Black Camp 21 Page 7

  ‘You ready to eat?’ It was Zuhlsdorff. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  It was odd the way they’d been thrown together again. Odder still how tenacious the boy’s curiosity seemed to be. No matter how cold Hartmann’s shoulder was, Zuhlsdorff never appeared to notice. Now he was even bringing him soup. Hartmann frowned.

  ‘We’re never going to be friends. I’m confused. Why the chocolate? Why the food?’

  ‘I heard what they did to that picture of your girl.’

  Hartmann spooned into his lukewarm broth, and ignored him. Food up on the knoll seemed in easy supply.

  ‘Goltz says you’re OK. I think he’s wrong.’

  ‘Like I give a shit what you think.’

  ‘Listen. If you’re feeling up to it, there might be some fun tonight.’

  There was meat in the soup. Even half-cold, it tasted good.

  ‘Joachim’s bored. He’s asked me and you to bring someone in.’

  ‘Bring who in for what exactly?’

  ‘A soldier called Wirz. Heinz Wirz. He’s been telling everyone he can’t wait to get home. Goltz just wants a word with him.’

  ‘A word?’

  ‘We should go in a few minutes. If you’re feeling up to it.’ With his teeth, Zuhlsdorff was tearing the foil from another bar of chocolate. It was a test. It had to be. They were checking him out. ‘We’re to meet Rosterg by the main gate and he’ll take us to this Wirz. Are you in?’

  Hartmann put down his bowl, and hauled himself on to his feet. ‘Just don’t go too fast.’

  No one stood in their way. Dozing men either rolled aside, or were kicked aside, and as they moved deeper, private conversations died. Even in the dark, their presence emanated threat. When one prisoner grunted irritation, Hartmann slapped the cigarette from his mouth. ‘Go to hell!’

  Zuhlsdorff looked back with an approving smirk. That would get back to Goltz, for sure. A little easy credit would do him no harm whatsoever.

  At the main gates, Rosterg was standing alone in the shadow of a tall post. Beyond him, under the floodlights, the admissions desks were still swamped.

  ‘It never ends, Max,’ he hissed. ‘Germany is emptying of men.’

  As he slithered off along the inside of the fence, the two men followed at a distance.

  ‘We just have to watch his eyes,’ explained Zuhlsdorff. ‘He’ll make it clear which of them is Wirz without giving himself away.’

  A nervous pulse seemed to beat through the compound. To Hartmann it felt like a vast herd of terrified beasts, feigning slumber. Up ahead, they could make out Rosterg’s silvered glasses bobbing in the moonlight. He’d stopped. A handful of men was blocking his way and a single furious voice was raised, supported quickly by others.

  Zuhlsdorff looked nervously back at Hartmann. ‘They’re on to him.’

  Cunning no longer mattered. Emboldened by darkness, the herd was stirring. A circle of men had tightened around Rosterg. Two of them were pulling him to the ground and a filthy cap had been clamped over his mouth to stifle the squealing.

  ‘Which of you is Heinz Wirz?’ Hartmann asked. Hartmann’s whisper was lost in the noise of the scuffle and Rosterg was already down. In a few seconds, he’d be torn apart. Hartmann wrestled forward until a gap opened and the beating stopped. Twenty or so soldiers stepped back to look at his uniform. All it took then was a whisper.

  ‘One more time. Which of you is Heinz Wirz?’

  No one answered. No one moved, apart from the figure holding the gag over Rosterg’s face.

  ‘I’m Wirz.’

  ‘Fuck. I know you,’ hissed Hartmann. ‘What’s that in your hand?’

  The soldier unclenched his fist. He was holding a black felt beret.

  ‘Roll up your sleeve.’

  ‘I know you too,’ said Wirz, grinning. ‘I’ve a tattoo of a heart. So what? Is that my crime? What have I done? What do you want?’

  ‘We know what you are.’ Zuhlsdorff had stepped forward, pulling an iron bar from inside his tunic. As he raised his arm to strike, Hartmann stepped in front of him.

  ‘Fuck you, Nazi. We all think the same here. All of us,’ spat Wirz. ‘The war’s over. We lost. Hitler lost. You can’t silence us all. You’re on your own.’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Zuhlsdorff. ‘Take a look.’

