by Bill Jones
Hartmann stiffened. They knew. They knew. And now they could all see him, shrinking further back from the light under the creaking woodwork. One by one, they were standing and shouting, but panic had rendered Hartmann deaf and the room had fallen inexplicably silent. In mute horror, he watched as Koenig rose from his chair and stepped forward to sit next to his friend.
Hartmann shivered and tightened the blanket around his shoulders. The night’s cold had burrowed itself into his marrow.
‘I told them, Max. What else was I going to do?’
18
It was impossible to know who was hitting him. Everything had happened so horribly fast. Cold pairs of hands had pulled him down on to the floor, dragging his jacket over his face. Booted feet were stamping on his back; a piece of wood – a chair leg maybe – was being used by someone to club his head and neck.
Zuhlsdorff would be one of them, for sure. He could feel the venom. He could hear the juvenile glee in his grunts. Mertens too, probably. Just so long as it wasn’t Koenig. Please. Please, not Koenig, he thought.
If he rolled over he’d see them, but all that mattered were his ribs, and so he curled down deeper until he could taste the foul wet dirt of the floor.
‘On the chair. Put him on the fucking chair.’
The beating stopped at once. Someone was dragging him by the arm. He could feel the slender outline of the chair, and then a second pair of hands yanking him up and round until he could sit and straighten his uniform, push back the bloodied hair from his eyes.
Zuhlsdorff was standing to his left, breathing heavily. He had a splintered wooden stave in his one good hand. Koenig was sitting calmly on a bunk looking down at a space between his feet.
‘We need a talk, Max. A short talk.’ Goltz had pulled up a chair. He was so close that Hartmann could feel the odourless warmth of the other man’s breath. ‘Your friend tells us you’re planning to leave us.’
‘He’s wrong. It’s not like that.’
‘Escape was never part of our training. It’s not who we are.’
‘I got curious. I found a way through the wire. Nothing was planned.’
‘Time and again you disappoint me, Max.’
‘Are you married? Have you got any children?’
There was just enough time for him to protect his head before Zuhlsdorff brought the club down hard on his exposed fingers. As he fell forward, Goltz clamped his hands around his neck and held on until the screams gurgled away.
‘You’re making a mistake. I’m sorry. It was a fantasy, never a plan.’
A weak smile drifted across Goltz’s face. He removed his hands and placed them side by side, palms up, on his thighs. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, our prisoner thinks I may be making a mistake. What is your verdict? Raise your hands if you think he is guilty.’
Hartmann stared at the motionless figure on the bunk. Three hands were already in the air – Zuhlsdorff, Mertens and Bruling – but Koenig’s arm had not yet moved.
‘If I may intercede for a second . . .’ From the far end of the hut, Rosterg had stepped calmly under the light and placed his hand on Hartmann’s back. ‘Although I’m really not sure why you invited me, I’m wondering if your man here might be more use to you in one piece.’
‘This had better be good,’ spat Goltz.
Rosterg shrugged his shoulders and smiled apologetically. ‘You want influence. Correct? You want to – shall we say – police the attitude of those less committed to this war than yourself. Correct?’
As Rosterg spoke, Goltz had risen to his feet and turned his back on Hartmann. ‘This place is too soft, too easy,’ he muttered. It was as though he was talking to himself.
‘I agree. They feed us well. No one is complaining.’ Rosterg looked up at the leaking roof. ‘Well, not much, anyway.’
‘That has to change now.’
‘And how would you have it changed?’
Hartmann’s pulse was racing. He didn’t know why – or care – but Rosterg was battling to save his life.
‘What’s all this got to do with him?’
Goltz had spun back round, and was rocking from side to side in his own weak shadow.
‘Calm down,’ Rosterg went on. ‘Just tell me what you want. That’s all I’m asking.’
‘All right. I want every German in this camp fighting the war again. I want to know everything that is going on here. Every fucking thing. I want an SS man living in every hut in every compound. I want to know what people are saying and thinking. I want to know if there are escapes planned. I want to know about guards. Who they are, where they’re from. How many there are. How many times a day they take a shit. Every fucking thing. So, Rosterg, you tell me how this piece of shit helps.’
