Blitzfreeze (30 page)

The corporal addresses himself officiously to the Brandenburger Feldwebel who doesn’t understand a word.

Vasilij pushes him to one side, gives the corporal a friendly pat on the arm and hands him a Russian soldier’s identity book. A tank section rattles down the street, almost hidden in the driving snow.

The corporal rants at Vasilij, banging the book in his hand angrily. Something seems to be missing. Despite German thoroughness they have probably forgotten a rubber stamp somewhere. Two things the Russians and the Germans have in common; a superfluity of paper, and rubber stamps.

‘
Job Tvojemadj!
’ curses Vasilij, tapping his Captain Commissar’s red star.

‘
Propusk comandatura
,’ howls the corporal, beside himself.

‘Be a good boy, now,
brat
,
¹⁶
or I’ll have to ask my Commandant to send you to Kolyma with ten kicks up the backside first for delaying an important mission!’ Vasilij commands.

‘
Propusk!
’ screams the corporal stubbornly, putting out his big policeman’s hand, with the thick, black leather glove, again. Vasilij throws up his hands hopelessly and unbuttons his fur jacket as if he were finding some papers.

‘You brought it on yourself,
brat
,’ he says sorrowfully. ‘Your mother will cry for you!’

A blade flashes and the corporal’s head is rolling along the pavement, the cigarette still between his lips. The headless body sways a moment, and a jet of blood spouts from the neck.

The Legionnaire and Tiny are on the two paralysed NKVD men like lightning. Combat knives glint.
Kalashnikovs
rattle to the pavement. A column of T-34s roars past. Leatherclad heads can vaguely be seen poking up from the turrets.

We push the bodies into a cellarway where they are quickly covered by snow.

Vasilij kicks the corporal’s head through the window of a ground-floor flat, where it frightens the life out of two sleeping cats. He slaps his thighs and roars with laughter at the sight of the cats going spitting and squalling through the snow.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ gasps the Old Man, shocked.

We rush down narrow side-streets, crawl over fences and find ourselves suddenly in the middle of a mob of people, being held in check by an NKVD section with submachine-guns at the ready. The end of the street is blocked by two T-34s.

‘Shit!’ whispers Vasilij. ‘Crazy arseholes been looting. NKVD catch, now make example. Shoot one in three so Moscow people understand looting risky work.’

An NKVD man calls to us authoritatively.

Vasilij reports himself smartly as being a guard officer on duty.

‘
Propusk
,’ snarls the NKVD officer, coldly unimpressed, and looks casually at our papers. ‘Get your people together and get the hell out of here!’ he orders.

‘We’re on our way,
tovaritsch
,’ grins Vasilij, and begins to curse and swear at us in true Russian Army style.

The first civilians are already being liquidated as we turn the corner. Looters get short shrift. In Berlin as well as Moscow. Tomorrow their names will be posted on red handbills on the street corners as a warning to others.

‘See the way ’e lopped the ’ead off the NKVD corporal,’ says Tiny respectfully. ‘Alois the Axe from Bernhard-Noecht Strasse couldn’t ’ave done it better, an’ ’e was good, when in practice. Nine ’eads ’e took off before the bleedin’ Kripos diddled ’im. Nass an’ ’is blood’ounds was really after grifas
smugglers and ’ad just drove into the elevator at Gate 3 on Landungsbrücke when out of a dark corner comes a ’ore’s ’ead ’oppin’ an’ dancin’ right up to the feet of Inspector Nass. I see it myself. I was just on the way with a basketful of fish.’

‘What the devil? Have you dealt in fish as well?’ asks Porta, wonderingly.

‘I was in Green Gunther’s ’aulage set-up. All the ’erring was filled with grifas. I ’ad to keep kickin’ all the time at one of Nass’s bleedin’ police dogs as kept sniffin’ away like a mad thing at me an’ my delivery bike. Nass an’ the Kripo bulls thought it was the fish ’e was after. Schaefer’s with a bit of Dobermann in ’em are mad on
Gefüllte Fische
,
¹⁷
the Yid scoff. They won’t ’ave Dobermann’s as police dogs no more ’cause they reckon they’re imitation Schaefer’s bred special by international Jewry. I was sittin’ one evenin’ mindin’ my own business, in “Wind Force II”, when in comes four bleedin’ great Yid Dobermanns drippin’ at the jaws. They’d been after a coupla German crooks all the way over from Gänsemarkt, but crossin’ the ’Ansa Platz they’d suddenly got wind of the
Brust Flanken
¹⁸
our ’alf-Jew cook was puttin’ together, an’ off they went, an’ to ’ell with the villains. They shot into that kitchen so fast there was no doubt left they ’ad Jew blood in ’em. This cook’d just got ’is discharge from the army.

