The Commissar (40 page)

Faster than thought countless tons of snow are on their
way down the mountain, sweeping away everything in their path.

The nearest of the OGPU soldiers are whirled by the snowy masses into nothingness. A couple of soldiers on skis are raring in front of the tumbling snow, and seem as if they may have a chance of getting away from it.

‘
Vive la mort
,’ snarls the Legionnaire. He picks up a sniper’s rifle and adjusts the telescopic sights.

‘Not at that range.’ says the Old Man.

‘
Bien sûr
,’ replies the Legionnaire. He presses his cheek against the butt and fires rapidly three times.

The leading skier falls forward, and continues on down the slope with his head down like a figurehead between his skis. The soldier bringing up the rear turns to see where the shot came from. Then he makes a fatal mistake. He makes a half-turn but is caught by panic. Turns again, and is overtaken by the avalanche, which thunders over, and buries him.

Trees whirl in the air before the advancing masses of snow. A whole forest is torn off the face of the mountain.

‘What a bleedin’ snowball
that
was!’ shouts Tiny happily, when we are down at the vehicles again. The others have been waiting for us down there, getting more and more nervous.

‘Those headhunters certainly lost their skis,’ says Porta. ‘What a roller-coaster that was!’

‘I’ll take it,’ offers Tiny, crawling into the radio-room, from which we can hear a howling call-tone.

Tiny fiddles with the receiver, and bangs it a couple of times impatiently on the side of the tank before it works.

‘’Ello!’ he says into the microphone. ‘Who am I? I’m me, that’s who I am!’

‘Idiot! What’s your position?’ fumes a sharp, annoyed voice.

‘Down round the arse’ole o’ the universe,’ answers Tiny, with a little laugh. ‘We just threw a snowball at the neighbours’ kids!’

‘Where are you speaking from?’ asks the voice, impatiently.

‘From’ere!’ answers Tiny. ‘Where else?’

‘Are you out of your mind? I want to know where you are?’ snarls the voice.

‘You’re a dumb’un! We’re in bleedin’ Russia, of course!’

‘Now you watch yourself, soldier!’ The strange voice shakes with rage. ‘You don’t seem to know who you’re talking to?’

‘Think I’m a fortune-teller or somethin’, do you?’ answers Tiny, bursting into a roar of laughter.

‘Are you laughing at me?’ The voice becomes dangerously calm. ‘I want to know who I’m talking to?’

‘You’re talkin’ to me, you dope!’ shouts Tiny, beginning slowly to come to the boil. ‘Ain’t you realized that yet? You’re about as useful as a prick that’s been touched up by a circular saw!’

‘You are speaking to the communications officer,’ snarls the voice, angrily. ‘Now I want a straight answer from you: rank, name and unit!’

‘’It your’ead on somethin’ ’ave you?’ explodes Tiny. ‘We’re only allowed to talk secret! The neighbours ain’t got to be able to know what we’re goin’ about, see! You ain’t gonna get a thing out of me! You could be one of these bleedin’ spies they talk such a lot about.
Panjemajo
?’

‘God help us to have patience! D’you know the code word?’

‘No, why should I?’ Tiny laughs noisily. ‘It ain’t me that’s the sparks. I’m just standin’ in for Julius that’s gone for a walk!’

‘Listen now, soldier.’ hisses the communications officer, his voice shaking with rage. ‘You’re mopping up. Now I want to know
what
you’ve mopped up!’

‘You could a said that straight off.’ stead of askin’ where we are.’ answers Tiny. ‘We just threw a bleedin’ great snowball at Ivan, as is now on the way to Paradise fast as’is skis can take’im!’

‘Give me your section commander and get off the radio, you madman! I’ll give you bloody snowballs!’

‘Old Un’!’ screams Tiny in a ringing bass baritone. ‘There’s some sod of a psycho on the radio as wants to know what we’ve mopped up! Watch out for ’im though, ’e might
be one of them bleedin’ spies as is sneakin’ around all over the place listening in! Says’e’s an officer but I think’e’s probably lyin’!’

