had no idea what this
meant, if
anything, but he doubted this man would know either. “If
something happens to these
people, I will register my complaint at the highest levels and
will pursue the
matter until justice is served.”
As he said this, a frown settled over the
Russian officer’s
face. “We are going to have a problem, Lieutenant, if you insist
on this farce
about American prisoners. This is Soviet-controlled territory
and any prisoners
are mine.”
“Controlled? I still hear gunfire. For all we
know this
position will be overrun with Germans by nightfall. Or
Americans. You don’t
control anything.”
“Why are you protecting these Germans?”
“Because I took them prisoner, and I have
obligations.
Surely you understand that.”
“I understand that you are protecting fascist
pigs,” Osimov
said.
The Soviet troops were muttering to each
other now. Someone
must have understood, or guessed at where this was going. They
were going to be
cheated of their revenge. And their pleasure. Did this one
officer have the
ability to hold them back, even if he wanted to?
Cal had to give them something, to show he
wasn’t their
enemy. His eyes fixed on the SS officer, who rose to a sitting
position. Blood
streamed down Little Hitler’s mouth and a nasty gash opened in
the side of his
head. His clothes were torn and he wrapped one arm around his
ribs and touched
the wound at his head with the other. He looked stunned, like a
man who has
never imagined he could be in the same position as those he had
once abused.
“But not this one,” Cal said. “This one is an
SS officer and
a war criminal. Further, he murdered one of the other
prisoners—his own
lieutenant. You would be doing me a favor if you took him off my
hands.”
Osimov smiled, even looked a little relieved.
“Now you’re
being reasonable.”
He snapped something in Russian and several
men converged on
Little Hitler and dragged him to his feet. They drove him to one
side at
gunpoint, and he staggered forward, barely able to keep his
balance. While eyes
turned on the man, Cal dared a glance at the refugees.
Greta and Helgard stood in the silent knot of
women who
clung to each other in terror, waiting their fate. The elderly
women had been
allowed to sit with the children, while the German men,
including both the
minister and the two Wehrmacht soldiers, lay on their bellies,
face down, with
their hands behind their heads.
The Soviets stopped with the SS officer a few
dozen yards
away. The jeering, punching attacks resumed. The German screamed
for mercy, or
for help, or maybe cursed threats.
Cal turned back to Osimov, unsettled. “Can
you put me in
contact with the American army? I have to turn over my prisoners
and get back
to my unit.”
“And your so-called prisoners?”
“Take them with us.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. What would my
men say?”
“You’re their officer. Give them orders.”
“Have you ever seen a dog fight, Lieutenant?”
Osimov asked.
Cal had a hard time concentrating with all
the screaming
from the SS officer. “No, sir.”
“I did, I’m afraid to say. Lower East Side,
immigrant
family.”
So he was an American. That explained the
accent, at least.
“Ran with a rough crowd until my father moved
us back during
the Revolution,” Osimov continued. “Thing about those pit dogs
is that they do
what you want, so long as they’re scared of you. Minute they
lose that fear,
they tear off your hand. And these dogs are hungry. I have to
feed them something.”
Cal glanced at the SS officer still suffering
his abuse.
“They’re eating right now.”
“A snack. They’ll eat those other men, too,
but that won’t
be enough. The pretty women are the main course.”
“You can’t let them do it.”
“Why do you care? Is one of these