‘The Wehrmacht slung ‘im outa the skeet-club soon as they found ’im to ’ave false blood in ’is veins. An’ was ’e sorry? Not on our life ’e wasn’t! The
Brust Flanken
was on for that very reason. Any’ow the Kripo bulls went barmy when they found their four-legged mates sittin’ round this Yid cook an’ ‘is oven. The immitation Schaefers were discharged without pension. They shoulda been glad they didn’t get the bleedin’ gas-chamber.

‘“In the name of the Führer, I arrest you all!” screamed Nass, wakin’ up the echoes in the elevator.

‘But they soon let us loose again, when they found Alois
the Axe rolled up under a lorry. Nass just got ’is napper out the way of the axe in time. If ’e ’adn’t it’d’ve been the first time for years anybody’s seen Otto Nas without ’is snap-brim on. They got at least twenty pairs of cuffs, chains and Gawd knows what else on Alois before you could say Jack Robinson. When we got to the bottom they threw us all out of the elevator. Nass an’ ’is posse couldn’t get back to the station fast enough, to get the news out to the reporters. They’d been after the Sankt Pauli axe murderer for four years an’ ’ere ’e was served up on a plate with all the evidence needed, ready for Marabu’s
¹⁹
executioner. Nass got ’imself a big swelled-up napper all right that day. They called ’im sharpwitted in all the papers. ’E never told ’em just ‘ow it ’appened, you see. They even give ’im a decoration for it. ’E was on special duty at ’eadquarters as a luxury inspector on permanent day duty, but they threw ’im out before long. ’Is worn-out old leather coat didn’t fit in at the mornin’ conferences.’

A long column of strangely uniformed soldiers went past us, moving towards the bridges over the Moscow.

‘Suicide companies,’ Vasilij explains with a casual gesture. ‘Hole-in-head from Tanganskaya.
²⁰
Them pardoned. No go Kolyma. Shoot crazy Germans instead. Stalin clever man. Him not shoot shitty politicals stick neck out ask better deal. Stalin say: Them want die hero. Let crazy Germans knock off. Soviet no problem, no charge.’

At Pavlet Station there is a road block swarming with NKVD. Even large military units moving in order of march are checked. A bulldog of a colonel with straps crossed over his chest steps towards us with a
kalashnikov
under his arm.

‘Holy Virgin, be merciful to us,’ groans the Old Man, resignedly.

At the corner of Marko Street four officers are neck-shot. The bodies are thrown into an open lorry waiting on the pavement. Bloody icicles hang from its sideboards.

We disappear up Tatarsk Street with Vasilij, grinning
happily, in the lead. Completely unworried he leads us to the middle of the bridge where they are sluicing people through the barriers.

‘It won’t go,’ groans Julius Heide, fearfully. ‘They only need to ask one of us something, anything at all, and we’re lost. The Red Army don’t enlist deaf mutes!’

‘I’m playin’ barmy,’ declared Tiny, rolling his eyes.

‘Not necessary,’ says Julius. ‘You’re born to the part. Can’t understand why they haven’t gassed you long ago with the rest of the mental defectives.’

The Old Man and the Legionnaire ready their Mpis. They obviously expect to have to fight.

‘If they uncover us, use your peacemakers for all you’re worth!’ whispers the Old Man. ‘It’s our only chance! If they catch us in Russian uniforms they’ll cut us to pieces slowly before they let us die!’

‘Amen,’ says Porta, crossing himself. ‘Light a candle for poor old Porta.’

Even Vasilij seems to grow thoughtful after having talked to an NKVD sergeant, sitting half-asleep on a vehicle.

‘Shitty NKVD catch other German Brandenburger commando,’ he whispers. ‘You ready fix with chopper, make many bodies! Now come big row! NKVD know crazy Nazis on tourist trip Moscow! Hell, shitty much danger for us. Come here phony paper, stolen uniform!’

‘What a bloody prospect,’ whispers Porta, nervously. ‘I’d rather be at home. Let’s fall out smartly and let Ivan keep this bloody rotten power station!’

The Old Man considers it and looks enquiringly at Vasilij.

Vasilij replies with a wide, white smile which can mean anything or nothing.

