Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (17 page)

‘You are Polish?’

Rosa shook her head.

‘I am Silesian, neither Polish nor German. The Silesians rebelled against the German occupiers many time. Each time we were crushed with a brutal force. It is the German way. Whatever you feel you are suffering at the hands of the Germans, my people have experienced it all before. And now they do it all over again. They massacre anyone and any country that stands in their way. The stories filtering through from Russia and Poland – and indeed from our friends and family in Germany opposed to the Nazi regime – you do not want to hear.’

She turned and stood before him. Her face was flushed red, a tear trickled from her eye and Horace followed its slow trail down her delicate soft skin.

‘I’m not sure if I believe them all… they are so bad. Tales of women and children and…’

She broke off. Her hand covered her mouth. She took a minute to compose herself. She continued, the tears flowing freely now, dropping onto the dusty ground where Horace watched them form a small damp hollow in the parched earth.

‘However much you hate your captors, Jim, I hate them just as much.’

Horace stood in stunned silence. A thousand thoughts ran through his head.

‘I would simply ask of you never to think of me as a German.’

He thought of the sex in the workshop and how at one point he had hated the female he was thrusting into.

‘I am a Silesian and I am Jewish.’

‘You are what?’

‘My family is Jewish.’

‘But your father… the camp, he is the owner and…’

‘The name Rauchbach is not German, Jim. It’s from Israel.’

Horace was shaking his head, thinking that it wasn’t possible. Rosa’s father was working with the Germans; he seemed to be respected, almost looked up to at times.

Rosa continued with her stunning revelation.

‘It was my great grandfather Isaac who first brought the family to Silesia. Even back then he sensed how dangerous it was to be Jewish. He was a wonderful man by all accounts and never forced any religious practices on his children; he allowed them to make up their own minds. My father’s father passed on the same ideals to his sons and daughters. Father made up his own mind and when Hitler came to power he cleared the house of anything that told of our past. Even the photographs of his parents on a visit back home to the Holy Land were burned. Books, small trinkets, Hebrew teachings and clothes – everything went into a big bonfire in the back garden. It was just as well; the Nazis made a visit to the house when they took over the quarry. Father knew exactly what it was they were looking for but he was one step ahead of them.’

Horace thought of how the beautiful girl standing in front of him was no longer a plaything, no longer a piece of meat. She’d taken on a new look, her features seemed more delicate, her face kinder.

‘And I’m on your side whatever happens.’

She was no longer the enemy. She could be trusted; he could talk to her.

She took his hands. ‘Listen to me, Jim, please.’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘I hate the bastards, Jim… hate them.’

He thought about escape and how this girl might be willing to help him.

Rosa looked him in the eyes then looked down at their hands. In an instant she broke the grip, looked around the camp, praying that no one had noticed, praying that the guard was still sleeping. All was quiet. They breathed a mutual sigh of relief and quickly put space between their two bodies.

‘This is dangerous,’ she said. ‘We mustn’t be seen together.’

She turned and glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. Was there any emotion in her face, a sign of a smile, maybe a twitch of a facial muscle as she spoke those few short words?

‘The workshops… quickly.’

Horace walked past the snoring guard. He listened. The camp was silent. A few POWs dozed too, those that sat around talking seemed oblivious to the rendezvous that had taken place in the middle of the camp. Surely somebody must have seen them talking, that brief moment of contact? His eyes scoured the camp again. Garwood sat near the entrance of the forest – normally out of bounds – glad of the shade, his cap covering his eyes. He slept.

As Horace entered the workshop Rosa stood against the same bench. They fell into each other’s arms. She felt different, no longer the tarnished German citizen he once thought she was. They ate each other greedily, their kisses passionate as they pawed each other like two lovers meeting after an eternity. He took her hair, looked at her beautiful face, that puzzled look, before kissing her again with more fervour,
more tension, more frenzy. He pushed against her, his erection in full bloom once again, and she felt it immediately.

‘Quickly, Jim, quickly… no time.’

