The Commissar (19 page)

‘No,’ the devil said,’ this here is no hotelium,
It’s just a plain and ordinary hellium,’

The moral of the story is: Riches are no jokium,
We’ll all go to heaven, ’cause we are all stony brokium.

‘Who teach you English?’ she asks in surprise.

‘
I
did,’ he grins, playing a gay run on his piccolo. ‘It’s a song a fence I knew used to sing when he’d taken a sucker. He met that many of ’em when I knew him I just couldn’t help learning it by heart.’

‘He was English?’

‘No. a Yid from Berlin-Dahlem. I often used to go to the feasts in the synagogue with him with a hat on. Now he’s gone off somewhere to wait till the new era goes back to bein’ the old era, an’ me and my hat can go to parties in the synagogue again.’

‘Fancy another trip in the gondola?’ he suggests, licking his lips. ‘The thought of all that gold’s got me really worked up!’

‘It’s not as easy as it looked at first sight,’ he goes on, thoughtfully, as they lie, side by side, relaxing after their erotic exertions. ‘I’m not happy there’s so many mixed up in it. Thirty millions, even, ain’t much if it’s gotta be shared with half a division.’

‘Who
says
we share with every man of them?’ she purrs, falsely. ‘They get a nice tip, big enough for a good night on the town!
One
night!’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ whinnies Porta, in a transport of delight. ‘We ask ’em to wairfor us somewhere, an’ let ’em sit waitin’ for us till their arseholes grow icicles. When do we go?’

‘As soon as I have contact my husband,’ she answers,’ and that will not be a long time. He will arrange
propusk
for you. They will be
real
ones, too. Not even a suspicious OGPU would sniff at them with his flat nose. You give me good, clear photographs for every one we take with us. Not in German uniform, of course!’

‘I’ll mobilize the flash-artists right off,’ he promises, with a grin which makes his face look like an open cash-register. ‘We’re to be Russians, then?’

‘You did not think you would be running around like Swastika-mad SS-men? You will be changed into weary Volga Germans. That will take care of the language difficulty.’

‘Volga Germans,’ he asks, blankly. ‘And what kind of fellers are they?’

‘German emigrants, who once settled along the banks of the Volga. They are Soviet Russians today, but they live like Germans and talk German to one another. They are given various special tasks in the Red Army in wartime, but otherwise the Army will not have them. Like the
Khirgiz
people. They too are used only in wartime.’

‘But good soldiers I’m sure,’ he said. ‘The kind they need
to get shot at when there’s war an’ disagreements on.’

She takes two oversized bouillon cups with a handle on each side. With a suitably dignified air she prepares what the Russians call a small eye-opener. Two-thirds vodka, one-third coffee, four large spoonfuls of sugar, half a preserved pear, and to top off the whole a dab of blackcurrant jam.

Porta takes half of the concoction down in one gulp, and emits an emperor of a belch, which echoes round the four-poster bed.

‘Not bad at
all
,’ he praises it, and pours the rest down his throat with the gurgle of a sewer passing an air-bubble.

‘My husband is very quick,’ she assures him, sipping carefully at her own eye-opener. ‘He thinks it is now the time for Jews who want to get somewhere to leave the Soviet paradise. It is said that every fourth prisoner they shoot in the Lubyanka is a Jew. Do you not think execution is barbaric?’

‘Ye-e-es,’ says Porta, drawing the word out. ‘But on the other hand it’s not nice to be gettin’ in the way of true-believers, and hinderin’ them in getting home to the wonders of paradise.’

‘Cynic!’ she snarls, pushing back her red-gold hair. ‘I do not understand why ever I have anything to do with you.’

‘Matter o’ taste, as the cat said when it licked the dog’s arse,’ he laughs, noisily.

‘Believe me,’ she goes on, lighting a cigarette,’ if it was not for my husband’s sake I would not have involved myself in this. As I have told you I come from an aristocratic family. One of my ancestors smashed the skulls of two hundred Turks in the wars against the Huns. He did it with only a club.’

‘Must’ve been a very quarrelsome lot, your ancestors,’ says Porta, making himself up another eye-opener. ‘You ever thought your old feller might be moving over to the wrong FPO? Jews aren’t just the most popular lot in Germany right now. They make soap out of ’em. Funnily
enough it’s all right for washing in!’

