Vengeance 10

Rodalski’s German was worse than his English. ‘Woodcutter is’ — he fumbled for the words he wanted — ‘knowing wise of woods. You never see him again until war is over. I go to Russia soon. I never see him again, ever.’

As they walked on through the still night Memling thought about Rodalski’s seeming equanimity in the face of certain death on the Russian front. Wolcowitz had described in some detail the extraordinary reverses both sides had taken in recent months. There had been a huge tank battle near the Russian city of Kursk a few weeks before, perhaps the largest the world had ever seen, and as a result Wolcowitz claimed there would never be another German victory in Russia. With Allied aid and their own factories relocated in the Urals, the Russians could absorb their massive losses, but the Germans could not. In response to Jan’s contention that the Germans could, by virtue of their industrial base, absorb far more than a tank defeat, Wolcowitz had dismissed Stalingrad as merely an example of German stupidity matching Russian stupidity.

And here was his guide going to Russia as part of an army that endured casualties at the rate of seven in ten — ten in ten in certain foreign conscript and punishment regiments. But like Wolcowitz, Rodalski did not seem to care so long as he could first kill as many of one side or the other as possible.-

It was dawn before they reached their destination, a farm near the edge of the forest. Rodalski led Memling to a small outbuilding and cautioned him to stay well hidden, as the owner was a loyal German. He left Memling two packages of field rations and a bottle of water, enough to last until someone came for him. With a cheery ‘Good luck’, he was gone, the rising sun outlining his sturdy figure as he strode back into the forest — that was the last sight Memling had of him.

* * *

The following days merged to form one of the strangest interludes in Memling’s life. Not even his experiences in Belgium could compare. He was shuttled back and forth across this obscure corner of Germany by a succession of people who were either natives or foreign prisoner-workers released to do ‘land service’. Most such moves involved hiking for miles along dusty country roads. He saw only two soldiers during this time, both on leave, friendly and willing to talk and share cigarettes, which his guides seemed to have in greater quantity than the soldiers. After a few such days Memling’s constant fear eased to the point where he was able to keep his voice under control and his hands no longer shook in unguarded moments.

The sojourn began to take on the aspects of a summer holiday. The weather remained beautiful — clear and warm with mild evenings and short nights. By stages, although the route was never divulged, Memling concluded they were heading in the general direction of Wolgast on the River Peene. On the twelfth day his guide was a friendly and buxom German girl who introduced herself gigglingly as Francine. Her father, it appeared, had brought a French bride home from the Great War. She set a smart pace that rarely varied during the long morning. Memling guessed they were approaching the coast, as the air had lost its stifling summer heat and there were more people about.

Towards noon an army lorry carrying a squad of field-equipped troops went by, dipping precariously as the soldiers lined the side, whistling and shouting invitations to Francine. The girl waved and blew kisses until the lorry was safely past, then swore in German. ‘Reservists,’ she spat. ‘All rich enough to avoid the front service. I would not mind if they were regular troops, front-line or not.’

Memling was puzzled. The girl’s comment seemed inconsistent with her present occupation, but when he remarked on it, she only shrugged.

‘Our soldiers are fighting to destroy the communists. If they do not, the communists will destroy Germany. It is as simple as that.’ She turned to him, pert face screwed up with suspicion.

‘Are you one of those English communists?’ she demanded, and Memling laughed to conceal his sudden uneasiness. He realised from remarks made by previous guides that should the girl suspect he was, he might not live out the night.

‘Of course not. There are a few communists in England, but not many and certainly not in the employ of the government.’

Francine snorted. ‘So you think. They are there. Believe me. You should find and shoot them all. Every one of them.’

As they resumed their march his curiosity was aroused by this seeming contradiction, isn’t that a bit drastic?’ he asked. ‘After all, they are our allies.’

Francine spat again, and it began to dawn on Memling how deep was the hatred many Germans held for the communists.