Authors: Sven Hassel
'That's what I want to know. What was it called?'
Nobody knew. The question went the rounds and returned to Porta, and we became quite heated as to whether the pig had belonged to Odin or Freya or Thor. Little John walked out into the street and began stopping passers-by, and soon a whole group of strangers were disputing over the question.
'Somebody must know,' said Porta.
'The police,' I said. 'Try the police.'
The Legionnaire instantly picked up the telephone. He was very polite about it, quite apologetic, but we all heard the oaths that came down the wire towards him.
'I didn't intend to upset you,' said the Legionnaire, smoothly.
'Some bloody nut wants to know the name of a famous pig!' we heard the man shouting to a companion.
And we heard the answer, faint but distinguishable:
'The only famous pig I know is called Adolf!'
After that, we tried the Feldgendarmerie. More oaths, accompanied this time by the threat of arrest. We still hadn't settled the matter when an hour later we left the bistro, with the pig safely stowed away in Janette's care.
As we reached the Place Clichy we were stopped by a patrol. Mechanically they demanded our papers, but it was plain that for once they had no interest in them.
'Want to ask you something,' said the leader of the patrol, leaning confidentially towards us. 'You know that chap called Odin? You know he kept a pig?'
We nodded, breathlessly.
'Well--you don't know what it was called, do you?'
Regretfully, we admitted our ignorance.
We arrived back half an hour late at the barracks. To our amazement, no one batted an eyelid. They were all too busy talking about pigs.
'Hey, you! ' An officer waved an imperative hand at us. 'You don't by any chance happen to know the name of the pig that used to belong to Thor, do you? We're having a little bet on it. We want someone to settle the question for us.'
It seemed that nobody in Paris knew. To this day I haven't found out.
One day at Suresnes, the Feldgendarmerie arrested a couple of kids in unauthorized possession of revolvers. The older of the two boys was fifteen; the younger only thirteen.
They were sentenced to death, but Major Schneider, either through unusual humanitarianism or because he feared the imminent end of the war, hesitated to carry out the execution. After some days of indecision he took the problem direct to General von Choltitz himself and asked for advice.
'Why come to me?' said von Choltitz, coldly. 'It hardly seems of the slightest importance.'
'But they're only children, sir.'
'They're old enough to know the law, aren't they?' , Major Schneider could not deny it. The two boys were executed the following day at Mont Valerien.
THE GESTAPO CAPITULATES
The news spread rapidly through the barracks: the Gestapo had arrived. They were out there in the courtyard, plainly visible for any masochist who cared to go and look at them. A large black Mercedes was parked outside the main doors, wedged between a couple of asthmatic DKWs.
It was breakfast time when we heard the news. Little John at once gulped down half a dozen mouthfuls in one go and hurried off to hide three bags of gold teeth under Hauptfeldwebel Hoffmann's rose bushes. All about us men were bustling to and fro in sudden frenzied bursts of activity. Very few people seemed to have any appetite left. Porta impassively went on eating, of course, but Barcelona always had claimed that that man had an extra stomach.
Out in the kitchens they were feverishly re-adjusting the scales. The French helpers disappeared into thin air and were gone for several days.
Major Hinka prudently, removed himself. The M.O. who had been in the barracks only five minutes previously, had also gone to ground. It seemed that it was not only us ordinary soldiers that had a strong wish to avoid the Gestapo.
The order came through that we were to get fell in in the courtyard.
'This is it,' muttered Heide, gloomily. "What did I tell you?'
Gregor, at my side, was sweating with terror.
'What do you think the sods are after?'
'How the blazes should I know?' I snapped, made irritable through sheer funk.
The Gestapo had installed themselves in the now empty dining hall. Eight men wearing the familiar leather coats and wide brimmed hats that had become almost a uniform. They had settled themselves importantly upon a raised platform at one end of the room-seated in high-backed chairs beneath the brightly coloured crowns that were still hanging on the walls after the 'Kraft durch Freude' fete that had been held three days ago.
