"Well, Lieutenant," Christian said, "I see you can't help me. I must be moving on."
"Tell me," the old Lieutenant said, appealing to Christian to stay just another moment, as though he were lonely here in the tidy, well-cleaned office, with curtains on the windows, and the rough cloth sofa, and the bright blue picture of the Alps in winter on the panelled wall, "tell me, do you think the Americans will get here today?"
"I couldn't say, Sir," Christian said. "Haven't you been listening on the radio?"
"The radio." The Lieutenant sighed. "It is very confusing. This morning, from Berlin, there was a rumour that the Russians and the Americans were fighting each other along the Elbe. Do you think that is possible?" he asked eagerly. "After all, we all know, eventually, it is inevitable…"
The myth, Christian thought, the continuing, suicidal myth.
"Of course, Sir," he said clearly, "I would not be at all surprised." He started towards the door, but he stopped when he heard the noise.
It was a flood-like murmur, growing swiftly in volume, swirling in through the open windows. Then the murmur was punctuated, sharply, by shots. Christian ran to the window and looked out. Two men in uniform were running heavily towards the Administration Building. As they ran, Christian saw them throw away their rifles. They were portly men, who looked like advertisements for Munich beer, and running came hard to them. From round the corner of one of the barracks, first one man in prisoner's clothes, then three more, then what looked like hundreds more, ran in a mob, after the two guards. That was where the murmur was coming from. The first prisoner stopped for a moment and picked up one of the discarded rifles. He did not fire it, but carried it, as he chased the guards. He was a tall man with long legs, and he gained with terrible rapidity on the guards. He swung the rifle like a club, and one of the guards went down. The second guard, seeing that he was too far from the safety of the Administration Building to reach it before he was overtaken, merely lay down. He lay down slowly, like an elephant in the circus, first settling on his knees, then, with his hips still high in the air, putting his head down to the ground, trying to burrow in. The prisoner swung the rifle butt again and brained the guard.
"Oh, my God," the Lieutenant whispered at the window.
The crowd was around the two dead men, now, enveloping them. The prisoners made very little noise as they trampled over the two dead forms, stamping hard again and again, each prisoner jostling the other, seeking some small spot on the dead bodies to kick.
The Lieutenant pulled away from the window and leaned tremblingly against the wall. "Eleven thousand of them…" he said. "In ten minutes they'll all be loose."
There were some shots from near the gate, and three or four of the prisoners went down. Nobody paid much attention to them, and part of the crowd surged, with that dull, flickering non-tonal murmur, in the direction of the gate.
From other barracks other crowds appeared, coming into view swiftly, like herds of bulls in the movies of Spain. Here and there they had caught a guard, and they made a co-operative business of killing the man.
There were screams from the corridor outside. The Lieutenant, fumbling at his pistol, with his dear memories of the orderly defeat of the last war bitter in his brain, went out to rally his men.
Christian moved away from the window, trying to think quickly, cursing himself for being caught like this. After all he'd been through, after so many battles, after facing so many tanks, artillery pieces, so many trained men, to walk of his own free will into something like this…
Christian went out into the other office. The trusty was there alone, near the window. "Get in here," Christian said. The trusty looked at him coldly, then walked slowly into the private office. Christian closed the door, eyeing the prisoner. Luckily, he was a good size. "Take off your clothes," Christian said.
Methodically, without saying anything, the prisoner took off his loose striped-cotton jacket and began on his trousers. The noise was getting worse outside, and there was now quite a bit of shooting.
"Hurry!" Christian ordered.
The man had his trousers off by now. He was very thin and he had greyish, sackcloth underwear on. "Come over here," Christian said.
The man walked slowly over and stood in front of Christian. Christian swung his machine-pistol. The barrel caught the man above the eyes. He took one step back, then dropped to the floor. There was almost no mark above his eyes. Christian took him by the throat with both hands and dragged him over to a cupboard door on the other side of the room. Christian opened the cupboard and pulled the unconscious man into it. There was an officer's overcoat hanging in the cupboard and two dress tunics.
