The Prisoner

  ‘I have a meeting with Fischer at eight,’ Marc said.

  ‘Liar,’ the guard shouted. ‘Fischer isn’t even working today. What’s your prisoner number?’

  Marc wondered if the guard had made a mistake about Fischer having a day off, or if Fischer’s idea of him being his snitch was just an extra way to put the frighteners on him.

  He got his answer after several minutes of being yanked around the dockside by his collar, jabbed in the back and shouted at by two different guards until someone found some paperwork with Marc’s new work assignment on it.

  ‘Gang sixty-two,’ the guard read. ‘Get moving.’

  The guard who’d been shoving Marc about broke into a high-pitched laugh,

  ‘I don’t think Fischer likes you,’ he explained, in broken French. ‘And such a shame to spoil those nice shoes.’

  Before Marc grasped what was being asked, he got smacked up the side of the head.

  ‘Give us your shoes,’ the guard shouted. ‘How stupid can you bloody French be?’

  After handing his shoes to the guard, Marc was dragged over the quayside in socked feet to join up with a dozen wretched-looking prisoners standing under a dock crane. Their clothes were no filthier than any of the construction workers, but the smell of sewage hung over them, even in open air. Worse, many had chunks of missing hair and sores on their skin.

  The men began shaking their heads with disgust when they saw Marc. They were mostly Polish, but a couple spoke French, including a red-haired fellow.

  ‘Leonard,’ he said, by way of introduction. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fifteen,’ Marc said, figuring it best to stick to his official age.

  Leonard translated into Polish and the other men groaned with disgust.

  ‘I can pull my weight,’ Marc said defensively.

  ‘It’s not that,’ Leonard explained. ‘We don’t like the fact you’re so young. Our line of work isn’t good for your health.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  War production put Frankfurt’s industry at full stretch. Factories worked 24/7. New facilities opened all the time, staffed by slave labourers living in hastily built camps. This all-out effort led to water shortages and a sewage system on the verge of collapse.

  Gang sixty-two weren’t trusted to walk the streets in prisoner jackets. They got an armed escort on an uncomfortably brisk three-kilometre walk from the dockside to a Frankfurt Water Company maintenance depot.

  Leonard stuck close to Marc as they were assigned a job list and sent out with two other prisoners and a pistol-toting supervisor. Their open-backed cart was packed with shovels, rakes, pipes, hoses and tubs of chemicals.

  Marc’s first taste of his new job was an open sewer run-off at a women’s prison camp. The stench was familiar from every toilet he’d encountered since being taken prisoner, but rolling up trouser legs and wading into a rat-infested lagoon of human waste was all new.

  Marc fought dry heaves as he joined the other three prisoners on his team, using rakes and shovels to dig out a soggy blockage made up of newspaper and card that the women had used to wipe themselves.

  The next two jobs on the work list were similar. Marc felt sick most of the time and was terrified by the obvious risk of disease, standing barefoot in open sewage. The fourth and final job of the day was a factory, where instead of dealing with sewage they had to clamber into a fume-filled outlet pipe and shovel a build up of toffee-like sludge into wheelbarrows.

  There was a disinfectant hose down when they arrived back at the water department at the end of their shift, but it was nowhere near enough to get the stench off clothes and skin.

  Marc’s second day on the job began well enough when his German supervisor dug out a pair of rubber boots for him, but by afternoon he had a fever and was doubled over with stomach cramps.

  Leonard said everyone got sick in this job. He reckoned the first few weeks were worst for picking up infections because you gradually built up immunity. The big long-term danger was exposure to chemicals in the factory run off.

  ‘Losing all my nails,’ Leonard said, proving his point by peeling back a yellowed thumbnail that flipped up like a car door. ‘A lot of long-termers get problems with their breathing. So far I’ve been lucky with that.’

  That night Marc ran between bed and buckets with diarrhoea. He stumbled off his bunk next morning, shivering and barely able to stand. None of the other prisoners helped because he stank so bad.

  ‘Back to bed,’ a guard yelled, when Marc staggered on to the quayside.