‘What have you against the Jews?’ she jumps up angrily, and stares him rigidly in the face. ‘You do not look much of an Aryan. If you run into Himmler perhaps he will make
you
into soap!’

‘I’ve got nothing against nobody at all,’ says Porta, with a long, hearty laugh. ‘I’m a businessman. On Sunday I buy something from God and on Monday I sell it to the Devil – at a good profit!’

‘You remind me a lot of my husband,’ she laughs. ‘He does not look like a Jew. People believe he is a dumb Polish yokel. Nobody dreams he can count to more than five. But what drives him is his unique greediness and longing for power. He has everything but the fuel:
money
! And money is now lying there ready under his nose!’

‘Whyn’t he picked it up before, then?’ asks Porta, cleaning his nails with a fork.

‘Picking up no problem,’ she replies. ‘Another thing to get it out of Russia! What is thirty millions worth if all you can do is turn it over and look at it. To get out of Russia we have to go through all of the country you have stolen from us.’

‘And that’s why you need Obergefreiter Porta,’ he nods, emptying his bouillon-cup with a slobbering gulp. ‘What about if things go wrong? Your commissar-hubby got that one sorted out, too?’

‘We shall hang!’ she cries, throwing her naked arms wide in a theatrical gesture. ‘There is some risk in every game!’

‘I doubt if we’d get off
that
easy,’ sighs Porta, sadly. ‘They’d have a nice bit of fun with us first in the Lubyanka, though I don’t reckon it’d be us gold-robbers who’d be doin’ the laughin’. And, if we were lucky enough to miss that, don’t expect to find any nice-mannered boys amongst the hat-brim fellers in
Prinz Albrecht Strasse
. They’d put us in the acid bath first to soften us up, and then they’d peel the skin off of us in two-inch strips.’

‘We must be optimistic. Then everything will be all right,’
she says with a brilliant smile. ‘You know perhaps, that optimists live longer than pessimists?’

‘I’m a born optimist, myself,’ Porta admits. ‘That’s why I’m still in the land o’ the living. But it
might
be a good idea if we was to take a couple o’ pieces of artillery and ten or eleven machine-pistols with us on this little gold robbery turn-up. And just one other important thing! Have you figured out how you’re goin’ to get the gold through Germany? They have a way of executing people who’re found in possession of illegal gold. I don’t suppose you were thinking of sendin’ the glitterin’ stuff by express freight, were you? One of them train chauffeurs was to get the idea there was valuables in the boxes an’ it’d be: goodbye gold! If they pick us up in Germany we’d not have a chance. Be easier making sausagemeat of little girls and sellin’ it to the Army for iron rations!’

‘You say you are optimist!’ she shouts, angrily. ‘Why do you not go and let yourself get shot to small pieces for this foreign Führer of yours? You are always against me! You do not help, but leave everything to me!’

‘I’m an optimist all right, believe you me,’ answers Porta. ‘But I’m careful, too! You don’t see me dashing out on thin ice like some silly sods do!’

She is over in a corner of the room, attempting, with much effort, to drag a chest-of-drawers a way from the wall. She looks angrily at Porta, still recumbent on the bed.

‘You do not think of helping me?’ she shouts, gritting her teeth.

‘Sure,’ says Porta, without moving.

‘Shit!’ she snarls, tugging at the heavy piece of furniture. When she finally has it a couple of yards out from the wall, to the accompaniment of a shower of Russian curses, she removes a panel, and takes a map from the recess revealed. Still swearing she throws herself on her stomach a longside Porta.

‘It’s easy to see you’re tellin’ the truth about your aristocratic ancestors,’ he grins, slapping her hard on her naked behind.

‘Tanks and trucks are the only safe transport possibilities, when we are to get through these forest stretches around Minsk,’ she explains, pointing to the map.

‘
Oh, yes
.’ says Porta. ‘I don’t really understand why we don’t stay in your part of Russia, lady? You know who’s
in
those woods? The whole rotten Red Army, that’s who! Guerillas all over! You do what you like, but not with Obergefreiter Joseph Porta in tow! Where’s your armoured transport column goin’ to wind up anyway?’

