‘A health to the Soviet people,’ shouts Kostia. He rolls his black, Asiatic eyes confusedly when he realizes that there is something wrong with his toast. Although there are 250 million people in Russia, even the dumbest OGPU man knows that nobody cares to be called a Soviet citizen. He pushes a handful of caviare into his mouth and pours vodka on top of it. Then he toasts himself.
‘A toast to Berlin!’ suggests the Commissar, pleasantly.
‘To Moscow!’ hiccoughs Porta. He carries the chipped porcelain cup to his lips, and almost falls over.
‘Not forgetting Hamburg!’ roars ‘Whorecatcher’.
‘Thank you,’ sobs Tiny, moved. ‘You are all’ereby invited to’ Amburg! We’ll meet at the fur Jew’s kid David’s place at ‘Ein’ Oyerstrasse no 10, and there’ll be a red alert out to all the ’ighclass ’ores from “Chéri”.’ He gets to his feet, swaying. ‘To Tashkent!’ he sobs, lifting his tin cup. It is a mystery how he knows there is a town called Tashkent, but, as always, he is full of surprises. Some people have died from them.
Heide is exercising Kostia. He is teaching him the German salute and the Prussian goosestep. Unfortunately every time Kostia gets his foot up on a level with his belt buckle he falls over backwards. In the end he gives up and sits looking sadly up at the racing snow-clouds.
‘Thank God I am not a German!’ he groans. ‘They are far too energetic!’
It is icy cold when we wake up in the old roadmender’s hut.
Porta puts both hands to his throbbing head. It is possible he may have felt worse at some time in his life, but just now he cannot remember when.
‘Job tvojemadj!’ groans Kostia, looking as if he has just been shot. ‘What have they done to Kostia?’
Albert laughs loudly. He is one of those happy people who never have hangovers. Hangovers are always amusing – for those who do not suffer from them.
‘You black cannibal,’ screams Tiny cantankerously, making a face at him. ‘If I wasn’t sick I’d give you such a bashin’. You rotten apeman, you!’
The Commissar wakes up with a piercing scream. He thinks that the worst thing that can happen to a Russian has happened to him. He has been locked up in the cellars of the Lubyanka. He begins shouting at us in Odessa Yiddish, then goes over to German and claims he is chief of the SS.
‘They must’ve put something really Russian in that Moskovskaja,’ moans Gregor, his eyes brimming tears. ‘It was strong enough to knock over a tree and turn it into sawdust!’
‘It was bleedin’ strong, I can tell you,’ mumbles Tiny, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘I got a little bleedin’ drop of it on my finger, an’ now the nail’s gone!’ He has forgotten he has caught his fingers two days earlier in the turret hatch.
‘I have suddenly realized, Josefvitschi,’ says the Commissar to Porta, with a broad smile,’ that you are a crazy fellow. The most crazy fellow I have ever met! How the devil did you ever become a soldier?’
‘Yes, I’ve wondered about that myself, ‘Porta laughs, heartily. ‘But, as you must know, the most important jobs in the world are being a soldier or a whore!’
‘There’s only two kinds of bints,’ shouts Tiny, with a cunning look on his face. ‘The’ ores an’ the dumb ’uns!’
‘Let everybody think you’re an ordinary, dumb twit,’ explains Porta, ‘an’ you can stay standing upright on the crust of the earth enjoying watching the rest of ’em fall off!
It is late next day when we finally take leave of one another. We cannot stop embracing, and agreeing meeting-places after the war.
High on a hilltop Porta stops the T-34, and we wave a final goodbye to our Russian friends who are disappearing in the distance on the road to Moscow.
‘Sag’ mir beim Abschied leise Servus,
ist ein schöner letzter Gruss,
wenn man Abschied nehmen muss . . .*’
Porta hums. Resolutely he starts the Otto motor up again.
As we get closer to the front line, traffic increases. We get tied up in traffic jams several times. There are Russian MPs everywhere. We are glad we are riding in a T-34, which does not draw the slightest attention.
We come to a halt. Papers are to be checked. Our hands grip mpis and grenades nervously. Porta shows our propusk and chatters in a mixture of Russian and German.
‘Volga Germans,’ mumbles the fat MP, and looks as if he would like to eat us.
‘Right tovaritsch!’ smiles Porta, offering him a swig from the water-bottle.’