This time she broke away, reached for the buttons on the waistband of her trousers, and within seconds they were at her knees. Horace stood back in bewilderment as her small panties followed. Without hesitation, without instruction she turned around, bent over the workbench and parted her legs as best as she could. It was an awkward stance with a pair of knee length leather riding boots and trousers gathered tightly at her knees but it gave Horace a chance. He stepped forward, reached for her with his hand as the other hand took hold of his stiff penis. Within a few seconds he was inside her. As before her hand covered her mouth in an attempt to contain her noisy pleasure. He held the position, wanting the moment to last. He groaned as he leaned back, looked up to the ceiling and began a slow rhythmical movement.

The guard was puzzled. He was displeased. The prisoners had taken advantage of his moment’s weakness. Who could blame him? It was so very hot and such boring work looking over the 20 or so prisoners, none of whom had the slightest intention of escaping. He tried to tell the commanding officer time and time again, but he had insisted they be watched at all times. Two were clearly sleeping, others were leaning on picks and shovels. Idle bastards. He’d make them pay. And where was the one that spoke some German? Jim. Where was that bastard? Did he dream or had he seen him going into the workshops as he dozed in the afternoon sun? He hadn’t dreamed it. He eased himself to his feet using his rifle as leverage. He cursed his arthritic knee as it stiffened and a pain shot down the length of his shin bone. And the girl, where’s the girl? ‘Bastards,’ he whispered. ‘Someone is going to pay.’

Rosa exploded into orgasm. The sweat had soaked through
her blouse and it clung to her back. It was time for Horace to join her and as he quickened his movements Rosa tensed up.

‘Please, quickly,’ she gasped as her head jerked back and forward. ‘I hear the guard talking.’

Panic welled up inside Horace as he heard the conversation too – half German, half broken English. Yet his pleasure seemed to intensify at the danger they were now in.

Within seconds they’d both climaxed, regained their composure, buttoned up their trousers and sneaked out one at a time into the bright sunshine – satisfied, but both wanting so much more. No foreplay, no experimentation, no teasing, no clumsy awkward moments, no laughter, no words of love and expression as he’d remembered with Eva. They’d often lain for hours in the bedroom of her small cottage in Ibstock while her mother and father had been at work. They’d frolicked in the cornfields and the meadows of Leicestershire, making love for hours on end, and he’d touched and stroked and caressed her whole body, teasing and arousing her again and again. Eva had done likewise as she insisted on fitting the French letter each time they made love. Horace lay completely naked with his hands by his side as Eva complimented him on his recovery time and the impressive quality of his manhood. And they’d left the fields laughing and joking, talking about their daring exploits. He recalled how Eva had positively glowed after one particularly energetic session. They’d often wondered if they’d been seen, what might happen if a farmer or even a family friend had discovered them.

It was so different now as he walked the long walk to where Flapper Garwood lay sleeping. No laughing and joking, no swaying cornfields, no touching hands nor a loving embrace – just thoughts of a firing squad and an even greater hatred for the German race. Deliberately avoiding eye contact, Horace focused on his sleeping pal as he walked straight past the guard.

Suddenly the German shouted behind him.

‘Was machen Sie, Scheißkerl
?’ ‘You bastard! What are you doing?’

Horace froze, turned around as the German marched towards him, rifle pointing at his chest. The guard cocked the rifle and broke into a run, spitting his anger as he got nearer. Horace looked around. Thank God Rosa was nowhere to be seen. She’d disappeared – the guard hadn’t seen her… he hoped.

‘
Sie meinen, ich bin so bloed?
’ ‘You think I’m an idiot?’

Instinctively Horace raised his arms in the air.

But the German guard ran straight past him and stood over the snoring Flapper Garwood. Poor Flapper. He was now the focus of attention, and the guard vented his fury with a swift kick to the ribs of the sleeping POW.

‘You pig dog! Get up!’

A rifle butt hit the prisoner in the chest as the air was forced from his lungs. He gasped and scrambled to his feet in a sleep-induced stupor. Flapper picked up his work tool, ran over to the huge block of marble and began chipping away furiously. The guard followed, gave Flapper another kick in the pants and a cuff along the back of the neck.

He then turned to face Horace. There was hatred in his eyes, menace in his voice.

