Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (31 page)

Right there and then he made a suicidal decision. He couldn’t take the chance of interrogation; he loved Rose too much for that. He was strong, a stubborn bastard, Flapper and Jock and the rest of the lads would always say, but just how strong and how stubborn was he? He couldn’t take the chance of breaking under interrogation and revealing Rosa’s name. On his way out of the hut he’d break free and make a run for the forest. He’d be cut down in a hail of bullets and Rose would be safe. His English Rose… safe.

Horace was physically dragged to his bunk and ordered to
stand to attention. The SS officer had lost his temper and stood no more than three or four inches from his face, shouting and cursing. Horace looked over his shoulder.

The shelf and the panelling were intact.

‘You filthy fucking English
Scheißer!’

Horace looked at the overfilled tin can of cigarettes and the ash and discarded butts on the shelf. There were chocolate papers and a mouldy tin of bully beef. He watched as a fly made its way over a crumb of stale bread. A sticky patch of some unknown dried liquid covered the far end next to the window.

‘
Hurensohn
– son of a whore – never in my life have I seen such a filthy bastard as you!’

The shelf remained untouched, the German officer refusing to let his men come into contact with such filth, such grime. The SS man cuffed Horace across the cheek and he fell to the floor. Never had he been so pleased to receive such a blow to the face.

His plan had worked. He looked around at the sheer wanton vandalism that had been carried out on his colleagues’ beds and their surrounding area. His bunk remained untouched. The shelf hadn’t been moved an inch and the panels that hid the equipment necessary to produce the camp journal remained in place. What tickled him more than anything was watching the SS officer standing just inches from what it was he was looking for.

The SS officer proceeded to kick and punch Horace back outside and into line, and the prisoners were made to stand in the cold for another hour. No one could quite understand why Jim Greasley stood the whole time with a smile on his face while his teeth chattered.

The radio had survived. It was business as usual.

Several weeks later in the camp at Oberlangendorf the commandant sent for his next in command. ‘I have a job for you, Brecken.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want you to accompany Andrezj Netzer and the work party into the forest today.’

‘Yes, Commandant.’

‘When you get a moment take Netzer deep into the forest.’ The commandant paused, stroking his chin. ‘Tell him you have a special job for him, make him feel important…’ He smiled. ‘He likes that.’

‘Yes, Commandant.’

‘And Brecken…’

‘Commandant?’

‘Put a bullet into the back of his head and leave him to the wolves.’

CHAPTER
TWENTY

H
orace lay on his bunk. He was having one of those reflective moments, the sort of moment that all prisoners go through. He had been imprisoned for four and a half years… years that should have been the best of his life.

He’d been on the verge of manhood when he’d been sent to war without being consulted all those years ago. He’d established a successful career, discovered the fairer sex and enjoyed the weekend dances and the times with his father and mother and his siblings. He’d played football and cricket and boxed in Leicester as a youngster. He’d had so much to give, so much to see and do. Yet with the flutter of a white handkerchief it had all been taken away from him.

He’d missed four Christmases. They were always notified when it was Christmas Day and some of the prisoners kept note of the date and carried a calendar of sorts through the year. But normally in the camps one day just rolled into another. As Christmas Day was his birthday, he’d missed four birthday celebrations too. He remembered the cup of tea with whisky his father gave him every year and pictured the scene in the kitchen as his dad toasted his good health. Christmas Day in the camp was the worst day of the year for Horace Greasley.

But this year could be different. He was contemplating the craziest invitation he’d ever received: to escape and have Christmas dinner at Rosa’s family home in Klimontow, a village in Silesia. It all seemed so easy as it was explained to him. Rose and her father had planned it well. The roads would be quiet on Christmas morning, she’d explained, and it was the only day of the year that the Germans didn’t insist on an early morning roll call at the camp. They gave the prisoners the day off and left them very much to their own devices. Rose was right… he wouldn’t be missed.

