Authors: Sven Hassel
A burnt-out chapel littered with the bodies of the dead served as our shelter. Gregor had been hit in the head by a bullet and was now wrapped up like a mummy in dirty bloodstained bandages. All of us had been injured in some degree or another, but Gregor had come very near to death. Another centimetre lower, and he would not now have been sprawled on the floor simply complaining of a headache.
A major from the General Staff appeared in the entrance of the chapel and began barking out a series of totally nonsensical orders. We stared at him with glazed eyes. The man was obviously a maniac, but he was also a major. Sullenly, resentfully, we hauled ourselves to our feet and followed him out into the inferno of the streets. Happily for us, before we had gone very far, he set eyes upon a group of SS sharpshooters of the Reich Division and decided they would serve his purpose better than a rabble of bleary-eyed and apathetic soldiers from a tank regiment. He marched them off with him towards the river, and we shot back like rabbits into the shelter of our ruined chapel with its rampart of corpses.
For a while they left us in peace and we took the opportunity to snatch a little sleep. It was the first respite we had had for seventy-two hours. We had not eaten for the past two days, and it was over a week since we had been able to remove our boots. Even Heide was beginning to stink.
At midnight we were dragged off to the Rue Wola, with instructions to set up the machine-gun in the basement of a bombed house and keep the road covered.
Shortly after dawn the first of a long column of civilians turned into the road. They were of both sexes, all ages, old men and children, invalids and pregnant women, cripples pushed in wheelchairs. Many had obviously been dragged straight from their beds, for they were shivering in their night clothes. Some had had time to pack suitcases or trunks, which they carried on their backs or dragged along behind them. Others had net bags and brown paper parcels containing what few precious possessions they had been able to snatch up as they rushed out of their homes.
‘Where are they going?’ I said. ‘The road only leads to the cemetery.’
‘Then that,’ said the Old Man, dryly, ‘is obviously where they are going.’
There was a pause. I looked again at the pitiful column of people. I saw one man being carried along on a makeshift stretcher. It seemed to me that he was dying.
‘Why should they be going to the cemetery?’ I said.
The Old Man shrugged.
‘What do people usually go to cemeteries for?’
The group was being chivvied along by Dirlewanger’s SS men. A police car turned in from a side road and took its place at the head of the convoy. I leaned out of the window to listen as the loudspeakers began to crackle.
‘Attention! Attention everybody! For military reasons, this area is being cleared. You have five minutes in which to vacate your houses. I repeat, five minutes. We regret the necessity for this, but Communist Polish traitors leave us no alternative. This area is now a military zone and your lives will be endangered if you stay. SS Obergruppenführer von
dem Bach Zalewski gives you his personal assurance that you will be well cared for until such time as you can be rehoused. You will be under the full protection of the German Army. You have permission to bring with you whatever personal possessions you are able to carry, but it is essential that the evacuation is completed within five minutes . . . Attention, attention! For military reasons, this area is being cleared . . .’
The car turned off down another side street, and the strident tones of the loudspeaker faded gradually into the distance. All up and down the Rue Wola, windows and doors were flying open and distraught citizens were pouring out to join the passing column. Dirlewanger’s men shouted directions and offered reassurance and condolences. I saw one of them stoop to pick up a toy dropped by a small child. I saw another give a helping hand to an old woman. I saw a third smiling, and at that point I shivered and turned away. There was something very disturbing, something peculiarly sinister, in the sight of SS men behaving like normal human beings. I knew then that something must be very wrong.
The feet went on shuffling past. Hundred upon hundred of them, some in shoes, some in slippers, some in rags. Many of the children were barefoot. And now, lining the route, appeared the menacing grey shapes of Kaminski’s SS. They stood like statues, unsmiling, unmoving. Just stood there and watched as the people marched by.
The police car returned, its loudspeaker still blaring.
