Authors: Sven Hassel
The Old Man remained silent; just rubbed a finger up and down his nose a few times and said nothing.
At 18.00 hours we relieved the guard on Block 4. At that time of day a prison is always at its busiest. The evening meal is being dished up, prisoners have to be escorted to and from dining rooms, cells and lavatories. The Hauptfeldwebel took his usual evening tour of inspection, heavy keys turned in locks, hinges squeaked, doors rattled and slammed. The place was a madhouse of activity.
I stuck close behind the large door at the end of the train corridor, peering out through the grille. Close by, Barcelona was finishing off a game of cards in the cell of three condemned men, and elsewhere in the prison, under cover of all the general six o'clock activity, Little John had taken the opportunity of gaining illegal entry to the Hauptfeldwebel's office.
He ushered Porta into the room with him and closed the door behind them, whereupon Porta, very calm and very casual, sat down at the Hauptfeldwebel's desk, and with the Hauptfeldwebel's pen, signed the Hauptfeldwebel's signature upon an exit permit for the young Jew who had been sentenced to die. The exit permit was granted on the grounds of 'further interrogation by
the
Gestapo at 19.00 hours'.
'Sounds good?' said Porta.
'Sounds fine to me,' said Little John.
As a house-breaking and forgery team, Little John and Porta almost certainly had no equals in the German Army. The lock had not yet been discovered that Little John could not pick; the signature had not yet
been
written that Porta could not reproduce. The firm, upright hand that flourished so boldly at the foot of the exit permit was later to be instinctively claimed by the Hauptfeldwebel as his own. Only by sheer process of deduction was it subsequently recognized as a piece of blatant forgery.
Porta tossed the square of cardboard across to Barcelona, who had arrived to supervise the operation, and leaned back with his feet on the polished desk.
'I never realized it was that comfortable, being a Hauptfeldwebel... What a cushy number those idle bastards have! Look at this----'
He prodded the soft seat of the swivel chair, but Little John was more interested in testing the qualities of the sofa, and Barcelona was hovering nervously by the door with the sweat pouring off his face.
'For Christ's
sake!
You've got no more nerves than a pair of bloody oxen! Get off your fat arses and get out of here!'
'What's all the fuss about?' protested Little John. 'We're only carrying out orders, aren't we?'
That's what bugs him,' said Porta, idly opening a drawer and peering inside it. 'It was him that gave the orders... Break into the Hauptfeldwebel's office and forge his name on a bit of paper, he says. Then when you do it, he gets cold feet. Never happy, some people aren't.'
'I didn't say lounge about in his flaming chair and ransack his desk!' snarled Barcelona.
Slowly, and with maddening precision. Little John and Porta went about the room eliminating all possible trace of fingerprints, while Barcelona stood watching with his brow ploughed into furrows. Fortunately he was too busy watching Porta wipe the Hauptfeldwebel's pen with his handkerchief to notice Little John stuffing a fistful of cigars into his pocket.
'Come
on
, for Christ's sake, that's
enough
!'
Barcelona jerked his head viciously at them and flung door wide open. Porta reluctantly replaced the pen followed him into the corridor. Little John came last, dosed the door behind him and carefully inserted a of broken matchstick into the lock.
'What the blazes are you doing now?' hissed Barcelona.
'Saving your bleeding neck for you!' retorted Little John. 'Never open a door without examining the lock first, see? I only did that once in my life and it got me nine months in the nick: the bastard that owned the door
had
stuck a bit of wood into it and I hadn't noticed. So now I always have a quick, gander before I do the job. You can bet your sweet life if the Hauptfeldwebel got back and found his precious matchstick missing there'd be hell to pay. As it is, he won't know a thing about it, will he?'
Barcelona shook his head, reluctantly admiring.
'All right, you win! You know what you're doing, I'll grant you that.'
He and Little John went their separate ways about the prison. Porta came to give me the O.K., and together we paid a visit to the young Jew in his cell.
'Here.' Porta flung a coat towards him. 'Get that on and come with us.'
'Why?' The boy leapt up, white-faced. 'I thought it wasn't until tomorrow?'
