THE LAST WEEKEND of August a party was held at the hut for the camp officers, their families and selected guests – well over a hundred people. It was beyond Brandt and the women to cater for such a large gathering. The mayor volunteered the Hitler Youth from the village to act as waiters and the Commandant provided three fat-armed, round-bellied SS cooks from the camp to work in the kitchen.
‘Brandt,’ Neumann said on the morning of the event. ‘It is important that our guests should enjoy themselves. Today the war must feel a thousand kilometres away. They have been very busy this summer.’
‘Of course, Herr Obersturmführer,’ Brandt said, wondering if Neumann had forgotten the numerous wounded officers convalescing at the hut. It had been a hard few months at the Front as well, and there was no shortage of limping, bandaged soldiers to remind the camp officers that the war was coming closer.
The guests began to arrive at lunchtime, those with families nearby bringing their wives and children with them. As it turned out, no one noticed the wounded officers walking amongst them, like ghosts at a wedding feast. Nor did they pay much attention to the prisoners, an even more obvious reminder of what they were meant to be forgetting. It wasn’t long before the gardens around the hut were filled with elegantly dressed women and well-scrubbed children – their menfolk gathered in small groups. It was hot but the breeze from the hills made it bearable. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the SS cooks glowered at Brandt whenever he asked them to do anything. He ignored their mutterings and low laughter. At least if they were making fun of him they were less likely to be picking on the women.
Brandt made his way upstairs to the terrace, where officers had gathered to talk and drink. The Commandant, his oiled hair precisely parted, was holding court at one end, surrounded by the eager smiles of younger officers. At the far end a soldier who had been wounded in the fighting in Warsaw was talking to a group of less enthusiastic camp doctors. Some of their glasses were empty so Brandt took a bottle over to them.
‘Why is it taking so long? That’s what I want to know,’ one of the doctors was asking, his nose already pink from standing in the sun.
The soldier’s head was bandaged and his face looked sallow underneath the white cloth. He appeared to be finding the conversation tiresome.
‘They are determined and well led and they fight to the last man,’ he said. ‘Each building is its own battle.’
‘We should just destroy the place, brick by brick.’
‘That’s what we’re doing, believe me.’
‘But it’s been weeks now.’
‘It takes longer than you’d think to flatten a whole city.’
Brandt topped up his glass with wine, noticing Neumann joining the group.
‘Send them to us, we know how to deal with sub-humans,’ the first doctor said.
‘These sub-humans have guns,’ the wounded officer said, allowing his irritation to show now. ‘These ones shoot back.’
Neumann took his chance.
‘Comrades, join the others down in the garden. Möller has his accordion and we’re going to sing songs.’
Brandt followed his gaze. A young officer in a leather flight jacket was playing snatches of tunes to entice people to join him – his teeth white and his smile false.
‘An excellent idea,’ the wounded officer said, not bothering to hide his relief that he might be released from the conversation.
‘Bring your glasses, gentlemen,’ Neumann said. ‘We don’t want to leave poor Möller on his own.’
Brant didn’t know if it was Neumann’s insistence or Möller’s launching into a cheerful version of ‘Erika’, but the men began to walk down the terrace steps to join the growing choir. The wounded officer even managed a terse smile.
On the heath, there blooms a little flower. And she is called – Erika!
Neumann returned to the now empty terrace, shaking his head.
‘Fetch me if there is any more of that kind of talk, Brandt. We must nip it in the bud.’
‘Very good, Herr Obersturmführer.’
Seeing that the officers were now otherwise engaged, Brandt took his opportunity. It was quiet on the other side of the building and he needed a cigarette. He had just managed to light it when Bobrik, one of the Ukrainian guards, joined him. Brandt offered him his packet and the Ukrainian helped himself. He made an effort to build a good relationship with the guards. It was a relationship he kept warm with vodka and other hard-to-get items from the hut’s stores.
‘Not joining in the celebration, Brandt?’ Bobrik asked.
‘I can’t sing,’ Brandt said. ‘Not very well, anyway.’
‘Nor can any of them,’ Bobrik said dismissively, but not before he’d looked around in case any of the officers were close enough to overhear. Brandt smiled.
‘Anyway,’ Bobrik continued, ‘what they’re celebrating isn’t something to be happy about.’
