The Vengeance of Rome

Pottendorf said he had no experience of the Eastern Front. He had heard it was pretty hellish.

‘Not so bad from the air,’ I said.

The revelation that I was a pilot increased my standing immediately. I could feel their respect. I had forgotten how flyers were regarded as ‘knights of the air’, chivalrous and courageous no matter which side they were fighting on. Pottendorf, understanding this very well, said he, too, had served in the air force until being shot down and injured. He had been unfortunate enough to be blinded with shrapnel. He removed his darkened glasses to show me his rather bloodshot eyes. ‘Happily, my sight was restored. Since then I have devoted myself to peace.’ He believed that it was his pacifism which had brought him to this pass since Nazi militarism had first turned him against them.

In spite of having been on opposite sides, our flying days gave us something in common. I told him how my own career had ended when my captured Oertz had crashed into the sea off Odessa. We discussed the difficulties of flying the Oertz. He had never piloted the plane himself, he said, but had heard a great deal about it. Wasn’t it difficult to get up and land but performed well once in the air? A somewhat unreliable plane, but a beauty. He was not surprised my machine had let me down. The Oertz was notorious. He asked which squadron I had flown with. I told him that I belonged to the 11 th Don Cossacks and had been seconded to the air force.

‘So you were cavalry originally!’ He was delighted by this coincidence. He, too, had been in the cavalry before joining von Bek’s famous ‘Staffel’. He enthused about the Saxon air ace, who had died aged twenty-two, engaged in a dogfight with a squadron of Canadian and American Camels led by the famous US flyer, Billy Batson.

Helander was not particularly interested in our reminiscences, though he expressed every admiration for the men of the flying corps. He had once envied us, in fact. For all our short lives we stood a better chance of a decent death than the poor bastards who filled up no man’s land with their wounded bodies, sometimes taking days to die. We admitted that as airmen we had a better war than many. Who wished to face the prospect of lying in mud and filth, holding one’s own guts in, perhaps for days, and crying out for help which never came?

Lunchtime arrived and still no sign of Doctor Bach. We asked Link, the guard, who only shook his head, repeating the usual mantra about not being in on the decisions of the prison’s commanding officer. About an hour later, however, our cell was unlocked, and two policemen came in, casting a cold eye over our quarters. They wanted to know if Doctor Bach had left any property behind. Pottendorf, holding one of his Turkish cigarettes between his fingers, coolly indicated the overcoat. One of the policemen shouted at him, telling him to stand to attention and to put his cigarette out. In his beautifully modulated Austrian accent, Pottendorf asked which he should do first.

Not sure of his ground, the policeman told him to put the cigarette out and stand to attention. With his fingers, Pottendorf extinguished the burning tip and brought his arms to his sides. The policeman then turned his attention on me, roaring a string of insults, not least of which was that I was a stinking Jewish swine who had published libels against the German people. I would soon get my reward, as ‘that scamp’ Bach was going to get his. It seemed impolitic to enlighten him.

Meanwhile, Pottendorf learned from the man’s companion that Bach had been transferred to Dachau where he would be ‘allowed to do an honest day’s work’ and so earn his freedom. At least it seemed the poor Jew was on the road to liberty. The Völkischer Beobachter had been full of praise for the institution, which was to be the model for many other facilities where antisocial elements were sentenced to hard labour until ready to rejoin the ranks of decent Germans. I supposed it would not do the overweight Bach a great deal of harm to get fit and work off some of his extra pounds. I could imagine his tears mingling with his sweat as he lifted his pickaxe, helping to build the bright new nation dreamed of by our Nazi visionaries.

As Pottendorf remarked, at least that night we would not be kept awake by Doctor Bach’s symphonic snoring! He looked forward to meeting him on the outside when he would be slender and trim. But we never heard of him again.

Next morning the guard knocked at the door. Six o’clock and dawn had only just broken. I woke from a pleasant dream in which I had returned to my uncle’s place in Odessa to enjoy the plump embraces of Wanda, my old love.

‘Get up, you lazy sons of bitches. Fold your blankets. Time to wash your filthy selves!’

Half an hour later the square hatch in the door was swung back. Coffee and bread were pushed through. We drank the coffee, bad as it was, but ignored the bread. Again we feasted on the unfortunate Doctor Bach’s leftovers,