Black Camp 21

by Bill Jones

  ‘And the cigarettes?’ Koenig asked.

  He sounded hostile, dangerous. The door was banging impatiently in its frame at musical intervals. Whump. Whump.

  Rosterg tugged a crushed blue packet from his breast pocket. Gauloises. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘The sweetest perk of victory,’ said Hartmann. ‘Remember that?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Koenig had stretched his arms until his hands were almost touching the hot metal.

  ‘That’s what you called them. Six months ago.’

  ‘They were my price for translating a letter from Polish into English,’ Rosterg explained. ‘One of our guards has fallen in love with a local.’

  Koenig lit a cigarette off the fire, and handed the packet straight back. Hartmann wasn’t going to get one. Outside, the sky had blackened again, and the only meaningful light in the cabin was coming from the stove.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘You know what I’m reading. Die Wochenpost. We could all be reading it. You merely choose not to.’

  ‘It’s British propaganda. It’s full of crap and lies.’

  ‘It’s a newspaper produced for German prisoners by the British. Of course it’s full of crap. But it’s words on a page. It’s something to read. It’s a tiny window out of this place. And I’m old enough to know the difference between crap and the truth, if there is such a thing. But then maybe you’re not.’ Rosterg folded the paper carefully and passed it over. ‘Either way, you should read it before you condemn it.’

  Koenig took the newspaper, kicked open the blackened hatch, and bundled it into the fire.

  ‘You do know there’s more than one copy?’ Brittle flakes of scorched paper were rising towards the patterns on the ceiling. ‘There’s always more than one copy.’

  ‘Goltz is right. You’re fucking weird.’

  ‘A validated man of distinction, then. You have made my day.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Well, I can’t argue with that.’

  Hartmann had listened to the exchange with despair. For months, Rosterg had always seemed two moves ahead, the one prisoner he felt certain would make it home. Perhaps it was the cold – or the weeks of extended isolation – but he finally sounded crushed.

  ‘Come on. Both of you. Lighten up. It’s Christmas. Or near enough. If I’m allowed to say it.’

  ‘I’m not sure you are.’

  ‘What will they be doing right now? Your wife and kids.’

  ‘To be honest, I try very hard not to think about that. How about you?’

  The watchtowers were already wiping the camp with their lights. The day had scarcely begun and yet to Hartmann it felt over.

  ‘I had a photograph once. Now I’m not even sure she existed.’

  Koenig had heard enough. ‘I’ll have one for later. Correction. I’ll have them all. Give them here.’

  Rosterg handed over the pack. Through the window, they could see the pathways busy with men sliding towards the canteen. Insipid fragments of blue sky were showing through the last straggling flakes of the storm.

  ‘Be careful with what you eat today,’ said Rosterg. The three men had stood. Koenig was halfway out of the door. ‘There’s been no fresh food here for days.’

  As the door slammed, a trail of delicate black motes followed the two prisoners out on to the snow.

  41

  By evening roll call, all the clouds had moved away, bringing a frost which bit deep into the earth.

  During the afternoon, the prisoners had been quiet, as if survival precluded all other preoccupations. Outside, there was nothing they could do to stay warm, and their clothing, in these conditions, was pitifully inadequate.

  After their food, most of the men had galloped back to their huts, gasping as the cold gnawed on their jawbones, alchemising their breath into frozen dust. Even the guards seemed incapacitated. So far, there’d been no intrusions, and the routine nightly namecheck – in Hartmann’s hut, at least – had proceeded without incident. Everyone was still there. No one had the energy for a fight.

  ‘My fingers froze to the roof out there. Look. I’ve torn the fucking skin.’

  Hartmann was wrapped in his bedding. Maybe it was hunger, but something felt as if it was decomposing inside his belly. At the best of times, he wasn’t in the mood for small talk with Bruling. And this wasn’t the best of times.

  ‘Do you ever wonder where we might be if Devizes had worked, Max?’

  ‘Dead, maybe?’

