Black Camp 21

by Bill Jones

  Hartmann wasn’t required to answer. His jaw hurt too much anyway.

  As the posse of officers stood aside, six stern-lipped guards formed a circle around the prisoner and escorted him through the camp’s main gate. Already, the jeeps and trucks were starting to move away. Soldiers were dispersing, and easy chatter was flowing again through the thinning ranks.

  When he twisted back hoping for a sign of Koenig, his escort closed in tight and pushed him on across the empty parade square. Away to his right he could see the Wehrmacht compound, where every inch of fence was lined with curious onlookers.

  It was a fine day. They’d be enjoying the diversion.

  He thought of Eschner, and hoped he’d be watching. Then he thought of Sieber strung up above a wooden bench. A few cheers had begun echoing across the quadrangle, followed by a solitary ‘Sieg Heil’ around which more voices coalesced.

  Soon, it seemed to Hartmann as if the entire camp was yelling, a stubborn roar which made his guards scurry even more quickly in the direction of the cell block, a long single-storey building with a flat concrete roof and six barred windows either side of its one hulking door.

  When it closed behind him, the noise was gone. So too was his escort.

  He was standing alone in a small square reception area, illuminated by two single lightbulbs hanging from a concrete ceiling blotted with damp. In front of him was a narrow wooden desk manned by two frozen-looking military policemen.

  By a tiny margin, it was warmer inside than out – a very tiny margin. Somewhere Hartmann couldn’t see there had to be a heater, but the men were still wearing heavy coats and fingerless gloves, and the walls behind them sparkled with condensation.

  After five minutes, they still hadn’t acknowledged his presence and the pain in Hartmann’s chest was getting worse. Without taking his eyes off the desk, he tried shifting his weight from one frozen foot to the other. A hot knife seemed to enter his belly just beneath his ribcage.

  He heard a loud gasp – his own – and he was falling forward on to his right knee, bracing himself with an outstretched arm as the stone floor rose up to strike his face.

  He couldn’t see all of what happened next. Another door was opening. The two MPs were helping him through it. He could hear heavy bolts being slid one way, then the other. He could hear the clink of keys and the dull echo of voices, and then a cold like no other, a physical assault of bad air tearing through his wet clothes and driving deep into his bones.

  With a shudder, he came to. Ahead of him was a long corridor off which he could see six cell doors, two of which were open. At the end where he was standing, there was a small open area, big enough for a tap, a tin bath, a small wooden chair and a bucket.

  ‘Strip.’

  One of the two guards had spoken. He didn’t know which. He hadn’t even looked at their faces.

  ‘Get that filthy shit off your back.’

  Hartmann didn’t need telling twice. Any new clothes had to be better. As he tossed his sodden jacket to the floor, lumps of dirt and hay broke free of the collar. When he lowered his trousers, the smell of blood and smoke – and something far worse – made him turn away in disgust.

  Against the sudden whiteness of his naked body, his hands appeared alien and black. With his rough fingertips, he felt the tight knot of his old bullet wound, and then the darkening cancer of the morning’s bruises.

  He was all right. It was too cold to bleed. He was going to be all right.

  Covering his genitals, Hartmann crouched and waited. From behind him, a clank of metal, and then water pouring down hard over his head.

  ‘Oh my God. Oh my God.’

  It was warm water. Not cold. Warm. He gasped at the forgotten pleasure. A hard block of green carbolic had been pushed into his hand. There were footsteps behind and more water and he was scrubbing down his legs and his arms, pummelling the grime out of his hair and looking down into the blood-streaked pool of grey sediment swirling around the drain hole between his feet.

  Whenever he thought it was over, there was more water. Not until he was clean did the magical supply of buckets cease, and then – in an instant – the cold returned.

  ‘You put these on now.’

  One of the guards had gone. The fellow that remained looked familiar. Or at least his teeth did.

  ‘You gave me a lift on your bike. To the field. Remember?’

  ‘I got bollocked for letting two prisoners wander off. I’ve not been on it since.’

