Do the Birds Still Sing in Hell? (25 page)

‘Tell me, Rose,’ Horace was breathing hard.

‘What is it?’

‘The family way.’

‘The what?’

‘It’s what we say in England if a woman is with child.’

‘What about it?’

‘It doesn’t happen to us, why is that?’

Rose sat up. ‘I do not know why, Jim. I really don’t.’

‘Aren’t you concerned?’

Rose lifted her clothing from the floor and began to dress.
‘Not really, Jim. In a few years I will be called up to the war, fighting on the wrong side.’ She sighed. ‘A baby gets me out of it. Mothers of the Fatherland are respected and adored by the Fuehrer. Another little child to immerse and indoctrinate into the ideals and philosophies of the Third Reich.’

‘So pregnancy isn’t a problem?’

‘Not at all. But one thing’s for sure: any child of mine will be born as far away from Germany as possible. My child will be brought up in a free home where he will be taught about rights and wrongs and the value of freedom.’

‘He?’

‘What?’

‘You said “he”, Rose. You would like a boy.’

Rose buttoned up her cardigan. ‘Perhaps, Jim, perhaps. But on one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We call him Jim.’

As Horace walked back through the forest he suddenly remembered the map – the map hadn’t arrived. He remembered Rose’s promise, one that she would break again and again.

Back in his bunk Horace reflected on achieving a new level of sexual intensity in his growing relationship with Rose. He’d been late getting back; it must have been nearly four in the morning before his head hit the pillow but it had been worth every delicious second. He’d pay for it later on, generally late afternoon as the last of the prisoners wandered into the camp barbershop. Perhaps he’d have a word with them, feign a little illness and catch up on an hour or two. He’d agreed to meet Rose the following week and he wanted to boost his energy levels.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

T
he near miss with the SS didn’t put Horace off. He still escaped on average two or three times a week for his rendezvous with Rose. He wasn’t physically able to make love to Rose every time, the food had not improved and his lack of sleep and nocturnal activities were taking their toll. He wondered if the food or rather the lack of it contributed in some small way to his failure to make Rose pregnant.

Sometimes they would simply go for a long walk, three or four miles into the forest and make their way up onto the mountainside in darkness where they could see the camp illuminated below them. They were special moments. They would sit in silence for hours, wrapped in each other’s arms, exchanging body heat while Rose’s thick woollen coat hung draped around their shoulders, the biting wind tormenting their exposed flesh.

At times Horace was distressed as he looked out onto the camp below, knowing he had to return. He feared for Rose’s safety too, knowing she had to make the long walk back to the station on her own in the darkness. There were German patrols in the forest, not unlike the Home Guard back in England. They were older men, 45 years plus, or younger men
with a disability that prevented a front line posting, but they had guns and they were ruthless. There had been tales of rape and the occasional murder of some poor unfortunate out and about, clearly up to no good. They didn’t ask questions; the victims were simply shot and buried deep within the forest.

Rose could not contain her excitement as Horace opened the door to the church. She ran forward into his arms. ‘Jim! The Germans have surrendered at Stalingrad! It’s true!’

The news was momentous. It rendered Horace speechless as he lowered himself into a pew with his hands resting on his knees. Rose had heard the titbits of information as she sat with her father tuning in to the airways of the world. The news had not come from German radio but from a high-frequency American station delivering every development of the war to anyone who tuned in. Rose had sat and delivered the perfect translation to her father.

Hitler had taken a huge gamble and it looked as if it had backfired. He had been beaten by the harsh Russian winter and the sheer volume of troops drafted in from every corner of the country. Still Hitler ordered Field Marshal Paulus to fight on even after the Russians had recaptured the last remaining airfield held by the Germans. Goering’s aircraft of the Luftwaffe would no longer be able to supply the beleaguered German troops on the ground. They were starving and freezing to death.

‘Can’t you see, Jim, the war is nearly over?’ Rose continued. ‘We can be together at last! We can be married and have children.’

Horace took her in his arms and whispered softly. ‘I hope so Rose, I hope so.’

