Black Camp 21

by Bill Jones

  ‘Because I didn’t eat the fucking liver.’

  ‘Why didn’t you eat the liver?’

  ‘I don’t like fucking liver. Lots of people don’t like liver. Lots of people weren’t sick.’

  ‘But you like the newspaper the British print for us?’

  ‘I read it. I don’t like it. I don’t really have a view on it.’

  The blood had reached Rosterg’s collar and was spreading down the arm of his shirt.

  ‘Listen to me. I haven’t read a book since I left home. Back home, I have a room full of books. When I see words on a page, I read them. I read posters on a wall, names on a list, destinations on a timetable. I’ll read anything. Just because I read their paper doesn’t mean I believe what it says. There’s stuff in there about new films and new books. You really shouldn’t be so frightened of it.’

  Hartmann glanced again at Goltz. His cheeks were livid, and he was crouching by the stove with his back to Rosterg, stirring the cold ashes with a poker.

  ‘What does it say about the war? How does it say we are doing?’ Still holding the poker, he had moved to within a few feet of Rosterg. ‘Tell us all what it says about the war.’

  ‘It says we are losing.’

  From the rear of the hut, there was a murmuring of furious discontent and a single anonymous shout: ‘Der Verräter. Töte ihn.’

  ‘Well, traitor? Should we kill you? Do you believe what it says about the war?’

  ‘Do I know what is happening in Belgium? No. Of course not. No more than you do. Or anyone else who claims to.’

  ‘But you believe that we will win the war eventually?’

  Somehow, Rosterg had straightened his back, sufficient to angle a bloodshot stare up at his accuser. ‘No, I do not.’

  Hartmann looked away but could not hide from the sound – the soft thud of the poker as it smashed against Rosterg’s cheekbone, and then the terrible yowl of pain which echoed out and up towards the stars.

  ‘I’ll ask you again. Who is going to win this war?’

  ‘It’s lost already, you fucking imbeciles.’

  He was shrieking and the blow had sliced open the flesh, driving his left eye behind an ugly lump of bone.

  ‘Killing me won’t make any difference. I’ve been counting prisoners since I got off the boat in fucking Southampton. Listen to me. There are hundreds of thousands of us here. Here, not there. Here. We haven’t got an army. We can’t breed a new one fast enough. We can’t fight a war without one. That’s not treason. That’s a fact.’

  Koenig had stepped forward and was standing over the bloodied prisoner. ‘Give me the poker.’

  Goltz handed it across.

  Just in time, Rosterg pulled his head down under his arms, feeling the first blow smash through his fingers, and the second cleave a wound across the top of his scalp.

  Rosterg squinted down at his shattered hands. Tears were clearing lines through the mess on his face. ‘No, I’m not.’ His words were horribly slurred and his one working eye could see no more than a few blurred shapes. ‘Hitler will be dead within a year. Where will you all go then?’

  The bloody poker slipped from Koenig’s grasp.

  ‘And now,’ Rosterg added, calmly, ‘can I have some more water?’

  This time, it was Bruling who handed him the flask. ‘Come on. Take a drink. You’re talking crap.’

  They were alike, these two men, the mathematician and the entrepreneur. In another life they could have been members of the same gentlemen’s club.

  ‘What did you do back in France? Before we were captured?’

  Bruling sounded reasonable. Both Koenig and Goltz had temporarily withdrawn into the shadows.

  ‘I ran the supply lines. I filled out forms,’ Rosterg mumbled. ‘I kept you all fed. I kept you all in petrol and bullets. And then they ran out. Heil Hitler.’

  ‘There were rumours.’

  ‘Such as? What kinds of rumours?’

  ‘That you gave ammunition to the resistance? That you sold our food into French villages? That you gave away our positions to the enemy?’

  ‘Horseshit. I’d have been killed months ago if any of that was true.’

  ‘All lies?’

  Rosterg’s voice was fading fast. Only Bruling was close enough to hear. ‘I bought a few beers once in a bar. Maybe some champagne. Maybe I gave them some food. I can’t remember. I can’t remember. I can speak French, so it was easy. Très facile. We were stealing all their livestock. Fucking their women. Fucky fucky. Maybe I felt bad about that. Seriously, if I did anything, it wasn’t much. A gesture. Shit. Would that have been so bad?’