  Hartmann limped forward. There was a vest, pants, thick woollen socks, and a regulation prison suit with black roundels which he pulled on as quickly as he could. The clothes were warm and his old boots had been wiped clean, but the damage in his chest made it impossible for him to reach down to tie the laces.

  ‘I’ll do that. Sit back.’

  ‘That’s kind of you. Thanks.’

  He was just a boy, much younger than Koenig, and even thinner than Hartmann. His face was covered in red spots.

  ‘I won’t be much help to you after this.’ The guard’s eyes flashed along the corridor. ‘You ready?’ He clamped Hartmann’s arm and guided him into the corridor. To the German, every detail suddenly seemed critical. Along the left-hand wall, there were six metal-framed glass windows just above head height. Opposite each one, on the right, was a cell door with a hatch that only opened from the outside. The doors were solid metal, painted grey, and the first four were closed. Apart from the squeak of their footsteps, there wasn’t a sound to be heard, and when they got to the fifth door the boy stopped.

  ‘This is it.’

  Hartmann was looking into his new home. From somewhere, weak sunlight was dropping on to a metal-framed bed and three neatly folded blankets. There was no heating and no furniture. His only luxury appeared to be a bucket.

  ‘Do I get a shower every day?’

  The boy smiled. Hartmann took that as a no. It was time to go in. Three paces took him to the far wall. When he turned, the door was swinging shut. On the other side of it, two giant bolts were sliding into place. After that he heard a key clicking smoothly around its levers. Then a face appeared in the hatch.

  ‘Night night.’

  The hatch closed. It was probably no later than midday. Looking up, Hartmann saw a single lightbulb shining at the end of a tiny length of flex. Not enough to hang himself with, too far away for him to reach his fingers into the mains.

  Easing himself carefully down on to the bed, he unfolded a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. He lay back. His pillow had the feel and smell of wet paper, and for the first time in days he felt hungry. Very hungry.

  There’d been nothing substantial since the doctor’s kitchen.

  And no one had said anything about food.

  He needn’t have worried. During the first week, he saw little else. Three times a day, the hatch slid open and a pair of hands passed through his meals. Twice a day, after breakfast and lunch, the hands returned to remove his dish and spoon.

  When he tried to start a conversation, the hands flapped him away, and after a few failures he gave up trying. Life in his cell was proving tolerable enough without it. The food was good, and provided he kept still – and fully clothed – it was pleasantly warm inside his triple cocoon of wool.

  Even better, the cell block was cloister-quiet. Every night – he’d no idea when – the light was switched off at some hidden central point, and every morning it was switched back on again before his breakfast. In between, he took guilty delight from the silence which embraced him.

  The only sounds were the ones he made himself: the pacing shuffle of his feet; the scraping of the hot stew from his plate; the days scratched off on the musty wall with the end of his spoon. Mostly, however, Hartmann simply slept, feeling safer than he had done for years.

  By the end of the first week, the pain in his ribs had eased and his bruises had ripened into a reassuringly gangrenous yellow. Although still physically weak, he felt nourished and refreshed and his thoughts
were clear. He would have welcomed some fresh air, but none was on offer. Instead, he walked his tiny floor, and – as the aches subsided – he lay back on his bed to devise a series of simple exercises, lifting up his legs to work the wasted muscles in his belly, thankful that there was no mirror and glad for the extra warmth that the effort always generated.

  On the morning of the eighth day, Hartmann tried again to speak to his captors. As the hatch opened, he pushed his face into the gap instead of his hand.

  ‘Listen. You don’t have to talk to me. Just take away this bucket and bring me a new one. That’s all I’m asking.’

  Through the hole, he could hear a tray being put down, questioning voices, keys sliding around a metal ring. When the door peeled open, the corridor seemed dark and the two shapes, although human, were indistinct.

  ‘Bring it here. Slowly. Please, please don’t fuck about.’

  It was the younger guard’s voice, high-pitched and West Country, almost shy. Leaning in behind him was an older, coarse-looking man, a sergeant, sporting thick non-regulation sideburns.

  The older one wouldn’t have said please.

