Blood of Vipers (9 page)

His eyes fixed on Cal. “Are you the one who
hung that sign?”

His English was so good that Cal blinked in
surprise. Not
smooth and confident like Greta’s had become once the initial
rust worked off,
but a perfect American accent, maybe with a bit of New York in
it.

“I asked you a question.”

“Get this brute off me and I’ll answer it.”

The officer nodded at the man with his arm
around Cal’s
neck, and the grip relaxed slowly, as if with some reluctance.

Cal shrugged free and glared at his captor,
rubbing at his
neck. He turned back to the officer. “I made the sign.”

“And you are?”

“Lieutenant Cal Jameson, U.S. Army Air
Forces. May I ask
your name, sir?”

“Lieutenant Colonel David Osimov. 1
^st
Belorussian
Front.”

“We took these prisoners,” Cal said. “They
are under
American jurisdiction.”

Osimov looked wary. “What do you mean,
we
?”

Cal had been formulating a lie since draping
the surrender
message over the rubble. “I am the pilot of a B-27 shot down two
days ago. Two
others survived the crash—my gunner and navigator. The others
were killed. We
were fighting our way back to American lines when we started
taking prisoners.
My mates set off for American lines to get help.”

“These people are
Soviet
prisoners
now. And you, a
guest of the Soviet state. At least for the moment.” He started
to give orders
to the men around him, but Cal interrupted.

“No, these are American prisoners. I have
taken them in
accordance with American protocol.” He had no idea what this
meant, if
anything, but he doubted this man would know either. “If
something happens to these
people, I will register my complaint at the highest levels and
will pursue the
matter until justice is served.”

As he said this, a frown settled over the
Russian officer’s
face. “We are going to have a problem, Lieutenant, if you insist
on this farce
about American prisoners. This is Soviet-controlled territory
and any prisoners
are mine.”

“Controlled? I still hear gunfire. For all we
know this
position will be overrun with Germans by nightfall. Or
Americans. You don’t
control anything.”

“Why are you protecting these Germans?”

“Because I took them prisoner, and I have
obligations.
Surely you understand that.”

“I understand that you are protecting fascist
pigs,” Osimov
said.

The Soviet troops were muttering to each
other now. Someone
must have understood, or guessed at where this was going. They
were going to be
cheated of their revenge. And their pleasure. Did this one
officer have the
ability to hold them back, even if he wanted to?

Cal had to give them something, to show he
wasn’t their
enemy. His eyes fixed on the SS officer, who rose to a sitting
position. Blood
streamed down Little Hitler’s mouth and a nasty gash opened in
the side of his
head. His clothes were torn and he wrapped one arm around his
ribs and touched
the wound at his head with the other. He looked stunned, like a
man who has
never imagined he could be in the same position as those he had
once abused.

“But not this one,” Cal said. “This one is an
SS officer and
a war criminal. Further, he murdered one of the other
prisoners—his own
lieutenant. You would be doing me a favor if you took him off my
hands.”

Osimov smiled, even looked a little relieved.
“Now you’re
being reasonable.”

He snapped something in Russian and several
men converged on
Little Hitler and dragged him to his feet. They drove him to one
side at
gunpoint, and he staggered forward, barely able to keep his
balance. While eyes
turned on the man, Cal dared a glance at the refugees.

Greta and Helgard stood in the silent knot of
women who
clung to each other in terror, waiting their fate. The elderly
women had been
allowed to sit with the children, while the German men,
including both the
minister and the two Wehrmacht soldiers, lay on their bellies,
face down, with
their hands behind their heads.

The Soviets stopped with the SS officer a few
dozen yards
away. The jeering, punching attacks resumed. The German screamed
for mercy, or
for help, or maybe cursed threats.

Cal turned back to Osimov, unsettled. “Can
you put me in
contact with the American army? I have to turn over my prisoners
and get back
to my unit.”

“And your so-called prisoners?”

“Take them with us.”

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. What would my
men say?”

“You’re their officer. Give them orders.”