The long column of artillery and tanks begins to move forward again.
The MP jumps down from the T-34 and waves us on.
For several hours we drive on in the middle of the column. Then Porta manages to turn off into a narrow forest path. Well into the woods he stops. We jump down and run about in the snow to thaw out our icy feet.
‘I’m fed up!’ says Tiny. ‘I want to go home!’
‘Good heavens, a general!’ whispers Gregor. fearfully.
Three fur-clad forms appear from the closely ranked trees. It is a Lieutenant-general and two staff officers. They are carrying heavy briefcases, chained to their wrists.
‘Who the devil are you?’ snaps the general, in a deep, guttural voice. His sharp blue eyes peer at us from below white bushy brows.
‘Volga Germans, gospodin general,’ answers Porta in his best Russian.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ the general goes on suspiciously. He takes a red and white packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lights one and blows smoke thoughtfully through his nose. ‘Aren’t you, rather, deserters? It seems to me very strange that you have stopped here to take a rest. You’re a long way from the tank positions!’
‘We lost our way,’ answers Porta, throwing his arms wide.
Propusk!’ the general demands, putting out his hand.
A lot of things happen in a very short space of time. The general is down in the snow, stretched there by a blow from the edge of Tiny’s shovel of a hand.
A short burst comes from the slim colonel’s machine-pistol. A bullet burns across the side of Tiny’s head. Blood pours down over his face.
The Legionnaire smashes the colonel’s face in with a butt stroke.
The third officer, a lieutenant-colonel turns and begins to run off through the knee-deep snow.
‘Stoi!’ shouts Barcelona, readying his mpi. Stoi!’ he repeats, sending a short burst of bullets whipping around the officer.
The lieutenant-colonel stops and raises both hands above his head.
‘Germanski?’ cries the general, in amazement, getting slowly to his feet. He rubs his neck and swears softly.
‘Well, we did get our general!’ grins Porta, happily. ‘See what they’ve got in those briefcases!’
‘Well, look at this!’ cries Barcelona, in surprise. ‘They’re draggin’ a whole army corps battle order with ’em out here in the forest! They won’t only kiss our cheeks, they’ll kiss our arses too when we get back with this lot!’
The general tries to do a deal with us. He offers us the world if we’ll let him turn the tables and take us in.
‘Think we’re that stupid?’ jeers Tiny, with a roar of laughter.
‘Don’t forget dancing’s better than hanging!’ says the general, with an obviously threatening tone in his voice.
A German SP section breaks through the sapling trees.
Like lightning the Legionnaire is out there, waving a snow camouflage shirt.
With a deafening crash of tracks the leading SP comes to a halt. A hard-looking major with a machine-pistol in his hands leans out of the turret and snaps, harshly:
‘Halt! Hände hoch!’
Two artillerymen jump from the gun with mpis at the ready. They order the Legionnaire over to the major, who breaks into a roar of laughter at the very idea of our being Germans. He changes his mind, however, when he sees the contents of the Russian briefcases.
‘Well I’m damned,’ he mutters. He salutes the captured general, who looks like a man w
ho has lost everything he owned at poker.
‘We’ll meet again,’ he says to Porta, and sends him a look which ought to have sent his army teeth down his throat.
We are on our way back to regiment, and there we get a reception equal to that of the prodigal son.
Oberst Hinka is delighted. When the interrogation officer is finished with the two Russians, wild activity commences in 4 Panzer Army.
Porta is resting in Helena’s brothel, getting up strength to go over and tell Chief Mechanic Wolf the sad news of where the gold has ended up.
Some of the girls are dancing closely together to the music of a balalaika. Porta is the only male guest. A Tartar girl is sitting at the bar showing off her beautifully-formed legs. Her narrow eyes regard him with interest. Soon she sways over to him and sits on the edge of the table. Her narrow black skirt rides up to well above the edge of her stockings.
‘You have measles?’ she asks, letting a long, slim finger slide over the red paint spots which are left as a reminder of Tiny’s marker shell.
‘Only German measles!’ answers Porta sadly.
‘German measles?’ she trills. ‘That is catching?’
‘Only for Germans,’ answers Porta, looking national.