‘What the devil have you done now?’ asks the Old Man, looking worried, and edging down in front of the radio.

A long conversation follows, which, for the Old Man’s part, consists of: ‘Yes, sir! Yes, major! Yes, sir!’

‘You know what I fancy, now?’ asks Porta, when we are again on the move. ‘Hard-boiled eggs and shrimps in lobster sauce, then a large helping of pork with
sauerkraut
and preserved pears.’

‘Shut up,’ hisses the Old Man, crossly. ‘Shut up about food! And I’ll shoot you. Tiny, if you ever go near that radio again!’

A grey dawn has broken through when we reach the
Paritip
, which we hope, with a good deal of luck, can take us across the ravine. It is an odd-looking construction.

‘Bottoms up, St Peter!’ says Porta, looking down into the depths. ‘Can that thing carry a tank?’

‘So they say,’ answers ‘Frostlips’ with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘And we’ve got to hope they’re right, because we ain’t got a bit of choice in the matter! We’ve got to go over! We’ve blocked the pass ourselves with that avalanche!’

‘Doesn’t look all that solid,’ says the Old Man, eyeing the contraption sceptically. It is a heavy platform, which hangs, swaying, suspended from thick cables.

‘Come along! Let’s get on with it! Who’s going first?’ shouts the Commissar, impatiently.

‘You can go first. Albert.’ says Porta, with a graceful wave of his hand.

‘Not me, man!’ says Albert, after he has been out on the rocking platform. It has to be propelled over the chasm by the turning of a hand-winch.

‘You’d rather go last, perhaps, when the cables are a bit more worn?’ asks Porta, sarcastically. ‘You grab that offer of mine in a hurry, my son, and take off first!’

Albert gives in. and edges his way down through the T-34’s turret hatch.

Cautiously, as if he were driving on glass, he edges the
heavy tank out on to the
Paritip
. The platform rolls like a ship in heavy weather at the overload. Slowly it begins to glide over towards the far side, its cables singing with the strain.

‘Slowly.’ the Commissar warns. ‘Only slowly!’

Silently, and with butterflies in our stomachs, we follow the swaying platform. Despite the weight it is carrying, the violent blasts of wind still move it from side to side.

‘Looks bloody dangerous, that,’ mumbles Gregor. ‘And think, we’ve volunteered for it!’

‘Kind of thing a man only does once in his life,’ grins Porta, carelessly. ‘We’ll have a story to tell when we’re all Swedish Socialists!’

The heavy Panther goes over last. The logs of the platform creak warningly and the cables sing as they take the strain of its weight.

Porta runs his hand through his red hair, spits into the ravine, and he and Tiny take the winch.

‘I daren’t watch,’ mumbles the Commissar, turning his back. ‘It can’t be long before those cables go!’

As he speaks the words there is a sharp crack, and one of the cables breaks. The platform begins to heel over to one side. The Panther slides slowly backwards.

‘
Par Allah
!’ cries the Legionnaire, nervously. ‘It’s going off. It’s all over with them!’

‘Hell!’ howls Porta, in terror. He throws himself at the winch. ‘The whole shithouse is goin’!’

The platform heels more and more. One gust of wind and they are finished.

‘Grab the cables!’ shouts the Commissar. ‘Move! Bring up the T-34!’

Albert backs the tea-waggon into place. Working against time we get a wire to the platform and haul it on to firm ground before the other cable breaks.

‘God the Father preserve us!’ says Porta. He is up on the edge staring at the
Parilip
. The platform now hangs at an angle of 45° down towards the bottom of the ravine. ‘That was
close
! A feller needs a good bit of luck to get through a world war still breathin’!’

Brutality creates respect
.

Adolf Hitler

They ran across the playground, jumped the fence and went on down Wundt Strasse, panting heavily. They heard the shouts from behind them
:

‘Halt! Stehen bleiben!’

