Ogpu Prison Page 4

  ‘“I don’t even know him,” she defended herself.

  ‘“You don’t have to know people to kill them,” the young Kripo explained to her, in friendly fashion. “Soldiers do it every day!”

  ‘He should never have said that. Just then three snap-brimmed gentlemen arrived to question the station telegraphist about another case. The cleaner complained to them that the Kripo had accused German soldiers of being murderers. All three of them fell on the young detective and almost ripped him to bits. This started a new series of misfortunes. The telegraphist sat, with his hand on the key, preparing to stop the Eger express and allow the train from Munich to go through.

  ‘The snap-brims activities made him nervous. He made a slip. The Eger express continued at top speed. The Munich train moved onto the wrong track. The telegraphist started to scream. The snap-brims were so busy knocking their colleague, who had insulted the Greater German soldier’s honour, into a cocked hat, they didn’t even hear him scream. They were used to hearing screams. They didn’t even notice the telegraphist eating the telegraph tape to remove the evidence.

  ‘“It’s goin’ to happen now!” he prophesied, looking interestedly out of the window.

  ‘The express train, which was pulled by two engines, one moving backwards —it was no. 044376-2 — came thundering in the distance. With a roar of steam it flashed through the station. Two bundles of “Völkischer Beobachtet” were thrown from the mail car. They carried the latest news about “straightenings of the front” and “strategic withdrawals”.

  ‘The telegraphist closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and awaited the meeting of the two onrushing trains. They met at block 22. The Eger express seemed to eat its way through the fast train from Munich with a din the like of which has seldom been heard before. In typical German style everything became very complicated.

  ‘The snap-brims completely forgot what they’d come for. They’d disappeared before the sounds of the smash-up had stopped echoing. It didn’t help them. They were found and accused as parties to the rail accident. They were lucky not to be accused of sabotage. They’d’ve been hanged twice. As it was they got off with having their necks stretched only once. The telegraphist didn’t want to become better acquainted with German justice. He blew himself and the station up with the explosives kept in reserve to blow things up with before the enemy could take them over.

  ‘The railway cleaner 2nd. class also managed to avoid the long arm of the law. She had hidden herself in a cupboard in which the telegraphist kept his black market goods. When he blew up the station she went with it.

  ‘You’re lookin’ a bit queer, landlord? You’re not feeling ill, are you?’ asks Porta, solicitously. ‘Perhaps you haven’t been able to follow me properly? What I’ve been trying to explain to you is that too much alcohol is bad for you. I used to know a chap who had a service station. Oskar Schleben his name was and he was a foundling. They found him on a doorstep in Schleben Strasse and named him after the street. He got himself a lovely little boy, with the help of a Chinese young lady, and every evening he’d give his little boy a glass of Bommerlunder to get him off to sleep. When this kid had got to the age of two without ever in his life havin’ been really sober he ran away from home. Well, round he went for a while an’ when he got tired he sat down on the pavement outside the Tiergarten12. By the sausage seller’s wagon, it was! Nobody could understand how in the world the child’d managed to get that far. Some thought it might be because he’d got Chinese blood in him. Anyway, after a couple of hours time’d gone by people started noticing him and, of course, a Schupo turned up.’

  ‘“Whatever are you doing here, my little man?” he asked with false copper friendliness.

  “Poo-poo,” answered the boy, and kept on saying it. It was all he could say, anyway.

  “The copper got worked up.”

  “Talk German, or you’ll go inside!”

  “Poo-poo,” said the boy, and so, of course, they arrested him.

  ‘They took him to “Alex”13 where they put him through the process and he ended up in a cell. He might even have been forgotten there because they hadn’t been able to fill in an admittance form for him. They wouldn’t put his name down as “Poo-poo” on an important German police document, you see. But when he didn’t get his usual daily Bommerlunder he started up wailing. Stabswachtmeister Schlade who was a really square kind of German, opened the cell door and stared hard at the boy.

  ‘“ ’Aven’t you read the prison rules? Singing and loud talk is forbidden! Strictly forbidden!”

  ‘The kid couldn’t’ve cared less. He wanted his Bommerlunder. They sent for the police psychiatrist and things really got moving. . . .

  ‘What’s up, landlord? You look as if you’re going to choke?’ says Porta, compassionately, serving himself a glass of beer.

  ‘Not, not, not another bloody word! Not about police. Not about n-n-nothin’,’ stammers the landlord, pressing both hands to his ears. ‘I can’t stand any more . . . I’m going round the bend!’

