‘Good question, Doc!’ someone quips, while another patient chuckles. Several of Theo’s ward-mates are now propped on elbows following proceedings. The old Sanitäter is also pottering about, although he supposedly speaks no English. I’m talking too loudly, and indiscreetly, because I’m growing exasperated: six months of frustration coming dangerously to the boil. We hear footsteps on the stair; a moment later Erik appears to save the day.
‘Hello, Dan, I heard you were back. Do you have a moment?’
I sigh, and follow him to the landing. ‘What is it?’
‘Everything all right, with the, you know, visit?’
‘Yes. No.’ I pat my pockets, remembering something else. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I’ll explain later. Why do you ask?’
‘You were shouting rather.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yes. And Vorst wants to see you.’
‘Oh, joy.’
Vorst’s office is on the ground floor. I descend the stair as though a prisoner to the gallows, straighten my tie, knock and enter. Though he is seated and his head bare, saluting him, copiously, never does any harm, so I stamp loudly to attention and throw up my hand.
‘Herr Oberstabsarzt wishes to see me.’
More food assaults my senses, an enormous Wurst sandwich complete with mustard and pickle sits at his side. He picks it up and takes a leisurely bite, completely ignoring me. The procedure, I have learned, is simply to wait, in silence and at attention, until he is ready.
Still chewing, he eventually looks up. ‘The bearings factory at Böfingen.’
‘Yes, Herr Oberstabsarzt.’
A greasy finger jabs a sheet. ‘The nicht arbeitsfähig list is over quota.’
‘Oh, er, yes, Herr Oberstabsarzt, I forgot to mention that. There is a bronchial epidemic, you see, quite serious, it—’
‘Silence!’ His fist hits the desk. ‘I did not ask for excuses!’
‘No, Herr Oberstabsarzt.’
He waits, glaring. He’s breathing heavily; there’s spittle on his chin and sweat on his brow, as though he’s been building up to this. The danger here is palpable; even I can sense it.
‘I’ve been watching you, Gar-lant, with your fancy red beret and insolent attitude. You are disobedient and disrespectful and dishonest.’
I say nothing but stay to attention, absorbing it all, as Erik repeatedly urges.
‘You are a lazy and impudent liar. And a disgrace to the name Doktor.’
I know what’s happening. He’s goading me, insulting my professionalism, in the hope I’ll lash out. So he can have me removed, like Collinson. And it’s working. I can feel the anger rising within, feel my heart racing and fists clenching. Much more and I know I’ll lose control.
‘You think you’re so superior. Yet you are nothing but a trumped-up Scharlatan.’
My cheek twitches. My body sways forward.
‘Ill trained, ignorant, and above all...’
Yes. Do it.
‘Schlampig.’
And there’s the word. The word that saves me from leaping over his desk and throttling him. Schlampig. Slovenly. And I’m transported back to Stalag XIB and the wonderful Bill Alford, confronting the bully Möglich who used the same word. And how Bill dealt with it so magnificently. And I smile within and feel the tension dissipate like water through sand. Waho Mohammed.
‘I apologize, Herr Oberstabsarzt.’
‘Was?’
‘I apologize. Sincerely and with heartfelt shame and regret.’
‘I’m not interested in your grovellings.’ He waves dismissively, but the apology wrong-foots him.
‘Rightly so, Herr Oberstabsarzt. Such a thing will not happen again.’
‘You’re damn right, it won’t!’ He’s lost this round, and knows it. But isn’t finished yet. ‘So you will return to Böfingen, put the malingerers to work and correct the quota.’
‘Yes, sir, first thing tomorrow.’
‘No. Now. This very day.’
‘But the evening meal! And the curfew...’
‘Do as I order!’
I salute and turn.
‘And one more thing.’
‘Yes, Herr Oberstabsarzt?’
‘Do not think for one moment that having friends in high places can save you.’