“Have you ever seen a dog fight, Lieutenant?”
Osimov asked.

Cal had a hard time concentrating with all
the screaming
from the SS officer. “No, sir.”

“I did, I’m afraid to say. Lower East Side,
immigrant
family.”

So he was an American. That explained the
accent, at least.

“Ran with a rough crowd until my father moved
us back during
the Revolution,” Osimov continued. “Thing about those pit dogs
is that they do
what you want, so long as they’re scared of you. Minute they
lose that fear,
they tear off your hand. And these dogs are hungry. I have to
feed them something.”

Cal glanced at the SS officer still suffering
his abuse.
“They’re eating right now.”

“A snack. They’ll eat those other men, too,
but that won’t
be enough. The pretty women are the main course.”

“You can’t let them do it.”

“Why do you care? Is one of these girls your
lover? Did she
promise you something if you would keep her safe?”

“Damn you, Osimov. Are you some kind of
monster?”

“I have something to show you, Lieutenant, as
soon as my
sergeants arrive, and I’m no longer afraid of losing control of
these men. Once
I show you, you’ll be happy to feed these pretty Germans to my
dogs.”

When Osimov’s sergeants arrived and the
initial terror faded,
Cal began to struggle with exhaustion and hunger. Osimov
gathered the prisoners
and more than a dozen guards and set them off on a cross-country
march that ate
up most of the afternoon. By the time they walked the two hours
to the village
where the Russian had set up his headquarters, Cal could barely
stay on his
feet.

The entire company of German prisoners
completed the march
behind him, and many of them showed fatigue from the beginning.
One elderly
woman collapsed, and no amount of shouting would get her to her
feet. Cal
feared they would shoot her in the head and be done with it, but
the Russians
threw her in the back of a cart pulled by a shaggy pony.

The village was filled with these pony-pulled
carts when
they arrived, interspersed among men on horses, squatting T-34
tanks, and
American-built Jeeps, painted with red Soviet stars. Troops with
mobile
artillery, Katyusha rocket launchers on trucks, and everywhere
the ponies and
carts, carrying rations, clothing, canisters of ammunition.

No German civilians on the street, but faces
appeared in
windows, peering through glass filthy with ash and mud, and once
Cal heard a
woman’s high-pitched scream that carried on for several minutes
before it came
to an abrupt halt. Two Russian soldiers staggered out of the
house that was the
origin of the screaming. One carried a clear bottle of liquor,
and the other
was buttoning up his pants. They spotted the marching prisoners,
and poked and
pinched Greta and the other women as they passed, and then said
something to
the soldiers guarding them, who laughed.

Osimov ordered the prisoners into a house and
set guards at
the door. He kept Cal standing in the street, while he consulted
with a pair of
officers, who directed them to a second house, across the
street. Osimov moved
Cal into the house, down the hallway to the kitchen, and then
kept him standing
while two soldiers swept up smashed crockery, broken furniture,
and torn and
soiled clothing. Two men emerged from a bathroom with their
shirts untucked and
held in front of them like aprons and full of potatoes. Osimov
yelled at them
and they scurried from the house.

“Damn peasants. They shit in the streets and
wash potatoes
in the toilet.” He walked over to the kitchen sink. “Yet this
German house
still has running water. Imagine.”

He took a seat at the table and gestured for
Cal to sit
across from him.

“You marched us east,” Cal said as he
reluctantly obeyed.
“Away from American lines. I demand that you make contact with
the U.S. Army
liaison so I can turn over my prisoners and rejoin my unit.”

“You don’t want to march west. Heavy fighting
that way, even
though the bastard is finally dead. Still, they fight on.”

“Who is dead? You mean Hitler?”

“Didn’t you hear? Shot himself in his bunker
yesterday.
Berlin is in Soviet hands.”

Cal didn’t know if this was true or not, but
he didn’t see
how that mattered at this point. “Where is the American liaison?
I know your
army has one to deal with situations like this.”