‘You are prettiest tankman I ever see,’ she whispers, giving him a look which could have melted a glacier. She slips down from the table and presses her body intimately against him. ‘Would you like to come and see my room?’ she asks, taking his hand, and pressing it between her warm thighs.
Porta smells her. Cheap perfume and old beer mixed. A lustful gleam comes into his small eyes.
She takes a small sip from his glass.
‘You like to fuck now?’ she asks, sighing deeply. She takes another tiny sip from his glass. ‘I am good fuck! When you go with me it will be first time in your life you really fuck!’
The door bangs open, and Chief Mechanic Wolf marches in, his spurs jingling and his Brosini riding boots flashing.
‘So here you are, then. Thin and crazy. Don’t give a sod about telling any of us others how things’ve gone off! I’ve been lookin’ for you everywhere!’ He turns round and sees the Tartar girl. She is back on the table edge again with her skirt so high you can see she is wearing no underclothing.
‘Buy yourself a piece o’ cunt, then! Slant-eyes there’s all right! Then we can get over to my place! I think we must have a lot of things to talk over!’
‘You’ve been to the barber’s,’ grins Porta, running his hand over the girl’s crutch. ‘And you’ve had a shave too,’ he smiles to her.
‘Like it?’ asks Wolf, in a self-satisfied voice. He passes his hand over his coal-black hair, which is shiny with brilliantine. ‘My barber’s famous, you know! Had a shop at “Kempinski”. Even rich old bald bastards with no more’n five hairs left used to go to him to get permed. “War Minister” Sally sent him out here when the army finally found out they could use him in a war. As you can see he’s sculptured my hair in the latest Hollywood style!’
‘Well, well!’ said Porta, blowing smoke between the girl’s thighs. ‘I prefer the professor style myself, with a couple of balls of cottonwool stickin’ out overa feller’s ears. Makes you look clever!’
There is silence for a while. Porta blows smoke between the girl’s legs again, leans back in his chair and balances it on two legs. He pulls back his upper lip in a jeering hyena grin. It makes him look like a snarling dog. He has been practising it for a long time!
‘You gonna fuck, or you goin’ over to my place?’ asks Wolf, impatiently.
Porta puts his hands on the girl’s knees. Wolfs hand-sewn Brosini riding boots squeak.
‘Don’t waste my time with all that shit,’ he rasps, bitterly. ‘Come on! We’re off! You can fuck her some other time! If you live long enough that is!’ he adds, dropping his voice to a subterranean rumble. ‘I can tell you Sally’s on his way here from Berlin, and he’s got a couple of these sudden-death fellers with him!’ He stops speaking for a moment, and awaits a reaction to his sad news.
‘Really?’ answers Porta, looking as if he had heard nothing of any importance.
‘You fuck now?’ asks the Tartar girl, rubbing Porta’s crotch. ‘Better fuck than get shot! Come! We go this way!’
‘No we don’t!’ roars Wolf. ‘This is the way we’re goin’!’
A little way down the street Wolf stops again and stands in front of Porta with his British swagger-stick lifted as if he were going to hit him with it.
‘Listen ’ere, you shit, I don’t seem to’ve expressed myself clearly enough! I said Sally was on the way! And he’s determined that either he gets the gold he’s got a right to, or else you go off suddenly on a one-way ticket! I’m tellin’ you this as a friend.’
‘Both you and that imitation “War Minister” can go and get fucked!’ grins Porta, confidently.
Wolf does not answer, but contents himself with staring at Porta with a look which would have frightened away a poisonous snake.
They continue on down the street in silence, Wolf jingling his spurs and Porta banging down his hobnailed heels.
Without acknowledging either the growling wolfhounds or the icy-cold Chinese they stroll into Wolf’s lair.
‘Where did you put our gold?’ asks Wolf, before they have settled in their chairs.
‘Yes, what did I do with our gold?’ answers Porta thoughtfully, taking a bite of sausage.
‘That’s what I’m bloody askin’you,’ shouts Wolf, furiously. ‘I saw you arseholes come in, but even with a monocle I couldn’t see anythin’ but a fucked-up old museum exhibit of a T-34, and I can’t imagine there was space for both you lot and our soddin’ gold in that tin can!’
‘You’re right enough there, ‘Porta forces a smile. ‘There was only us and not as much as a grain of gold!’
Wolf walks slowly round the table.
