Court Martial (24 page)

The cat gives out a loud, long miaow.

'What was that?' asks another warden, taking a couple of steps down the cellar stairs.

The cat goes miaowing towards them. Then it sits down and begins to wash itself.'

'A cat, a bloody, bleedin' cat,' says one of them and bangs the cellar door to.

Wisling thinks it is best for Menckel to visit his friends alone. It is important that he is not observed. His friends may not live there any more. Anything is possible in Berlin at present. The flat can have been taken over by the party. It wouldn't be pleasant if a golden pheasant
43
were to answer the door. Displaced persons might have been quartered on them, leaving the family only one room to themselves. Long columns of refugees are continually entering the town. They must be given a roof over their heads and those without connections within the party are soon merely accepted in their own homes.

'If I'm not back inside two hours,' says Menckel, 'you'll have to consider I've been caught and get out as fast as possible.'

As soon as darkness arrives Menckel is on his way. Adroitly he avoids the patrols out on the hunt, moving quickly from gateway to gateway. He holds the Mpi cocked and ready, firmly determined not to allow himself to be taken alive. He curses the SS uniform. It makes his task ten times more difficult.

The house is an old, patrician building from around the turn of the century. In the gateway is a board with brass nameplates. It is an upper-class residence.

For a while he observes the house from a gateway across the street. He can see down into the porter's basement room where a middle-aged woman, who resembles a watchful rat, is sitting. Her pointed nose moves continually from side to side. She is one of those horrible people who seem to have eyes in the back of their head. No help can be expected from her. Before 1933 she was certainly as red as she is brown now. And it wouldn't cost her a minute's consideration to change back to red again tomorrow. Always on the side of the ruling class, ready for any kind of dirty business as long as it is to her own advantage. There are thousands and thousands of her kind around.

When she disappears for a moment into a back room he slips rapidly through the gateway and up the carpeted staircase. Arriving at the second floor he knocks gently on the door. He is about to press the bell but thinks better of it. It could be connected to an alarm system in the porter's basement.

After some time a woman's voice asks, in a low tone, 'What do you want?'

Nobody opens their door in Berlin any more without knowing who is waiting on the other side of it,

'Who is it?' repeats the woman.

'Albert Menckel,' he whispers, his mouth close to the door.

For a moment there is a heavy silence.

'Frau Peters, I have a message from your husband,' he whispers impatiently, throwing a nervous glance back down the stairs, as if expecting the portress's rat-like face to appear. If it does he has only one choice. To kill her. Quickly and silently so that none of the dwellers in the building observe anything.

'Frau Peters, open the door! It's very important.'

The door is opened a little, but is still held by two chains.

A pale, female face appears behind the narrow opening.

'Menckel! I thought you were dead long ago!' Then she sees the SS uniform, and stiffens.

'Open the door, hurry up, and I'll explain everything,' he whispers, desperately.

'No, go away, go!' she stammers, in almost a shout. 'I don't want to get mixed up in anything!'

'You
must
let me in. My life is at stake. You are my last hope.'

She makes to close the door, but his foot blocks the opening. For a moment he considers forcing an entrance by putting his shoulder to the door.

She begins to cry.

'What do you want here? You'll get me into terrible trouble! Take away your foot or I'll give the alarm!'

'Open the
door
! Just for a moment! I promise you I'll leave immediately. Hurry, let me in before anybody sees me!'

She stares at him, terrified, and opens her mouth as if about to scream. Suddenly she nods.

He takes away his foot. The chains jingle, and the door is opened just enough to allow him to enter. With shaking hands she locks the door again and puts up the chains. She stares at him with fear in her eyes. The rain-wet steel helmet, the slate-grey SS greatcoat, the machine-pistol with its long magazine.

'You said you had a message from my husband?' she asks, doubtfully, pulling her kimono more tightly around her.

'No, I only said that to get you to open the door. I haven't seen Kurt since I was arrested.' He looks across the room, at a painting of his friend Kurt Peters, carried out shortly before the commencement of the war.