  ‘Not if that’s all you ever did.’

  Bruling paused to pat his hands around his own prison clothing. ‘You’d never betray anyone. That’s what you say?’

  ‘I wouldn’t. I didn’t.’

  Bruling had produced a handwritten note. He was holding it out as if it had a bad smell. ‘This is a list of names. Do you recognise it?’

  Rosterg sniffed, shook his head, and swiped the blood from his mouth with his forearm.

  ‘You don’t recognise your own writing?’

  ‘I’ve been attacked with an iron bar. I wouldn’t recognise my own wife.’

  ‘Then let me help. This was found today in your jacket.’

  ‘I’m cold. Really cold. I’d like my jacket back.’

  ‘Koenig. Hartmann. Wunderlich. Zuhlsdorff. Goltz. Klein. Pirau. Mertens.’ Bruling swung round to look down the length of the hut. ‘I see my own name is on it too.’

  ‘It’s a delousing list. Or a hut list. I don’t know. Show me it. There are all sorts of lists. The British love lists even more than we do. What’s your point?’

  It was too much for Goltz. Pushing Bruling aside, he knelt down by the chair. ‘Devizes.’

  ‘Yes. What about it? Fine town.’

  ‘Devizes was betrayed.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. It must have been.’

  ‘Everyone on that list was rounded up in Devizes and moved here.’

  Up on his bunk, Hartmann stiffened. Lacking the courage to intervene, he felt tortured by shame.

  ‘That proves nothing. Every man named on every list in this camp has come from somewhere else.’

  ‘Did Bultmann betray us?’

  ‘No. I’m certain that he did not.’

  ‘Then why did he go and sit in the fucking snow?’

  For a second, Rosterg looked like he was trying to stand. His arms were extended wide, and his head tilted from one broken hand to the other. ‘Perhaps he didn’t want to end up like this.’

  ‘It was you, then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a fucking liar. We’ve got your own list of names here.’

  ‘No. I have never betrayed you. You’re wrong.’

  ‘Do you think we will win the war?’

  ‘You know I don’t. And neither do you.’

  This time, Goltz used his fists, driven with the full weight of his body into Rosterg’s face. After a few blows, his victim was unconscious, held upright only by the hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Get the rope.’

  A flurry of figures slipped out through the door. Inside, no one moved. The only sound was the scraping of feet, and the terrible breathing of the man in the chair. When the group returned, they were carrying a coil of agricultural hemp.

  The cord was no thicker than a man’s finger. One end of it had already been knotted into a noose.

  ‘Shut the door.’

  Through the window, under the camp lights, Hartmann could see another blizzard building.

  ‘Bind him to the chair. Get the rope round his neck.’

  A wider space had been cleared. The prisoners were pressed tight around it. Rosterg’s arms were being lashed behind him, and the noose was already knotted into place.

  ‘Wake him up.’

  Koenig stepped under the solitary lightbulb and emptied a bucket of icy water over Rosterg’s head. Life seemed to jolt back into h
is body, sucked up through the ragged hole of his mouth. As his right eye swivelled, his shoulders hunched forward, pulling the binding tighter round his wrists.

  When he twisted against the knot, he felt the coarse hair of the rope on his chin.

  Before he could scream, Zuhlsdorff squeezed his hand around his face. All that escaped was a feeble, despairing sigh. Slowly, he rotated his head until he could make out Goltz among the packed ring of accusers. Goltz glared back.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘What do you want?’ They were sounds, not words, like a drunk’s. Rosterg’s lips were so battered, he could barely move them.

  ‘I want you to confess.’

  Rosterg nodded.

  ‘I want it in writing. When it’s light, we’ll get paper.’

  ‘And then I’ll go home?’

  ‘And then it will be over.’

  ‘Can I sleep now?’

  ‘We can all sleep now,’ whispered Goltz. ‘But you sleep on the chair.’

  For another hour, Hartmann waited.

