Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (16 page)

It was a blow that would have felled an elephant. Horace staggered sideways as the pain from the blow registered; blood trickled from a wound above his temple. He bounced into John Knight, the camp outbuildings spun around him and the SS officer who had assaulted him seemed to become two or three. He wanted to collapse, wanted to fall to the ground and sleep, nature’s way. He steadied himself, took a second or two and resumed his position in the line-up. He stood to attention, puffed out his chest and bit into his bottom lip in an attempt to quell the pain.

The German officer had already turned to walk away. Perhaps he would have been happy knocking the prisoner into unconsciousness. A show of strength, a warning, the end of the matter? Not now. The prisoner had defied him; insulted him. He had taken the full force of the blow and remained standing. It was time to teach him a lesson. Flapper Garwood looked into the SS officer’s eyes and knew what he was thinking. A fist this time propelled into Horace’s solar plexus. It was a good shot. Horace winced and fell to his knees, his
head resting in the dirt. Already he’d tensed up and was preparing to make a huge effort to get to his feet.

Flapper looked down at the ground, hoping and praying his good friend would stay there. ‘Stay down, you stubborn bastard,’ he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. The German officer heard him and now pointed the gun at Flapper in confusion. He had hate in his eyes and his finger on the trigger.

‘What did you say?’ the SS officer screamed at Garwood, his attention now focused on the big man from Essex. He took a step nearer, venom in his eyes. The other guards had run towards them, rifles trained on the prisoners, and the camp commandant stood in between, trying to calm everyone down.

‘Please Hartmut, leave them, let us go. We can drink some coffee, have some nice cakes.’ The commandant had a hold of the officer’s sleeve. ‘The men from Switzerland are here again next week – please don’t give me any more problems.’

A silence ensued. The SS officer paused. The line of POWs stood terrified, wondering whether they were about to witness another execution, or even two. The decision was resting solely on the shoulders of one man. As the officer thought long and hard, he turned and together with the camp commandant, made for the mess hall. As the door to the building was opened the officer stepped through. If he’d turned and looked back towards the line of prisoners he would have seen a slightly out of breath prisoner, bruised and slightly bloody, standing unaided on his own two feet with a broad grin etched across his face.

CHAPTER
NINE

S
ixteen express trains thundered through Horace’s head when he awoke in his bunk the following morning. His whole body ached as if he’d been kicked and stamped on by an entire regiment of German soldiers. ‘Jesus, Flapper,’ he called to his mate below, ‘I don’t half hurt.’

‘Serves you right. You’re a stubborn cunt. That’s why you hurt, because you wouldn’t go down when the Nazi bastard hit you with his Luger, because you wanted to prove you were better than he was.’

‘I am better than he is.’

‘It’s gonna get you killed though, mate. You have to learn to play the game. Everyone here knows you’re better than them; you don’t have to keep proving it.’

Horace could remember very little about the incident. The blow from the Luger had been a good one. He remembered standing to attention and grinning, and he remembered the taste of the blood as it crept into the side of his mouth, but the rest was a blur. Flapper explained the full story as Horace sat and listened with pride and a feeling that he’d been a little bit stupid, all for the sake of another small victory.

Gradually over the next few hours his memory returned.
He remembered the camp and the guards and the quarry and the work and the workshops, and then he remembered Rosa and that moment.

Rosa reappeared exactly two weeks after her last visit. Horace remembered the moment with clarity. She was wearing a steel-grey pair of riding britches and a pair of black leather boots. He would later find out that she was an accomplished horsewoman and spent every spare moment she had tending and riding the horses on a nearby farm. Unusually, her hair was dishevelled, a little unkempt and her clothing was soiled, her hands a little dirty. She seemed a little embarrassed as she spoke. ‘Please forgive my appearance, gentlemen. I have been tending to the horses. Today they needed cleaning.’