Christian closed the cupboard and went over to where the prisoner's clothes lay on the floor. He started to unbutton his tunic. But the noise outside seemed to grow louder, and there was confused shouting in the corridor. He decided he didn't have time. Hurriedly, he put the trousers on over his own, and wrestled into the coat. He buttoned it up to the neck. He looked into the mirror on the cupboard door. His uniform didn't show. He looked hastily around for a place to hide the gun, then bent down and threw it under the couch. It would be safe there for a while. He still had his trench knife in its holster under the striped coat. The coat smelled strongly of chlorine and sweat.
Christian went to the window. New batches of prisoners, the doors of their barracks battered down, were swirling around below. They were still finding guards and killing them, and Christian could hear firing from the other side of the Administration Building. Some of the prisoners were knocking down a double door on a barn-like structure a hundred metres away. When the door went down, a large number of the prisoners surged through it and came back eating raw potatoes and uncooked flour, which smeared their hands and faces a powdery white. Christian saw one prisoner, a huge man, bent over a guard, whom he held between his knees, choking him. The huge man suddenly dropped the guard, who was still alive, and forced his way into the warehouse. Christian saw him come out a minute later with his hands full of potatoes.
Christian kicked open the window, and without hesitating, swung out. He held by his fingers for a second, and dropped. He fell to his knees, but got up immediately. There were hundreds of men all around him, all dressed like him, and the smell and the noise were overpowering.
Christian started towards the gate, turning the corner of the Administration Building. A gaunt man, with the socket of one eye empty, was leaning against the wall. He stared very hard at Christian and began to follow him. Christian was certain the man suspected him, and tried to move quickly, without attracting attention. But the crowd of men in front of the Administration Building was very dense now, and the man with one eye hung on, behind Christian.
The guards in the building had surrendered now, and were coming out of the front door in pairs. For a moment, the newly released men were strangely quiet, staring at their one-time warders. Then a big man with a bald head took out a rusty pocket knife. He said something in Polish and grabbed the nearest guard and began to saw away at his throat. The knife was blunt and it took a long time. The guard who was being slaughtered did not struggle or cry out. It was as though torture and death in this place were so commonplace that even the victims fell into it naturally, no matter who they were. The futility of crying for mercy had been so well demonstrated here, so long ago, that no man wasted his breath today. The trapped guard, a clerkish man of forty-five, merely slumped close against the man who was murdering him, staring at him, their eyes six inches apart, until the rusty knife finally broke through the vein and he slid down on to the grass.
This was a signal for the execution of the other guards. Owing to the lack of weapons, many of them were trampled to death. Christian watched, not daring to show anything on his face, not daring to make a break, because the man with one eye was directly behind him, pressing against his shoulders.
"You…" The man with one eye said. Christian could feel his hand clutching at his coat, feeling the cloth of his uniform underneath. "I want to talk to…"
Suddenly Christian moved. The ancient Commandant was against the wall near the front door and the men had not reached him yet. The Commandant stood there, his hands making small, placating gestures in front of him. The men around him, starved and bony, were for the moment too exhausted to kill him. Christian lurched through the ring of men and grabbed the Commandant by the throat.
"Oh, God," the man shouted, very loud. It was a surprising sound, because all the rest of the killing had taken place so quietly.
Christian took out his knife. Holding the Commandant pinned against the wall with one hand, he cut his throat. The man made a gurgling, wet sound, then screamed for a moment. Christian wiped his hands against the man's tunic and let him drop. Christian turned to see if the man with one eye was still watching him. But the man with one eye had moved off, satisfied.
Christian sighed and, still carrying his knife in his hand, went through the hall of the Administration Building and up the steps to the Commandant's office. There were bodies on the steps, and liberated prisoners were overturning desks and scattering paper everywhere.
There were three or four men in the Commandant's office. The door to the cupboard was open. The half-naked man Christian had hit was still lying there as he had fallen. The prisoners were taking turns drinking brandy out of a decanter on the Commandant's desk. When the decanter was empty, one of the men threw it at the bright blue picture of the Alps in winter on the wall.
Nobody paid any attention to Christian. He bent down and took his machine-pistol out from under the couch.
