Black Camp 21 Read online

  All around the room, blackout curtains were being drawn and a nervous stillness had fallen across the table. From the door, there was an order to stand and the group was led up two flights of stairs into a long dark corridor, broken at regular intervals by white-painted steel doors. Outside the first one, the men were stopped, and a single name was shouted out.

  Goltz.

  As he stepped forward, the door opened on a featureless cell with bunks. ‘It’s a fucking shithole,’ he screamed before the lock turned behind him.

  Halfway down the corridor, it was Hartmann’s turn. Another forbidding portal on to similarly bleak lodgings. Inside, just beyond reach, hung a single lightbulb. In one corner was a steel bucket. In another was a small table with a single chair.

  Hunched on the bottom mattress of the bunk he could see a figure buried deep inside a blanket, stock still, his face turned to the wall. Now wasn’t the time for introductions. As quietly as he could, Hartmann hauled himself on to the top bunk and flopped back with a sigh. Sleep would be swift.

  ‘So tell me about this wife and kid then.’ The voice from below was muffled, tired, but joyfully familiar.

  Koenig.

  It was Koenig.

  Private and Confidential

  From:

  Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Centre (CSDIC)/Southampton

  To:

  Colonel Alexander Scotland/6&8 Kensington Palace Gdns/London Cage

  Alex,

  Following on from yesterday’s telephone conversation, we have still been unable to locate the missing German soldier Heinz Wirz. Sadly, this is unlikely to change. Given the huge numbers of men involved – there were 234 men on the boat that picked him up in France – our interviews have been severely hampered by time and manpower. Foul play remains a distinct possibility (he was horribly beaten at the holding camp); however, as you are well aware, there have already been a number of reported suicides, and prisoner morale appears directly linked to their proximity to the vicious hard-line elements within their own ranks.

  In this context, your next cheery consignment of Hitler’s finest left the south coast this afternoon. Nineteen in total (travelling first class – something I’ve never done) and all of them with significant blood on their hands, I’m sure. They will probably have arrived by the time you read this. Rather you than me. Pay particular attention to the fellow called Goltz. A nasty piece of work whose hold over his SS chums can only be linked to his combat record, given his less than impressive physique.

  One last thing: it seems a number of SS may have already ‘lost’ themselves within the Wehrmacht ranks; planted as spies or moles by chaps like Goltz, I expect. But then, no one knows more about that sort of business than you.

  Don’t be too rough on them. Queensberry rules, etc.

  10

  There was no discomfort, no embarrassment. Like children, stifling giggles, they squeezed into the same bed together and for a few seconds they wrestled in a delirious embrace, pushing and punching until tears flowed, and silence followed. Neither knew how, or where, to begin; as if the terrible stew of their memories was better left unstirred.

  Gently, Koenig touched a tear on Hartmann’s cheek, and watched as it flowed across on to his own finger. ‘You see. I told you we’d meet again in London.’

  And then his story came gushing out.

  Like Hartmann, Koenig had been captured in France a few weeks before. To his shame, there’d been no heroics. Instead, it had been a capitulation of sublime anticlimax. On a country lane near Tournai, his tank had run out of diesel and while his crew wandered off to ransack a roadside farm, Koenig had squatted behind a tree. Minutes later, with his trousers around his ankles, he’d found himself at the wrong end of an American rifle.

  ‘Don’t laugh. It was fucking humiliating. When I got back to the tank, they lined my crew up against a wall and shot each one of them in the face.’

  Alongside him, Hartmann could feel his friend’s body stiffening with rage.

  ‘After that, I tried everything I could to get myself killed. But the worse I behaved, the more pleasure they got from keeping me alive. Category black. Are you the same? Camp after fucking camp, all over France, until two days ago when they dumped me off here.’

  There was more – a grimmer version – Hartmann knew. But he’d never get to hear it. Koenig’s rag-haired zest was what he loved, not his odious brand of patriotism, however difficult it was to separate the two.