'What wasn't?'
'The execution.'
'It's been put off indefinitely,' I said.
'I don't believe you! Why should they?'
'Oh Christ,' said Porta. 'Get a move on, can't you? We've come to get you out of this place, we haven't got time for idle chit-chat. You'd think the least you could do would be to co-operate.'
'But----'
'But nothing! Belt up and flaming listen! I'm only going to tell you once, so make sure you take it all in. Soon as
we've
gone, get the hell out of here and make for the stairs. If anyone stops you, say you're going to the shithouse. If you don't see anyone, get down to the ground floor as quick as you can, and don't make any bloody noise about it. O.K.? When you reach the ground floor take the first door on your left. That'll bring you out behind the bog. Stay there, out of sight, until the lights go out. As soon as that happens, make a dash for the far side of the courtyard. Got it?'
'Yes, but----'
'Unless peace breaks out in the meantime,' continued; Porta, ignoring the interruption, 'we reckon you'll have about two minutes to do it in. They'll have the lights back on again by then, and the sentries'll just about have reached you. They'll be expecting you. Fall into line with 'em, and then it's up to them to do the rest. O.K.? Just do what they tell you and you can't go wrong.'
'It's a piece of piss,' I said--I being the one convinced pessimist who could see no possibility whatsoever of the plan working.
'Course,' said Porta, 'if anything does go wrong it's only right to warn you that we should have to shoot you. Know what I mean? You get caught in the act, so to speak, we can't risk our skins more than what we're already doing.'
'Best of luck, anyway,' I said.
We returned to the guard-room to follow the course of events. Porta said he couldn't care less, anyhow, he didn't hold any brief for Communists even if they were only kids of eighteen, but when I pointed out that he could in that case have refused any part in the night's proceedings he replied by threatening to push my teeth down my throat for me if I didn't shut up, and after that the conversation tended to peter out.
The boy left his cell as soon as our footsteps faded into the distance. He closed the door quietly behind him, ran to the head of the stairs, stood listening. No one came. Seconds later he had reached the ground floor and discovered the door on his left. It squealed like a cat in ecstasy as he pulled it open, and Barcelona put both lands over his ears and raised his eyes heavenwards.
'Sweet Christ! If anyone hears that we're done for! '
'Probably are in any case.' I muttered.
The Old Man, who had been hanging about outside, pushed open the door of the guard-room and nodded towards us.
'O.K., he's out there.'
According to plan, Porta and I went off to lock up the trail of doors that had been left open. As we reached the guard-room again, all the searchlights went out in the Courtyard. That was Gregor's doing. He had told us to leave it to him, and it seemed that we had left it to good advantage.
The searchlights were out for just over two minutes, and then once more they began sweeping the grounds from corner to corner. But the shadow of the fugitive was no longer to be seen hiding between the latrines and the walls of the prison. He had put the two minutes to good use and was now out of sight, lying flat on his stomach in the angle of the far wall.
Heavy footsteps approached him. He guessed that this must be the sentry patrol that was to lead him on the next stage of his journey. The raw glare of the searchlight flashed above him, along the top of the wall, into the dark recesses of the courtyard. He saw the patrol marching towards him, led by the Legionnaire and Gunther Soest. Their helmets, the hated German helmets that would have transformed the face of a saint into the grimacing mask of a gargoyle, glinted menacingly in the harsh light. The boy must have had his doubts as to the supposed friendliness of the patrol.
As they approached the spot, Gunther swore nervously under his breath. This was the second time he had assisted at a break-out, and after the first he had called vigorously upon all the saints to bear witness to the fact that he, Gunther Soest, would never be taken as a mug again.
' It just isn't worth it,' he said. 'Nothing's worth anything in this flaming war, least of all risking your life for a flaming prisoner.'
