Philip Kerr - A Man Without Breath

‘I used to be a cop. A detective. At the Alex.’

‘I haven’t committed any war crime,’ he protested.

‘I’m afraid the priest says different, which is why you were arrested.’

‘Priest.’ The corporal’s tone was scathing.

‘The one you left for dead.’

‘Rasputin, more like. Have you seen him? That so-called priest? Black devil.’

I offered him a cigarette and as he took it, I lit this and explained that his commanding officer, Field Marshal von Kluge, had asked me to come to the prison and determine if there were indeed grounds for a court martial.

The corporal grunted his thanks for the cigarette and studied the hot end for a moment as if comparing it with his own situation.

‘Incidentally, those marks on your chest and neck,’ I said. ‘They look like cigarette burns. How did you come by them?’

‘They’re not cigarette burns,’ he said. ‘They’re bites. From the bedbugs. A whole fucking army of bedbugs.’ He took a nervous puff and started to scratch eloquently.

‘So why don’t you tell me what happened? In your own words.’

He shook his head. ‘I certainly haven’t committed any war crimes.’

‘All right. Let’s talk about the other fellow, your comrade, Sergeant Kuhr. He’s quite a fellow, isn’t he? First-class Iron Cross, old fighter – that means he was a member of the Nazi Party before the Reichstag election of 1930, doesn’t it?’

‘I’ve got nothing to say about Wilhelm Kuhr,’ said Hermichen.

‘That’s a pity, because this is your one chance to put your side of the story. I’ll be speaking to him after you and I expect he’ll tell me his side of the story. So if he blames it all on you it will be your misfortune. From where I’m sitting you both look guilty as hell, but generally speaking military courts like to balance justice with clemency, albeit in a completely arbitrary way. And my guess is they’ll only convict one of you. The question is, which one? You or Sergeant Kuhr?’

‘I really don’t understand what this shit is all about. Even if I did kill those two Ivans – and I’m not saying I did – what the fuck?’

‘They weren’t Ivans,’ I said. ‘They were just a couple of laundry maids.’

‘Well, whatever I’m supposed to have done the SS has done a lot fucking worse – Sloboda, Polotsk, Bychitsa, Biskatovo. I went through those places. They must have shot three hundred Jews in those four villages alone. But I don’t see anyone charging them bastards with murder.’

‘ Rape and murder,’ I said, reminding him of the whole charge that had been laid against him. I shrugged. ‘Look, I tend to agree with you. For the reasons you mentioned, the whole idea of charging idiots like you with war crimes in this theatre strikes me as absurd. However, the field marshal feels rather differently about these things. He’s not like you or me. He’s the old-fashioned type. An aristocrat. The kind who believes there’s a proper way to conduct yourself if you’re a soldier in the Wehrmacht, and an example must be made of someone who deviates from that standard. Especially since you were both part of the platoon guarding his headquarters at Krasny Bor. Which is hard luck for you, corporal. He’s determined to make an example of you and Sergeant Kuhr unless I can persuade him that there’s been a mistake.’

‘What sort of example?’

‘They’ll try you tomorrow and after they find you guilty they’ll hang you on Sunday. Right here in the yard outside. They were erecting the gallows as I came through the door of the prison. That kind of an example.’

‘They wouldn’t,’ he said.

‘I’m afraid they would. And they do. I’ve seen it. The commanders are coming down hard on that kind of thing.’ I shrugged. ‘I’m here to help, if I can.’

‘But what about Hitler’s decree?’ said the corporal.

‘What about it?’

‘I heard about this barbarian decree the leader had made that said it wasn’t the same standard required out here, see? On account of how the Slavs are fucking barbarians.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, anyone can see that, can’t they? I mean look at them. Life means less down here than it does back home. Anyone can see that.’

‘The Ivans are not so bad. Just people, trying to survive, make a living.’

‘No, they’re hardly human. Barbarians is right.’

‘By the way, it’s not called the barbarian decree, you block-head,’ I sneered. ‘It’s the Barbarossa Decree, after the German Holy Roman Emperor of the same name. He led the Third Crusade, which is probably why we chose to name the military operation we’ve mounted against the Soviet Union after him in the first place. Out of some misplaced sense of fucking history. Not that you’d know much about history. What you’d better know is that this decree was not passed on to the local field commanders by Von Kluge. Like a lot of those old-style general staff officers, the field marshal chose to sit on Hitler’s decree – you might say, even to ignore it altogether. And it certainly didn’t apply to those men guarding Army Group Centre headquarters. What the SS and the SD do is their affair. And I must tell you this: if you and your old fighter friend were gambling on an appeal to Berlin over the field marshal’s head, then you can forget it. That’s just not going to happen. So you’d better start talking.’

Corporal Hermichen hung his head and sighed. ‘That bad, eh?’

‘Damn right that bad. My advice to you is to make a statement as quickly as possible in the hope of saving your neck. I’m not really interested in whether you hang or not. No, what I’m more interested in is the way you – or your sergeant – killed those two women.’

‘I didn’t have anything to do with that. That was Sergeant Kuhr. He killed them both. Rape – yes, I went along with that. He raped the mother and I raped the daughter. But I was for letting them go. It was the sarge who insisted on killing them. I tried to talk him out of it, but he said killing them was best.’

‘This was in a quiet spot west of the Kremlin, right?’

The corporal nodded. ‘Narwastrasse. There’s a little cemetery just north of there. That’s where it – where it happened. We’d followed them from our barracks on Kleine Kasernestrasse where they did the laundry, to a little chapel. The church of the Archangel Michael – Svirskaya, I think the Ivans call it. Anyway, we waited for them to come out of the church and then followed them south down Regimenstrasse. When they went in the cemetery, the sarge said they were leading us on so we could fuck them in there. That they wanted to us to fuck them. Well, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all.’

‘You followed them how?’

‘Motorcycle and sidecar. The sarge was driving.’

‘So that means you were carrying the jerrycan full of gasoline, in the sidecar.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The witness – the Russian Orthodox priest from the Svirskaya church who saw you, who took the number on the bike’s licence plate, who you shot and left for dead – he says you burned the bodies with the gasoline, and that you had the gasoline beside you when you were raping the laundry maids. By the way, why didn’t you burn his body, too?’

‘We were going to. But we ran out of gasoline and he was too big to haul on top of them.’

‘Which one of you shot the priest?’

‘The sarge. Didn’t hesitate. Soon as he saw him. Pulled his Luger and let him have it. That was half an hour before we finished with the two girls, during which time we didn’t hear a peep out of him, which persuaded us he was dead. But of course it was just a flesh wound and he was just knocked out. Fell down and banged the back of his head. I mean, how were we to know?’