Brandt said nothing. He knew as well as anyone what a busy summer in the camp must mean.
‘Did you hear the news?’ Bobrik asked, lowering his voice to not much more than a whisper.
‘What news?’
‘Paris has fallen to the Americans.’
It wasn’t that Brandt hadn’t expected it – everyone knew things were going badly in France – but he was surprised by his physical reaction. It reminded him of a time he’d looked over the edge of a cliff. Vertigo.
‘You’re sure?’ Brandt asked. ‘When?’
‘It was on the radio. It didn’t say when it had happened.’
They shared a glance. Brandt shrugged – what could be safely said, after all?
‘What are you going to do afterwards?’ Bobrik asked. He made a circle with his cigarette, encompassing the hut and its surroundings. Now it was Brandt’s turn to look around in case they might be overheard.
‘It won’t be long. Not now they’re in Paris.’
He had a point. The Allies were squeezing them from both the west and the east. There was no one close – perhaps something could be risked.
‘I suppose it depends on who gets here first. If it’s the British and Americans, it shouldn’t be too bad.’
‘Maybe not for you,’ Bobrik said. ‘But for us, I’m not so sure.’
‘Of course if it looks like it will be the Soviets . . .’
They exchanged a glance. Neither of them wanted to be captured by the Soviets.
‘Have you any plans?’ Brandt asked, not anticipating an honest answer.
‘We’ll follow orders to the end, of course,’ Bobrik said, but his gaze lifted skywards, giving the lie to his words. He paused to blow out a smoke ring.
‘Of course, I know others who think differently – men who know what will happen if the Russians get hold of them. It’s one thing being a German. That’s bad enough. But if you’re from the Ukraine, you’re a traitor as well.’ Bobrik made the shape of a gun out of his hand and pressed its imaginary trigger, indicating the likely fate that awaited them if they fell into Soviet hands. ‘So these others may not wait till the end. Of course, desertion is punishable with death, so there are risks. And then, afterwards, where will they be safe? Spain? Africa? South America, perhaps? How can they get to such a place? These men have to think these things through.’
Brandt kept quiet, waiting to hear what Bobrik might say next. Bobrik nodded, smiling as if to acknowledge Brandt was right to be cautious. It wasn’t a very comfortable smile. Brandt saw the roll in the SS man’s throat as he swallowed.
‘I suspect they’re making preparations, these men,’ he said. ‘They’ll need civilian clothes and papers. They will need things for the journey – food and suchlike. And it would all have to be acquired without anyone . . .’ Bobrik paused. ‘Certainly not the officers finding out. They have money, of course. And other things of value. They just need someone they can trust. A local, perhaps?’
‘Civilian clothes shouldn’t be too hard to find,’ Brandt said. He examined each word before he spoke it, considering how incriminating it might be and weighing the risk.
‘Except that these men can’t just go to the nearest clothes shop and buy such things, can they? The Ukrainian SS aren’t permitted to wear civilian clothes, not like the Germans, and the locals don’t like them much. Someone would inform on them within the hour. No, these men need someone to act on their behalf.’
Brandt felt his world tilting once again. It was his turn to swallow, his mouth so dry his tongue stuck to his teeth.
‘I’m sure such a man could be found, if the price were right,’ he said, then paused.
Bobrik nodded in agreement. He seemed relieved, as though a difficult topic had been dealt with to both parties’ satisfaction.
‘The timing is important, of course. Too soon brings its own risks. Too late, though . . .’
Bobrik left the sentence hanging.
‘I would say,’ Brandt said. ‘That these men will find their local man easily enough, and when the time comes, that a discussion can be had.’
Bobrik smiled again. He looked almost cheerful now.
‘It’s good to talk about such things.’
He stubbed out his cigarette and nodded over toward the guardhouse.
‘I’d better get back before Peichl does his rounds.’
Bobrik paused after a few steps and turned back to him.
‘You haven’t been here for one of these parties, have you?’
Brandt shook his head.
‘Keep your wits about you. When they get drunk, things can happen.’
Brandt watched the Ukrainian walk towards the gate. If Bobrik had looked back he would have seen him lost in thought, and perhaps might have deduced that Brandt was taking his warning to heart. In fact, Brandt was thinking about what the hell he had just got himself into and how he could take advantage of it.