No one in the hut had ever heard Goltz speak for so long, and the effort seemed to have rendered him breathless. In the flickering glow from the bulb even Rosterg’s tranquillity had wavered under the onslaught.
‘I’m waiting, clever dick. How does he help?’
Hartmann pushed back his chair and leaned forward, awaiting Rosterg’s reply. Zuhlsdorff’s arm was still hanging hopefully in the air.
‘You want your men in every compound. But only he knows the camp inside out. You want to be able to move your men around as you see fit, but only he knows all the weaknesses in the system. You want control but you’re stuck here. You want brains and he’s got them.’
‘If I hurt him, he would tell me all those things anyway.’
‘Was it really such a crime? Curiosity? Use his knowledge. Turn his folly into your strength.’
No one had noticed, but the wind had eased, leaving a tinny clatter of rain falling undisturbed on the roof.
‘He’s right. I can help you.’ Hartmann had pulled himself up. A torn black roundel was flapping on the back of his jacket. ‘I was bored. Daydreaming. Really, that’s all.’
‘He’s lying! He’s a fucking snake!’
‘Put your hand down now. Now! That’s an order.’
Zuhlsdorff lowered his arm. The wooden club rolled away under a bunk.
‘Hartmann lives,’ said Goltz. ‘And that’s an order.’
19
Within a day or two, it was as if nothing had ever happened.
Morale in the compound was soaring. Hartmann had been unexpectedly invited to join Goltz’s inner circle and his friendship with Koenig had been patched up over a shared jam sandwich.
‘I was angry. I thought you were going to abandon me.’
‘I wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet anyway.’
‘But you’d have taken me?’ As always, the canteen had been boiling with heat and noise.
‘Yes. Of course I’d have taken you.’
‘Then I’m sorry.’
But there was neither the time nor the inclination to go deeper into what had occurred. A fever of planning had erupted behind the wire walls of the SS compound.
Inside Goltz’s head, Hartmann’s unique knowledge of the camp had mutated into a single, all-consuming objective: to gain control over the entire prison population by swapping SS prisoners with men from other compounds. And since the seed for the plan had been planted on the night of the ‘trial’, Hartmann’s misdemeanour appeared forgiven.
Nevertheless, if he was going to survive, it would require round-the-clock concentration. At best, his continuing presence in the compound was fragile, and he felt no inclination to gatecrash the many huddled discussions which went on around him. Curiosity and disloyalty were far too easily muddled – he knew that now – and he would speak only when invited to.
Several things were common knowledge, however. Two prisoners in each of the three neighbouring compounds had been persuaded – by Rosterg – that their ‘best interests’ lay in an open-ended move to the SS compound, during which time their beds, prison uniforms and identities would be taken by six members of the Schutzstaffel. No one knew how he’d done it, not even Goltz. Like most of Rosterg’s affairs, the process was shrouded in mystery. All that mattered
was that it had been done. But Hartmann fully understood.
Wherever they’d been, he’d watched Rosterg making himself useful; drawing strength from the numbers who leaned on him. Studied closely, it was easy to discern the man’s languid aristocratic bearing; much harder to discern the steely pragmatism which underpinned it. Rosterg was a showman who took risks, around whom dangerous rumours seemed in constant orbit: that he was a homosexual; that he’d supplied intelligence to the French resistance; that he was a millionaire, a deserter and a Jew. No doubt he’d heard them all and was bent on drowning the stories in a whirlpool of mutual dependency. Goltz needed him; the British needed him; the Lagerführer needed him. Just so long as he was useful, no one really cared who or what he was.
Hartmann, on the other hand, was readjusting to his sudden unnerving elevation. Koenig’s betrayal had cut deep. It was good that they were speaking again, but the episode had left him dangerously isolated. As never before, it was time to play the dutiful patriot and commit himself fully, and vocally, to the mission’s successful outcome. No one must know – especially Koenig – that the reasons for his enthusiasm differed markedly from the plan’s architects, and that getting work on the other side of the fence was all that mattered to him now.