Forgive my appearance? Horace thought. My foot! She looked positively stunning. It was a hot day and the exertion of her work in the stables had brought a natural glow to her face. Her skin shone, glistening with a fine sheen of perspiration. Her slightly damp clothing clung to her beautiful form and her eyes were bright, her pupils fully dilated as she gazed at her incarcerated English lover – and the sexual tension could have been cut with a knife. Horace’s heart began to beat a little faster and his breathing intensified. He became aware that he too was beginning to perspire and in an instant those familiar feelings welled up inside him as the blood began to pump round his body. She certainly hadn’t ignored him. Horace thought this might have been her reaction after she’d left the workshop and realised the danger they had placed themselves in.

But surely it couldn’t happen again, could it? It was a one-off, a chance in a million that they’d taken and through sheer luck managed to get through without being caught. His thoughts drifted back to the workshop, the moment his
fingers had first entered her tender, moist vagina and how she had squirmed and moaned. He recalled the moment he had first thrust into her, how she had gasped with pain and pleasure and how he had pumped and thrust for all he was worth until he had eventually climaxed.

It was a one-off, he reminded himself, something that would never happen again. He had his memories. They couldn’t be taken away from him, but there was simply no way he would entertain any thoughts of placing this beautiful young girl in such danger ever again. It would be their secret and they would survive.

Rosa had never felt this way before. This man had awoken emotions in her that she had never before experienced. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly. Was it the danger of being caught that had heightened her pleasure so much? Was it the fact that this man had been the first, or was it something deeper? Perhaps even love?

She didn’t know. He’d been so aggressive and yet at the same time so tender. He’d hurt her as he’d forced himself inside her and yet awoken feelings of sexual desire she could only have dreamed of. As she looked at him right now, standing there in a dirty shirt and trousers that hung loosely on his tortured skeletal frame, bruising around his head and eyes and an embarrassed impish schoolboy look on his face, she trembled as she thought back to that earth-shattering moment when he’d ejaculated inside her and something incredible had happened to her right there and then as she lay face down on a dirty workbench.

She had wanted to scream and shout. Every muscle, every sinew of her body, every nerve ending had seemed to explode at the same glorious moment. It was a crazy, stupid moment, one that if discovered would have ended up with them both facing the firing squad. She recalled the story her father had
told her about the poor girl pregnant with the Frenchman’s child. She trembled with fear as she realised the sheer magnitude of the danger they had placed themselves in. No matter how good the feeling, how exciting the moment, it had been senseless.

Rosa looked over at her father in conversation with the commandant. What would have become of him? Would he too have been castigated for failing to control his daughter? Perhaps he too would have faced the German rifles with a blindfold. She had been selfish, headstrong. It would not, could not happen again.

Horace was working on the far side of the camp, the door to the workshops clearly visible. He tried not to look, tried not to remember that wonderful moment of passion. It was difficult. He pictured inside the workshop, the machines, the dirty bench. It was still so fresh in his mind, so vivid. He wished he’d been working somewhere else. Why did she have to be there, walking around as if she had not a care in the world, smiling, laughing with her father and the guards? And those riding trousers and the beautiful shape of her thighs. Each time he lifted the sledgehammer his eyes scoured the camp, pinpointing the exact location of Rosa. She was like a magnet, almost hypnotic. Rosa toured the camp with her father, never far from his side as he checked on the men drilling into the marble, and the civilian workers handling the explosives charges that would break the huge slabs apart.

Several times they went into the camp offices and twice the camp commandant came out and joined them on an impromptu inspection. On one occasion the commandant and Rosa’s father came over to where Horace and Garwood were working. Rosa had lingered near the door to the offices. This was it, thought Horace, the cold shoulder, the end of a sweet but oh, so short relationship.

Lunchtime came round. It was as if the German guards had analysed the mood of the prisoners all morning, assessing the dangers of any potential escapees. Once again, because of the geographical location of the camp, they decided they were minimal and the four guards patrolling the area became one. They were hungry and bored, and the pattern was familiar. The lone guard would sit on a log and five minutes later one of his colleagues would bring him coffee and a snack. For one hour he would sit alone, and sheer boredom and the heat of the sun would send him to sleep within 20 minutes.

John Knight noticed him first. ‘He’s kipping, Jim. Whose turn is it today?’