*
It’s already dusk when I step outside. And, as I plod wearily towards Münsterplatz, the blacked-out houses seem to encroach with the darkness, enveloping me in shadow like malevolent onlookers. The night is dark and moonless, the first stars pricking a mist-like veil of high cloud. Perfect conditions for bombers, as Ulm’s residents know from bitter experience; thus their curtains are tightly drawn and their lights doused early. Few venture on to the streets: queues of hunched silhouettes indicate shops still issuing the day’s bread ration, or the week’s one egg, or a few rancid meat scraps. Beggars haunt the minster’s buttressed crevices, office and factory workers hurry home, labour gangs trudge back to their Lager, while patrolling policemen and Luftschutz wardens watch for trouble or unguarded lights. All ignore me, which I welcome, hunched angrily into my overcoat as I make for the tram stop. Then it’s a long wait, another hour and two changes until finally reaching Böfingen. Drilling, hammering and heavy-machinery noises echo from the plant as I approach, despite the late hour, for work here goes on round the clock. The off-shift labourers are housed in wooden huts outside. I head for them, find my way to the Krankenhaus, rouse the bewildered guard and Sanitäter, and set about my odious work. Barely pausing to examine them, for there seems little point, I now sign off badly sick men I saw only yesterday as fit to work tomorrow, ruthlessly and arbitrarily. They make little protest. My unscheduled appearance perplexes them, my gloomy mood invites no discussion, and somehow they just sense, and understand, and accept what must be done. Which makes it all the worse.
An hour later, duty done, I step outside and head back to the tram. I walk briskly, putting distance between me and the factory sounds, because my complicity shames me deeply, not just as a doctor but as a human being, and as a man. By submitting to Vorst’s demands I am not simply giving in to Nazi oppression, but actively collaborating with it, which is a terrible admission for someone in my uniform. I wonder what Arthur Marrable would say, or Bill Alford, or poor Cliff Poutney. And for the first time since arriving in Ulm, I now seriously consider running away from it.
Quite how is another matter. I have money but only pennies, barely enough for a short tram-ride. But I know where Prien keeps the petty cash. I move freely about the city, because the papers in my pocket permit me to. Yet I am rarely challenged to produce them, and men in odd uniforms are everywhere to be seen in Germany. My German, though improving, is still basic and certainly won’t fool a native, but could I pretend to be Dutch or Czech or something? Steal some money, modify my papers, swap my beret for a trilby, and carry my medical bag from one city to the next, like a touring doctor, catching trains and trams until reaching the French border, or the Swiss, or the Italian?
‘Guten Abend, Daniel.’
‘Trudi!’ I haven’t seen her in a week or more; even though she plies the same routes as me, we seem to keep missing one another. As usual she invites me in off the platform to sit in the warmth. Half full with home-goers, the tram’s dimly lit against the blackout, although not dimly enough to mistake the German soldier, complete with rifle and greatcoat, scowling at me from up the carriage.
‘How is your mother?’ I enquire.
‘The tablets you gave are helping her rheumatism. She hopes to resume work at the grocery store soon.’
‘Good. And you?’
She manages a smile. ‘I work, I wait, I pray, like everyone.’
‘For it to end?’
She nods and moves on. Some minutes pass. The tram squeaks and rocks; I feel my head sinking to my chest with the cumulative effects of stress, fatigue and hunger. I try to muster ideas for my escape but find my mind drifting off instead.
‘Aufstehen!’ A boot kicks my shin. ‘Aufstehen,
Englischer Schläger!’
Schläger I don’t recognize, but suspect is insulting, especially as the speaker is glaring at me with undisguised contempt. Wearily I rise, as bidden, to find my eyeline level with the top of his youthful head. Which surprises us both.
‘What?’ I enquire sullenly.
‘Heraus!’ He points to the door. ‘Out.’
‘Heraus bitte,’ I correct. At which he goes berserk, screaming and gesticulating hysterically while I stand there blinking, and everyone looks on in shock. Flecks of spit hit my cheek, his breath stinks of tobacco and garlic, and his clothes carry that peculiar soapy smell of all German soldiers. Rocking to the tram’s motion, he’s brandishing his rifle dangerously.
I glimpse Trudi edging towards us. ‘He’s a doctor!’ she protests, but I gesture her back. The driver cranes his neck to the mirror, while the passengers lean away as though from snarling dogs. I wait, emboldened by my cussedness, scarcely caring what happens next, then the youth pauses, momentarily spent, and I glimpse the pain in his eyes behind the rage. Pain and anguish and too much suffering for one so young. And the hardness of my heart thaws to nothing.