  ‘We’ll be back soon. In London, I mean. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  Bruling was the only person, Hartmann realised, who looked healthier than before. Like most of them, his beard was more down than stubble, but his face had fleshed out and his skin glowed like a child’s.

  ‘I was thinking I might pick up my mathematics again. One day. In Cambridge. What do you think?’

  Hartmann rolled over to face the wall. The man was like a Jehovah’s Witness. With luck, he’d soon get bored and knock on someone else’s door.

  ‘You don’t look too good, Max. Talk later, maybe.’

  For as long as he could, he lay still, hoping that his stomach would settle. Apart from the shrunken helpings, nothing about the day’s food had seemed odd. The tinned liver hadn’t smelled great, but who liked liver? As soon as Bruling had gone, he repositioned himself and surveyed the hut.

  Rosterg hadn’t been seen for hours, and their quarters felt disquietingly still, without even the comforting clank of the heating. He reached up to feel the pipe which ran above his bunk. It was lukewarm. On the previous two evenings it had been too hot to touch. Forgetting his discomfort, he swung down off his bunk to inspect the nearest stove. Just a handful of cinders was smouldering in the grate, and the coal scuttle alongside was virtually empty.

  ‘There are two hundred stoves in this camp and the fuel is running out.’

  Goltz was stretched out, motionless, like the lid of a medieval tomb.

  ‘So who do you think will get the last few lumps of coal, Hartmann? Us or the Poles?’

  From deeper down the hut there was a sustained groan, followed by the clatter of an ashen-faced figure rushing past them to the door. Moments later, he was followed by others, thrusting their heads into the block’s steel buckets, or stumbling desperately towards salvation with hands clamped across their mouths.

  In the chill air, the smell of vomit rose and spread, triggering a fresh chorus of retching, watched in disgust by the handful – which included Goltz – who remained unaffected.

  ‘We’ve been poisoned, Max,’ he whispered. But Max had gone. Back up on his bunk, Hartmann felt certain the pain would pass if he kept still. Halfway along the hut, men were defecating into buckets which were already full. Through the thin metal wall he could hear the traffic of misery, despite which he drifted into a feverish sleep, waking only when he knew for certain the battle against his own bowels was lost.

  Below him, Rosterg’s bed was still empty and the entire stinking hut seemed to be sleeping. Lights out had been and gone.

  It was insane, but there wasn’t an alternative.

  Standing at the hut door, he wondered what time it was. The whole camp seemed crushed into silence by the sheer weight of stars. Apart from the searchlights playing out across the snow, nothing was moving. No toilet visits after nine. That’s what they’d been told. He hoped the guards had been bluffing.

  Twenty strides would get him to a wooden seat over a hole in the ground. He took a breath, and tested his foot on the ice which had formed around the entrance. A faint crack was followed by a squeal of crushed snow. He took another step. This time the noise seemed louder, causing him to stop mid-stride, horribly aware of his heart and the surge pressing down on his stomach.

  It was no use. There wasn’t any time. Pulling his coat around his shoulders, Hartmann half ran, half hobbled to the safety of the wash block. Ten seconds. Maybe l
ess. He was all right. Knackered but alive. No one had seen him. Just as he thought, the Poles had been bluffing. Most likely, they were fighting off the cold like everyone else.

  Feeling his way in the black, Hartmann found a lavatory and ripped down his pants. While his bowels voided, sick rose up through his throat; bitter lumps of undigested liver sprayed between his feet. Now, surely, somebody would discover him, bent at the waist with filth hanging from either end.

  The back of his shirt was sticky with sweat, but the pain had gone and there was nothing left in his stomach to give. In his weakness, he thought of Sieber choking on a noose in a moonlit latrine. He’d probably never find out how he died. What difference would it make if he did?

  He stood up and rinsed his face under a cold tap.

  Through the doorway, he could see folds of glorious green light in the northern sky above the sharp edge of the mountains. Down at his feet, he could see his own shadow.

  For the first time that night, he felt terrified.