  ‘Round the bend or no round the bend you’re fit for duty. Count on that, you wooden bastard,’ announces the Medical Officer in a loud voice. Soon after he asks the Staff Padre if he’d like to get to know him.

  ‘You are drunk, sir,’ says the Padre.

  ‘Wrong! It’s you who’s drunk, Padre. But that won’t help you. You’re fit for duty, you are. Off to the front an’ get shot! Can a dog get into heaven?’ he asks, after a brief silence. He has a strange look in his eyes.

  ‘Application should be made to the Bishop at Münster. It will be treated conscientiously,’ answers the Padre. ‘I will give it my recommendation. Don’t forget the proper stamps are affixed!’

  ‘Damnation, I can’t take any more of this shit!’ shouts Gregor. He becomes wildly zealous. ‘Prisoners an’ escort! Form up, you shower o’ fucked-up sods! Prisoners in the middle! If one of you opens his mouth I’ll knock his goddam head down into his arsehole! The party’s over! We’re back in the Army!’

  Several of us stumble on the stairs as we leave ‘The Rosy Maid’, singing happily. The padre climbs a lamp-post and hangs there barking. He says he is a werewolf.

  ‘See me fly,’ he shouts, triumphantly, and ends with a splash in the slush.

  Gregor orders us to line up to be counted, but we keep changing places and he can’t get the numbers to tally.

  ‘Everythin’s goin’ round and round,’ he moans, unhappily. ‘We’re increasin’ fast as blasted rabbits.’

  ‘Let me count,’ says Porta officiously. But he can’t get the figures to agree either. He goes back inside and comes out with a piece of billiard chalk. Each man is to make a chalk-mark in front of his left boot and then fall out and go back into ‘The Maid’ so as not to confuse the count. The Padre messes up the whole thing by making a mark in front of both his feet.

  Gregor feels he is going mad, and begins to knock his head against the wall.

  Then Porta comes up with a new idea. Each man to be given a full tankard of beer, to drink it and place the empty tankard back on the bar. Tiny spoils that one by taking a couple of glasses extra while the others are draining theirs.

  Gregor gives up all idea of making a tally.

  It is well into the morning by the time we march across the Spree Bridge at Kronprinzen Ufer, and hear a military orchestra in the distance.

  ‘A song!’ the Staff Padre orders, and begins in a loud voice himself:

  Willst du noch einmal sehen14

  sollst du nach dem Bahnhof gehen.

  In dem grossen Wartesaal,

  sehen wir uns zum letzten Mal. . . .

  ‘Straighten your equipment, pull your helmets straight!’ orders Gregor nervously. ‘Try for Christ’s sake to look something like German soldiers! Get your carbine up, Tiny. You’re carryin’ it like a pissed poacher.’

  ‘Whassup?’ gargles Albert, with a crazy grin splitting his black face. ‘Adolf coming?’

  ‘Worse’n that,’ groans Greg
or. ‘It’s the new guard comin’ on. They’re marchin’ straight at us, an’re playin’ the Badenweiler, the Führer’s personal march.’

  ‘C’est le bordel!’ says the Legionnaire, indifferently.

  ‘They must be celebrating something or other,’ says Porta. ‘A victorious retreat most likely!’

  ‘What about droppin’ into “The Lame Gendarme”, till it’s over?’ suggests Tiny, practically. ‘It’s just by ’ere. Double quick time down the bleedin’ alley over there an’ we’re inside “The Genny” quick as knife!’

  ‘Too late,’ decides Porta. ‘The world’s about to collapse.’

  An infantry orchestra with a stick-swinging drum-major at its head comes swanking round the corner. It fills the whole width of the street.

  ‘Pour on the coal, my son,’ Porta advises. ‘You are commanding a military escort with prisoners in irons. According to Army Regulations you have right of way over the tin-whistle’n bang-bang boys. That orchestra’s got to give way! You only halt for heavy motorised units.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but that orchestra’s playing the Führer’s own Badenweiler! puts in Heide. ‘Even heavy motorised units have to stop for that. Says so clearly in Army Regs, in the section on military orchestras!’

  If you want to see me again,

  You must meet me at the train, then.

  At a waiting room rendezvous

  We will breath our last adieu. . . .

  ‘Holy Mother of God, what do I do!’ shouts Gregor, unhappily.

