Дэвид Муди - Red Devils

SS-Obergruppenführer Jakob Wolfensohn marched along the narrow corridor towards the dead heart of the extermination camp, his entourage following nervously in his wake, chasing after the tails of his leather greatcoat. SS-Unterscharführer Ruprecht Weigle’s heart raced as he brought up the rear. The noise of marching jackboots was deafening, amplified out of all proportion by the close confines of the grey stone castle walls. Weigle’s nervousness was such that he thought he might pass out, but he didn’t dare. He could not picture a more intimidating place to be, nor a more intimidating commander to be escorting.

Weigle was not alone in his unease. This cold, oppressive, hate and death-fuelled place instilled fear in even the blackest Nazi heart. Wolfensohn’s aggression and clinical hostility was renowned throughout the Reich, and yet even his pulse quickened as they neared the experimentation room.

They were all waiting for him, as ordered. Wolfensohn could see the nervousness in their faces; the way their eyes followed his every move, and how they almost competed with each other to be the first to salute and ‘Seig Heil!’ . He strode to the front of the room and sat in an empty chair, facing the wall. The grey concrete was pockmarked. Blood stains and splatters. There were tide marks on the floor.

Obersturmbannführer Scherler, chief of the camp and an odious little wretch in Wolfensohn’s opinion, sat down beside him. ‘I think you will be pleased by our progress, Herr Obergruppenführer,’ he said.

‘I hope for your sake you are right, Scherler. The Führer grows tired of your excuses.’

Scherler squirmed, his mouth dry. He knew what was at stake here, and he also knew he was running out of chances. He was relieved when an inconspicuous-looking door opened and Untersturmführer Honigsman entered and saluted. Behind Honigsman, two civilian scientists followed. After them were two stormtroopers, one of whom dragged a prisoner behind him: a pitifully weak-looking man with a hollowed-out chest, patchy hair, and limbs which looked like skin-wrapped bones, devoid of all muscle and strength. Wolfensohn regarded the prisoner with a mix of curiosity and disdain. His disdain extended to the scientists also. ‘I have little time for these people. It’s soldiers like us who will win this war, not ineffective underlings such as this.’

One of the scientists approached. The taller of the two, this was Professor Anton Eisen, a biologist from Berlin. ‘With respect, Herr Obergruppenführer, the serum we have developed will make your soldiers more powerful than you could imagine. We will—’

‘Quiet!’ Scherler bellowed, jumping to his feet. ‘You will not address the Obergruppenführer directly. Is that understood?’

Professor Eisen nodded meekly and backed away.

The stormtroopers shackled the prisoner to the wall, though the man had such little fight remaining that any one of the Nazis would have easily been able to deal with him on their own. He made no attempt to resist, all energy gone. His fate had been sealed the moment he’d arrived at Polonezköy, he’d known it all along. It wasn’t a matter of if he died here, it was a question of when . He looked at the boots of the Nazis watching him – not daring to look directly into their faces – and hoped it would be soon.

Wolfensohn was growing impatient. The two scientists were busying themselves around a rickety wooden table with no apparent sense of urgency. ‘ Schnell! ’ he yelled, filling the room with noise. ‘My time is being wasted here.’

Professor Eisen looked at Obersturmbannführer Scherler for permission to begin. Scherler nodded, and Eisen cleared his throat. ‘With apologies. We are ready now.’

Eisen may have been ready, but his colleague clearly wasn’t. He continued preparing phials and syringes.

Eisen cleared his throat. ‘Doctor Månsson, it is time.’

Månsson looked up, but would not be hurried. ‘This process requires great care. If the agent was to be let loose in this confined space, we would all bare witness to its incredible power first-hand.’

‘Show me your research now, Doctor Månsson, or it is my power you will see first hand,’ Wolfensohn warned. ‘I’ll warrant that whatever you have in your damn test tubes is no match for me.’

Månsson almost took the bait, but resisted. Like the prisoner of war shackled to the wall next to him, he too knew his fate was sealed. Yet Månsson had no desire to die just yet.

Wolfensohn turned to Scherler again. ‘Is the involvement of this pathetic Swede really necessary? I’ve little time for the Swedish. They flip-flop between us and the enemy like miserable cowards.’

‘Quite, Herr Obergruppenführer, however Doctor Månsson is an expert in his field. I think you will be impressed.’

The stormtroopers moved to either side of the room now, leaving the prisoner alone and exposed. He wore only a pair of loose-fitting trousers and an equally baggy over-shirt which was torn and hung open, exposing his painfully thin torso and protruding ribs. One of Wolfensohn’s entourage took a photograph, and the flash startled the prisoner as if it had been a gunshot. In his mind he imagined the picture being placed alongside a family photograph he’d had taken several years ago. He had a flickering, fleeting memory of the man he used to be: proud and strong, hard-working, a good father and a loving husband. That man was gone now. All self-worth lost forever. Broken. Bare feet on concrete. Mouth full of ulcers. Muscles full of pain. Piss and blood stains. Hopelessness.

Professor Eisen jabbed a needle into his upper arm, and the prisoner prayed it would bring the blessed relief he craved. The edges of his vision quickly lost focus, and the world became black momentarily. He felt his legs buckle, but he did not feel the fall. Still strung up, little more than a skeleton wrapped in rags, he juddered, twitched and shook, and then was still. Blood-tinged spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

Wolfensohn was not impressed, and wasted no time in letting his displeasure be known. ‘Pathetic,’ he shouted angrily. ‘You bring me all this way, and for what?’ He stood up and drew his pistol, pointing it at Eisen then Månsson in quick succession. Eisen cowered, Månsson did not. ‘I already know how to kill, you imbeciles.’

‘Wait, Herr Obergruppenführer, please,’ Eisen said meekly, but Wolfensohn was incensed. He kicked the prisoner’s outstretched leg, then emptied several rounds from his Walther P38 into the dead man’s chest.

Wolfensohn turned his weapon on Scherler. ‘You promised me progress,’ he bellowed. ‘You said these men had created something which would ensure victory.’

‘And they have, Herr Obergruppenführer, look.’

Scherler pointed at the prisoner. Wolfensohn took a step back with surprise. The dead man’s hands were twitching in his shackles. His body was broken and his torso filled with lead but, incredibly, he appeared to still be alive. His movements were initially slow and laboured, but regained strength and purpose with each passing second. Soon he was standing completely upright, face-to-face with the stunned SS officer.

‘I suggest you move a little further away, Herr Obergruppenführer,’ suggested Professor Eisen.

‘What? You expect me to give ground to this miserable—’

His words were abruptly truncated when the prisoner launched himself forward with astonishing violence and fury. So violent was his attack that one of his shoulders was dislocated, wrenched from its socket, and yet he appeared oblivious to any pain. Wolfensohn staggered back with surprise, knocking into chairs and almost losing his balance. The prisoner craned and strained to get free, clawing at the air, desperate to get at him.