  In the stillness, whatever sound he made would be quadrupled. From the direction of the camp gates he could hear music: a gramophone record. Every word was clear, even the crackle of the needle. Maybe the guards were enjoying a Christmas party.

  He stepped out, seeing his outline reach across the snow. The music seemed to bump louder, backed by a wave of drunk-sounding laughter. Another step. And then another. He was halfway back to the hut and his boots were struggling for traction on the ice. Three more paces and he’d be there, but the surface was treacherous and his legs felt horribly weak.

  Within touching distance he slipped, falling backwards into the deep snow which bordered the path. As the air fled his lungs, he heard his own gasp of shock rising up over the camp. A moment later, the music faltered and he heard a single shot. And then a short pause.

  He rolled over and stood up awkwardly. The spotlight was swinging round. As it circled him, the bullets were everywhere, whining past his ears into the fields and digging up plumes of snow around his feet. As quickly as he could, he stepped backwards out of the beam. The firing immediately stopped. Up on the tower, the lamp would be bulky and hard to manoeuvre. All he needed was a few seconds, just enough to reach the door and fall through it. Someone was shouting, and the light was still locked on the place where he’d gone down. Hartmann shuffled sideways until he was concealed from the beam by the rippled flank of the hut.

  ‘Come on. You’re safe. Run.’

  Someone – Zuhlsdorff – had pushed the hut door open and Hartmann slid quickly inside to a ripple of sarcastic applause.

  ‘Why didn’t you just shit on the floor like all the rest of them?’ Goltz was lying back on his bunk with his hands clasped behind his head. He sounded calm, but preoccupied – as if a difficult decision had been made which required considered action.

  ‘I didn’t know what time it was,’ panted Hartmann. ‘To be honest, I didn’t think they were serious about the curfew.’

  ‘Did you see him anywhere?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who.’ Rosterg’s bed was still empty. Untouched. ‘Where the fuck is he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. What does it matter? He’s probably sick somewhere.’

  ‘Is that what you really think? Or are you in this together?’

  ‘In what? I don’t know where he is. Fuck. You’ve just watched me being shot at.’

  ‘I’ve watched a bunch of Polish guards miss a sitting duck.’

  ‘Not for the first time, Goltz, so fuck off.’

  Hartmann climbed back on to his bed and pulled himself deep into his bedclothes. One way or another, it would surely soon be over. Now that the snow had stopped, there would be a fresh delivery of fuel. Without it, there seemed no way any of them could survive in this place for very much longer. In defiance of orders, the men were sleeping in their coats again, and within a day or so, Hartmann felt certain, they’d all be burning their beds to keep warm.

  That’s if Goltz hadn’t killed him first.

  Black Camp 21. It was well named.

  A few hours later he awoke, suddenly. He’d been dreaming and a weak light was burning unexpectedly in a stove.

  While his head spun for focus in the darkness, two things became horribly clear. The first was the wickedness of the cold. The second was the sound of a man pleading without expectation for his life.

  Extract from Witness Statement

  to Military Court

  12/7/45

  Someone told me I should go to Hut 4 where I saw Rosterg in front of the stove. His face was badly swollen and he was surrounded by the men whose names I have already supplied. Someone was reading out from a piece of paper that had been found either on Rosterg or in his kit. At least that is what I was told.

  The effect of what was read out was that he had given away bombing targets in France to French patriots. There was also supposedly a list of prisoners involved in the situation at Devizes. However, I did not actually see the paper, either then or subsequently.

  Rosterg was being accused of treason and told that he had the deaths of many thousands of Germans on his conscience.

  Around one hundred men were witness to this.

  42

  Three candle stubs were burning in the open stove. The rest of the hut was in darkness.

  As his eyes widened, he could make out the silhouette of a man, and then much more. Rosterg was sitting on a chair in the narrow space between the bunks with his back to the door. As yet, no daylight was showing through the windows, and the hut felt icier than ever.

  At a guess, Hartmann put the time at two or three hours past midnight, and in the blackness beyond the puddle of yellow light it was obvious that no one was asleep. There were no coughs or snores, and between the awful whimpers which had woken him, it felt as though eighty men were holding their breath. After a few seconds, he could see why.