  Hartmann held up his arms peacefully and walked to the end of his bed. Carefully, he gripped the handle of the pail, feeling the brown liquid sway as he took its weight. Stuck away in the corner, the smell had been tolerable. Stirred by his movement, the contents broke free.

  ‘There. There. In the corridor. Give it to the kid. Don’t pass it to me.’

  He put one foot through the door and set the bucket down. As he did so, he looked left and then right. The other five doors were closed. By the guards’ feet there was a wooden tray carrying six bowls: four empty, two full.

  He had neighbours, quiet ones. He picked up one of the filled bowls. ‘I see it’s busy in here.’

  A large hand in Hartmann’s chest was pushing him back towards his bed. The unexpected pain made him yelp.

  ‘You need to tidy up, soldier. You’ve got an important guest.’

  Someone was walking towards them. A rasp, not a thump, leather soles not rubber ones.

  ‘People don’t normally get visitors in here. You must be very special.’

  The two guards were blocking the doorway. The footsteps had stopped and Hartmann’s heart was palpitating. Someone important, they’d said.

  ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes.’

  For a short moment, the doorway was clear. The only sound was the two unhappy soldiers, the young one retreating with his cargo of effluent, the older man bending to pick up the tray. Whoever was waiting out there, Hartmann felt certain it could only be bad.

  His eyes hadn’t moved from the corridor.

  It was there now – the poison. He could smell it.

  ‘You do seem to have a remarkable aptitude for survival, Mr Hartmann. Would it be acceptable if I impinged on your solitude for a few moments?’

  Not Goltz. Thank God.

  ‘Do I have any choice in the matter, Herr Rosterg?’

  ‘Well done. I’m flattered. You remembered me. But then who wouldn’t?’

  Hartmann’s guest stepped into the doorway. He looked as if the fabric of his uniform had been personally washed and tailored for the occasion.

  ‘You’re admiring my boots again, Max. Quite right. Comfortable, but not warm. Even the best things have a downside.’

  Rosterg entered the cell, pushed the door shut, and sat down next to Hartmann.

  ‘You look pale, my friend. Who were you expecting?’

  ‘Not you.’

  ‘Relax. I have cigarettes And I could probably get you books, if you were interested?’

  ‘Yes to both. Thank you. And how the hell did you get in?’

  ‘You’ve got human rights, Max. At least that’s what I told them.’

  From a breast pocket, Rosterg magicked a petrol lighter and a full packet of Senior Service. He lit one and passed it across to Hartmann. ‘I can leave you the cigarettes. Not the lighter. You’ll have to ask the guards for a light if you want more.’

  A cockroach was crawling along the edge of the floor near Rosterg’s foot. ‘Within limits, I think they’ll look kindly on requests.’ He twisted his boot hard on the insect.

  ‘Everyone seems to have a price,’ mumbled Hartmann. The first two puffs had made him feel dizzy.

  ‘Civilians get hungry in wars and soldiers have food. It isn’t difficult. You’ve done it yourself.’ Rosterg examined a round wet stain on his right sole. The cockroach was still alive, spinning helplessly on its back. ‘That’s how you got your notebook and pencil. Remember?’ He lowered his foot again and smiled, sensing Hartmann’s shock.

  ‘There isn’t much I don’t find out, Max. It’s like you said. Everything has a value. To a hungry man, information is merely cheese.’

  He slid an arm around the prisoner’s shoulder and pulled him closer.

  ‘Now tell me. Do you still have my handkerchief?’

  After that, they talked quickly and quietly, sensing the limits of their time. Every detail of Hartmann’s escapade was exchanged, from the warehouses full of brand-new trucks to the hangars packed with trainer planes, from the lie of the land to the condition of the roads.

  By omission, there was no mention of the doctor or the girl at the farm. For reasons he didn’t fully understand, Hartmann felt both would be rendered safer by his silence.

  ‘This is all for Goltz, right?’

  ‘You two weren’t the only ones. He’s had people out all over the place. He’s building a picture. All very impressive, I must say.’

  ‘With a view to what? Breaking out at the head of a prisoner army?’

