Reign of Hell (25 page)

We continued on our way. From somewhere down in the hall, Kuls was heard to mutter something about his brother in the RSHA, but a warning clip round the ear from Gregor soon shut him up.

As I carefully skirted the two dead sergeants, there was a sudden noise and a vodka bottle came hurtling towards me, followed at full speed by Tiny, who had trodden on it in the semi-darkness and missed his footing. They both crashed on to the stone floor. One of the sleeping Russians opened his eyes and sat up in a panic, but Heide slit his throat before he had time to take in what was happening. Tiny leaped roaring to his feet. He caught sight of his own vast bulk looming at him from a full-length looking-glass, and in the gloom he mistook it for one of the enemy. With a shout of fury, he raised his rifle and fired a couple of shots. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction as his own image dissolved in a shower of broken glass.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ hissed the Old Man, from the top of the stairs. ‘What the devil’s going on down there?’

‘It’s only Tiny tilting at windmills,’ I said.

Tiny pushed past me and went galloping back up again, his face streaming with blood and embedded with slivers of broken glass.

‘I killed the bastard,’ he said.

Lenzing caught my eye. He gave a bray of nervous laughter and clapped a hand to his mouth.

‘What bastard?’ demanded Porta.

‘Bastard who jumped me,’ said Tiny.

There was a pause.

‘Smashed his face in,’ he said.

Lenzing laughed so much he almost fell over the banister. I was happy to see him enjoying himself for once.

We reached the landing, and Ladislas pushed past the Old Man and made a dive for one of the doors. The Old Man held him back. We stood outside, listening. It sounded like a swarm of bees had been let loose in there.

‘OK. Open it up—’

The Old Man nodded, and gently the Legionnaire turned the handle. A quivering mound of flesh was lying naked on a bed. It was snoring, rhythmically in a long, low drone which echoed about the room. From its discarded clothes, we could see that it was a major. It was completely bald and somewhat resembled Taras Bulba.

At the foot of the bed, crumpled up and unconscious, lay a young girl. Ladislas stood staring at her, white-faced and trembling.

‘Your wife?’ said the Old Man, softly.

He shook his head.

‘Your sister?’

Slowly, Ladislas nodded and turned to face the wall. The Legionnaire pulled out his P38 and held it to the Major’s temple, but Tiny suddenly stepped forward and pushed him out of the way.

‘Let me,’ he said. ‘I like killing Russians.’

He liked killing them best with his bare hands. It was quick and clean and it made no noise. A slight choke, and the major was no more.

‘Here’s another of ’em,’ said Gregor, dispassionately.

He indicated an outflung hand which was projecting from beneath the bed. Tiny at once seized hold of it. A captain appeared, naked apart from his tunic and socks. He was cradling a vodka bottle in one arm, and he was smiling and crooning to himself as he slept. He was still smiling as Tiny snapped his neck.

The girl, meanwhile, was slowly coming back to consciousness. She opened her eyes and stared round in horror at the sight of a room full of soldiers. I daresay we weren’t a very pretty sight; unwashed, unshaven, covered in mud, stinking of sweat, with our uniforms in shreds. I’m not really surprised that she screamed when Tiny approached her with a proprietary leer on his big ugly face and his great basketlike hands stretched out before him. I can’t say I altogether blame her for sinking her teeth into Porta’s arm when he sat down on the bed beside her and smiled suggestively at her. I reckon I would have done exactly the same if Tiny or Porta had come anywhere near me when I was lying half naked on a bed.

‘Leave her be!’ said the Old Man, sharply.

Tiny and Porta swung round to face him.

‘What’s up with you, Granddad?’

‘I said leave her be!’ snapped the Old Man.

He picked up the Major’s discarded tunic and handed it to the girl. Silently, she wrapped it round herself.

‘OK, let’s go.’

The Old Man led her across to Ladislas, who all this time had stood by the wall with his hands over his face, as if even after all these long and painful years of war, he could not bring himself to acknowledge the truth of man’s brutality.

‘We must look for your wife,’ said the Old Man, gently. ‘Take us over the rest of the house.’

Down in the cellars we found them, his wife and his young son. Surrounded by a crowd of drunken Cossacks sleeping off their debauch, in the blood of their victims. The woman had been raped and slashed open with a knife. The child had been spitted on a bayonet. There was no need to look twice to see that they were dead.

We stood in silence. Lenzing turned away with a hand to his mouth. The Old Man stretched out an arm towards Ladislas. The Legionnaire took the girl and led her outside. Even Porta was at a loss for words.

And then, quite suddenly, Ladislas, gentle, frightened, rabbity Ladislas, gave a howl of agony and hurled himself at the nearest Cossack. He had choked the life out of three of them before Tiny came to his senses and leapt forward to join in the slaughter. Within minutes the butchery was complete. There was no one left to kill.

We made our way up the cellar steps and out into the farmyard. There was no more reason for exploring the house. Porta and Tiny, never ones to suffer from over-sensitivity, at once set off to round up the remains of the food and drink while they still had a chance. Kuls was heard to be muttering again about his brother. From behind the stables came a sound of water as if poured from a jug. The Legionnaire and I crept up to investigate and found a semi-conscious Cossack emptying his bladder into a rain-butt. The Legionnaire turned to me and winked. Silently, he drew his knife from the side of his boot. I left him to it.

Someone had been round the farmyard slashing throats. The carcass of the cow had been stripped bare. The fire was still smouldering gently, the embers glowing crimson in the darkness. Tiny and Porta had disappeared, and we ran them to earth in one of the outbuildings. There they were, seated
astride a barrel of home-made wine and singing patriotic songs in loud and raucous voices. In the space of ten minutes they had managed to drink themselves almost senseless.