‘Liepaja,’ she says pointing to a spot on the map.

‘Libau, you mean, ‘Porta corrects her. ‘On the Baltic. And from there we take the boat direct to America, luxury class, I suppose?’

‘No! To Sweden! Karlskrona!’

‘I’d rather go to Stockholm, ‘Porta wrangles. ‘I’ve never had a girl from Stockholm. I suppose you an’ hungry hubby know that those Swedish half-Eskimos keep a hell of a close watch on their harbours? They’ve found out 95 per cent of the Wehrmacht’s looking out for a chance to get in there, with mpi’s as passports. Your plan’s no good, girl!’

‘As you wish,’ she smiles, sweetly. ‘I look after my side of the front and you fix it with your German friends.’

Porta sucks his army teeth long and thoughtfully. ‘All right. I’ll look after things, but there’s just one point, We go 50-50.’

‘You are out of your mind,’ she shrills, furiously. ‘Why you should have half? You think I am crazy? That a German crematory rat like you can swindle me? I have crushed bigger rats than you will ever be! You do not know me, I think?’

‘You’re a poison viper, you are, ‘Porta snarls, sulphurously. He throws his empty bottle violently at the ceiling.

‘Your German greed has turned you mad.’ she spits at him. ‘You talk like a Greek brothel-owner!’

‘Give in, you stinking Commie bitch.’ fumes Porta. ‘You might just as well. Your polished Soviet manners won’t get you far with me! Fifty-fifty! Want me to chisel it out for you in Nazi letters ten foot high?’

She storms to and fro, spitting and frothing. Chairs are knocked over, glass smashes, a shoe flies out through the window. She stops, but only to throw a large lamp at Porta, who is still lying in the four-poster, drinking
Slivovitz
from the bottle.

‘I was not wrong about you, you puffed-up male whore!’ she screams, shaking with rage. ‘Heaven be thanked that I have seen through you, you wicked German tramp. I will have you shot, and your head chopped off, both at the same time! God help you when my husband gets hold of you!’

‘Make me die laughing, you do,’ shouts Porta, sending a mouthful of spittle after her. ‘I can fuck up your little gold-diggin’ game for you, easy as winkin’! It’ll be prick up the arse for both of you.’

In the end they throw themselves at one another, and break up everything left in her boudoir to break. They crawl out from under the wrecked four-poster and finally agree on how the gold is to be shared.

The next twenty minutes pass quickly. They literally rape one another. They go at it so energetically that two Russian soldiers hiding down in the cellar choke on their vodka at the sounds getting down to them. One of them climbs a tree outside their window to see what is happening. The sight makes him fall out of it and break an ankle.

‘Better get my German glad rags on, and step along over to His Grace Chief Mechanic Wolf,’ Porta decides.

‘Who he?’ she asks doubtfully.

‘A link in the chain we can’t do without, unfortunately,’ he replies. ‘He’s an illegal transport an’ arms dealer company all on his own. I’ve also got to wake up the “War Minister” in Berlin!’

‘War Minister!’ she coughs, as her cognac goes down the wrong way. ‘Are you crazy? We want no minister mixed up in this! God the Father preserve us! If such a one get the slightest hint of what we are doing we will be executed
immediately
!’

‘Executions?’ smiles Porta. ‘Maybe some’ll get executed, but it’s not bloody well going to be us. Only dummies let
themselves get knocked off that way, and you an’ me ain’t dummies!’

From down in the street come the sounds of loud singing, and shrill police whistles. A couple of pistol shots crack.

‘Hell!’ she cries, in fright,’ what happens?’

‘That’ll be Tiny, celebrating the day his mother come close to losing her life,’ laughs Porta, looking out of the window.

A couple of hours later he wades, panting, through the powder snow, with a photograph of a gold ingot in his hand. Without taking any notice of the large, colourful signboard:

TRANSPORT SECTION WOLF
ENTRY STRICTLY FORBIDDEN

he vaults over the barrier and goes on down the narrow pathway.

‘Can’t you read?’ yells an Unteroffizier with a face only Frankenstein’s monster would have envied him.

‘Can
you
?’ asks Porta, continuing calmly on his way.