Irma Fuchs: If Lies Be The Truth of Men

Chapter One A warm but wet spring day met Irma’s emergence into an apocalyptic outside world. The distant thunder of Russian artillery had commenced earlier than usual and the woman guessed her daily malicious routine would soon be ended. Other guards were discussing what they would do as well as the last order from the SS hierarchy. They could go their different paths but Irma would remain and seek a mix of duplicity and clemency. She would maintain that above all she only followed orders, that not to do so meant certain death. When the main body of guards forced more than twenty-four thousand remaining prisoners to march to Mecklenburg, Irma remained, losing her military uniform and adopting one from a deceased nurse, one she had carefully garrotted so as not to stain the uniform. Then she acted the angel of mercy tending the sick that were left. There starved exhaustion didn’t kill their memories though and many a needy patient shrunk before the abrupt change of attitude, though remaining silent when the Reds did eventually arrive, their trust far from won. Irma found herself in one of the cells she had slammed the door on so often. As far as the communists were concerned pretty as she was, she was not worth their usual lustful hand out. Circumstance until then had seemed real and sane. Logical progression was about to slip. Reality would become unreliable, fantasy unfathomable. Though never enough to adamantly say ‘this is total madness.’ The mind is an incredible organ and has the ability to adapt to most traumatic events. Time in her case would be an ally. Eventually the Red Army found time to interrogate Irma; having left her to think matters over for a week. In that time she suffered the confinement horrors she had inflicted on countless prisoners. A bucket for the latrine. Stale bread and watery cabbage soup, which was more than she fed her victims. Irma remained resolute. Her motto was ‘it wasn’t done until the chair was kicked from beneath her’. A stony po-faced officer sat behind the previous camp commander’s desk, Fritz Suhren who paid for his infamy in June 1950. The Russian spoke reasonable German. “You are Irma Fuchs?” The captive shook her head. “She left with the forced march. I am Gelda Schulze.” “Several inmates have informed us that you are Oberaufseherin Irma Fuchs.” “Those patients are extremely ill. Most are drugged. They don’t know where they are let alone know who’s who.” “I could sit you down with the brigade medic but I feel you have probably done your homework.” He tossed a nursing handbook on the desk. “Found in your room. Irma’s room. Anything to say?” “The sadistic b***h had ideas about posing as a nurse, but she couldn’t learn fast enough and went with the others.” “You will be interested to know that our advanced scout unit have caught up with the prisoner column and we have captured one Greta Maier who we will ask to identify you. If you tell the truth then you will be released. If not you will be tried for humanitarian crimes. Is that understood?” “Greta will tell you who I am,” Irma replied fingers crossed behind her back. “You may wait on her return in your cell.” Irma remained buoyant, she was a firm believer that she would prevail, that luck wasn’t about to leave her high and dry. That perhaps the devil looked after his own. She only had to wait a day, Greta being brought to the Russian Commander’s office. He told the SS guard. “We have a young woman captive whose identity I would like to know. When we bring her in just tell me her name.” Irma was dragged from her stinking cell and brought in hands tied behind her back. “Now tell me. Who is this woman?” the Russian demanded. “Why it’s Gelda Schulze of course,” the guard replied adding. “Camp nurse.” The Russian really should have made Irma put on a camp guard uniform. It proved true, the devil did ‘nurse’ his own, Greta being a devil in her own right and soon to join her overlord. “Very well put her with the others,” Colonel Anatoly Kuznetsov ordered referring to who he temporarily regarded as Greta. The woman smiled at Irma and left with her guard. “I am not convinced,” he told Irma. “Hence you will be transferred for the time being. Somewhere where you can reflect on the last five years.” “Russian justice? You have no evidence.” “No, not at all. Russian justice like German honour would have put a bullet in your head by now.” “How long?” she dared to ask. “There is a quaint English idiom I once heard. “How long is a piece of string? That about covers it. But I wouldn’t make any short term plans. If you have living relatives then write down their names and where we might make contact and we will endeavour to do so.” He knew she couldn’t and smirked accordingly. He leant