‘Sanft, Junge,’ I say quietly. Gently does it.
‘You must... leave the carriage!’
‘I know. I will. Or, I could stay.’
And in a moment his shoulders slump, tears fill his eyes, and with utter defeat on his face he sinks on to the seat.
‘You look unwell. You have been home on sick leave?’
‘Three days. It’s all they allow.’
‘And now you must go back.’
He nods. ‘But I can’t.’
‘The Russians?’
‘You British have no idea.’
‘Do you want to tell me?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head, hands tightly gripping the rifle, as though to stop them trembling. Then he begins to speak. ‘We were ordered to set up a machine-gun position, at the end of a narrow street. Then the Russkies started sending their men in, and we mowed them down. By the dozen. It was easy at first, but soon became sickening. Inhuman, like slaughter. They kept sending more, and soon their bodies were piling up before us four and five deep, and the street was pouring with blood like a river. Yet still they came, like a tide, like vermin climbing over their own dead, never ending, never stopping until finally the gun jammed with the heat and we had to retreat for our lives. Then we set up once more further back and the whole nightmare began again.’
He props his rifle beside him and buries his head. ‘We will never stop them.’
Sometimes there are no words. No point in them, no use for them. I can’t think of any, so rest a hand on his back instead. Everyone in the carriage is watching, each confronting the unthinkable future they face. Russians are the collective terror. I glance at Trudi, standing there in her clippie’s uniform, her lips pursed, her cap askew; she looks so young and vulnerable. Rumours abound, and she’s surely heard them, of what invading Russian soldiers are doing to German women. I try to smile but she only shakes her head.
Then there’s a shout from up front: ‘Alarm!’ The brakes jam on and we’re all thrown forward as the tram lurches to a halt. ‘Aussteigen, aussteigen!’ the driver shouts and we pile out through the door. On the street the sirens are already wailing, the passengers scattering, some to their homes, others for the shelters.
‘Come on!’ Trudi grabs my hand and starts running, I glance back and see the young soldier, rifle in hand, staring up at the sky. I want to go back but Trudi’s pulling me on. A shelter sign looms: ‘LS12’; beneath it stone steps lead us down, under the pavement, under the building above, to a basement two floors down. It’s long and narrow, more a wide corridor than a room, like a wine cellar with curved walls and arched ceiling. It smells damp and musty. Barely have we entered than the first bombs are falling, thumping down on the far side of the city. At the same time we hear the lighter crack of ack-ack guns along the river – token resistance, everyone knows, for anti-aircraft guns are often purloined for the Front. The cellar’s quickly filling, women mainly, and children, some very young. They file in without fuss, and take their positions on the floor. Trudi tugs me down; we sit side by side, backs against the wall. Her hand still clasps mine; her eyes are on the overhead bulbs strung along the ceiling, which flicker with each falling bomb.
‘Where are we?’ I ask.
‘Ostplatz,’ she replies. ‘East side, shops, offices, family homes.’
The explosions are louder now, heavier and more concentrated as the raid gathers momentum. Beneath us the ground trembles with each detonation. I check my watch: ten thirty, which is early for a raid. Something big must be brewing. ‘What about your mother?’
Her gaze wavers. ‘South of the river. She knows to get under the stairs.’