  As soon as the candles had been snuffed, the prisoners had returned quickly to their blankets. Each of them was tired and there was nothing to discuss. In the morning, the traitor would be given the opportunity to take his own life. If not, it would be taken forcibly from him. After a few moments, the entire hut appeared to be sleeping.

  When it felt safe, Hartmann moved. Prisoners were always going to the buckets during the night. No one would be alarmed by a little movement.

  Sliding his legs over the side of his bunk, he eased himself on to the floor. Two short steps and he was down by Rosterg’s side. Poor bastard. This close, every breath sounded like a struggle.

  In the darkness, Hartmann ran a hand gently over his friend’s swollen face, willing the pain to subside. In one of Rosterg’s pockets he found what he was looking for.

  ‘You and your bloody handkerchiefs,’ he whispered.

  Rosterg didn’t seem to have heard him.

  Quietly, Hartmann rinsed the filthy cloth in a puddle of cold water beneath the chair before stretching it across Rosterg’s bruised forehead. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mouthed.

  Rosterg stirred. The touch of the cold fabric had woken him and his head moved slightly towards Hartmann.

  A word. A phrase. The faintest release of air. Hartmann moved closer until their two faces were almost touching.

  ‘Max. Listen. You can’t save me.’ A rasp, like the rustle of dry leaves.

  ‘You saved me.’

  ‘I like you.’

  ‘But you know that I could?’

  ‘You think you could. But you can’t.’

  ‘Have you always known?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I could try.’

  ‘I’m dead. You know it. They destroy what they don’t understand. Save yourself.’

  ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘No. I didn’t. Neither did you.’

  Hartmann stepped back.

  When the bugle blew at 6.30, only two of the prisoners in Hut 4 were awake. Squinting through the slits that were his eyes, Rosterg had stayed alert, too cold to sleep. On his nearby bunk, Hartmann had spent what remained of the night staring at his wall.

  When the horn blew impatiently for a second time, they knew it was over.

  Queues of shivering men were soon streaming to and from the latrines, indifferent to the grey-faced captive on the chair. The same old jokes were cracked as the men wrestled with their bowels beneath the icicles. Someone had even found a little coal, supplemented by broken wooden boxes from the kitchen, and a small fire was soon flickering in each of the stoves.

  Rosterg was thankful for the heat, feeling it first in his toes – a painful pricking as his circulation revived – and then at the tips of his broken fingers. As much as possible, he kept absolutely still. If he moved his head, he felt the noose. If he moved anything else, he felt certain he would scream or faint, and he was determined to do neither. In the night, he had wanted a bucket but gone without. The humiliating alternative had seemed a wiser option.

  As the men returned from their wash, the mood swiftly changed. Rumours had been running around the compound since reveille. Outside the hut, prisoners from neighbouring blocks were thronging expectantly in the snow, indifferent to the smell of freshly baked bread from the kitchens. Inside it, a crowd was circling the silent figure of Rosterg, and for once no one was thinking about their stomach.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Koenig and Goltz were standing side by side in front of their captive. It was Koenig who had given the order.

  ‘You’ll have to loosen this first.’

  Rosterg’s voice sounded old and his face was swollen beyond easy recognition. Where the poker had been driven into his scalp, the wound was black with blood and matted hair. When he tried to get to his feet – no longer able to use his hands – he slumped helplessly on to the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can do this. Just give me time.’

  ‘Fuck time.’ Holding the loose end of the rope, Koenig yanked hard until Rosterg felt it tighten around his neck. With an elbow on the back of the chair, he forced himself on to his feet. As he was led out towards the daylight, wild punches poured in from every direction. At the same time, a chorus of grunts seemed to grow up out of the ground, driven by the heavy pulse of the men’s feet.

  On the threshold, Rosterg hesitated. It was a perfect morning: no wind, just a sweet, frosty air. From somewhere in the valley bottom, he could smell woodsmoke rising from hidden chimneys. Along the hard edge of the mountains, he could sense the glowing return of the sun. From the direction of the town there was a cock crowing, but he couldn’t see it. In the day’s stillness, every noise would roll on for miles.

  There was a sharp tug on his neck. He felt the rope bite into tendons, and he stepped bare-footed out into the snow.