  Wirz’s confederates had already melted back into the black huddle of the camp. When Hartmann glanced round to make sure he was unharmed, Rosterg had gone too.

  Standing alone, the boy’s courage dissolved. ‘Listen. I just want to go home now. That’s all. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You left your violin on the bus.’

  ‘Back to my parents. Is that really so bad?’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ hushed Hartmann. ‘We only want a little talk. You’ll get back home. We all will.’

  ‘That’s not for you to decide, Hartmann.’

  ‘He’s a fucking German, Zuhlsdorff. One of us.’

  ‘Please don’t tell them I deserted,’ whispered Wirz.

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  7

  When the three returned to the elevated corner, the remnants of a fire were still burning and Goltz was rotating his hands over the last of its flames. Behind him, sitting on their haunches, were another dozen or so men, but it was too dark to see their faces.

  ‘So this is Wirz?’ Goltz stood up and placed his right hand under the terrified soldier’s chin. ‘He’s a nice-looking boy. Does he know what he’s done wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Shit. You’re fucking hurting me.’ Tears were running down the boy’s face. The ends of Goltz’s fingers were pushing into his neck.

  ‘Sorry? Sorry isn’t enough, soldier. Nothing like.’

  Hartmann saw nothing of what followed. As Goltz released his grip, a shapeless pack of men slid alongside, and with one grim sideways look the quivering boy simply vanished.

  ‘He just needs a little light training, Max,’ said Goltz. ‘That’s all. We’ll soon put him right. Rest those bones. You did well.’

  The following morning, over lukewarm coffee, Wirz’s fate wasn’t even mentioned and Hartmann knew better than to ask. The skinned knuckles on Zuhlsdorff’s hand told him enough. Everyone else’s silence – and Goltz’s absence – filled in the rest.

  If it had been a test, he presumed he’d passed.

  The kid wouldn’t be dead, but his teeth would be scattered around the hill. When, or if, he ever opened his mouth again, the message would be clear. The war wasn’t over until Hitler said so. And if Wirz still had any functioning brain cells, he’d be passing the news on to his mates.

  Hartmann lay back again and closed his eyes. It was a fine sunrise and even bad coffee tasted good, especially when your ribcage was on fire. Beyond the wire, the bells of a church were clanging. It was a glorious sound. He wondered why that church had survived the shelling, and who was ringing its bells. Out there, he guessed, everything was struggling back to normal.

  Farmers’ daughters would be pulling flutes of golden bread from fiery ovens. In a few weeks it would be harvest time; by day, every lane would be jammed by wagons laden with stooks of corn, followed by sour red wine all night. Where will we be then, he wondered. All the certainties in his life were crumbling away and somehow the war was getting more complicated, not less.

  The enemy was on the inside of the wire now.

  ‘You’re awake early, Max.’ It was Rosterg, doing his rounds. ‘I owe you some thanks for last night.’

  Hartmann leaned up on his elbow, steering carefully around the pain in his chest. Through the wire, he could see a Red Cross ambulance pulled up by the gate. Three stretchers, each carrying a body wrapped in a sheet, were being eased into the back. People were dying already, or being killed. If the typhus took hold, this was where it would all end.

  ‘You seem like a useful person to keep alive, although don’t think it makes us friends.’

  Rosterg laughed. ‘We speak English, you and I. We’re clever. That makes both of
us useful. To everyone.’

  ‘And the boy last night?’

  ‘It isn’t safe to ignore people like Goltz. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘But you’re army, you’re not SS. Just keep the fuck out of it.’

  ‘I’ve told you. I’m here to make it through. I’ve got a wife. I’ve got children. I’ve got a life. It’s no more interesting than that.’

  ‘I don’t think I can do this.’

  ‘You can. You can if you’ve got something to get back for.’ Rosterg smirked. ‘Besides, we’re all going to be leaving here soon anyway.’

  ‘America?’ Hartmann desperately hoped not. If the rumours were true, at least one ship loaded with prisoners had already been sunk by U-boats on its way to the United States. Germans killed by their own. It was insane. Everyone on board had perished, but in the gossip around the buckets, the men had reluctantly concluded that drowning might just have the edge over dysentery.

