktor studied the others who were locked up with him. Some of them were dirty with torn clothes; others looked well-dressed and not accustomed to captivity. All of them were battered and bruised. Thankfully, his father was not one of them. The old man must have escaped.
The Danzig Corridor Page 18