‘He would have killed you,’ Bruling had informed him, exactly a week after the beating. The two men were standing side by side at the washbasins. ‘You’ve been allowed in because of what you know. Not who you are.’
‘I’m more than aware of that. But I wasn’t trying to break out.’
‘I believe you. It’s exciting, don’t you think? Really exciting.’
A thin, cold lather was dripping off Hartmann’s face. Pinpricks of blood were showing on his chin where the dulled razor had torn out his whiskers.
‘A beautiful plan, Max,’ continued Bruling. ‘It’s going to be our camp, at last.’ Within the next few days, a pair of SS infiltrators would be smuggled into each of the Luftwaffe, Wehrmacht and officers’ compounds, to ‘restore Nazi values and re-establish military backbone in the camp’. With Goltz’s blessing they could identify traitors, dish out any necessary punishment, or pass details of serial offenders back for more intensive ‘rehabilitation’. He called them his ‘beautiful Rollkommandos’ – raiding parties – and at Goltz’s own insistence, Hartmann’s name was one of the six.
‘We are still an army,’ their leader repeatedly told them. ‘We should behave like one.’
There would be blood, Hartmann was certain of that, but not on his own hands. Not if he could help it. Bruling had told him there was work off the camp for low-risk prisoners. Work on the farms. Work on the roads. If he could survive in his new identity, Hartmann would be able to volunteer. Whatever happened, he was keeping his fists in his pockets.
‘It is set,’ Goltz finally revealed. ‘You go tomorrow after lights out.’
They were all thankful it had stopped raining. Even by German standards, the British weather could be soul-destroying, but after two days of incessant murk a little warmth had returned again, allowing the men to lay out their filthy, wet mattresses on the hot tin roofs while they gathered, between meals, in countless whispered huddles.
No one had made any secret of the coming swap, and the identity of the six volunteers was widely known. Around the huts, each was already a hero and the mission had sent the collective mood soaring, boosted yet higher by the latest news from Rosterg. Hitler’s new rockets were apparently falling on cities all over northern Europe and a secret German army was massing in the Belgian woods. Unconfined joy rose in the camp like the warm steam from their bedding.
With just a few hours to go, Hartmann found a spot by the fence, sat down and looked drowsily out across his compound. Leaves were falling from trees he couldn’t see, and a faraway siren was screaming. Above him, the sky was clear. No planes. No rockets. It was probably just a factory hooter, sending sweaty-faced workers home at the end of their shift, back to their wives and their women.
‘Everyone seems happy.’
Hartmann turned sharply. Koenig was sitting down next to him.
‘It’s normally you waking me up, Max. And you were snoring.’
‘I wasn’t asleep.’
Under the slanting autumnal light, Hartmann was startled to see how vibrant his old friend looked. Camp life had transformed all of them, but Koenig’s carbonated bounce had been fully restored and his eyes flashed mischief above the familiar broad grin. ‘Are you thinking how gorgeous I look?’
‘The other night. If Goltz had forced you to choose would you have put your hand up?’
‘Come on, Max. Get over it. I told him about your wanderings for your own good.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning people ask questions about your attitude. Meaning, now you’re one of us.’
‘I’m alive, I suppose. That’s something.’
‘It’s fun, Max. Come on. It’s like when we were kids.’
Hartmann frowned, and returned his gaze to the huts. It was true. Everyone did look happy. Hundreds of shirt-sleeved men were dreaming again.
A dusty-black butterfly landed on his arm. When Koenig placed his hand alongside, the butterfly stepped across on to his finger.
‘People will hate us in there,’ said Koenig. ‘Germans will hate us.’
‘I know. I’m getting used to it.’
‘At least he’s put us together. The old team: you and me and a few thousand enemies. What could possibly go wrong?’