  Along with the crowd which had swarmed out of Hut 4, Hartmann surged towards the compound office. Ahead of him he saw Koenig kick open the door and pull Rosterg through after him. Forcing his way up through the mob, Hartmann squeezed forward until he could see clearly what was happening inside. About ten men were packed into the room.

  Goltz was sitting behind its solitary desk. Rosterg was drooping in front of him, flanked by Koenig and Zuhlsdorff.

  ‘You agreed to confess.’ Goltz slid a pad of paper and a pencil across the metal surface.

  There was a slight movement of Rosterg’s head. It was no longer possible to tell what – if anything – he was looking at. ‘It’s a blank piece of paper.’

  ‘Just sign your name.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  There was a hand tugging at Rosterg’s left arm. When he turned, Zuhlsdorff planted a fist in his face and brought a knee up hard into his groin. As the prisoner doubled over, Koenig hauled in the slack on the rope.

  ‘For God’s sake. Please.’

  The desk had broken his fall. The pad of paper was under his left cheek. Furiously, Koenig wound him back until he was standing again.

  ‘Just sign your name.’

  ‘No. I’m not a traitor.’

  ‘You’re a spy. You don’t belong here.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘We should be in London. We had a fucking plan.’

  ‘You’re a lunatic, Goltz. Let me write that.’ Somehow he had forced the broken components of his face into a sneer. ‘I couldn’t even sign if I wanted to.’ He dangled his blackened fingers over the table. ‘You smashed my hands, you prick. Remember?’

  Kicking his chair back behind him, Goltz rose to his feet. ‘Is there anything else you want to say?’

  ‘Would some breakfast be out of the question?’

  In the furious rush for the door, Koenig – still holding one end of the rope – was the first one out. He gave a single tug, and Rosterg flew out behind him into the snow. Over one hundred men were waiting.

  In that sickening moment, Hartmann watched Rosterg d
rop to his knees, rolling his head in every direction, and hoped he was unaware of the dark human shapes closing in, no longer even conscious of any pain.

  When he tried to lift himself up, a dozen boots kicked him back down. When he curled tight, the men stamped on his face and his back, lashing out at whichever part of him they could see.

  ‘Out of the fucking way.’

  Goltz was barging through the scrum of assailants to where Rosterg was lying motionless on his side, half covered in blood-spattered snow. Taking the loose end of the rope from Koenig, he sat down across Rosterg’s chest and squeezed the noose tight until bubbles began to froth around the corners of the dying man’s mouth, and a single quavering note, like the squealing of an animal, was trapped in the back of his throat.

  Goltz passed the loose end of the rope to Koenig. With the momentary slackening, Rosterg’s scream was released and the sound rang out around the bowl of white hills.

  None of this is happening, thought Hartmann. This isn’t me. This isn’t us. This isn’t Koenig.

  ‘We can’t do it here.’

  Mertens had pushed past Hartmann. Bruling and Zuhlsdorff were alongside him. More and more prisoners seemed to be flooding from the adjacent huts, each one hunched inside his thick trench coat. As the mob looked on, the three men grabbed the rope from Koenig and began hauling Rosterg face down in the snow towards the lavatory block. A memory of defiance seemed to stir in their captive. Unable to release the tension in the noose with his fingers, he was kicking into the ice, hopelessly thrashing for purchase with his frozen feet.

  After just a few seconds, he stopped.

  At the entrance to the block, he was lifted up and taken inside. As the door was narrow, Mertens and Bruling did the carrying while Zuhlsdorff directed them to a metal water pipe which ran along the inside ceiling. When they were directly underneath it, Rosterg was dumped down on the concrete.

  Behind them, a steady stream of spectators had filled the space around the sinks. Others were standing on the wooden seats for a better view. No one could see any life in the twisted figure lying alone in a pool of melted ice.

  To Hartmann, it seemed as if everything had been rehearsed. Beneath the rusted pipe, Rosterg’s killers were moving with the righteous efficiency of surgeons, and the foul concrete block was quieter than a bombed chapel. From where he was standing – with his back crushed to a wall – he could see only Rosterg’s legs. One of them was bent out from the knee at a grotesque angle but neither was moving, and there were no longer any groans of protest. With a bit of luck, he was already dead.