Horace and Rose did not make love that night. Horace blamed the diet again but he was lying. Horace was thinking about the end of the war and for once daring to think
realistically about an Allied victory. But he was also thinking about what sort of revenge the Russians, the Americans and his own countrymen would inflict. Rape, torture, ethnic cleansing? The Russians especially – by all accounts they had suffered terribly at the hands of the Nazis. They would seek their revenge on the German nation, soldiers and civilians, of that there was no doubt.

He held hands with Rose as they made their way through the forest and she was actually smiling. She was smiling, happy that the war seemed to be coming to an end, happy that an Allied victory seemed to be in sight. But despite what she had told him about Silesia and their independence and her family’s fierce hatred of the Nazis, she would be a German in the eyes of the Russians. Didn’t she realise the danger she was in? It was a thought Horace couldn’t get out of his head. He wanted to take her in his arms and shake some sense into her. But for now he’d leave it – he didn’t have it in his heart to tell her what might lie ahead.

Horace was back in the forest chapel the following week and this time they did make love. They didn’t hang around and got dressed quickly. This venture into the forest would be a little different, though: Rose had promised to take him hunting to supplement his diet. She led the way to the village three kilometres from the camp. It was just after midnight, and the small village of Pasicka was in complete darkness. They were thankful for the light of a full moon. Rose pointed to the gardens that backed onto the forest.

‘See, Jim, all the villagers keep a vegetable garden.’ Horace peered out over the well-cultivated land. He could see the tops of turnips and winter swedes and a few bushes of sprouts.

‘And Jim, some keep livestock.’ She grinned as she pointed to several rabbit hutches and hen huts. ‘We need to get some more meat into you, Jim Greasley.’

This wasn’t the sort of hunting Horace had in mind but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Again Rose seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t feel too bad about it, Jim – most of these villagers are German.’

That sealed it. At first they collected sprouts and a few carrots, then as many small swedes as Horace could squeeze into his pockets.

‘Next time you should bring a bag, Rose. I’ll be able to get a few turnips, too.’

‘I will. But now, darling, it’s time for meat.’

Horace pointed to a hen house ten yards from the nearest back wall of a small cottage. ‘Over there. You keep watch and give me a little whistle if you notice a light going on or a curtain moving.’

He was just about to set off when she grabbed at him. ‘Are you mad, Jim? Haven’t you heard the noise a hen makes when it’s in danger? Go for the rabbits – they are silent.’

Horace lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. ‘You’re right, Rose, not just a pretty face.’

‘I have my uses, Jim.’ She winked as Horace set off slowly on his hands and knees, taking care to keep his head down. The hutches weren’t locked: the wire meshed gates were simply held together with twine. The rabbits reminded Horace of the prisoners back at the camp. Escape would have been easy for the rabbits by simply gnawing through the rope. But they weren’t going anywhere – why should they? They had a warm bed and they were fed regularly. Why should they venture out into the great unknown?

As Horace reached in and grabbed the first rabbit he wondered whether this poor creature ever had any inclination of escape, ever thought for one moment to start chewing at the twine. He dispatched the rabbit with a familiar pull and twist at the back of its neck. The third and fourth vertebrae and the
spinal column separated with little effort and life left the small creature immediately. His father had always told him not to hang back while teaching him the trick in the fields and forests of Ibstock.

Horace remembered the first few kills when he had delayed the inevitable, how he’d thought about the feelings of the rabbit and whether its offspring would miss its mother or father that night as he or she failed to return. Tonight was different. Tonight there was no remorse, nor feelings of guilt. He reached into the cage again, caught the hind legs of another rabbit and repeated the exercise. The creature fell limp but then twitched a three-second dance of death as the nerves of its body made a final protest. Horace remembered the first time this had happened to him as his father had killed a rabbit and handed it to him to hold. Reluctantly he’d held on tightly to the back legs and after a few seconds the nerve reaction had kicked in. Horace had squealed, convinced the rabbit had come back to life and instinctively threw it three feet into a ditch. His father had doubled up laughing at his son’s reaction, while Horace had stood there feeling stupid and embarrassed.