  Marc felt awful: when it seemed life could get no worse there was always some new depth to plumb. His feverish mind thought about escape, but how could that happen when he could barely move?

  The man in the bunk above took pity and fetched Marc some bread and water when the evening meal came. The guard Marc encountered first thing next morning showed less sympathy and forced him to stagger across the quayside to meet up with his gang.

  He barely survived the three-kilometre walk to the maintenance depot and his supervisor left Marc behind, hosing down equipment and sweeping the yard.

  *

  Marc was starting to hope that Fischer had forgotten about him, but he woke that night with a hand on his throat.

  ‘How’s life?’ Fischer asked, smiling nastily as his muscular arm drove Marc down into his bed slats. ‘Night shift can be boring, you know? Old Fischer needs entertaining.’

  A couple of the other prisoners stirred as Fischer dragged Marc from his bed, then marched him ashore to a guard hut by the main exit gate.

  The security set up was identical to the Oper, with prisoner jackets piled up inside the door and a table where guards took their breaks. But the Adler had more than double the number of inmates so there were more guards around.

  ‘Patrol the perimeter,’ Fischer told a fat guard, who sat at the table puffing a small cigar. ‘I need to have a private conversation with my young friend.’

  ‘I just sat down,’ the guard complained, but one whiff of Marc sent him running for the door.

  Fischer shut the door with a backwards kick, then shoved Marc hard against the wall, before eyeballing him.

  ‘So, what information have you dug up for Old Fischer?’

  ‘It’s hard,’ Marc said, trying to hide his fear. ‘They’re not French. I can’t even understand what they’re saying.’

  ‘Didn’t ask for excuses,’ Fischer said, but then stepped back abruptly and laughed. ‘Christ, you reek of shit. Aren’t you gonna thank me for setting you up with gang sixty-two?’

  Marc scowled, which made Fischer laugh and bunch his fists.

  ‘You want me to wipe that look off?’

  Fischer threw a punch, but Marc ducked. This pissed Fischer right off. He pinned Marc to the wall with one knee before launching a volley of slaps and punches that left Marc doubled up, leaning breathlessly against the back wall.

  ‘Listen to the little snitch cry,’ Fischer roared, smirking as Marc fought off sobs. ‘Tell you what, snitch, how about you get down on your hands and knees? Old Fischer’s boots need a good tongue cleaning.’

  Marc caught his breath and looked at Fischer’s shabby, mud-crusted, boots.

  ‘Crack on,’ Fischer ordered. ‘I haven’t got all night.’

  Marc fought pain and tried to remember his training. He felt sure Henderson would be ashamed of him: sick, weak, living day-to-day without any kind of plan. But even though Fischer would hurt him badly, Marc had too much pride to lick Fischer’s boots.

  ‘No,’ Marc said, shaking his head slowly.

  Fischer cupped his ear, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re not deaf,’ Marc said bravely. ‘Clean your own damned boots.’

  Fischer’s punch slammed Marc so hard he felt like his guts would burst. Next Fischer swept Marc’s legs away, making him slam the floorboards, hard and face first. Marc expected more blows, but Fischer was surprised by another guard stepping into
the hut.

  ‘What?’ Fischer shouted irritably, but seemed happier when he saw that it was Osterhagen. ‘Recognise Vogel’s former pet? The brat who dropped us all in it.’

  ‘What did he do to end up here?’ Osterhagen asked, as he recoiled at the stench.

  ‘Night shift gets boring,’ Fischer laughed. ‘I’ve got him on gang sixty-two. Sixty hours a week wading through jobbies. That’s what happens when you cross Old Fischer.’

  Osterhagen had always treated Marc decently and to Fischer’s annoyance the young guard didn’t seem amused.

  ‘You should be on the Oper,’ Fischer growled.

  ‘I’d like to request some extra leave, sir,’ Osterhagen said. ‘My cousin’s getting married.’

  ‘You’ve used your entitlement?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Osterhagen said, as he pulled a large bottle of cognac from inside his coat. ‘My father has a large cellar. I know you’re fond of a drop, sir. You’re welcome to pick up a few bottles, with my family’s regards. Or our butler will happily deliver it.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ Fischer said, his tone warming as he inspected the cognac label, then turned to look at a duty roster on the rear wall.

  Cognac, butlers and a large cellar confirmed Marc’s theory about why Osterhagen wasn’t fighting on the Eastern Front with all the other healthy young Germans. But his own situation was of more concern. Two guards with their backs turned was a rare opportunity, but for what?

  ‘If I drop night shift here down from six guards to five, I can send an extra man across to the Oper to cover while you’re at the wedding,’ Fischer said. ‘How’s that sound?’

  Marc glanced about. He hoped to find something he could use to fight back. A loose nail, a bottle, a piece of wood. But the only thing in reach was the mound of grotty prisoner jackets and these sparked another thought: it was dark out and the main gate was only a few metres from the door of the hut.

  The gate might be locked. There might be a guard right outside. Marc had no documents, or money. But if Fischer didn’t beat him to death, working for gang sixty-two promised a nastier death from chemicals and disease. And when you’re already as good as dead, what have you got to lose?

  Weak from his illness and the beating, Marc wasn’t sure how his body would respond when he tried to move.

  ‘So everyone’s happy, except Sivertsen, who’s on night duty for the next month and a half,’ Fischer laughed, as he gave Osterhagen a slap on the back. ‘Would you like to share a quick glass before heading back?’

  There was sharp pain in Marc’s gut as he stood and his knee buckled as he crept towards the door, which Osterhagen had mercifully kept open. He slid a prisoner jacket off the pile and crawled out, as Fischer and Osterhagen clanked their glass tumblers.

  ‘Cheers,’ Fischer said.

  ‘Good health,’ Osterhagen replied, as Fischer saw Marc reflected in his glass.

  ‘You dare move!’ Fischer roared, making Osterhagen jump.

  Marc limped out of the hut and turned towards the gate. The only guard in view was the fat man who’d been in the hut. He sat twenty metres away, finishing his cigar on a bollard at the water’s edge. Marc went for the gate, but found it padlocked. The chain-link fence was climbable, but it was topped with barbed wire and Marc was in no state to climb quickly.

  Osterhagen was first out of the hut, with his baton drawn. Marc glanced across the open quayside where they lined up for roll call, but the whole area was fenced in and even in moonlight he’d make a nice easy shot for any guard with a rifle.

  A trip up the Adler’s gangplank was Marc’s only option, but he had no idea what he’d do once he got there.

  Osterhagen was surprised to see Marc running towards him and only managed a clumsy baton swipe as he swept past. The guard on the bollard got to his feet. He would have easily intercepted Marc at the base of the gangplank, but he froze stiff when Fischer’s pistol went off.

  Marc expected a bullet in the back as he ran up the gangplank, but Fischer was hopeless, his bullets splintering the wooden handrail and clanking against the hull several metres off target.

  ‘You’re better off dead,’ Fischer shouted, furious at his poor marksmanship. ‘I’ll shatter every bone in your body.’

  At the top of the gangplank Marc faced double doors in one direction and a section of warped decking leading up to Adler’s bow in the other. He crouched low, but before he got a second to think a fourth guard who’d heard the shots charged through the doors.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted, unaware that Marc was so close.

  Marc grabbed a life-preserver ring and used everything he could muster to whack the guard in the face with it. As the guard crumpled, clutching a bloody nose, Fischer was charging up the gangplank with his pistol poised.

  Marc jumped on top of his victim. His first thought was to snatch the rifle hung over the dazed guard’s shoulder, but the man’s jacket was open, exposing a ceremonial dagger with a red and black swastika embossed in the handle.

  ‘Hands up,’ Fischer shouted, as he came around the top of the gangplank, aiming the pistol from less than three metres.

  Marc had decided to die rather than surrender. With a single movement, he rolled off the guard and threw the knife. Marc was an expert knife thrower so his aim was no accident, but you need to gauge the weight of a knife and throw it a few dozen times before you get any sense of how it flies, so it was more by luck than judgement that the blade speared Fischer’s heart pointy end first.

  Fischer squeezed the trigger as he staggered backwards towards the bow. Marc sniffed gunpowder and felt a thud. He thought he’d been hit until he saw the shattered hip of the guard lying on the ground beside him.

  Blood poured across the deck as Marc freed the rifle.

  Fischer was thrashing about, trying to rip the knife out of his heart as blood foamed out of his mouth.

  Marc worried that another guard could burst out of the doors behind him, but there was enough light escaping the guard hut for him to see Osterhagen sprinting towards the telephone by the main gate. Marc took two shots with the rifle. The first only tore a lump out of the quayside concrete, but the second smashed Osterhagen in the base of the spine.

  Marc ripped the pistol out of Fischer’s hand, guessing that there could only be one or two shots left. The fat guard was still around somewhere and Fischer had just told Osterhagen that there were usually six on duty, so Marc kept low as he crept down the gangplank.

  When Marc reached the bottom, fatty was squatting with his hands raised in surrender. He looked harmless, but Marc didn’t have time to faff about disarming him or tying him up.

  What would Charles Henderson do?

  ‘Please,’ the German begged, backing up as Marc swung around with the rifle and squeezed the trigger.

  The muzzle lit up and the fat man’s head clanked against the Adler’s hull before splashdown in the river. Marc did a 360, looking for more guards, then slung the rifle over his shoulder as he limped quickly towards the gate.

  Osterhagen was a mess, face down with a bloody hole in the back of his jacket and passed out in shock. Marc felt guilty as he crouched down and ripped the blood-soaked keys off his belt.

  The telephone receiver was dangling and Marc heard a crackly voice on the other end going, Did we hear shots? We’re sending a response team over, as he tried the keys in the lock. Marc considered telling them things were fine, but while he spoke decent German he reckoned his age and French accent counted against passing himself off as one of the guards.

  When Marc got to the fifth key he remembered that Osterhagen worked on the Oper, so why would he have the key for this gate?

  Marc decided to look in the hut. If that failed he’d have to go back up the gangplank to get them off Fischer. When he turned back towards the Adler, Marc noticed a few prisoners out on the deck, trying to see what had happened.

  To Marc’s relief, the gate key was inside the hut, attached to a huge wooden key fob with Main Gate Do Not R
emove written on it. As Marc walked back to the gate, a few curious prisoners had ventured as far as the gangplank.

  They seemed happy to find Fischer dead, but there was no prospect of a mass breakout. These were the exhausted, timid men that Marc was terrified of turning into. Prisoners were already heading for refuge in their bunks before reinforcements arrived.

  As the padlock popped and the gate swung, Marc noticed a silver bike resting against the fence. It was a racing bike, the kind only a rich, young gent like Osterhagen could afford to own. With a rifle over his shoulder and a pistol inside his jacket, Marc straddled the bicycle and pushed off.

  Adrenaline had got him this far, but Fischer had battered him and he was running on flat batteries as he pedalled away, with weak legs and fingers barely able to grip the handlebars.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Marc’s first priority was to put distance between himself and the scene of his escape. He raced along the riverbank, heading towards Großmarkthalle for no reason beyond the fact that Osterhagen’s bike had been pointing that way.

  The hugeness of what had happened sat in Marc’s gut like a rock: deep in Germany, no money, passes, or maps. If they caught him, his death would be slow and probably in front of several hundred prisoners to make an example of him.

  Marc had no watch, but he guessed 3 a.m. There was nobody on the waterfront and no artificial light because of the air raid threat. This gave Marc some anonymity, but a Hitler Youth or police patrol might lurk around the next dark corner.

  Many prisoners worked nights, and Marc’s prisoner jacket would get him past all but the most persistent of patrols. But no prisoner ever rode a bike – especially a beauty like this one.

  Once he’d ridden a kilometre and a half, Marc rolled up to the dockside wall, took a glance around and felt sad ditching the best bike he’d ever ridden in the river. He also ditched the rifle because it looked obvious, but he kept Fischer’s pistol tucked inside his trousers.