But none of them stopped. The hard staccato bark of a machine-pistol sounded
.

The first man to go down, with his face in the chuckling, spring-flushed waters of the stream, was the Section leader, an old Feld-webel. He had already lived through one world war and had been firmly determined to live through this one as well
.

The next to fall was the youngest. He was just sixteen. He crawled some distance on his knees, his face down close to the cinders. A long trail of blood marked his path. He was still alive when the military police reached him. They put a bullet through the back of his neck
.

The rest of the section reached the race track and disappeared into Scheibenholtz Park. They hardly noticed the Leutnant, dangling by the neck from a tree with his hands tied behind his back
.

A little further on an Oberst and a Gefreiter were hanging
.

All three had a sign around their necks
:

ICH BIN EIN FEIGLING,
DER DEN FÜHRER VERRATEN HAT!
*

Two hours later the military police picked them up crossing Johannes Parkweg
.

All nineteen were hanged on the nearest trees as a terrible warning to other deserters
.

This happened on 3 March 1945 at the Leipzig race track. The bodies of the deserters were not cut down until six weeks later
.

*
Njet mortira:
No mortars

*
Propusk:
Permit

*
Freely translated:

And should the whole earth tremble.

And the world roll off its tracks.

That cannot shake a prospector.

Never fear! Never fear! Rose Marie . . .

†
Russian: roughly ‘the Floater’ or ‘Glider’: a suspension platform over a gorge

*
Freely: And up with Peter we will make

The dire-cup shake and rattle . . .

*
I AM A COWARD

WHO HAS BETRAYED THE FÜHRER

The Commissar raises his hand in the signal to halt.

In the middle of a round market-place, half-covered with powdery snow, a number of motorcycles stand parked. They all have side-cars on which machine-guns are mounted.

‘Queer they don’t take the guns inside with ’em?’ Porta wonders.

‘Not a
bit
queer,’ sneers Heide. He is, as usual, annoyingly well-informed. ‘As long as they’re outside they’re ready for firing. That’s due to their effective frost lubricant. Take them inside and the temperature variation would make them freeze up and they’d be useless.’

‘Watch out that swivellin’ swastika in your ’
errenvolk
prick don’t freeze to ice,’ Tiny roars with laughter at his own witticism.

‘Not a sign of a sentry,’ mumbles the Old Man, putting his head cautiously up over the edge of the turret hatch. ‘These chaps must feel pretty bloody safe round here!’

‘Over behind that house there’s an old lorry,’ says Porta, pointing.

‘Then there’ll be a lot of Ivans, count on that,’ warns Tiny, craning his neck inquisitively.

The Commissar jumps heavily down from the motor-sledge. With his long cloak billowing in the wind he tramps towards us through the deep snow.

‘Stay on your toes,’ he says, bending his head back to look up at the Old Man in the Panther’s turret. ‘I don’t understand this! There’s not supposed to be any military personnel here! I’m afraid they may have got wind of us. Drive up through that street over there! I’ll make this place safe with the T-34s and the sledge. Don’t fire unless absolutely necessary. The dark’ll help us. These yokels can’t tell the
difference between a tank and a tricycle. If anybody asks, tell them you’re transporting muck. They can understand
that
!’

Porta starts up, with a roar which makes the nearest houses shake. He speeds the 700 HP Maybach up to maximum revolutions to show what it can do. Typical driver showing-off. It is something he will never grow out of.

‘What’ll I put in the peashooter?’ asks Tiny, patting a shell.

‘HE, dammit! What did you think?’ snarls the Old Man, irritated.

‘I thought markers’d be all right,’ grins Tiny, happily. ‘We’ve still got some with red paint! Ivan’d be pleased as punch to get twenty gallons of red paint plastered all round’is chops! Red’s the colour o’ the season in this country, they say!’

‘Good God Almighty!’ the Old Man breaks out. ‘Have we still got those cursed markers? I’ve told you to chuck ’em out! They’ll be the death of us if you make a mistake some time!’