The question was, did I hate Corporal Hermichen enough to say nothing on his behalf and let him hang?
Krasny Bor had been a Soviet health resort eight kilometres west of Smolensk. There were some lakes and mineral springs and plenty of trees, which ensured a steady supply of fresh oxygen to the resort every morning, but otherwise it was difficult to perceive the health benefits that might have resulted from a sojourn there. In winter the place was frozen solid; in summer it was reported to be plagued with mosquitoes; the mineral springs tasted like a fisherman’s bath-water; certainly Krasny Bor did not compare favourably with more famous German health resorts like Baden-Baden where expensive hotels and uninterrupted luxury were the order of the day, and which was doubtless why the likes of Richard Wagner – not to mention quite a few Russians like Dostoevsky – used to go there, year after year. It was easy to see why Dostoevsky hadn’t bothered with Krasny Bor: the resort wasn’t much more than a collection of log cabins. But it was as near to luxury as there existed anywhere in Smolensk, and this – as well as its privacy and seclusion, which made the resort easy to guard – was why Field Marshal von Kluge had chosen it to be the headquarters of Army Group Centre.
For an old Prussian Junker – he was from Posen – the field marshal was not without a sense of humour; he especially enjoyed making jokes about the negligible health benefits of living at Krasny Bor. Von Kluge’s jokes were usually at the expense of the Russians, and although very cruel, these were often loudly appreciated by Alok Dyakov, who was Von Kluge’s Putzer. Von Kluge might have had a sense of humour, but he was ruthless too. He also fancied himself a military lawyer, as I soon discovered after sitting down on one of the rattan-backed chairs in his cosy log-cabin office.
‘Thank you for doing this, Captain Gunther,’ he said, glancing over my typed report. ‘I appreciate it’s not why you’re here in Smolensk, but until we can have a party of Russian POWs start digging in Katyn Wood it’s best that you keep yourself useful.’
He glanced out of the window for a moment, shifted the curtain with his hand, and shook his head grimly.
‘It’ll be a while yet, I think. Dyakov thinks at least another week before it starts to thaw, don’t you Alok?’
The Russian, sitting at a plain wooden table to our right, nodded. ‘At least a week,’ he said. ‘Maybe longer.’
‘How are your quarters?’
‘Very comfortable, sir, thank you.’
Von Kluge stood up, and leaning against a section of plain brick wall, he carried on reading my report with the aid of a pair of half-moon glasses. Most of his office was made of wood, but the wall contained a regular series of square apertures that heated the room, because behind the wall was a large and powerful stove that also heated the officer’s mess.
‘So,’ he said finally. ‘You seem to think they’re guilty as charged.’
The field marshal was tall, with a receding chin and a receding hairline; his manner was rather more robust, as was his intelligence; his men called him Clever Hans.
‘The evidence points that way, sir,’ I said. ‘However, Sergeant Kuhr looks to be the more culpable of the two. My own impression of Kuhr is that he would be a very hard man to resist. I think Corporal Hermichen was only complying with the wishes of his senior NCO.’
‘And this is why you’re recommending clemency for him?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘But not for Kuhr?’
‘I don’t think I made any recommendations at all with regard to Sergeant Kuhr.’
‘Kuhr is by far the better soldier,’ said Von Kluge. ‘And you’re right, he is a most forceful fellow.’
‘You know him?’
‘It was I who gave Sergeant Kuhr his Iron Cross, first class. I have the greatest respect for him, as a fighting man.’ Von Kluge put my report down on the corner of a fancy Biedermeier desk that looked a little out of place in his otherwise sparely furnished office, and lit a cigarette. ‘Corporal Hermichen, I don’t know at all. But I hardly see how you can rape anyone in compliance with a senior officer’s wishes. No matter how hard that officer is to resist, as you say. After all, when one takes into account the resistance of the poor victim, and the necessity of the corporal being sufficiently aroused to carry out the rape – he doesn’t deny that, I see – then I fail to understand how a defence of coercion can possibly apply here.’ The field marshal shook his head. ‘I’ve never understood rape. To me, resistance is not and could never be a corollary of sexual arousal. Compliance is the only aphrodisiac I can appreciate.’
‘Then I would argue for clemency for the corporal on the basis of the fact that it was the sergeant who cut the victims’ throats. He doesn’t deny that. Hermichen says he was against it.’
‘And yet the corporal also mentions the presence of the jerrycan before the rape actually commenced. That looks bad for him. I ask you, captain, what purpose did he think the gasoline was there to serve? A prophylactic, perhaps? I have actually heard of such a thing – soldiers are very stupid, there’s no end to what they will do to themselves to avoid a dose of jelly, or what they’ll do to women to avoid a pregnancy – no, he must have known that Sergeant Kuhr intended something more lethal as part of the whole disgusting enterprise. He must have suspected that Sergeant Kuhr was intent on the disposal of the bodies. Which means he still managed to carry out the rape in the full knowledge of that fact. Which takes some doing.’
Von Kluge turned to his Russian jester. ‘Have you ever raped a woman, Alok?’
Dyakov stopped lighting his pipe and grinned. ‘Sometimes, possibly,’ he said, ‘perhaps I have gained the wrong impression from a girl and went too far, too soon. Maybe this is rape, maybe this isn’t, I don’t know. What I can say is that for me this would be a cause of some regret.’
‘We’ll take that as a yes,’ said Von Kluge. ‘Rape and consent, I think it’s all the same with Ivans like Dyakov. But that’s no reason our men should behave in this fashion. Rape is terribly bad for discipline, you know.’
‘But you understand I never did such a thing with other men,’ protested Dyakov. ‘As part of an enterprise, as your lordship says. And as for killing a girl afterwards, this is without any excuse.’ Dyakov shook his head. ‘Such a man is not a man at all, and deserves to be severely punished.’
Von Kluge turned to me. ‘You see? Even my pet pig can’t excuse such appalling behaviour. Even Dyakov thinks they should both hang.’
Dyakov stood up. ‘Excuse me, but I didn’t say that, your lordship. Not exactly, no. Personally I would spare the sergeant, and if you spare him you must also spare the other, too.’
‘But why?’ asked Von Kluge.
‘I know this sergeant, too, like you, sir. He is a very good fighter. Very brave. The best. He has killed many Bolsheviks, and if you spare his life he will kill many more of the bastards. Can Germany afford to lose such an experienced fighting man as this? A respected combat sergeant with a first-class Iron Cross? I don’t think so.’ He shrugged. ‘To my mind, it is unrealistic to expect a soldier to kill your enemies one day and then to behave like a gentleman towards them the next. It makes no sense.’
‘Nevertheless, that is what I do expect,’ said Von Kluge. ‘But perhaps you’re right, Alok. We shall see.’