‘Attention, attention! This area is about to be shelled. I repeat, this area is about to be shelled. You have half a minute in which to get out. Anyone failing to do so will be regarded as an enemy of the German people and will be shot. This is your last warning . . .’
The car moved on. A few hesitant householders came scuttling out of their doors and were pushed forward into the column. Kaminski’s men now began to search the houses. Sick people were shot in their beds. An old fellow discovered hiding in an attic was tossed out of the window and was dashed to pieces on the pavement below. He landed on a small child, and she, also, was killed. The kid gloves
were off, now. The SS were behaving true to form. The crowd began to grow increasingly uneasy. They had to be urged on by kicks and punches, and some even required the added encouragement of a revolver jammed into the small of the back.
The column wound slowly on its way. The hundreds of feet had turned into thousands. They were marched down the broad slope of the Rue Wola towards the cemetery, which had changed hands twice since we had pulled out and was now once more under German command. At present it was being held by Dirlewanger’s Brigade, who had set up their HQ in the Chapel of St Nicholas. The altar was being used as a card table, and Dirlewanger, as usual, was drunk.
The leaders of the column had by now reached the Vistula and could go no further. They were brought to a halt and told to remain where they were, contemplating the graves. Kaminski arrived in an amphibious Volkswagen and looked them over with a scornful eye.
‘Why are they still alive?’ he said. ‘They should be dead by now.’
‘They will be,’ promised Dirlewanger.
The two men stood facing each other in the riverside cemetery gardens. They were rivals in brutality, each was jealous of his own reputation.
‘All this,’ said Kaminski, waving a contemptuous hand, ‘all this is a mere puff of wind compared to Minsk.’
‘Minsk?’ said Dirlewanger, as if he had never heard of the place.
‘Complete liquidation,’ said Kaminski. ‘I cleaned up the entire area.’
‘Only of partisans,’ said Dirlewanger, smoothly. ‘Only of partisans . . . By the time I’ve finished with Warsaw, there won’t be a single house left standing. It will be as if the place had never existed. The Reichsführer has given orders that every man, woman and child is to be exterminated.’
There was scarcely room to move, now, down by the river. The people were packed shoulder to shoulder, and more were arriving every second. A line of trucks, fitted out with
machine-guns, was already in place and awaiting the order to fire.
‘A pity,’ murmured Kaminski, ‘that something a little more elaborate could not have been arranged.’
Dirlewanger hunched a shoulder.
‘It will do well enough,’ he said, indifferently. ‘We don’t have time for refinements . . .’
The last of the column was pushed into place and the exit gates were closed. Dirlewanger picked up a loudhailer, and an expectant silence fell over the crowd. Now perhaps they would be told what was to happen to them. Now perhaps they would be given some of that protection they had been promised.
‘Attention, everybody! Attention!’ said Dirlewanger; and he dropped his hand as the signal to open fire.
The machine-guns started up on one side; and Kaminski’s men on the other. There could be no escape. Those who were not killed by the bullets were trampled underfoot. Invalids’ chairs and children’s prams rolled down the bank and into the river, where their occupants were drowned. A small group of men managed to seize control of one of the trucks, but they were blown up by grenades before they had gone more than a few yards.
Dirlewanger clapped a friendly hand on Kaminski’s shoulder as they strolled back together to the Chapel of St Nicholas.
‘Co-operation, my dear fellow. That’s the way to do it. As you have just seen . . . They co-operate with us, we co-operate with each other, and by Christmas, I promise you, the whole of Poland will have been cleared.’
When the machine-guns had completed their task, the field of victory was sprayed with petrol and a vast funeral pyre was lit. Many people were still alive and conscious as the flames engulfed them. Every now and again a burning spectre would rise up in a frenzy from a pile of bodies and crawl dementedly in circles until it finally collapsed. The obscene stench of charred flesh hung heavy over the town for many days to come.