‘You didn’t have to tell me that,’ he hisses, and smashes his British swagger-stick down so hard on the table that it breaks in two. Raging, he throws the pieces from him. ‘I’ve been over an’ had a look inside that Russian shit-bucket, and now I want to know where you’ve hid our gold? You might just as well tell me now before Sally gets here! He ain’t got time to do a lot of talking with you! He’s gonna just say gold, an’ if you say there ain’t any then you’re dead! Where is the gold?’ he repeats in a roar, spittle flecking his lips.
‘Let me get a word in,’ smiles Porta, in friendly fashion. ‘That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you!’ He takes another bite of sausage and swills it down with Slivovitz. ‘The gold! Yes! A very sad affair that was. It’s gone. Been eaten up!’
‘Eaten?’ gapes Wolf. ‘Who the bloody hell eats gold?’
‘The earth,’ smiles Porta, mildly. ‘The earth ate our gold! Took it in, lorriesandall! Drivers and mates went down with it!’ He makes some slobbering sounds like a stopped-up sink and throws his arm’s so that Wolf can understand how the gold had gone down under the earth.
‘I see’, says Wolf, pressing his lips together into a thin line.
‘It sank down! You don’t say so! D’you think I’m a complete bloody idiot? You’re a lyin’ bastard, an’ that yarn of yours stinks of con! Jesus, I never heard anythin’ like it! The earth ate the gold all up! You ain’t the feller who wrote the 1001 Nights, by any chance? Can’t you make up a better bleedin’ tale?’
Porta spreads out his hands resignedly.
‘I didn’t know the earth swallowed up gold, either,’ he admits, sadly. ‘But it does, though! I saw it with my own eyes, and it didn’t only take the gold, it took three tanks, four trucks and two motor-sledges in the same mouthful. For dessert it took thirty-two men and a whole bloody OGPU guard barracks. If you don’t believe me ask the others!’
‘A right lot to ask,’ yells Wolf, beside himself with rage. ‘They’re bigger bloody liars than you are! I might as well ask my dogs, an’ be satisfied with bow-wow for an answer. But let me tell you somethin’, you dirty bastardin’ son of an al
ley cat an’ a backyard bitch! If you don’t tell me where you’ve hid that gold I’m gonna tear your lyin’ tongue out an’ kick your balls straight up into your rotten brains!’ He gets more and more furious, crumples his favourite silk cap into a ball and tears at it with his teeth. Words come flying from his mouth like bullets. When Porta takes another bite of sausage he snatches it from his hand and throws it against the wall. ‘Do you think you’re in a boozer?’ he screams. After a while he becomes so hoarse and out of breath that he is forced to stop.
‘Finished?’ asks Porta quietly, picking up the sausage from the floor. ‘Then let me explain! And if you want to lash anybody with that filthy tongue of yours then take it out on the Luftwaffe! They’re the shower that’s responsible for it all! They bombed the wrong place! It’s a wonder I came out of it alive, but, of course, you don’t care a shit about that!’
‘Too fuckin’ true I don’t!’ snarls Wolf, grinding his teeth.
‘Thought as much!’ says Porta apathetically, slapping a large piece of sausage on a slice of bread.
‘Like some rat poison to put on that?’ asks Wolf, nastily.
‘No thanks. Jam, though, if you’ve got it?’ smiles Porta ingratiatingly, dipping his sausage in a bowl of redcurrant jelly. ‘You ever hear of something called quick clay?’
‘Never,’ says Wolf. He stares blankly at Porta, whose jaws are working double time to keep the sandwich he has made from choking him.
‘Quick clay,’ explains Porta, gesturing with the hand which is holding his sandwich, and splashing redcurrant jelly on to Wolfs tailor-made uniform,’ is made up from silicon, sand an’ a lot of other shit in clay tubes that can hold together on the outside but are full of water, a hell of a lot of water, inside. So long as it’s left alone fuck all happens, but with certain kinds of disturbances, like, for example, bombs dropped by German knotheads, then all hell can break loose! The whole lot ofit turns into a bloody great pool of mud when the walls of the tubes break up! The more it gets shook up the worse it gets! The whole surface of the earth starts movin’ an’ everythin’ on it gets sucked down into hell. Trees, people, waggons, tanks and gold! I can tell you it was a very unpleasant experience, that lot was!’