“And anyway, I am not a combat officer,”
Osimov continued,
as if he hadn’t heard Cal’s question. “I am a political officer,
in spite of
where you found me. It’s my job to bring order to this mess, and
to organize
committees for the de-Nazification of Germany.”

“So you can turn the Germans into good little
communists.
Yes, I understand. Did you forget we’re allies? Or are you
trying to start
another war?” When Osimov didn’t answer, Cal added, “I demand to
speak with the
American liaison.”

Osimov said nothing, but peered at him
through his
eyeglasses. Cal refused to be intimidated. After several
minutes, the Russian
pushed away from the table and rose to his feet. He called out
and two soldiers
appeared from the opposite doors of the kitchen. They were armed
with rifles,
expressions hard, but were relatively clean and with only a day
or two of
stubble. Professionals. Osimov brushed past them and into the
front room of the
house.

“Where are you going?” Cal tried to rise to
his feet, but
the guards lowered their weapons at him and shook their heads.
He sat back down
to wait.

As night fell, it grew dark in the room.
There may have been
running water, but the electricity was out. Just when Cal
thought he’d continue
to sit there while the room turned black, another soldier
appeared with a
lantern, which he lit and placed in the center of the table.

Light or no, the exhaustion was catching up
with Cal,
overwhelming even his hunger. After nodding twice, he crossed
his arms on the
table and leaned his head down.

One of the soldiers jabbed him in the ribs
with his gun. “
Prosnis!
”

“Lay off, I’m awake.”

He sat up, blinking, but the nodding started
a moment later.
Unable to rest his head on the table, he thought he could tuck
his chin to his
chest and drift off, but before he could steal more than a
second or two, the
guard was jabbing him again and shouting for him to wake up. A
few minutes
later, the same thing. Finally, he didn’t care and ignored the
jab.

The guard yanked his chair out and he
sprawled to the
ground. After that, they didn’t let him sit down, but kept him
standing in the
center of the room until Osimov returned. That was at least an
hour later.

Cal’s temper was shot by then. “What the hell
is your
problem? I’m an American—you can’t do this to me.”

Osimov looked surprised. “What, have these
men been
mistreating you?”

“You know damn well what they’ve been doing.”

“Keeping you awake?” He shook his head, and
smiled as if at
the petty nature of Cal’s complaint. “Lieutenant Jameson, do you
typically fall
asleep during debriefings?”

“You bastard, what do you want?”

Osimov picked up the chair where it lay
sprawled to one
side. He held it out and gestured. “Please, sit down.”

When Cal complied, he took his place on the
opposite side of
the kitchen table, and slid across a large brown envelope.
“These were taken in
February, at Auschwitz. Go ahead, look. There is nothing secret
here. Soon
enough everyone will see.”

Cal unwound the string and slid the
photographs out. He
didn’t know what the man was playing at, but his irritation grew
as he set the
stack in front of him. He’d heard about the atrocities—by now,
everyone
knew—and so what good would come of this?

“What are you playing at, Osimov?”

“Look.”

The first photograph was a row of men
standing in front of a
brick building. They were skeletally thin, faces slack with
hunger and
exhaustion, and wore gray striped prison garb with six pointed
stars sewn to
their shirts.

“Go ahead, look at the next one,” Osimov
said.

“I’d prefer not to.”

His voice hardened. “I insist.” When Cal
still didn’t move,
he slapped his hand on the top photograph, and shoved it to the
side. The one
underneath showed a pit filled to overflowing with dead, naked
women. More
bodies lay on wheelbarrows and in piles in front of the pit.

“Look at them!” Osimov said when Cal turned
away. “You will
look or I will order your prisoners shot, do you understand?”

Cal looked. Each photograph was more awful
than the next.
The dead stacked like cords of wood. Big ovens for what?
Roasting dead bodies?
A pile of eyeglasses higher than a man’s head. Thousands of
shoes. Bunkers with
row after row after row of cots, each one filled with a weak,
emaciated man who
stared with dead eyes at the camera. Another pile of dead
bodies. And another.
And now children. Dear God, children.