Herr Rauchbach would be waiting at the crossroads five miles from the camp. The journey to the family home would take a little over an hour and awaiting him would be a goose with all the trimmings and the finest bottle of Silesian wine. They’d start with a traditional fish salad and finish with Christmas pudding and chocolates.

A family Christmas, thought Horace, more than likely a fire in the hearth and perhaps even a drop of whisky. He’d need to try and think of a gift for Rose. Nothing to think of really: he had six squares of chocolate left from his last Red Cross parcel – that was it.

But other thoughts also crossed his mind. Why go back to the camp after the day’s festivities? The war was all but over, or so they’d been told by the BBC. Even the British Home Guard had been told to stand down, such was the lack of threat from the now toothless German war machine, and the Japanese were increasingly turning to kamikaze tactics, a sure sign of desperation.

Worse was wondering what the reaction of the German commandant and his command would be when they finally received the news that they’d been dreading, that the war was lost. Why spare the prisoners’ lives? Why hand them over to the Russians or Americans or the Red Cross? Surely such an
exercise was fraught with danger? Taking the prisoners out into the forest and disposing of them would be the easiest course of action.

Horace thought back to the night of the radio search and the Germans burning all the prisoners’ personal effects. Head it simply been forward planning, denying that the prisoners had even been there? Had Horace’s many letters even arrived home?

The more he thought about it the more the Rauchbach household appealed. Why not hide there for a month or two?

It was 7am on 23 December 1944. Horace called a private meeting with his closest friends prior to the morning’s roll call. Jock Strain, Flapper, Freddie Rogers and David Crump sat on the floor of the staff quarters, all suspecting what Horace was about to announce.

The men sat in resigned silence as Horace made clear his intentions. In one way it was another sign that the war was without a doubt coming to an end. The prisoners knew it, as did the family of Horace’s girlfriend, and every one of the prisoners had witnessed the change in the guards. After Horace had made the announcement his friends said very little. The men went out onto parade and afterwards resumed their usual work roles. Horace walked over to the makeshift barbershop with lead in his boots and a heavy heart.

The cigarettes containing the previous evening’s news were distributed as normal. Freddie Rogers and David Crump were on an outside party four kilometres from the camp. They had talked little of their good friend’s imminent departure and eased the moment by handing out more cigarettes than was normal. It had come to the attention of two German guards.

‘They hand cigarettes out like presents, Brecken.’

Sergeant Brecken stood watching the two prisoners. ‘Yes,
they are feeling generous. They know they do not have many days left. But if you notice they receive cigarettes from the same men a few days later.’

The guard, Froud, furrowed his brow. ‘And what does that mean, exactly?’

Brecken shrugged his shoulders. ‘It means they are playing at being home when cigarettes were in plentiful supply. They are trying to re-enact their Friday and Saturday nights in their towns and cities in England. They are giving Christmas presents. They are not giving them away, Froud, they are simply playing give and take… happy friends. It’s an act, a charade.’

‘Herr Feldwebel, I would…’

The senior man from the camp held up a hand. ‘Silence. I have more important things to deal with than worrying about Englishmen giving out cigarettes.’

Brecken slung his rifle onto his shoulder and walked over to Freddie Rogers and David Crump. A Silesian man was begging for a cigarette but Rogers and Crump were flatly refusing.

‘Why do you not give this man the gift of tobacco, prisoner?’ Brecken asked Freddie Rogers.

‘He is not my friend, sir,’ Rogers replied without thinking for a second. ‘I have not seen him before. I only give cigarettes to my friends.’

The German’s theory that the prisoners were playing out a game was confirmed. He turned to the Silesian.

‘Come, Netzer, come with me into the forest. I have a special assignment for you.’

‘A special job?’ Andrezj Netzer stuttered. A smile crept across his face. ‘Yes, sir. Straight away, sir.’

The German walked away into the forest and the Silesian scuttled after him. Brecken stroked the butt of his rifle as if it
were a small puppy. His finger momentarily located the trigger before checking that the safety lock had been disengaged.