Suddenly there’s a monstrous crash. The whole cellar shudders and the lights go out. Women’s voices rise in the darkness, children wail, a male voice calls for calm. Matches flare, candles splutter to life, someone produces a torch, which pierces the fog to show a dust-filled cavern of terrified white faces. A misty vapour floats, the smell close and foetid; more bombs rain, ascending in power like approaching footsteps, the noise rising to a deafening thunder like the banging of a thousand drums. Trudi and I duck our heads together. My teeth are gritted; I’ve experienced air raids before, but never like this, so intense, so near, so personal. I’m taken back to the Schoonoord, cowering in the storeroom with Cliff while shells pound the walls to dust. But my fear there was of exposure, of being caught in the open; here it’s about being buried, or crushed like paper beneath falling rubble. It’s assault on a scale beyond assimilating, like being endlessly shaken in a mad dog’s jaws, or punched senseless in the boxing ring; the bombs never stop, never waver, just keep on coming. Sometimes the explosions retreat, as though resting, circling round for breath, before rushing in again for the kill, stamping towards us like a furious giant. Above the thunder of impact we hear the rumbling drone of the bombers. It’s too much to manage; soon the women stop sighing, the children stop whimpering, everyone reduced to shocked immobility by the onslaught. We hunch lower, mothers over their children, old men over their wives, Trudi burrowing into my coat like a terrified mouse. Time stops. An hour passes, perhaps two; still the attack goes on, far longer than any before. But then the sounds begin to fade, receding like a foul tide. Silence grows, and with it an interval of hope, and we dare wonder if the nightmare is ending. But no all-clear sirens sound, no encouraging shouts come from above, and though we exchange expectant glances, none of us dared move. And soon we hear the dread rumbling again, like the relentless march of boots, as the next wave approaches, and we know we’re not done yet. A few minutes more and the bombs are falling again like rain.
I’m not asleep, but gradually stir from dream-filled torpor to the realization that the bombing has stopped. It’s uncannily quiet; a single overhead bulb lights the cavern, throwing ghostly shadows over the tangle of bodies sprawled over its floor. Someone’s snoring, a smoky haze hangs from the ceiling, the air is hot and acrid, an unusual crackling sound comes from the surface, and the distant tinkle of fire engines.
‘Come on.’ I nudge Trudi and we struggle upright, tiptoeing through the throng to the steps, the crackling noise growing louder as we go. A glow flickers from above, the steps are foggy with smoke, and as we ascend towards the surface we realize Ulm is burning. We stand in the entrance, cowering at the view. For a moment it’s too much to take in, too bright and too ferocious. Everything, it seems, in every direction is aflame: shops, houses, cars, even trees and lamp-posts and sections of road. The heat’s unbearable, the noise an angry snarl, the light hurtful to the eye. Geysers of flame spurt from gas mains; fire surges skyward through smashed windows, leaps from roof to roof and explodes into clouds of sparks as buildings collapse. And smoke billows everywhere, thick trunks of it coiling upward, or spiralling down to the street in rivers of choking black.
‘My mother!’ Trudi shouts a
bove the din. ‘I must get to her!’
‘I’ll come with you.’
We set off, stooping, arms raised against the heat. Ahead through the smoke sits the tram, her tram, now nothing but blackened metal. Almost immediately I stumble on something, and looking down see a body, unrecognizable but for shreds of smoking greatcoat, and the rifle gripped in its claw. The face is a skull, black lips twisted back over his teeth. Elsewhere we see more bodies, grotesque mannequins lying as though frozen, stick-like arms raised, legs bent for running.
We hurry on, crouching low, round a corner, and a wave of heat hits us. I’m stunned by the impact, as though from a punch. Both sides of the street are ablaze, two towering cliffs of flame roaring skyward in one giant inferno. We reel back, gasping, I can’t breathe. I feel my chest burning, my hair singeing and the skin prickling on my face. ‘Not this way!’ We turn and run, doubling this way and that, but direction is meaningless, escape impossible, and before we know it we’ve stumbled back to the tram. The fire’s getting worse. Across the street I see two people running from a doorway; their clothes ablaze, they struggle onward, then slow, stumble and fall. Their limbs flail briefly then come to a frozen stop. I too am falling. There’s no air to breathe, only suffocating heat; I’m blinded by smoke, dizzy and drowning. Then Trudi grabs my arm and points. And I glimpse it through the billowing clouds, high above the skyline, pointing like a sign. The minster’s spire, still up, still erect and defiant, beckoning us to safety. I pull off my coat and throw it over our heads for protection, and we set off one final time. Gradually we navigate the maze of fire, using instinct and the spire as guide, until finally we stagger into calmer waters. Five minutes more and we reach the Danube and safety.
*
‘Electricity’s out, water too. Several buildings were hit in the neighbourhood, but nothing like in the east. Revier was untouched. We were very lucky.’ Erik dabs at my scalded forehead. ‘So were you, by the looks of it.’
I respond with a hoarse choke.
‘Don’t talk, old fellow, you’ve inhaled a lot of smoke. Here, drink.’
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