'Then it is a long time since you have seen him,' she whispers. 'It is almost two years since we heard you had been executed. Did you know your wife is soon to be married?'

He shrugs his shoulders. What does it matter now? What does Gertrud matter? She's let him down. Witnessed against him, said whatever they wanted her to say. They had threatened her, of course. They did that to everybody, even the children. You didn't have to spend long in the cellars at Prinz Albrechts Strasse before you were softened up. They always had something ready there which could drive a witness into a state of terror.

In a few words he tells her what has happened, begs her to shelter him and Wisling until they can continue on their way.

'I daren't,' she stammers. 'Here the walls have eyes and ears.

'Nobody saw me come in,' he states confidently.

We don't
know
that,' she says, nervously, looking despairingly at the carpet, as if she were trying to count every thread in it.

'Just for one night,' he pleads. 'We'll leave as soon as we've got hold of some civilian clothes.'

'I dare not,' she repeats. 'If you and your friend are found here, it means a death sentence for me. It has just happened to another woman who lived a little further along the street. She was beheaded,' she added, shivering.

'I know we are putting you in great danger,' he says, gently, 'but you are our only hope. We shall go as soon as we have civilian clothes.'

'Have you any papers?' she asks, nervously.

'Not yet. I know where I can get some, but I can't go there until tomorrow. If you will take us in, until we have got hold of papers and civilian clothes, I will never forget you for it.'

She shakes her head.

'I have three small children. They will take them from me and put them in an NS-camp
44
where they will teach them to hate their own mother, tell them I was a traitor to the people, and have received a well-deserved punishment.'

She takes a few steps up and down the floor, thinking, looks in at the children, then sits down on a chair in front of an antique writing-table.

'God in Heaven, what shall I do,' she moans, her hand going to her throat. 'I cannot hand you over to those devils!' She looks at him for a long time in silence, fingers a paperknife shaped like a bayonet, gets up, goes to the blacked-out windows and parts the black curtain slightly and stares down into the street. An amphibian drives slowly past. Four steel helmets, shiny with rain, gleam from it.

She turns round quickly, after having seen to it that the curtains are closely drawn. The least trace of light will bring a patrol thundering on the door.

'Will you give me your word of honour to leave here tomorrow morning, before it becomes light? And if you are caught will you promise never to tell that you have been in touch with me?'

'I give you my word. I have been tortured before, and I know what I can stand.'

'Very well, you can stay here tonight. Fetch your friend, but for heaven's sake be careful not to be seen! The portress here is a devil. I'll turn out some of Kurt's clothes for you whilst you are gone.'

'Thank-you,' he mumbles and slips quickly through the door. Like a shadow he moves down the stairs and out of the gateway.

Some way down the street he catches sight of an MP patrol, and jumps into hiding in a cellarway. The three MPs pass by with heavy tread. The half-moon badges on their chests glint warningly.

A few yards further on they check two soldiers on their way on leave with pack and slung rifles. Their uniforms are faded and still smell of the front line. Meticulously the MPs examine their papers, dates, stamps and unit designations. The photograph in the small grey identity book is carefully compared with the soldiers. The identity tags round their necks do not escape the punctilious examination of the MPs. Live rounds are counted. Does the date on the delousing certificate agree with the date of departure on leave?

Almost twenty minutes pass before the 'watchdogs' are satisfied. None of the people in the street take any notice of them. Everyone has enough to do looking after himself. If those two are deserters then it's
their
bad luck.

'
Hals - und Beinbruch
,' grins the MP Feldwebel, bringing his hand up to the brim of his helmet.

The two soldiers smack their heels together resoundingly and salute rigidly. They know the MPs can ruin their leave if they are not satisfied with their appearance.

'Bastards,' whispers one of them when they have put some distance between them and the MPs. 'When this bloody war's over, I'll smash in the skull of every "watchdog" I meet!'

'Like buggery you will,' says the other. 'They'll always be there. The new bosses'll have a use for "watchdogs",
and
for the stinking coppers too.'