  ‘Gain time,’ advises Porta. ‘Let prisoners and escort march backwards over the Spree Bridge, that’s what I’d do. Then you can’t be charged with having gone off the route. And the oompah-oompah boys can’t say you’ve got in their way either!’

  ‘Tu as raison,’ says the Legionnaire.

  ‘We can’t go marching back’ards for ever,’ screams Gregor, staring at Porta wildly.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Porta explains, patiently. ‘Soon as they’ve finished Adolf’s march off they’re no more’n any other lot of Piccolo Petes an’ you an’ your armed escort come first. Then it’s forward march’n follow your prick, and if that tarted-up drum-major don’t get out of the way p.d.q., up his jacksey goes his old stick. That ought to teach him to respect the rights of the Greater German Army’s escorts under arms!’

  Suddenly a whirlwind seems to strike the middle of the orchestra. Two terrified cats come flying out of an entry with three bulldogs at their heels. One of the cats takes a flying leap onto the back of a tuba-player, who falls over his own feet and drops his instrument. Two staff horns trip over the tuba, while the other cat rushes between the legs of the other musicians with all three dogs after it. In and out they go amongst the bandsmen, creating a scene of indescribable panic.

  In some unexplainable fashion the medical officer has got hold of a baton, and begins to conduct the drummers and flautists of the orchestra who are still on their feet. They follow him automatically and the opening bars of the forbidden ‘Salus Caesari nostro Guillermo’ burst forth.

  The drum-major comes to himself and, shocked, stops the forbidden march.

  The medical officer goes for him bald-headed with the conductor’s baton, and he defends himself with his silver-knobbed stick.

  ‘Gregor! As escort commander you must put a stop to that,’ says Porta. ‘The prisoners are in your care. I’m afraid you’ll have to arrest that drum-major for striking a prisoner in your charge.’

  ‘I can’t, I can’t, I’ve had it!’ weeps Gregor, in despair. ‘I wish I’d never been born.’

  ‘That having already happened,’ states Porta, blackly. ‘Let’s get out of here before they get time to think.’

  ‘Prisoners and escort, forward march!’shouts Gregor, with the desperate tone of a condemned man.

  ‘Down with ’em all!’ shouts the Staff Padre, rushing to the head of the party.

  In panic the soldiers of the new guard give way.

  We press forward like a tidal wave on some day of wrath.

  A good way down Lehrter Strasse, just by the football ground, Tiny suddenly gives a terrible scream and folds up as if fearful pains were shooting through his body. He throws himself down on the snowy asphalt and howls like a madman.

  ‘What in the name of Heaven is wrong?’ asks Gregor, his eyes bugging wildly and fear written on his face.

  I know that one,’ snarls the M.O. viciously. ‘No malingering here, man! You’re fit for duty!’

  ‘Me ’andcuffs, me ’andcuffs,’ screams Tiny, rolling himself even tighter into a ball.

  ‘Your handcuffs?’ asks Porta, blankly.

  ‘Me ’andcuffs, me ’andcuffs. They’re nippin’ me bleedin’ bollocks off!’ Tiny groans, heart-breakingly, writhing about on the wet ground.

  When we get his trousers off the mystery is explained. He has been carrying the handcuffs in the way he has seen the American police do in films. Without his noticing it they have slipped inside his trousers and suddenly clipped themselves onto his private parts. His writhings have tightened their grip even more.

  It takes Porta some time to find the key and release him so that the escort can continue.

  ‘Dominus vobiscum! the Staff Padre greets a shivering queue at a tramstop. He meows like a cat, and asks the M.O. to castrate him so that he will not fall into error when he meets sinful women. He jumps on to a bench, and shouts out over the football fields:

  ‘All dead report immediately to the Divisional Padre for last rites and sprinkling with holy water! Relatives must foot the bill!’

  ‘I’ll shoot that bastard, I will,’ promises Gregor, tightly, pulling the padre down from the bench.

  ‘We made it!’ says Porta, pressing his finger on the bell-push outside the gate of the Garrison Prison.

  ‘What the hell are you at, man? Trying to ring down the whole bloody prison, are you?’ scolds the Wacht-Feldwebel, angrily.

  ‘Her Feldwebel, sir! Beg to state, sir, we’re in a bit of a hurry, sir!’ says Porta, cracking his heels together. ‘We are considerably delayed, sir. We have been ordered to take up new prisoners all the way through Berlin. The last of these we were given by the Standortkommandant himself, sir!’