He returned to Rose, all smiles.

‘We’ll be eating well tomorrow, Rose – rabbit stew.’

Rose kissed him passionately for two or three seconds by way of a token reward and just for a second he got the urge to make love to her right there in the forest. Jesus he thought, no woman had ever made him feel this way. He wished he could fight the feelings, wished he could just go one whole day without thinking about her and one whole night without imagining the beautiful sensual folds of her body, her pert breasts and the soft feel and taste of her vagina. Just one day and night he thought, just 24 hours…

As Horace tied a rabbit down each trouser leg he thanked
his lucky stars that the Russian officer’s uniform he’d been given to wear belonged to a man far bigger than him. The trousers were held up by string and the dead creatures fitted quite comfortably down each leg with enough room to manoeuvre himself through the bars. He made an undignified entrance, the extra weight causing him to lose his balance and crash to the floor.

‘Fucking hell, Jim!’ It was Flapper. ‘I don’t mind you spending every sleeping hour shagging the arse off your little German bint, but some of us want some kip.’

‘Aye, shut the fuck up,’ shouted a Scottish voice.

Horace couldn’t contain his excitement any longer as he started to loosen the string on his waist. ‘Wait till you see what I’ve got, lads.’

Jock Strain struck a match and lit the candle underneath his bed.

‘Jesus,’ he exclaimed, ‘he’s getting that cock of his out again.’

‘No wait, watch,’ Horace said as he felt for the ears of the creature down his right leg. Then, like a magician at the London Palladium, he produced the rabbit right on cue, with perfect timing. ‘Hey presto!’

Jock Strain, the prisoners’ resident chef, was fully awake now, clearly interested in the additional supplies for the early evening recipe. ‘Where the hell did you get that?’

Horace didn’t answer and instead pulled out its mate from the other leg. He stood with the two animals held aloft in triumph. ‘Once a hunter, always a hunter,’ he exclaimed. He didn’t have the heart to tell the men they were domesticated rabbits he’d simply lifted from a hutch.

‘Holy mother of God!’

‘Rabbit stew.’

‘Meat.’

‘Fucking hell!’

Most of the men were awake now, as Flapper Garwood tried to contain the noise and the men’s excitement. He looked at his watch. ‘I make it about another minute before Jerry walks past that window. If you don’t shut the fuck up nobody will get anything except a night or two in the hole.’

The warning registered and silence fell through the room. Flapper gave Horace a congratulatory slap across the back as Jock got up from his bunk to examine the catch. ‘Magic, Jim, bloody magic. What a stew we’re going to have today! If only we had a few more vegetables to pack it out a bit.’

Suddenly Horace remembered the swedes and carrots and winter sprouts, and a big smile spread across his face.

‘What? What is it now?’ Jock asked.

Jock Strain cooked for just over 95 men. The Germans normally supplied the provisions early in the morning with the chef preparing the vegetables, meat and stock during the course of the day. They’d talked long and hard about saving one of the rabbits for another day but Horace had boasted there were plenty more where that had come from. He felt he owed the men something for helping him with his escape plan every time he broke out and he felt it was the least he could do. He vowed to bring a little something back each time, even if it was just a few extra vegetables.

So the men had voted for a feast and nothing had been wasted. Every single last morsel of flesh from the two rabbits went into the stew. Brains, heart, liver, kidney, lungs – even the genitals from the male rabbit. The carcasses had been left in the pot until the very last minute so that every ounce of goodness had soaked in to the stew.

The smell from the pot was different; the men noticed the extra meat and vegetables straight away. Suddenly the one-ladle ration had become two. Jock made a point of telling each man receiving the extra ladle that there would be more
of the same if they kept their mouths shut. The German guards didn’t seem to notice – they were too occupied discussing their fears about the way the war was progressing. Horace wasn’t just imagining it; there was definitely an attitude change coming over the guards. Telltale signs: anxiety, a certain nervousness, an occasional smile in the direction of a prisoner. Were they preparing for the end of the conflict? Were they getting ready for defeat?