  Back in Normandy, everyone had heard stories about the 12th SS Panzer Division – the so-called Hitlerjugend – and he didn’t doubt that Koenig’s hands would be horribly blood-stained. Or that their views on humanity occupied different galaxies. Strangely, he’d never felt their differences to be an obstacle to friendship. It was for others to worry about the contradictions. To him, it was simple. In men like Goltz, he saw a future to be avoided at all costs. In Koenig, he saw hope; a challenge; a brother. Or he had done, until war crushed it down.

  Through the fabric of his friend’s uniform the muscles felt rigid with tension, and when Koenig eventually slept, the stiffness remained. I’m losing him, Hartmann realised. I may have lost him already.

  A few hours later, when he stirred, Koenig’s cheek was still crushed against his shoulder. From a deep recess, high on one wall, light was trickling slowly down towards the bunks, revealing crude swastikas hacked into the painted brickwork. There were names, too, and dates. He could probably read them with his fingers. As he reached over to touch, Koenig woke. Neither man had any idea what time it was, or how soon they would be separated.

  Without being asked – or interrupted – Hartmann told his own story; about the tank battle and Alize and the child he’d never met. When he’d finished, Koenig rolled away. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  ‘You’re not jealous? Or are you?’

  There was more light now, and noises outside in the corridor. Hartmann sat up and contemplated the steel bucket in the corner. Reluctantly, he rolled from the bed, picked it up, held it to his thighs and watched the hot stream stir the contents. When he was done, he sat down at the metal table.

  Koenig had turned back and was watching him carefully. ‘No, I’m not jealous. Why would I be?’

  ‘You seem annoyed. I’d have told you on my birthday. But you didn’t ask.’

  ‘None of that matters. Forget it. You just need to know what happens here.’

  Hartmann craned forward. His friend hadn’t learned much. The previous day he’d been questioned by a British officer and so far there’d been three square meals, but no beatings and nothing that might constitute serious maltreatment.

  ‘Not so much an inquisition as a job interview.’ Apart from their morning walk to the interrogation block, prisoners were mostly kept apart, and hard information was scarce. ‘The person in here before you just disappeared. I didn’t even get to know his name.’

  ‘Disappeared? Or moved on?’

  ‘Prison camp somewhere. No one tells you much.’

  ‘Did you tell them anything?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Can we write letters?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t asked.’ Koenig paused, sadly. ‘I’m not like you. Who would I write to?’

  Breakfast came soon after, brought to them on dull metal trays: two slices of fried bread alongside a boiled egg and sweet tea. A few minutes later, a hatch in the door opened and a hand appeared holding a lighter and two cigarettes. After lighting one, the hand – and the lighter – quickly withdrew.

  The two men looked around and then laughed. There was nothing to set fire to.

  ‘Apart from ourselves,’ said Koenig. ‘And we’re barely fit for kindling.’

  ‘Remember that fire up on the clifftop?’ Hartmann was pushing the smoke out through pursed lips, forming silvery halos in front of his face. ‘You made me dance in my pants.’

  Koenig grinned. He was blushing. The door crashed open. Two guards hovered in the corridor. A third ent
ered the room and signalled Hartmann to follow. Each of them was immense, crag-like, carrying a long, thin polished stick capped by a worn silver ferrule. Calmly, Hartmann rose, crushed the still-glowing tab under his foot, and stepped out of the cell.

  ‘Take care, my friend,’ whispered Koenig. ‘Look after that pretty face.’

  All along the corridor, other prisoners were being pushed from their rooms. Ahead of him, in the sickly yellow light, he could see Mertens and Goltz, but no sign of Rosterg. It was a huge place. He could be anywhere; in a hot foam bath or a suite of rooms nibbling caviar with the colonel. Nothing would have surprised him. Wherever you dropped Rosterg, he looked like a man who would thrive; like a virus, but less pleasant.