  ‘Great Britain. The United Kingdom,’ declared Rosterg, clapping Hartmann on the back. ‘We’re going to get there before Hitler.’

  Whoever they were, the Feldwebel’s sources were impeccable. Daylight had brought a palpable shift in the compound’s uneasy dynamic.

  Since midnight, no more prisoners had been allowed in. Extra food was being crated in for breakfast, and by mid-morning the pattern of activity around the gates was showing some change. For the first time, British officers had been seen near the compound. The desks were all folded away, and, as the sun peaked, lines of armed GIs started to muster at either side of the entrance.

  When the gates were finally dragged open, instructions barked through tin megaphones began to filter across the packed square. Here and there, clapping broke out. Up on Goltz’s hill, a lone voice began chirruping ‘Sieg Heil’ until it was silenced by a cacophonous drum roll of ironic cheers. Then, in densely packed single file, the first line of prisoners commenced its expectant shuffle from the camp.

  Behind them, an emaciated army dressed in rags calmly waited its turn.

  It was three hours before Hartmann moved.

  Ahead of him, the makeshift holding camp was emptying, soldier by soldier. Ruined patches of grass, strewn with heaps of smouldering wood, were becoming visible in every direction, and across the entire field hung the rank smell of the unwashed. It cheered him to see how many of them were smiling. Grinning teeth flashed from bearded faces grooved by anxiety, and even deep hunger could not hide the spring in the men’s steps. The further from home they all went, Hartmann had realised, the closer to home they all got.

  For the first time in weeks, it felt glorious to be alive. Patriotic marching songs were bursting out everywhere. Two soldiers were even surreptitiously goose-stepping towards the gate. And then suddenly, with the sky threatening thunder, it was his own turn to inch forward and be ticked off a list, before joining the dusty trail to the coast.

  It was so wonderful to be moving.

  Somewhere in front of him, Goltz and his entourage had forged ahead, dragging silence in their wake. Behind them he could relax. Out on the road alone, nursing his bruises, it was easy to shuffle anonymously among strangers and the fellow-wounded.

  As they had been before, the lanes were choked with military traffic, and the wayside was littered with twisted junk, but there were no corpses and his head reeled with the scent of wild stocks and freshly scythed meadow. Had he craved it, escape would have been easy. Only a handful of gum-crushing GIs guarded their flanks, and the bramble-choked hedges, in places, stood as tall as a house.

  ‘It’s tempting, isn’t it? Escape?’ The words were mumbled, almost incomprehensible. ‘But you wouldn’t get far. Or at least I wouldn’t. Not in this state.’

  Hartmann swivelled in their direction. It was Wirz. Or what was left of Wirz.

  ‘How do I look? Do you think my mum will recognise me?’

  Hartmann turned away.

  ‘I’ll take that for a no, then.’

  Only his right eye was visible. The left was lost behind a scarlet globe of swollen cheek. Nails had been torn from several fingers, and his lower jaw appeared to be held in place by a bandage which ran under his chin and over the top of his head. Through the pulpy maw of his mouth, a few cockeyed teeth were still showing. It was a miracle the boy could even mumble.

  ‘Jesus. What did they do? Stupid question. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I should have kept my trap shut. It’s just taking some getting used to.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That you lot are more dangerous than the Americans.’

  ‘I’m not your enemy. I’m just dressed like your enemy.’

  For an hour, the two men drooped back into silence. They didn’t know each other, and, for each of them, marching without pain required intense concentration.

  By late afternoon, the light across the fields was still quivering with heat. Deprived of water, dozens of men were dropping in their tracks. Along the line, the morning’s optimistic rush had been displaced by stifled, angry complaints.

  ‘Back in the forest, where did you go? When you left the bus?’

  ‘Not far. The woods were full of their soldiers. I only lasted two days.’

  ‘You didn’t take your violin.’

  ‘It wasn’t mine. I stole it.’