back in the chair and invited. “I have dinner arriving soon. You are invited to share. I would accept as it may be the last thing you eat for some time.” She nodded and he indicated she sit. “Summer is not far away and Russia gets unbearably hot. However the winters are brutal, so if you have anything in your wardrobe that might fend of the cold then you should take it with you.” She hoped that Gelda did. As dinner arrived she heard a rattle of gunfire close by. Again Anatoly smiled. “Russian Justice. You should be happy it wasn’t you.” “The guards?” she questioned. “Some.” “Greta?” “Possibly.” “Damn the war!” “It might have been better saying that in nineteen thirty nine.” “One voice would have had no effect,” she argued. Irma guessed it would be a trial by dinner, Anatoly seeking the piece of trickery that would reveal Irma’s lies. He saw not a pretty face only a sadistic, murderous savage and he wanted a noose around her neck. As far as he was concerned she wasn’t worth a bullet. “Don’t expect anything lavish,” Anatoly told her. “I eat the same as my men.” “I haven’t eaten lavish since the war began,” Irma lied. “When your patients have little then one has to eat little too.” “Open your mouth,” he suddenly ordered. Bemused Irma obeyed expression questioning. “I see no reason,” he admitted finally. “For what?” she asked intrigued. “It looks like any other tongue.” “Why wouldn’t it?” “Because the lies slide so easily,” he joked sarcastic, studying her face for a reaction. She pushed her luck. “If you don’t believe me why not shoot me?” “Simply because there is an element of doubt. Once an execution is done it cannot be undone. Thus I give you the benefit of the question, is she or isn’t she? There are still plenty to kill. I can give one a miss and still sleep at night.” “I cannot for all the sick I have lost,” she admitted falsely. “Keep it going Irma. You might wear me down yet. You need to find that crack in my defences. Then worm your way in and hit the sympathy button.” She leant forward and said quietly. “I have a clean, disease free cunt. How would you like a piece?” The officer remained unshockable. “I don’t think there is a man here either sane or insane that would touch your cunt with a three metre lance.” That struck her hard. The implacable Fuchs felt the cut of his well-aimed insult. “If I can ever prove to you I am Gelda Schulze then you will rue your distasteful remarks.” “There is as much chance of that happening as Hitler saying sorry.” “Can I have my hands untied? Please. The bindings are cutting off the blood.” “You have blood? That Irma would suggest there is a human lying hidden within you somewhere.” He nodded to the guard to do so. “Thank you,” she said rubbing her wrists. “Now you are thinking that is a step in the right direction.” “I am thinking I cannot feel my f*****g hands.” Dinner arrived, Anatoly introducing the dishes. “To begin Kulesh with flat bread. A filling nutritious soup. Then the main course stewed beef and potatoes. And naturally vodka, to wash the s**t down. Such is the life of a soldier.” Spooning the soup to her lips she surprisingly offered praise. “Not bad. Better than most of my meals for a long time.” She took a slug of Stolichnaya and gasped. “That is some s**t. Petrol by any chance?” The man laughed. “You have been spoilt with schnapps. Four of the vodka and you will crawl back to your cell.” “Then six might be a blessed release.” He called her back a week later. She stood implacable hiding a genuine nervousness. “It is goodbye Irma. You go by truck to the railway tomorrow. There you will be transported to a camp in Russia. I am happy in the knowledge that what awaits you is far worse than a bullet. But having said that I will offer you a merciful end, although you do not deserve such a speedy escape.” “You still bark up the wrong tree,” she retorted. “I will trust in God and his mercy.” “You want the bullet then?” “Put it where the sun doesn’t shine. I will take my chances. Maybe if I can’t trust in God I can hope the Devil will look after his own.” “And that is the closest we have come to an admission.” “Brockhorst is a messy pie that has had many a meddling finger in it. This hell hole has the tampering of Hitler himself. No one who worked here can leave with a clear conscience and claim to be human. Orders came from those that never set foot near the place. We were deprived of the essentials. Food and medicines.” Anatoly interrupted. “I see many a corpse and many walking skeletons out there. But I see fat on your bones Irma. You did not go without.” “If I had died through self-deprivation who would have looked after those wretches then?” “So you did look after number one?” “I cannot deny it can I? If I had made magic in the supplies and fed the