‘No-o-o,’ says the Old Man, thoughtfully. ‘That yellow chimpanzee isn’t just a guide, he’s also our jailer. He’ll let us be liquidated if we give way now.’

Vasilij grins and slaps the Old Man on the shoulder.

‘You very clever, Feldwebel. Wise man go with Vasilij so German turnip stay on shoulders!’

‘Long as you don’t lose yours,’ mumbles the Old Man ominously.

‘Me no care about own turnip,’ grins Vasilij, happily. ‘Me no have face longer great Kunfu want. When Kunfu make choice you go.’ He pulls Tiny by the arm. ‘You strong Russian bear, smash Red skull one blow. You stay with Vasilij, come back to village with turnip on, play games with
djaevuschka
.
²¹
You no do what I say, you choke on old whore
rjaegully
!’
²²

Tiny, who doesn’t understand half of it, nods violently and swears a solemn oath of allegiance with three fingers raised.

How we got through I can’t remember. A sergeant wipes me across the face, which all the green crosses seem to find amusing.

When we finally reach the Kozhukhovo quarter a swarm of our own Stukas come howling out of low cloud cover.

Heavy bombs explode all around us, pulverizing buildings and the railway area. Finally they saturate the district with incendiaries and sweep it with their machine-guns.

‘Stukas do work for us,’ whoops Vasilij, enthusiastically. ‘All NKVD in cellar, protect Commie lives. Now we fix plastic bomb, blow Stalin factory up under NKVD arse. Walk back Hitler army, have good sleep ready next trip.’

A Brandenburger Gefreiter falls between two concrete blocks and when we try to pull him free one of the blocks slips and catches him. His screams go echoing through the night.

The Brandenburger Feldwebel puts his pistol to his neck. It’s a silenced Beretta specially made for the job. Commando soldiers are finished if they can’t keep up. Nobody must be allowed to fall into enemy hands alive.

We roll more concrete over the spot where the Gefreiter’s body lies jammed. Perhaps their patrols won’t find him right away. The bombs have broken down the wall round the Zim
factory at several points. We go in from Lizina Street. We should have gone through Tyufalev Street but Vasilij, who has reconnoitred it, says we can’t go that way. There’s a whole column of light armour halted there. Whether they’re really an NKVD guard company watching for saboteurs he can’t say. But the vehicles have no corps designation and are manned. Even with our two Degtyarev anti-tank rifles we can’t take on these armoured vehicles in a fight. We decide to go the other way.

Vasilij agrees with the Old Man and the Brandenburger Feldwebel that we march in in column of threes like a unit. He thinks his NKVD captain’s uniform will get us in, and we have, in any case, a
propusk
giving us priority permission to enter the Zim works. There’s a risk they may have instituted a password, and we can’t guess what
that
is. It can be the most logical, or the craziest, combination. They might, for example, shout ‘Ivan the Terrible’ and the right answer be ‘Dead rat’.

Vasilij takes a look at the entrance point. We’re lying between some goods wagons in the Kozhukhovo Station, from where we can see them moving the wounded from Kashirskaya Hospital which has been set on fire by the incendiaries.

‘Gawd, take a look at the cunt in there,’ mumbles Tiny, who is lying there watching the nurses through artillery glasses. ‘Jesus Christ almighty what a fuckin’ arse
she’s
got on ’er. It’s screamin’ for it. Gawd, ‘ow I could rip it up ’er right now.’

A short silent struggle for the glasses ensues.

‘Jesus me old rollockers are playing up!’ giggles Porta. ‘It’s been a long time since me old pal’s had a new fur-coat on!’

‘You shoulda banged it up that sow at Klimskaja the way I done before we slaughtered it,’ says Tiny, ‘Just shut your eyes an’ imagine it’s a lovely bit of ‘Amburg cunt as’s gone to a ball without ’er drawers on.’

‘Shitty NKVD go up through hair,’ Vasilij comes up panting. He’s just been on an investigatory tour. ‘Many
dumb Commies lose life in air raid, but we no make big boom now. Them take wounded away. NKVD come with armoured cars. Me think good wait one hour. Kunfu say: “Never move too fast.” Take easy, keep turnip on shoulders. Me learn codeword. We march in to attention. Move in one hour, maybe keep head while yet. Them shout “war”. We shout “green apple” and march on. Then not look close. Shitty pig colonel say password while me listen under car. Them know crazy Brandenburger in Moscow. Him cut prick off and eat without salt, say shitty colonel. So not good pet prisoner. Better more legs fast when bomb go up. Them be crazy in head, chase shitty dumb German all over Moscow.’