We were called into the dining hall and stood at the far end while the Gestapo ran their cold grey eyes unblink-ingly over our assembled ranks and waited for a face to take their fancy. Slightly in front of the others sat a small, heavy-jowled thickset man with bulging eyes like glass bubbles and long gangling arms like an ape's. In the middle of the room was a row of empty chairs; they stood there, menacing, waiting for the first victims.
The ape man picked up a carafe of water and took several gulps. In the silence, we could hear it gurgling and clanging down his throat. He leaned forward encouragingly and addressed us.
'Kriminalobersecretar Schluckbebier. Gestapo.'
There was a short pause, no doubt to allow the information to sink into our thick soldiers' heads.
'I am here,' said the Kriminalobersecretar, winningly, 'as your friend. I am here to help you. We of the Gestapo are men like yourselves. You must trust us and take us into your confidence.' He suddenly wiped off the smile and replaced it with a concentrated frown of hatred and ferocity. 'Only those who have guilty consciences need fear us! Only those who have transgressed, those who have betrayed their country and let down their Fuhrer, need cringe away at the sight of us!'
Another pause. We remained impassive. One or two of
us
yawned.
Schluckbebier allowed the frown gradually to smooth itself away and replaced it with the jolly smile of your simple Westphalian peasant.
'Come!' he said, encouragingly. 'Let us understand one another. Let us be frank. Those of you with clear consciences have absolutely nothing to fear. We of the Gestapo salute you. The backbone of the German Army! Let us rise together and sing our national hymn!'
The man beat the measure good-humouredly with his water carafe. The Gestapo sang lustily and a few thin, grudging sounds came from our end of the hall. Schluckbebier nodded approvingly as the hymn drew to a ragged end. Then he laid down the water carafe and placed his hands on his hips.
'I wish this were purely a visit of goodwill. Unfortunately there are serious--nay, deplorable!--matters that have to be discussed.' He took a step forward and threw out his hands towards us. His voice rose to a shattering crescendo. 'Jewish saboteurs have been staining your honour!'
I glanced at Porta, standing by my side, and we shrugged our shoulders.
'You know,' continued Schluckbebier, in the same hoarse shout, 'that black market transactions are punishable under the Criminal Code!'
He pulled a copy of the Criminal Code from his pocket and waved it triumphantly on high like the torch of liberty.
'Punishable by death!'
His voice rose another half octave. The hand holding the torch of liberty wiped itself swiftly across his throat in a gesture that left no room for doubt.
'The black market is the new plague of Europe! G
et
rid of the black market and you get rid of your Jewish fifth-columnists!' He waved both arms, threateningly. 'And we shall get rid of them! We shall wipe Europe clean of this running sore! We shall wipe her clean of the filthy Jewish pigs that engage in this loathsome business!'
The Kriminalobersecretar fixed the front row of assembled men with his menacing frown. Unfortunately, by some mismanagement, the front row was us.
'You men there!' He jerked an arm and pointed towards the empty chairs.
We waited hopefully for someone else to obey the command, someone with a dear conscience, but it seemed that we had all betrayed our country and let down our Fuhrer and had everything to fear from a confrontation with the Gestapo. No one moved. We had no alternative but to walk boldly forward and set ourselves in a semicircle in the isolated chairs. I told myself that it was purely fortuitous; the man had nothing on us, he simply wanted some scapegoats to sit in his punishment chairs and have strips torn off them. The trouble was I had a guilty conscience and couldn't be sure.
'Now then, you men.' Schluckbebier stood with straddled legs before us. 'I've already told you, we of the Gestapo are your friends. We're here to help you defend your honour against these sharks of the black market,'
He polished off the water in the carafe and gave a loud, rolling belch.
'Ten sacks of coffee have gone!' he cried. 'This coffee has been sold on the black market by the Jews! We of the Gestapo know this for a fact! There is nothing that is not known to the Gestapo!
Where is the coffee
?'