Barcelona came running up with the news that he had discovered three Russian trucks loaded with petrol drums parked under the trees. The Colonel then appeared, from heaven knows where, stinking of vodka and slightly unsteady on his feet. He had about the same intelligence as Barcelona.

‘Sergeant, what are we waiting for?’ he said, in a voice that was thick and slurred. ‘There are three perfectly good trucks beneath the trees. Why do we not make use of them?’

We surged back again into the open air and followed Barcelona and the Colonel across the yard. Before we left, we liberally sprinkled the entire place with petrol – house, outbuildings and stables. We opened the doors for the horses, and after a moment or two of surprise they threw up their heads and thundered away into the security of the forest.

‘All bleeding well for them,’ said Gregor, jealously. ‘The war’s over as far as they’re concerned.’

‘Quite right, too,’ said the Colonel. ‘Dumb animals have no place in the bloody affairs of men.’ He suddenly hooked an arm about Gregor’s neck and leaned confidentially towards him. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘Before all this began, I had a stable full of the most magnificent beasties. Wonderful creatures. Most beautiful animals you’ve ever seen . . . You know what happened?’

‘No. What?’ said Gregor.

‘They took them away,’ said the Colonel. ‘Took them away for horse meat. Shocking business. Shocking.’

‘Fucking awful,’ said Gregor, sympathetically.

The Old Man was doing his best to round everyone up and make preparations for departure. Half the company was stoned senseless, and the other half was still foraging in the farmhouse for smoked hams and cheeses to carry on the journey. There wasn’t a man among us who didn’t have a couple of bottles of wine or vodka pushed into his pockets.
There was a general reluctance to leave, and it wasn’t until Ladislas went berserk and tossed a lighted match into the courtyard that the Old Man was able to impose at least some semblance of order. Men came running from all directions as the petrol leapt into a thousand roaring tongues of flame. Unfortunately, the trucks had not yet been moved, and they were among the first things to disappear in the ensuing conflagration.

We backed away into the trees and stood watching as the fire caught hold of the farmhouse. I thought of all those comatose Cossacks inside, and I wondered how it must be to slip from life to death without ever being aware of it.

‘Not such a bad way to go,’ said Barcelona, at my side. ‘A drunken funeral pyre . . . Not at all a bad way to go!’

¹
You understand?

²
Yes.

³
Security Service of the Reich.

⁴
Sweetheart.

‘
I want the youth of Germany to be bold; to be brave; to be violent and remorseless
. . .’

Himmler. Letter to SS Hauptsturmführer Professor Dr Bruno
Schultz, 19th August 1938.

One hour after the Warsaw uprising, the Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler was informed of what had taken place. At first he was not able to believe it. It was impossible, after all, that these sewer rats, these Poles, these miserable Jews, should set themselves against the might of the German Army and hope to get away with it. Not even a Pole – or a Jew – could be so criminally insane. It was nothing more than suicide. Had they run mad?

Evidently they had. When the news at last sank in, the Reichsführer was seen to have fallen prey to great and disturbing agitation of mind. He paced about his room, up and down, corner to corner, taking his spectacles on and off his nose and repeatedly wiping a hand across his glistening brow.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Very well, then . . . We shall show them how we deal with animals which have the impertinence to show their teeth to their master!’ He turned to face his subordinates, who were humbly standing in the centre of the large room awaiting their instructions. ‘For this we shall wipe Warsaw clean off the map. Every man, woman and child shall be destroyed . . . every living creature. Every building shall be razed to the ground, and every paving stone shall be torn up!’

He stalked to the window, and there he stood, rocking on the balls of his feet, breathing heavily through flared nostrils, hands twitching convulsively behind his back.

‘In addition,’ he said, turning back into the room, ‘every Pole in every prison camp shall be liquidated. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Reichsführer.’ Obergruppenführer Berger bowed his head. ‘Perfectly clear.’

‘All those who were born in Warsaw or who have relations living in Warsaw shall be shot this very night. I shall personally make a check that this has been done. I shall expect a full list of the dead to be delivered to me within twenty-four hours.’

‘Very good, Reichsführer.’

Himmler pinched his nostrils together and drew a long, thin breath. He looked back again to the window, staring out at the rain as it fell on the cold, grey city.

‘As for Gauleiter Fischer,’ he said, ‘he shall be hanged for not having prevented the uprising . . .’

It was General Erich von demn Bach-Zalewski of the Waffen SS who had been given the task of crushing the Warsaw uprising. Neither he nor the Reichsführer ever seriously imagined that a relatively small group of Polish partisans could give them very much trouble. There were twelve thousand German troops stationed in the district, plus the ten thousand SS of the Kaminski Brigade. Under the circumstances it was difficult to imagine how Gauleiter Fischer could have allowed the situation to get so out of hand.

It was doubtful if at that stage either Himmler or Bach-Zalewski fully realised the strength of the revolt. They were not left in ignorance for long, however. The Poles, under the leadership of General Bor-Komorovski, an ex-officer of the Austrian Army, promptly moved in to occupy the Wola district and the entire central area of the town, wiping out both the Gestapo HQ and the command post of the German garrison. They next took over control of the power station and the central telephone exchange. By the third day, the Germans were in retreat and the victorious Poles had taken possession of the several arms depots and ammunition dumps in the town.

Himmler was forced to withdraw three SS divisions and six divisions of the Wehrmacht from the Russian front – mercifully quiet at that period – and send them out to repair the damage. At the beginning of September, the German troops
in Warsaw were issued with the latest weapons, and three squadrons of Stukas were sent over to bomb the city.

Himmler had played his ace, and still there were small groups of partisans who refused to give in. He had only his joker left, now. He played it, and from then until the final surrender a total of five thousand Polish prisoners were murdered every day . . .