  ‘Something like that. You know what he thinks. Britain is a shambles. We are the master race. Et cetera. Et cetera. He thinks this whole dismal country is there for the taking. And no one argues with him now. He’s got his spies everywhere and that’s made him untouchable. But who are we to know better? Maybe he has a point.’

  ‘Is he serious?’

  ‘He’s always serious.’

  Sensing that their time was up, Rosterg rose smoothly from the bed. They could both hear the guard returning with a clean bucket.

  ‘He’s deranged,’ said Hartmann. ‘He’ll get us all killed.’

  ‘It’s not bad in here, Max. A little wallpaper and you could make it rather nice.’

  Hartmann chuckled. There was something in Rosterg which he’d grown to like. ‘Before you go, one last thing. What happened to Koenig?’

  ‘He’s fine. He’ll be out of here when you are.’

  Rosterg stretched out a toe and put the still-spinning insect out of its misery.

  ‘He needs to watch that temper, Max. You got lucky back there. The sentry at the airstrip didn’t die.’

  ‘That’s good,’ sighed Hartmann. ‘I’m glad.’

  Eight days later, Rosterg was back with a copy of Great Expectations and two fresh packs of cigarettes.

  ‘I’d bring you more but the cells are full and everyone wants the same. Not books, cigarettes. No one else wants to read. There’s absolutely no competition for those.’ Idly, he riffed through the pages of the Dickens. ‘I was rather pleased when I found this one. The title seemed to suit.’

  After that, he came almost every day, and although the visits were never long, Hartmann grew to cherish them. The older man was witty and well read – an accidental soldier, not a Zuhlsdorff or a Bruling.

  Back in Berlin, he had a fine house with a library and a career he was desperate to resume. He had a wife, a nanny and three children who played in a room beneath shelves stacked with records. He had a season ticket for the Philharmonic, and although he liked to talk, never for a moment did Hartmann feel that they’d established a friendship. Their conversations were like innocent swordplay, and although his erudition was entertaining, Rosterg’s mastery of evasion reduced every exchange to a playful game. A cold man surrounded by colder men for whom he felt nothing. Accepting that, Hartmann took what he could from their meetings; and whenever
he saw an opportunity to, he pushed.

  ‘I’ve still never really understood why you ended up designated black with wretches like us. You’re a staff sergeant, an NCO, a behind-the-lines logistics person. You’re not SS, and you don’t exactly exude menace. So why?’

  ‘You’ve asked me this before. I don’t really know.’ Rosterg’s cigarette was pinched artfully between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. ‘My father’s a Nazi. The company we both work for makes chemicals. I guess that made someone nervous. Or just curious.’

  ‘In Poland, you said. Pesticides?’

  ‘Yes, among other things. It’s a huge company. But I really really don’t know. That’s my father, and it’s a long way away. Perhaps someone simply took a dislike to me. Or made a mistake.’

  ‘Do you talk to everyone in the block like this?’

  ‘Only you. No one else really interests me. I’m not sure why you do, really.’

  Rosterg was polishing his glasses. When he put them back on, his eyes looked troubled and his voice had dropped in register.

  ‘Listen. You’ll find it very different when you get out of here.’

  ‘Different better? Or different worse? It’s certainly got to be noisier.’

  ‘Goltz has been busy. He’s had nine people on the outside. He knows a lot.’

  Along the corridor, two doors were slammed in quick succession.

  ‘I’ve spoken to every one of the men who got out,’ Rosterg continued. ‘And Goltz was right. It’s a shambles out there. The country’s half asleep.’

  ‘The British must know that, surely. They must be mad to let you near us.’

  Rosterg rubbed the tips of his fingers together, as if counting banknotes. His eyes were gleaming. ‘You won’t be able to dodge this when you come out. You won’t be able to stay detached. It’s too dangerous. You saw what Goltz was like before. Now he’s foaming at the mouth, talking about air drops from Germany and storming down to London in stolen tanks.’

  ‘He was saying all that when I last saw him. What’s so different?’

  ‘What’s different is that he’s had your eyes on the outside. What’s different is that he has information.’