thousands like Jesus with his fishes and loaves, then I would have brought the wrath of Himmler down on my life. Have you caught the bastard yet?” “I haven’t heard. You blame all this on your superiors then?” “I was between the devil and the deep blue sea, certainly.” “I will follow your story Irma, for I am convinced you are she. But there is a compulsion within me not to destroy something so exquisitely intelligent and malignant. Perfectly evil one might say. I feel attracted from an intellectual aspect. I find myself intrigued as to how life will pan out for you. And put aside that vicious black heart and yes you are really quite attractive, in a mortal of the flesh way.” “There are no angels in war,” she cited. “I think there are.” “You will have breakfast with me before you leave. You will change for real Irma. In the coming years you will realise that your outlook on your fellow man is twisted and you cannot exist without compassion. I wish to see that when it happens.” “Shall I write you Anatoly? Shall I put pen to paper and tell of a great transformation where one was impossible. Shall I lie to you? I am content with my conduct and will not be writing confessions anytime in the future. You will grow old waiting.” The goods train made up of cattle trucks might have been the same ones that propelled many to their fate at numerous concentration camps across Europe. Was it fitting that Irma should end up on one? Anatoly had insisted that Irma redress in the SS uniform for the journey. “Let us see if you survive the trek,” the Colonel teased. “Though to be fair the uniform doesn’t obviously state devil of Brockhorst.” For once Irma said nothing. There were no trucks to spare for the trip to the railway. Instead she and a dozen other captives were marched the few kilometres to the mainline to Berlin, the Brockhorst line having been discontinued. It wasn’t the best of May days, in fact nineteen forty five was due to be above normal temperatures and wet in general. It was too warm for her coat, and the cloth of her uniform absorbed the drizzle like a sponge. It dowsed the hair clear of the meagre service cap, and collectively ran down the back of her neck to wet her clothes from the inside as well. Finally, unused to walking far, foot sore she finally spotted her transport into Russia. The place was obviously a gathering spot for prisoners as there were hundreds stood on the platform waiting to board. A Russian soldier spotted her small group and sauntered toward them. Irma tried not to look the man in the eyes. He reached out and rubbed the tunic between finger and thumb all the while watching her reaction. “SS govno kusok,” he finally said. “Yesli ty tak govorish’,” she replied in faultless Russian. Her reward was a hefty slap to the face before he retook his position. “You impressed him I see,” a colleague Marta remarked jokingly. “But of course, Marta.” “What did you say for heaven’s sake?” “He called me a s**t pile and I agreed with him.” “Ah that’s where you went wrong,” Else, a particularly attractive and tall blonde criticised. “He thought you were being arrogant because all us krauts are just that.” “Perhaps I might kill him,” Irma concluded. “Where did you learn the Russian?” Klara inquired. “In the camp. I guessed we would be overrun by them and I was right. I have always been good with languages and I thought it best to know some Ruskie. So I asked a Russian prisoner to teach me.” “You asked?” Marta challenged incredulous. “She was happy to help.” Else sunk a hand in a pocket and retrieving a pack of ten cigarettes offered them around. “Artful persuasion,” she suggested as fingers quickly took the smokes. “Maybe,” Irma agreed. Klara waited to give her opinion. Then when the moment seemed right, she asked. “How hard did you hit her?” “I only had to whip her the once,” Irma informed them with vindictive pride. “Details,” Else urged. “Her name was Katina. She was orthodox and quite a pretty twenty-three years old. They don’t all look like peasants, old and battered before their time. Unfortunately for Katina it was her looks that drew me to her. She was taken at the siege of Stalingrad, Christmas forty-two. She was a fighting soldier. Yes, their women wage war. And yes, they fight well. When I first suggested she teach me she said with a smile ‘otvali’.” “Which was?” Klara pressed. “I didn’t find out until some months later. When she came to trust me as much as she ever would. She told me to f**k off.” “And when you did find out? What did you do?” “By then we had reached a different level of understanding. Katina lived well for an inmate. Especially for one of her persuasion. And in return didn’t complain when the urge came upon me. It became exceedingly sexual.” “You mean you f****d with her?” