Peter Idone - Red Vengeance

Yes, and the gallows will serve as a beacon of our presence and what the Wehrmacht is capable of , Voss thought, whether we were a party to it or not .

“How many panzerfausts in our possession?” Falkenstein asked.

“Two.”

Falkenstein groaned. “And mines?”

Voss did the arithmetic. “Three magnetic antitank mines and the satchel charge.”

“And the flamethrower.”

“Yes, sir. And there is Khan’s antitank rifle,” Voss reminded him.

“Oh well, it will have to do.” Falkenstein did not sound at all convincing as to the effectiveness of this meager arsenal. Voss wondered what the captain thought of their chances for success but refrained from asking.

Angst regarded the scene with bewilderment and disgust as he and Detwiler made their way out of the town square. The majority of the Ukrainians wore mismatched parts of Red Army and German uniforms; some were dressed in mufti and had armbands signifying their status as auxiliary police. “Circus freaks. The whole lot,” Angst commented.

Detwiler became agitated. “Don’t stare, for Christ’s sake. The Einsatzgruppen can be real terrors when they want to be.”

“What is it they do? I mean, what purpose do they actually serve?”

Detwiler shook his head in amazement at the question. “They enforce the policies of the Reich, here in the east. Does that explain it for you? The Einsatzgruppen have followed on the heels of the army since the beginning of the invasion, policing the occupied areas against partisans and undesirables, mainly.”

“Like that sorry bunch strung up at the edge of town?”

“They have their orders, same as us; so just leave it be.”

“I remember hearing wild rumors circulating back at my company—”

“Forget everything you heard back home or in France, or wherever the hell you came from. It will serve you no good here. There are times when you will be called upon to do things that aren’t particularly to your liking. Things that go against the grain as to how you were brought up, but you do it anyway. Some things you didn’t know you were capable of.” Detwiler had grown unusually reflective, for someone so crass and obnoxious in Angst’s estimation.

“What kind of things?” Angst asked, expecting the machine gunner to tell him to fuck off or utter some other obscenity, but to his surprise, Detwiler became rather loquacious. “Our unit was taken out of the line. It happened during last year’s summer offensive. We were to support a group much like this one, making a sweep of the villages of all partisans or communists. They were Jews mostly. We were ordered to shoot everyone—it didn’t matter, men, women, even kids. It was like drowning kittens if you have the stomach for such things. I saw a hundred peasants herded into a barn, the doors nailed shut, and then put to the torch. Their screams rang in my head for days. I couldn’t get drunk enough to dampen that noise.”

Angst was appalled. The rumors he had heard—spoken furtively back at camp, in France, back home—that were met with skepticism, caution, and denial were true. “All those people, civilians, why? What was the reason? What could they have done to deserve such a brutal fate?”

“You don’t ask why, you simply obey. They’re Untermenschen, and that’s all you need to know. You don’t argue with the likes of the Einsatzgruppen, are you crazy? Those SS fellows are committed like no one else on earth. I see someone burned alive inside a locked barn, I’m not about to have an opinion. All I can say is, better them than me.”

“Was Schroeder in on that with you?”

Detwiler did not answer. As far as he was concerned, the conversation had ended. They had reached the north side of town, where the River Road ran diagonally from the east toward the west. The houses, spaced well apart at this end, were large, some even two-storied. The homes probably belonged to wealthy farmers before the revolution, Angst thought, and then later, under the Bolsheviks, the local party leaders. The houses varied in the degree of damage; all were looted and several partially burned. “Why don’t you look these over,” Detwiler said, indicating the three houses nearest the square, “While I scout further down the road?” He headed east, in the direction of the workers’ settlement, lugging the heavy MG42 over one shoulder and a belt of ammunition over the other. The weight did not seem to hamper his stride. Angst decided on a house, one of three that was nearest the square, as the lieutenant had requested, which from outward appearances possessed the least damage. The sloping tin roof was blemished with rust, and the gray wash on the planking had become streaked with chalking. An attempt had been made to burn the place; a section of the wood siding on the left side of the house was blackened with soot. No doubt the weather had dampened the flames and saved it from conflagration. What appeared to be draperies of a dull mustard color lay in a sodden pile on the ground in the front yard. A lavender-colored door, blistered and peeling, stood open. Angst stepped up on to the small stoop, entered, and took in the first floor at a glance. A small round-topped table lay overturned on the floor, and the only other piece of furniture was a tatty upholstered chair. The ghost outline of framed wall hangings was evident on the crème-colored walls. Although now empty, Angst sensed the house had once been furnished in a typically German middle-class manner, or at least as much as was possible under the circumstances, way out here in the wild eastern frontier. A small pantry lay to his left, the stove tiles smashed, and to the rear was a parlor or sitting room. He did not venture deeper into the house but immediately climbed the stairs to the second floor. A loft space had been converted into two bedrooms. Dust balls remained from where the furniture had been carted away. A cracked mirror leaned against a wall. Something caught his eye, an object on the floor, and he picked it up. It was a faux tortoiseshell ladies compact. He put it in his pocket. A musky fragrance lingered, perfume, and a rough human odor that was not entirely unpleasant. He heard thumping down below and called out “Detwiler, I’m up here.” There was no response so he returned to the first floor. The machine gunner was nowhere in sight. “Detwiler,” he called again. He walked into the parlor. The room smelled of stale beer, and he immediately understood why. At the far wall to the right was a small bar with two stools. The shelving that formed the back bar had been ransacked. Broken bottles and splinters of glass lay on the floor. Automatically, he stepped around behind the bar to see if any schnapps or whatever dregs might be stored underneath and had not been consumed by the bandits outside. What he saw took him by such surprise it took several moments to register. A red floral-patterned fabric stretched tightly across a wide, pear-shaped bottom. Someone knelt on all fours, a woman, in an effort to hide. The worn cloth slippers showed the callused heels of her feet. He poked her in the bum with a toe. “ Rukiye verch! ” he practically screamed. The woman scrambled to her feet and uttered a short cry. She turned and looked at Angst with bulging brown eyes. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” She shook her head to both questions. “ Rooska-ya ?” This she understood and kept nodding. He motioned for her to come out from behind the bar, waving the submachine gun threateningly. He told her to sit down and pointed the muzzle of his weapon at a barstool. “Elenya,” she said, introducing herself, and spoke in Russian or Ukrainian. Angst could not distinguish between the two languages. He then heard words spoken in German, but her accent was so deplorable, he found it difficult to follow. It sounded as though she had been a maid or cook for some colonel and the “railroad men.” Then she uttered something that sounded like “Don’t hurt us.”