Christian went back into the hall and through the aimlessly milling prisoners to the front door. Many of them had weapons by now, and Christian felt safe in carrying his Schmeisser openly. He walked slowly, always in the middle of groups, because he did not want to be seen by himself, standing out in relief so that some sharp-eyed prisoner would notice that his hair was longer than anyone else's, and that he had considerably more weight on his bones than most of the others.
He reached the gates. The middle-aged guard who had greeted him and let him in was lying against the barbed wire, an expression that looked like a smile on his dead face. There were many prisoners at the gate, but very few were going out. It was as though they had accomplished as much as was humanly possible for one day. The liberation from the barracks had exhausted their concept of freedom. They merely stood at the open gate, staring out at the rolling green countryside, at the road down which the Americans would soon come and tell them what to do. Or perhaps so much of their most profound emotion was linked with this place that now, in the moment of deliverance, they could not bear to leave it, but must stay and examine the place where they had suffered and where they had had their vengeance.
Christian pushed through the knot of men near the dead Volkssturm soldier. Carrying his weapon, he walked briskly down the road, back towards the advancing Americans. He did not dare go the other way deeper into Germany, because one of the men at the gate might have noticed it and challenged him.
Christian walked swiftly, limping a little, breathing deeply of the fresh spring air to get the smell of the camp from his nostrils. He was very tired, but he did not slacken his pace. When he was a safe distance away, out of sight of the camp, he turned off the road. He made a wide swing across the fields and circled the camp safely. Coming through the budding woods, with the smell of pine in his nostrils and the small forest flowers pink and purple underfoot, he saw the road, empty and sun-freckled, ahead of him. But he was too tired to go any farther at the moment. He took off the chlorine-and-sweat-smelling garments of the trusty, rolled them into a bundle and threw them under a bush. Then he lay down, using a root as a pillow. The new grass, spearing through the forest floor around him, smelt fresh and green. In the boughs above his head two birds sang to each other, making a small blue-and-gold flicker as they darted among the shaking branches in and out of the sunlight. Christian sighed, stretched and fell asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE men in the trucks fell quiet as they drove up to the open gates. The smell, by itself, would have been enough to make them silent, but there was also the sight of the dead bodies sprawled at the gate and behind the wire, and the slowly moving mass of scarecrows in tattered striped suits who engulfed the trucks and Captain Green's jeep in a monstrous tide.
They did not make much noise. Many of them wept, many of them tried to smile, although the objective appearance of their skull-like faces and their staring, cavernous eyes did not alter very much, either in weeping or smiling. It was as though these creatures were too far sunk in a tragedy which had moved off the plane of human reaction on to an animal level of despair – and the comparatively sophisticated grimaces of welcome, sorrow and happiness were, for the time being, beyond their primitive reach. Michael could tell, staring at the rigid, dying masks, that a man here and there thought he was smiling, but it took an intuitive act of understanding.
They hardly tried to talk. They merely touched things – the metal of the truck bodies, the uniforms of the soldiers, the barrels of the rifles – as though only by the shy investigation of their fingertips could they begin to gain knowledge of this new and dazzling reality.
Green ordered the trucks to be left where they were, with guards on them, and led the Company slowly through the hive-like cluster of released prisoners, into the camp.
Michael and Noah were just behind Green when he went through the doorway of the first barracks. The door had been torn off and most of the windows had been broken open, but even so the smell was beyond the tolerance of human nostrils. In the murky air, pierced ineffectually here and there by the dusty beams of spring sunshine, Michael could see the piled bony forms. The worst thing was that from some of the piles there was movement, a languidly waving arm, the slow lift of a pair of burning eyes in the stinking gloom, the pale twisting of lips on skulls that seemed to have met death many days before. In the depths of the building, a form detached itself from a pile of rags and bones and started a slow advance on hands and knees towards the door. Nearer, a man stood up, and moved, like a mechanical figure, crudely arranged for the process of walking, towards Green. Michael could see that the man believed he was smiling, and he had his hand outstretched in an absurdly commonplace gesture of greeting. The man never reached Green. He sank to the slime-covered floor, his hand still outstretched. When Michael bent over him he saw that the man had died.