And Gunther should have known, if anyone did. He had driven a tank for eight years. During that time he had seen thirty-seven of his closest companions fried to death, and had on nine occasions narrowly escaped a similar fate himself. But on the tenth occasion his destiny had caught up with him: he had escaped with his life but left nearly all his face behind. Burning oil had eaten away eyebrows and lips, his flesh had fallen off in chunks like a well-done joint of meat. He had spent seven months in a water bed. They had wrenched him back from the edge of death, but death had nevertheless left an indelible mark on him. His hands were like parchment claws, his face a bloated purple mask. This was the man whose fiancee had been unable to conquer her horror at the sight of him, who had run off shuddering; and this was the man who for the second time was risking his life to smuggle a condemned prisoner out of Fresnes.
A Frenchman, at that. And a Jew and a Communist besides. Who knew but one day, after the war, that same Jew, that same Communist, would pass him by in the street and turn to stare in pity and disgust at that grotesque purple mask? When even your fellow countrymen were unable to conceal their feelings, what chance of a foreigner doing so?
And after the war, what would men like Gunther do? Live in a home with others of their kind? Exhibit themselves as freaks in a side show? Hide away and live in the dark where no one could see them? It seemed unlikely that normal people would ever be able to look upon them without shuddering. Yet Gunther had been handsome, once. He was used to adulation, to girls falling about his neck and vying for his attentions. Now, even his own sisters could scarcely bear to be in the same room with him, and on his last leave he had been home only two days when his mother had a nervous breakdown--on account, so the doctor said, of the the constant stress of being reminded what the war had done to her only boy.
Gunther had left home then. He had spent the rest of his leave in an army convalescent home at Tols. There, at least, he could be with others of his kind; a whole new generation of Frankenstein monsters created by the war. They were well treated at the convalescent home, although there was a strict rule about going into the village: you could go on crutches, you could go in a wheelchair, you could go without your arms, you could go without your legs; but on no account must you go without your face. It was bad, so they said, for the country's morale. Heroes were acceptable only provided they had heroic wounds, and it was not heroic to be burned alive in a tank and end up looking repulsive. But in any case, very few of the faceless monsters had any desire to go into the village. They were still sensitive at people pointing and staring, and well they knew that no girl would ever again kiss them on the lips. For the most part, they had no lips; only a shapeless hole edged with ragged purple tissue. Some of them spoke hopefully of having their faces remodelled after the war. That was the only reason Gunther had remained in the Army and had come back
to
do more than his fair share. It was his one lifeline, the belief that if he saw the thing through to the very end the Army would surely reward him by giving him a new face? Provided, of course, that Germany won the war. Men like Gunther could simply not afford to consider the alternative.
The patrol drew level with the young boy, crouched down in the shadows. Silently he rose to his feet and merged in with them, marching in step. Their rhythm never faltered. They smoothly swallowed him up and bore him along in their midst. At the end of the wall, where it turned sharply to the left, they drew to a halt. The Legionnaire spoke rapidly without looking at the boy.
'You'll find a rope ready secured up there. As soon as the searchlight's passed overhead, make a dash for it. You'll have approximately thirty seconds to get over the top and down the other side, so you'll have to move pretty fast... Take this and use it if you have
to
, but not otherwise. It's an identity card, but it was done in a hurry so don't place a hundred per cent reliance on it. It'll be all right for a casual check.'
The searchlight flashed across them. The patrol stood bunched together, hiding the boy from its gaze.
'Get across Paris as quick as you can. You've got about two hours to daylight. Make for the Sacre-Coeur in Montmartre. Go into the third confessional box and say you've stolen some flowers from a cemetery. When the priest asks you what flowers they were, you reply, myosotis. He'll take over from then on?'
'A priest?' muttered the boy, uneasily.
The Legionnaire raised an amused eyebrow.
'You prefer the Gestapo?'
'Of course not!' The boy flushed in the darkness. 'You know I'm very grateful to you for all your help----'
'Don't speak too soon, you've a long way to go yet. Here comes the searchlight again. You'd better make a bolt for it after this one.'
The beam swung across them. The Legionnaire gave the boy a quick shove, Gunther stood by to help, but he was as lithe as any panther and was atop the wall within a couple of seconds. The Legionnaire fingered his machine-gun, flicking back the safety catch and nodding at Gunther to be ready. If the searchlight should pick out the boy in the act of escaping they would have no alternative but to shoot.