The question seemed pretty general, but we of the second section, exposed in the centre of the room, felt ourselves to be particularly suspect. The rest of the men took the opportunity to direct their concerted gaze upon us until we felt that the sheer weight of public opinion would condemn us out of hand. From the corner of my eye I saw the Old Man distractedly shredding his notebook into long strips; I saw Heide stub out a half-smoked cigarette and instantly
light another. Gunther had his
head tilted back and was intently studying the blank ceiling. Barcelona was busily pulling a button off his uniform; Little John was examining the sole of one of his boots and Gregor was earnestly tapping his teeth with a fingernail, as if searching for hollow spots. Only Porta was unconcerned. He was staring straight ahead at Schluckbebier and the two pairs of eyes met and held.
There was a long silence, Schluckbebier seemed to be waiting for Porta to speak. To confess, perhaps. Porta kept his mouth rigidly closed.
'As you wish! ' Schluckbebier transferred his gaze to the rest of us. 'Let us now turn to the second point. Three days ago a van full of bedclothes was stolen when it was left unattended for a few moments in front of the second company's quarters. Where are those bedclothes? I'm waiting!'
We all sat and waited with him. A full ten minutes passed. Not a sound was heard. No one coughed, no one blew his nose, no one shuffled his feet. We hardly dared even to draw breath lest it should make a whistling or a puffing sound.
'Fools!' roared Schluckbebier, shaking a fist. 'You needn't think you've got away with it! We of the Gestapo never let anyone get away with it! And you're not at the front now, you know. You may have been allowed to run wild in the trenches, but not here! Not when you're dealing with the Gestapo! I warn you! We shall have no mercy! Those who have betrayed their Fuhrer must expect to be punished!'
Seven nods of approbation from behind. Schluckbebier was foaming at the mouth, little beads of spit pushing out between his lips. He did a dance round the table, banging on it with his fist and sending the water carafe bounding to the floor.
'Herr Kriminalrat! '
To my horror and consternation, it was Porta on his feet. Addressing the maddened Schluckbebier with his most charming of one-toothed smiles.
'You told us that the Gestapo were here to help us?'
General groans of disbelief from all over the room. The entire Second Company glaring at Porta.
'So?' said Schluckbebier.
'Very humbly and respectfully, I wish to make a complaint. We are badly treated.'
With infinite sadness, Porta reached down and yanked a bulky document out of his boot.
'For the last four months,' he said, 'we haven't had our sugar rations.' He turned up a page and tapped a finger on it. 'Two grammes per man every quarter, that's what it says here.'
Schluckbebier regarded him with narrowed eyes, then snapped his fingers.
'Get the quartermaster!'
Two of his leather-coated toughs left the room in search of this unhappy soul. Schluckbebier watched every step of the way as he was brought into the room.
'Quartermaster! I'm told that the men have not received their ration of sugar for the last four months! Can this be true?'
The quartermaster shrugged, superbly indifferent.
'Certainly it's true. The Regiment hasn't received any sugar to issue to the men.'
'I see. Thank you.' Schluckbebier turned triumphantly to Porta. 'At this stage of the war, no one but a fool or a traitor would be worrying about two miserable grammes of sugar! We all have to make sacrifices. Your complaint is negatived.'
'Then I should like to make another,' said Porta, very firmly. 'For the past two months I have not received the boot allowance that is due to me. I've already complained several times about this, and the last time I complained I was threatened quite violently. Now I don't think this is right and just, and I don't think the Gestapo would think so, either, having our interests at heart like you said they did. The soldiers fighting for the Fuhrer should be allowed to ask for their rights without being threatened. What would the Fuhrer say if he came to hear about it? Look at the boots I'm wearing now!' Porta hoisted up a large foot and thrust it towards the man. 'I had to buy them myself.'
Schluckbebier regarded them with a mixture of horror and curiosity. Certainly they were not regulation army boots and had never been made in the Third Reich. At the back of the room, Hauptfeldwebel Hoffmann smiled impatiently to himself. It seemed as if Porta had pushed a lit too far this time. Who, after all, had ever heard of boot allowances?'
'Who has ever heard of boot allowances?' asked Schluckbebier, wearily.
'But it's here!' Porta joyously plunged a hand into a pocket and brought out another booklet. 'Section 12.365, Paragraph IVa, 8th line: "Every soldier, non-commissioned officer and officer who undertakes the upkeep of his own boots shall receive 12 pfennigs a day, which are granted to him specifically for this purpose." '