  After two turns in the labyrinth, they could see daylight and feel the breeze blowing in through a narrow outside door. A sharp right turn took them into the garden, where they snatched at the fresh air like parched travellers. Behind the thick curtilage of garden maple the sun was struggling and the air was still cold.

  Only Mertens, the seaman, looked untroubled. The rest shivered in single file as their feet crunched the lavender-edged footpath along the front of the three old buildings. Close up, they were even more magnificent; a glorious creamy cluster of Victorian extravagance entered through a portal fit for a pharaoh. As they were herded back inside, Hartmann noticed a number six on a fat column by the oak door, and an overweight bulldog sniffing around in the thick growth of shrubs. How perfectly British it all was, he thought.

  With an arm on each elbow, he was steered across the chandeliered hall and down a flight of stone steps into a musty windowless room with ceramic white bricks and a rusty iron handle. In the middle of the space were two chairs, one placed either side of a large wooden table. Unaccompanied, he walked towards the table and saw three sheets of paper.

  Two of the pieces were blank. At the top of the third were three handwritten words. Hartmann stepped closer to read them. Meine liebe Alize . . .

  With his heart bouncing, he picked up the paper and slumped back into the chair.

  11

  ‘Max. We know so much about you.’

  A voice from behind, a woman’s voice.

  Hartmann straightened and fixed his gaze on the far wall. In the shadows to his left, he could feel a warm presence. When she spoke for a second time, she was much closer.

  ‘I’m sorry this is all so theatrical. It wouldn’t be my choice at all.’

  Hartmann looked down again at the three words on the paper. None of this was possible. War was chaos; a billion billion fragments of random chaos. How could they know him or anything about him?

  ‘You’ve never met your child, have you?’ He could see her now, an outline finding form. ‘I expect that must be a pretty good reason for staying alive.’

  Now she was in front of him, taking a seat, perusing a file of notes and smoothing down her skirt. She looked much prettier than the previous night; auburn hair stretched back in a bun, a pale hourglass neck and kind, green eyes. Not a red suit this time, but a tartan pattern skirt, a delicate pink blouse, and a ruby brooch. The only make-up was on her lips.

  ‘It really doesn’t look very good for you, does it, Max?’ She flicked deeper into her file. ‘A man goes missing on a boat. You’re one of the last men to be seen with him. A bunch of SS brutes run amok in a French camp. You’re part of the gang.’

  She stopped, tilted her head. For the first time, there was eye contact. ‘That’s better. Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  Hartmann averted his face again. She was far too beautiful.

  ‘Don’t be shy. I can’t imagine what you’d say that would surprise us. We already know what regiment you were in. We know where you’re from. We know names and troop dispositions and tank numbers. We know your tanks have got no fuel and that your entire army has lost the will to live. We know how the war’s going to end – which is badly, for you – and I know you’d dearly, dearly love to talk to another human being.’ She drew breath. ‘And I thought you might like this back.’

  Reaching between her feet, she pulled a silver cigarette case from her small handbag and set it down on the table between them.

  ‘It’s yours. Take it.’

  Hartmann reached across, feeling the cold gloss of the metal in his hand.

  ‘Now let’s talk,’ she said.

  It was extraordinary. He’d never heard German spoken so seductively. After Hitler’s ravings, he’d thought his language contaminated beyond repair. But this woman spoke like an angel.

  ‘If you know so much already, how can I possibly help?’ he said. He was rotating the silver case and passing it from hand to hand.

  A smile spread across her face. ‘Touché. You see, your English is perfect, far better than my clunky German. I’m Helen by the way. And it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  After that, they talked.

  She was Helen Waters. She was twenty-three, and her childhood had been spent in France, the daughter of a career diplomat whose peripatetic household had always rung to the babble of foreign tongues. When invasion loomed, she’d been sent back to Brighton – to Roedean – but when the girls there were evacuated north, she’d charmed herself straight into Cambridge. Three years later she’d strolled out again with a double first in languages, and a job with Army Intelligence.

  ‘You’re a spy?’ Momentarily, Hartmann had forgotten where he was.