The POWs drill had been well practised. As the guard drifted into his peaceful slumber the prisoners could take a break too. There was no official lunch break, no food, but a sleeping guard meant the prisoners could down tools and take a rest. Some would chance forty winks and with one prisoner effectively on watch against the guard waking up or anyone coming out of the offices unexpectedly, it meant they could relax for a while.

‘I’m not tired, John. I’ll take watch,’ replied Horace.

Knight was a little puzzled. It had been Horace’s turn only three days back.

‘But you took your…’

‘I’ll do it, John. Hush your mouth; I’m not in the mood.’

Knight shrugged his shoulders.

‘Suit yourself, Jim. But I’m telling you, you need to take it easy.’

‘Maybe, but not today. Give the signal.’

Knight shrugged his shoulders. Like a turf accountant’s tick tack man, he gave a series of hand movements that indicated Horace was the man on watch. The men settled down. A few of them chatted among themselves; most sought
a spot in the shade and closed their eyes. Horace’s eyes scanned the camp. Rosa was nowhere to be seen. Likely having lunch with her father and the commandant, he thought as he took the opportunity to stretch his legs. He walked over to the guard whose mouth lolled open, a trickle of saliva rolling down his chin. Two arms cuddled his Karabiner 98k rifle like a sleeping baby.

Thoughts of escape were never far from Horace’s mind. He’d been instrumental in negotiations to form an escape committee. Only last week they’d had their first official meeting. To a man they all agreed that the very idea of escape was preposterous. The Germans had chosen the location of the camps well. Security wasn’t tight because it didn’t need to be. No perimeter fence, a handful of guards, and hundreds of miles of hostile, German-occupied land. Impossible.

Was suicide a more viable option? Surely it couldn’t be any worse than this existence? They’d heard the stories about the Japanese kamikaze pilots, hell bent on taking as many of the enemy with them as they could in a mission of death for the glory of the emperor. He’d laughed at how small minded and stupid they were, and yet here he was thinking exactly the same way. It would be suicide, but how many Germans could he take out before they overpowered him?

‘Don’t do it,’ a voice behind him whispered, ‘you’ll be killed.’ Rosa tugged him by the shirt sleeve, conscious of the sleeping guard.

‘Do what?’ he asked. Rosa looked into his eyes. She knew exactly what he was thinking. He could smell her now, a sweet feminine perspiration mixed with a delicate perfume.

‘You have a life, Jim – a life after the war.’

Horace shrugged his shoulders. ‘And when will that be, Rosa? How many more months or years do I have to spend in here?’

‘The war is turning Jim. The Germans are fighting on too many fronts.’

‘“The Germans”, Rosa? Why do you say “the Germans”? They are your men, but you speak as if you are not one of them. We were told your father is German.’

Rosa looked over Horace’s shoulder; the guard was still snoring.

‘Come.’ She walked away out of earshot of the guard. Horace followed. She looked angry as she turned to speak.

‘I am not German. Do not ever call me a German again.’

Horace stuttered ‘But you speak German. You…’

‘The Germans marched into Silesia many years ago. They raped and murdered my ancestors; the pure blood of my family stains the soil of Silesia. Silesia will never be a part of Germany no matter what the politicians and the generals say.’

Horace stayed silent as Rosa continued, tears in her eyes.

‘Silesia has been part of Poland since time immemorial, but we have always felt a deep independence, a country within a country so to speak, not unlike Scotland in your country. Silesia has its own language, its own culture. My parents taught me the traditions and history of our land as a small child.’

Her eyes glazed over; she stared right through him.

‘But alas, it seems man must always conquer, must always kill and must always want more land, more power, more territory. It seems our small country has always been involved in some sort of conflict. In recent times the country has changed hands many times. Poland then Germany, a brief spell of independence and then we belonged to Germany again.

‘1871 was a dark year in Silesian history. In 1871 the Germans forbade us to speak our own language, play our traditional instruments or even wear our own clothes. They
made everything associated with past Silesia a crime, as if they wanted to wipe everything Silesian off the face of the earth. They brought in thousands of German nationals to dilute the population. They brought them in to teach in the schools; they took the best jobs in the town halls and any prominent position in Silesia was taken by a German official given money to relocate. We were in effect second class citizens in our own country.’