  ‘You lot stink worse’n a whole bloody brewery,’ growls the Wacht-Feldwebel.

  ‘Orders, sir, orders! We have been ordered to drink alcoholic beverages,’ states Porta. ‘Wherever we went, we were given orders to occupy beer-halls, bars, inns, whatever. We know our Army Regs an’ we know better than to risk a charge of refusing to obey an order. If we’re to get out of this World War alive we’ve got to obey orders. No matter how stupid they are.’

  ‘You can’t pull the wool over my eyes,’ the M.O. says, throwing a stern look at the Wacht-Feldwebel. ‘You lot’ve been sitting here malingering for too long. You’re fit for duty, all of you. Off to the front with you, so’s you can get shot!’

  ‘You keep a smart place here,’ praises Porta, watching a party of prisoners, in fatigue dress, down on their knees polishing the floors.

  ‘Thing an old soldier likes to see,’ smiles Tiny, in satisfaction. ‘Not often you see a thresh’old with such a lovely ’igh polish on it. These slaves o’ yourn. They use ordin’ry polish, or is it somethin’ special from Army Prison Supplies Depots?’

  ‘When I’ve knocked three times and whip this door open,’ whispers the Wacht-Feldwebel, ‘you don’t march in you fly in, and don’t forget to keep your toes back of that white line on the floor! Don’t, and our Hauptfeldwebel’ll turn you all into snails and have you eatin’ your own haemorrhoids!’

  ‘We know, Herr Feldwebel, sir,’ promises Porta, self-confidently. ‘We’ve been there before. Open up the gates of Hell, then!’

  The door flies open and the escort rattles in and positions itself straight as a string behind the white line.

  Gregor reports at a speed which runs the whole thing into one long word.

  The face of the Hauptfeldwebel behind the desk radiates bestial wickedness eno
ugh to frighten even a war-hero.

  His eyes gleam treacherously from between rolls of fat, as he looks us over consideringly one by one. He passes a hairy, ape-like hand over his totally hairless scalp. His gaze stops at Tiny as if he cannot believe what he sees.

  ‘How in God’s name’d you get shared out with a face as horrible as that?’ he asks, in an animal-like growl.

  ‘Beg to report, ’Err ’Auptfeldwebel, sir,’ roars Tiny, his eyes fastened on the picture of Hitler, ‘member o’ Frankenstein family, sir!’

  ‘Are you trying to crack jokes with me?’ asks the Hauptfeldwebel, menacingly, getting half up from his chair. Without waiting for an answer he shouts:

  ‘Prisoners left turn! Double march!’

  The Staff Padre falls over his own feet, of course. Lying on the floor on one elbow, with his chin resting in his hand like a large cherub, be begins to sing a psalm:

  ‘Hungry, tired and weak he comes

  Beset by thoughts of doubt.

  Be not angry. . . .’

  ‘That man’s dead-drunk,’ states the Hauptfeldwebel, getting all the way up out of his chair. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘Beg to report, sir,’ shouts Porta, clicking his heels three times. ‘That’s how it was sir! That’s why the padre is here, sir! We’d never seen him before, sir, until out he comes from the dark and orders us into “The Rosy Maid” where he runs up a debt for comestibles consumed, sir. Then the Standort-kommandant arrives on a brown horse and orders us to take the padre with us under arrest, sir. Beg to report, sir, something like this has happened before, sir, with an escort and prisoners on the way to the Garrison Prison at Munich, sir. These unhappy men, sir, were marching down the Leopold Strasse when up came a black horse with General der Infanterie Ritter von Leeb. On the other side of the street, sir, there sat Oberveterinär Dr. Schobert, singin’ dirty songs, sir. The Commanding General, sir, ordered that escort to take the singing vet with it. And so they did, sir, ’cause an order’s an order just like a schnapps is a schnapps, sir. But then when they got to Luipold Strasse there came another horse, a red one, sir, with the Chief of Staff of 7. Army Corps, Oberst von Wittsleben, on it, sir. This horse was really an Austrian horse, sir, which’d done service with No. 2 Honved Hussar Regiment, but when Austria returned to the Greater German Reich, sir, then that regiment came back into the German Army. The Chief of Staff had picked up two Gefreiters from 40. Infantry Regiment, sir, who’d been holding treasonable conversation, sir. They were also handed over to this poor escort. . . .’