  She laughed, a soft, conspiratorial chuckle. ‘I’m afraid not. I don’t have the courage to be a spy. Secret ink and firing squads. Not my cup of tea at all. Intelligence, they call it. Something of a misnomer in my case. Would you like some tea, by the way?’

  Without waiting for a reply, she pushed back her chair and walked behind him. He could hear whispering – a second deeper voice – and then she was back.

  ‘Listen. I’m here to try and get this war finished.’ The gap between them had narrowed, and she was looking hard into his face. ‘A thousand little pieces of information added together can make a difference. But if it’s ten thousand or a hundred thousand imagine the lives we could save.’

  Hartmann knew what she meant. Sooner or later, the flailing rump of his brainwashed army would make a stand and bring her invasion to a bloody standstill. Somewhere in a wood, or the ruins of some nameless town, they’d turn and fight and people would die. He’d already seen what a few dozen lunatics with tanks could accomplish.

  But she was wrong too. They all were.

  ‘You can’t stop men like us,’ he said. ‘We’re not the same as you.’

  ‘We wondered if the cigarette case was looted, by the way; stolen from a dead British soldier, perhaps. Please tell me we were wrong.’

  ‘You were wrong. It’s my father’s.’ Nothing he told her would change a damned thing, nor would a million fragments of loose gossip. The British had never understood. You couldn’t conscript brutality. You had to breed it.

  ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’

  Hartmann rolled his eyes to the ceiling. The room was stifling, and the light was buzzing strangely.

  ‘Did you kill Heinz Wirz?’

  ‘Of course not. The opposite. I tried to help him.’

  ‘You were the last person seen with him.’

  ‘Maybe in a way I did kill him. Does it matter?’

  ‘You feel guilty?’

  Hartmann shrugged. It was too complicated to explain.

  ‘Are you married, Helen?’

  ‘A boyfriend in France. Fighting you.’

  There were a dozen heavy footsteps behind him, and a stout figure was sitting down alongside the woman.

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’ It was the man who’d introduced himself as Colonel Scotland, the man from the welcoming party. ‘You two seem to be getting on. Good.’

  Hartmann’s expression was blank. The thread was broken. Through the walls, he felt sure he’d heard a fairground organ piping, the muffled waltz of a carousel. The tune seemed familiar. It must be coming from the park. When he closed his e
yes, he saw children on golden horses. And that melody; it was a Strauss tune, definitely.

  When he opened them, it was gone, and an anaemic mug of tea steamed between him and his two interrogators. He looked across at the woman. Helen.

  ‘You heard it too. Am I right? Was it Strauss?’

  Something had shifted in the room’s chemistry, as if a playground game had suddenly acquired teeth. Under the table, he imagined his hand on her knee, and how that would feel.

  The colonel had slid the three sheets of paper back across to Hartmann’s side of the table.

  ‘How do you know my wife’s name? Who told you I had a child?’

  ‘You could write to her if you wanted. We could help.’

  ‘You wouldn’t send it. You don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Nice watermark. See?’ The colonel had picked up the top sheet and was holding it to the ceiling light. ‘It’s amazing what you can find in anything if you look hard enough.’

  ‘How the fuck did you know? Have you heard from her? Fucking tell me.’

  Gently, Scotland spread the three blank pages in front of the prisoner. The backs of his hands were leathered and creased. ‘Tell me. Do members of the German SS routinely share a bed?’

  It was like an electric shock, a bomb-burst.

  ‘You and the prisoner Koenig seem very friendly. Very friendly indeed, I’d say. All that pillow talk and moonlight clifftop revels.’

  Until a few hours ago, Koenig himself hadn’t known Alize’s name. Wherever the British were getting their information, it wasn’t Koenig. Rosterg maybe? But then Rosterg knew nothing about Koenig. And he’d never told Goltz anything he didn’t have to. Somehow these people were inside his brain, scooping out his secrets with bayonets. Either that or they’d heard every word he’d said since he stepped out of the lorry.