The next morning, two brigades under General Michal Karaszewicz-Tokarewski recaptured the cemetery area and slaughtered an entire German battalion. By way of revenge Kaminski rounded up every Pole he could lay hands on, hung them by the feet and left them to a slow death. The Army lodged an official complaint with the Führer, indignantly protesting such barbaric treatment of civilians, but Hitler ignored them and gave Kaminski another medal to hang round his neck. Another medal for Kaminski, and another snub for the generals of the Wehrmacht. The SS exulted, and sadism reached a new level of horror. Men of the SS went out at nights to rape and murder in much the same way as others went out for a drink or a meal. Those who preferred to play the role of spectator could always go to watch a torture – there was nearly always one taking place. The latest fad was death by slow drowning. It could be made to last all night in the hands of a really skilled operator.
Tiny went off one morning on what he self-importantly called ‘a special mission’. He returned half an hour later dragging one of Dirlewanger’s Unterscharführer with him.
‘I could have shot it on the spot,’ he said, ‘except I thought you’d all like to have a bash at it.’
‘Where’d you get it from?’ said Porta.
Tiny tapped the side of his nose.
‘Mind it,’ he said. ‘Where I found it’s my business.’
‘So why bring him here?’ said the Old Man. ‘You know perfectly well we can’t shoot him without cause.’
‘Without cause?’ echoed Tiny, indignantly. ‘Ain’t it enough he’s SS?’
‘Of course it isn’t. Don’t be so ridiculous. Either let him go or give me one valid reason why he deserves to be shot.’
Tiny stuck out his lower lip as a sign of disapproval.
‘He was bleeding looting, wasn’t he?’
‘Looting?’
‘Yeah. Helping himself out of a jeweller’s shop—’
The Old Man sighed. He held out a hand.
‘Show,’ he said.
Grumbling, Tiny cleared out his pockets. He was carrying
half a hundredweight of rings and watches with him. A jeer went up from those of us who were assembled.
‘Well, it’s proof, ain’t it?’ said Tiny.
Not even the Old Man needed much in the way of proof where a member of Dirlewanger’s murder squad was concerned. Tiny eagerly drew out his knife.
‘So what’ll it be?’ he said. ‘Eyes or guts?’
‘Castrate the bastard,’ urged Gregor.
‘Afterwards,’ said Tiny. ‘Eyes is more fun. I’ll do them first.’
‘Not while you’re under my command, you won’t!’
Two shots rang out and the Unterscharführer fell forward. The Old Man put his revolver back into its holster. He nodded grimly at Tiny.
‘You’re in the Army, remember? Not the SS.’
Out on patrol, investigating a row of deserted houses, we discovered the remains of someone’s dinner still lying on a table. Dry bread and a pan full of haricot beans. The bread was green and the beans were shrivelled and hard, but we sat down and made a meal of them. It was the first food we’d tasted for almost twenty-four hours.
Porta was regretfully licking up the last of the breadcrumbs when a young captain burst through the door announcing that he was going across the road to recapture the central power station. I felt very tempted to ask him what that could possibly have to do with us, but unfortunately I knew the answer only too well. When he said that he was going across the road, what he actually meant was that we were going across the road . . .
With the help of a group of Pioneers, we managed to force our way into the ground floor of the building, but before we could make any further progress we came under fierce attack from the Polish Jena Regiment and had to retire in a hurry. The power station remained very firmly in the hands of the guerrillas.
For a couple of days there was something like peace in the town, and then the German net began slowly to close. Marshal Rokossovski’s forces were unaccountably immobile at Magnu-szewo, which gave the Germans the opportunity
to withdraw much-needed troops from the Russian front to complete the encirclement of Warsaw. Our numbers were swelled by the arrival of seven tank divisions, nine infantry divisions, and a great many specialised units, including Pioneer Corps and Engineers. Two heavy cannons were set up, and at intervals of ten minutes throughout the day and night they sent their shells to pulverise the centre of the town. Slowly but inevitably the city was crumbling towards total destruction.