Christmas morning 1944. After another flawless escape Horace lay shivering in the fringe of the forest looking back at the camp. He studied the barrack room and the staff quarters and the window he’d used to such good effect in the past two years.

Everything seemed so quiet. Flapper had already replaced the bars. Horace watched as two cold, bored and hungry-looking guards passed the window without even looking up. He thought about the good and not so good times he’d shared with Flapper and Jock and the rest of the lads sleeping soundly in their beds, looking forward perhaps to their last Christmas morning under German control.

He had left the escape till later than usual, just after 5.30, giving plenty of cover of darkness before the sun came up. The meeting with Rose would take place at 6.30, two kilometres from the camp on the main road out.

Rose stood silhouetted in the darkness, a solitary figure stamping her feet occasionally, trying desperately to ward off the cold. He watched her for a couple of minutes as she peered down the road in the direction of the camp. He crept up on her from the forest and threw his arms around her. She gave out a little squeal as he turned her around and kissed her. She broke the embrace quickly.

‘Come quickly, Father is waiting.’ She took his hand and began to walk away.

Horace made no attempt to move; she was aware of the resistance immediately. She looked deep into his sad eyes and knew. Her own tears started before she spoke.

‘What is it, Jim? Talk to me.’

Horace shook his head. ‘I cannot come, Rose, you know that.’

‘But why, Jim? Please, we…’

He held a finger to her lips as a tear fell to the ground.

‘You know why.’

‘No, I don’t… tell me.’

Horace sighed, took her hand and walked slowly up the road. ‘I must see your father and thank him, but I won’t place you at risk any more than I’ve already done.’

‘No, Jim. I… We…’

Horace interrupted. ‘You’ve loved me more than any woman could ever love a man and every time we’ve met or made love I’ve placed you under a death sentence.’

Rose was shaking her head, sobbing loudly now as the realisation sank in that they would not be spending their first normal day together.

‘Our love has survived the impossible and one day I will tell the world about it.’ He stopped and turned her to face him, took her two hands in his. He watched as a tear trickled down her cheek and he leaned forward to kiss her. She turned her face away in an attempt to show her disapproval.

Horace waited.

She looked back at him. ‘I love you, Jim… I want to be with you today of all days.’

‘I know you do and I want to be with you too,’ Horace continued, ‘but I won’t place your family in danger. One day I will tell the world all about my English Rose. I will tell them how pretty she is and how kind and generous she is and how special it was each time we made love. I will tell them about the little church in the forest and the rabbits and the hens and I will tell them how my English Rose fed my friends and supplied radio parts that kept three thousand men happy.’

‘We are reaching three thousand prisoners?’ she asked with a puzzled look on her face.

‘We are,’ Horace replied proudly with a beaming smile. ‘We worked the numbers out last night.’

Rose shook her head. Horace pulled her to him and her arms wrapped around his back. She buried her face in his chest as he stroked at her hair.

‘In my book I will tell the world how she made a difference. And I will tell anyone that will listen to me that she did all that because she loved me.’

She looked up into his eyes. ‘And how to you propose to tell the world all that, you damned stupid stubborn Englishman?’

Horace looked up. Dawn had painted the sky a dusty winter pink and for once he felt real freedom. At first he couldn’t put his finger on it and then it came to him.

‘Listen.’

Rose looked up. ‘What is it?’

‘Can’t you hear?’

‘Hear what?’

Horace smiled and pointed. ‘Look…’

A tiny red-breasted robin sat on the road sign barely four feet away as if taking in the whole scene. It chirped and sang and cocked its head from one side to another and made no attempt to fly off.

Rose smiled. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘It’s free,’ Horace replied.

Horace and Rose stood in silence for two minutes while the tiny creature continued with its early morning chorus. Eventually it flew off into the forest. Rose punched him playfully in the stomach. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘What?’

‘How do you propose to tell the world our story?’

Horace thought for a moment.

‘I will write a book. It will be the greatest love story ever written.’

Rose laughed. ‘You’re a dreamer, Jim Greasley… a bloody dreamer.’