From its perch on Koenig’s thumbnail, the butterfly stretched its wings and then stepped off into the void.
20
That night they were the first pair to leave.
Along each side of the hut, every man stood from his bed to applaud. Even Zuhlsdorff raised his right arm in salute, following Hartmann with his eyes as they walked between the bunks.
When they stepped outside, the noise followed them. Within seconds it had spread to the other huts, a gruff chorus rippling out across the camp. From its furthest edge, a spotlight wheeled sharply in their direction, framing two men walking innocently towards the latrines. For a few moments it tracked them before moving on across the rooftops, illuminating a solitary bat gorging on a cloud of moths.
In the shadow of the toilet block they waited. Only when the chanting had faded could they think of moving on. With their backs pressed to the wall, Hartmann stole a glance at his friend. The boy’s adrenaline was running so hot, he could smell it.
‘Calm down, Erich. Go easy.’
Through the ragged fringe of distant trees, a half-moon was rising. Koenig’s eyes seemed ablaze in its light.
‘Let’s go, Max,’ he hissed. ‘I can’t stand the smell of shit here any longer.’
Hartmann counted to three. He could feel Koenig’s hand pressing on his shoulder.
‘Now. Now. Now.’
One more second for luck.
‘Come on, Max. Now.’
A deep breath, then together they stepped forward to the fence. Clutching the wire, with their faces jammed against the cold mesh, they waited again. Somewhere in the nearby fields, a dog was howling furiously on its chain. Farm animals. Pets. Nothing more than that. No one had seen them. They could move on.
Hartmann’s confidence was already rising. Until tonight, this had been his secret world and back inside it he felt secure. Ten paces to his left he reached down and exposed the old gap at ground level. In less than a minute they had both shimmied through.
‘Brilliant, Max. I’m impressed.’
Hartmann put his finger to his lips. ‘Sssh,’ he mouthed. The British had a point. Careless talk cost lives.
Turning away from his friend, he walked quickly along the mazy wire corridor towards the Wehrmacht compound. Behind them, the other two pairs would soon be setting off on their own missions to terrify the airmen and the officers. It wouldn’t pay to dawdle. Every ten paces, he placed a short stick in the ground.
Everything was just the same. Away to his right,
the spotlight from the second guard tower was still falling hopelessly short. Ahead of them, he could hear the glorious swell of the soldier choir. ‘Stille Nacht’. Silent Night. Of course. How perfect. Winter was coming.
No time to listen tonight. A few more twists and they were alongside the wire which embraced the seemingly countless huts of the vast German army compound. At the tenth concrete post from the corner, they stopped. Beyond the fence, two silhouettes were slouching towards them across a broad grassy swathe of open ground.
‘The tenth post. That’s what Rosterg said. This must be them.’
‘Miserable-looking fuckers,’ said Koenig.
As the figures drew closer, Hartmann could see why. These were not volunteers. They were tearful children with terror engraved on their faces. Neither looked as though he could lift a rifle, let alone kill a man with one.
‘You are Hartmann?’
The voice was barely audible, a descant squeak from the taller of the two prisoners. Closer up, they looked like brothers; the same downy hair, the same deep-set eyes.
‘Stupid question, I suppose. Sorry.’
As he spoke, the second boy had dropped to his knees and begun pulling dirt away from the bottom of the fence. After a few moments he looked back up and nodded. Again, it was his taller companion who breached the silence.
‘You want us to come through now?’ On their own side of the wire, the two SS men were already hastily removing their clothes. Koenig cursed. ‘Of course we fucking well do.’
When all four men were stripped, Hartmann and Koenig dressed quickly. Rosterg had done his work well. The swapped uniforms were a tidy fit; clean, too, with the freshly stitched yellow discs of low-risk prisoners on the regulation mauve jacket and trousers.
‘Look at us, Max. We’ve been rehabilitated.’
But Hartmann wasn’t listening. Neither of the two prisoners had moved. Each was still shivering in his pants, not daring to touch the discarded outfit at his feet.