  Somewhere up ahead, a single pistol shot interrupted them. A few minutes later, the pair passed an SS man face up in a ditch. Blood was pumping thickly from a hole in his neck. One pale eye was frozen open. At his side, a young GI searched for souvenirs, while another rained abuse on the dead man’s head. Both of the Americans were black.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ mumbled Wirz.

  ‘He’s saying that the dead German had just spat in his face.’

  ‘Why is he shouting at the body?’

  ‘He’s asking him, “Who’s the master race now?” ’

  Wirz stared into the ditch for a few seconds, pulled out his penis and began to urinate on the corpse.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  A stream of blood-streaked water was splashing down on the dead man’s head. The two American soldiers were laughing.

  ‘Last night,’ whispered Wirz, pointing at his own face, ‘that creep did most of the damage. The weird-looking white one just watched.’

  ‘You know you’re dead if they find out.’

  ‘They’ll find out,’ said Wirz, tucking himself back in.

  The pair moved on. No one was singing any more. All the banter had stopped. Nothing could be heard but the clump of blistered feet too weary to march. Leaving the camp had felt like a turning point but within just a few hours the surge of expectation had collapsed. Hands were stuffed in pockets, shoulders were hunched, and every face signalled its owner’s despair.

  With every bone-tired step, each man could sense another trauma was near. Many still privately expected to be shot. None of them seemed to care. Above them, in growing numbers, deluded seagulls were clamouring in the hope of morsels, and a biting salt wind was building from the north under mountainous clouds.

  Hartmann remembered it well. ‘Smell that, Heinz. Fill your lungs with the sea.’

  Now, the road wasn’t just dirt, it was sand, skittering around their boots. Shattered concrete pillboxes dotted the horizon and in every direction the traffic was building. Lorries and trucks thundered past billowing black fumes. Beyond a steep crest of dunes, creamy barrage balloons could be seen tugging at their restraints. Four Spitfires streaked low and loud over their heads, and as the column laboured forward, the ocean finally came into view.

  For the second time in my life, thought Hartmann. Had Koenig come this way too? Or might he?

  Running east and west, the beach was alive. Tanks spewed from a line of landing craft. Above the tideline, forklift trucks buzzed around huge mountains of crates. A city of massive windowed tents billowed and snapped. Everywhere Hartmann turned, men and machines seemed to be swarming across the sand, and beyond them the sea was peppered with ships from which small
er craft shuttled in relays to the shore.

  Looking up, he saw the dots of a bomber squadron moving silently east. Looking down, he saw cranes and low-loaders hauling field guns up off the beach. In ordered lines, untroubled by any resistance, thousands of fresh troops were heading inland. And even from a mile away, their jeers could be clearly heard, carried towards the Germans on the brisk summer wind.

  For the next hour, the footsore convoy marched west along the beach. At times, where the sand was soft, progress was painfully slow, but night was coming and the guards goaded them forward.

  As the sky pinked, lights came on all over the beachhead. Countless pairs of headlamps flickered up through the dune grasses. Invisible machinery groaned, and foreign voices swirled among the clanking of steel and cable. Soon, the men were scarcely more than inky silhouettes swaying unsteadily in the blackness. To his left Hartmann could still make out Wirz. Since the shooting, they had stuck together. Everyone else was just a smudge in the dark.

  ‘People will smell us before they see us, Heinz.’

  But Wirz wasn’t listening. Wirz was tuned in to something else. Since reaching the coastline, their march had hugged the edge of the dune hills. Now they were wheeling sharply, and the only thing in front of them was the sea. ‘Perfect. They’re going to drown us all.’

  ‘I don’t think so. That would definitely be more our style.’

  For the first time, as the column wheeled, Hartmann could see its full length marked out against the darkening sea; a black serpent slithering across a watery strand. A thousand men? Two thousand men? It was impossible to say.

  Beyond the breaking waves, sky and sea were no longer separable. Giant warships seemed to be levitating, not floating, their distant portholes flickering like neat lines of stars. At last, Hartmann could make out where they were going.

  Ahead of them, a dozen landing craft had pulled in close to the shoreline and each one had lowered its loading bay doors on to the sand. Icy water was swirling around Hartmann’s feet. The tide had turned. Instructions were being screamed in every direction. If there had been a plan, it was dissolving fast in the rush of seawater.