‘And you my English pig slave, where have you been?’

Horace was in a quandary. Had the guard seen him come out of the workshop? Had he seen Rosa? Had he seen them going into the workshop? The adrenaline of fear swam through him. It was fear for Rosa, fear for her safety. At that moment, as he stood in front of a German guard intent on meting out yet more punishment, he realised he needed to protect Rosa.

He realised too that he had developed feelings for her.

‘Speak, you bastard!’

Horace spoke in English. The guard’s vocabulary was reasonably good, but his sentence construction and verbs were poor.

‘You’re a piece of shit, you are.’

Garwood’s knees turned to lead. He couldn’t believe what his friend had just said. The German took a step forward, raised his rifle and pointed it between Horace’s eyes. He looked confused, almost shocked. Had he understood correctly?

‘What did you say?’ he snarled.

‘I needed to do a shit, sir.’

Horace stood to attention. The guard lowered his rifle.

‘Speak German, prisoner. I know you speak it well.’ He grinned – an evil smile. ‘It will be the language of the world in a few short years, you might as well get used to it.’

Horace repeated his statement in German, told the guard he would normally have asked for permission to use the toilets through the workshops but didn’t want to disturb the guard’s well-earned rest. The guard lowered his rifle, seemingly satisfied. As he walked away he signalled for the prisoner to resume his duties and Horace released a huge sigh of relief deep from within his lungs.

It was late August 1941 and the summer weather had been quite pleasant on the whole, with lots of sunshine and warm, sultry days. The German offensive into Russia was stalling: although they’d captured Smolensk and over 300,000 Russians, the first signs were beginning to appear that a siege of Leningrad was materialising. On 30 August the rain began in earnest. It came down in torrents hour after hour and the men in the quarry were soaked to the bone. Horace shivered and struggled with his pickaxe. On more than one occasion it slipped from the marble, coming to rest on the ground a few
inches from his foot. He looked across towards the German guards standing under a makeshift tarpaulin shelter, smoking cigarettes and smiling. In his best German and with his most doleful eyes he pleaded with them.

‘It’s too dangerous, sir. The marble is too slippery.’

‘Continue,’ one of them said with a gesture of his hand. Rosa’s father looked on.

For another two hours the men half-heartedly chipped and picked away at the slippery white rock. Two at a time, when the marble had been chipped and shaped to an adequate size, they moved each slab the 50 yards or so to a flatbed lorry. John Knight and Danny Staines shuffled across slowly, their fingers tenuously gripping the wet marble as best they could. Danny Staines was tired. He was visibly shivering and of course he was hungry. He was thinking of his ration of cabbage soup later that day, he was thinking about the fistful of bread he had saved and how he’d cleverly hidden it in a dry spot beneath his bunk. He wasn’t concentrating and as John Knight signalled by way of a nodding head, the two men heaved upwards with the huge effort needed to lift the marble onto the wooden floor of the lorry.

The result was catastrophic. Staines’ timing was just a split second slower than John Knight’s and the slab tipped unevenly towards him. On a normal day the men’s grip on the marble would be firm, their concentration would be better and the two men would immediately right the marble with a quick twist of the wrist or a pull of the shoulder. Not today. Both men realised the danger immediately and they reacted accordingly, tightening their grip on the rock. It was futile. The wet surface of the marble was impossible to hold and the 40lb load tipped violently and dropped three feet onto the bridge of Danny Staines’ foot.

The crack of the bone and the subsequent squeal could be
heard by every man in the quarry. Rosa’s father came running from the workshop with the camp commandant in close pursuit. Rosa’s father was angry and shouted at the commandant.

‘I told you this would happen!’ he screamed at the German guards.

‘Too dangerous,’ Horace picked up in a heated German conversation. Then, ‘impossible conditions’. Within 20 minutes all of the men were confined to their respective huts.

Danny Staines’ foot was reset into a position that loosely resembled the shape of the foot he’d started the day with, but without any anaesthetic or even a mouthful of whisky to deaden the pain. It was crudely splinted and bandaged up with strips of flannelette. He would be reprieved of his duties for nearly six weeks but would walk with a limp for the rest of his life.