  Something terrible had happened to Rosterg.

  From each of his nostrils, a thin red crust ran down to a mouth he seemed unable to close. Every lungful of air was an effort. Every exhalation was accompanied by a defeated sigh, and his head, which was thrown back, seemed to be rolling from side to side in a futile search for salvation.

  When his eyes swung past Hartmann, they registered nothing. Like his boots and his jacket, Rosterg’s gold spectacles had vanished, and his hair was a ruin of dirt and blood. Such clothing as remained appeared mud-streaked and wet, as if the wearer had been pulled forcibly through the snow.

  ‘Sit up, man. Sit the fuck up. Stop fucking whining.’

  With a horrible sigh, Rosterg’s whole body slumped forward.

  As quietly as he could, Hartmann eased himself into a better position. Whatever was happening had already been going on for quite some time. Every pair of eyes in the hut was focused on that single chair.

  Everything was exactly as it had been for Hartmann on the night Rosterg saved him: the same judge, the same jury. Only the defendant had changed.

  On the lower bunk opposite, he could make out Mertens, Bruling and Koenig leaning forwards, elbows on knees. Standing behind the chair, with his hands clamped on Rosterg’s shoulders, hauling him upright, was Zuhlsdorff. Another twenty or so prisoners were crammed in on either side of the stove and a small clearing had been left directly in front of the one occupied seat.

  The shaven-headed figure of Goltz was prowling around in the space.

  ‘Straighten your fucking back and look at me.’

  A weary moan rose from Rosterg’s chest. Briefly he looked up, but when his head fell forward again, Zuhlsdorff pulled it back until he could see nothing but Goltz’s face. With no protection from the cold, Rosterg’s entire body was quivering and the tips of his fingers had gone white.

  ‘You can make all this go away. You just need to talk to us. Where were you tonight?’

  Rosterg mumbled a response. There was fresh blood on his lips.

  ‘Speak up. The whole hut wants to hear you.’

  ‘Water first. Then
I’ll answer your questions.’

  Somehow, a full canteen was located and passed to the seated prisoner. After a few awkward swallows, he wiped his mouth, and sat as straight as he could. Over his head, the corrugated iron ceiling seemed to ripple as a gust of wind passed over the hut.

  ‘I’ve told you this already, but I’ll tell you again.’

  There were long gaps between the phrases.

  ‘Dozens of people right across the camp have been sick. Very sick. They could have died. You know that’s true. You’ve seen it. All I’ve been doing is making sure our people – our people – got treated well.’

  He hesitated again, making eye contact with as many of his accusers as possible.

  ‘When it was clear we were all being looked after, I was allowed to come back. That was when you decided to start beating me up.’

  ‘What made them all sick?’

  ‘I’ve told you a dozen times. Dodgy tins of liver? Cooks with filthy hands? Medieval plumbing? I don’t know. No one knows. You tell me.’

  There was a twist in Rosterg’s voice, as if his tongue was swollen, but his breathing had steadied, and – after the uncertain start – the words were coming without hesitation.

  ‘It was poison,’ Goltz stated flatly.

  Hartmann could see Koenig nodding furiously.

  ‘That’s a joke. Please tell me that is a joke. Who the fuck poisoned who here? Even the guards have been throwing up.’

  ‘No joke.’

  ‘You’ve seen the weather. We’ve had no fresh supplies. We’ve been eating what was left. You’re insane.’

  At a nod from Goltz, Zuhlsdorff came round from behind the chair and slashed the back of his right hand hard across Rosterg’s face in a single, smooth action, followed by a matching swipe with the left.

  After the first blow, Rosterg winced. After the second, he fell heavily to the floor, catching his forehead on the concrete plinth of the stove. When Zuhlsdorff pulled him back, there was a steady drip from a new wound on the right side of his forehead.

  ‘It’s funny that you didn’t get sick. Why was that?’ Goltz’s intonation hadn’t changed.