Menckel goes on down the street a little easier in his mind. Tomorrow they'll have civilian clothes and papers and in twenty-four hours they'll be a long way from Berlin. With luck out of Germany. After the war he will make sure Frau Peters is rewarded for her bravery.

Outside the artist's restaurant on Kemperplatz there is a long queue of soldiers and civilians. It is an oasis in Berlin where the war can be forgotten. In the street the sound of the weeping violins can be heard. But Menckel has no ears for gipsy music. Twice more he has to take cover from police patrols. He almost runs into the middle of a big raid. With shouts following him he disappears through several backyards and over a couple of fences. Before he realises it he is on Alexander Platz. A well-dressed gentleman with a monocle throws a cigarette butt away. Thoughtlessly, Menckel picks it up.

A street-sweeper looks at him in amazement. SS men don't usually scavenge for butts. He waves violently to a
Schupo
45
who saunters over to him. The arms of the Reich glitter menacingly from his helmet.

Menckel notices the street-sweeper pointing after him and talking to the policeman. Quickly he turns down the first side street and runs for all he is worth. Panting he reaches the street where Wisling awaits him.

A grey Kubel is parked outside the house. An SS soldier in slate-grey uniform leans up against one of the fenders.

'God in Heaven,' he groans. 'What's up now?' In terror he presses his body into a niche in the wall. Is it the two in the cellar or somebody else from the house?

The sirens begin to howl. Air-raid. Almost immediately bombs begin to fall. But the SS man leaning against the Kubel seems not to notice them. Carelessly he lights a cigarette and puffs out a cloud of smoke. He does not even look at the heavens from which bombs are raining down. He is accustomed to it.

Four slate-grey uniformed figures with black collar-dags come from the gateway. Laughing, they throw a bundle into the back of the Kubel. An arm dangles over the side. The four soldiers jump aboard and it disappears with a roar into the darkness.

As soon as they are gone Menckel dashes headlong into the yard and down into the cellar.

'Wisling,' he shouts, fearfully. 'Where are you?'

The cat comes miaowing from the darkness, and rubs itself lovingly against his leg. He picks it up and strokes its soft grey fur. It purrs happily, and sniffs his face in recognition.

'What's happened?' he asks, scratching behind its ears. 'You've seen it, but you don't understand it. You still think all human beings are good.'

He goes on searching along the dark cellar corridor, falls over a plank, finds the stub of a candle on the floor and lights it cautiously. The sacks are spread about all over the cellar. A dented blue enamel pot, containing some remnants of food, stands in a corner. The old woman is lying over by the wall. Her face has been kicked out of recognition and one arm is broken. The bone sticks out, sharp as a needle.

Further down the corridor is an SS side-cap. Wisling must have thrown it there without them seeing him. Now he knows what has happened. The thought paralyses him. It seems as if this whole devilish world has fallen in on him. He hopes Wisling is dead. It is impossible to imagine what the SS men will do to him. An escaped prisoner in
their
uniform! An unforgiveable crime! And they will certainly find out to whom the uniform belonged.

He puts the cat down on the ground. It follows him all the way to the door. Then it miaows and disappears into the cellar and creeps close to the old woman's body.

The brilliant white light of a flare breaks out like a Christmas tree straight up above the half-timbered house. He looks up and shudders. Slowly the marker approaches the ground swaying slightly with the wind. Bombs fall where there are Christmas trees. He hears the piercing howl of stabilisers and throws himself back into the cellar, falls, and crawls desperately further inside. The cat jumps, spitting, out of the way.

The explosions thunder and roar incessantly. A beam breaks and splinters spray the room. Half the ceiling falls in in a cloud of dust. The yard door flies inwards like a piece of paper in a storm. He coughs and feels as if he is suffocating. There is smoke and dust everywhere. He listens fearfully. Through the noise of the bombs a strange, hollow roaring sound can be heard.

He knows what it is. It is the heat, the all-destroying heat which precedes the flames of the phosphorus bombs.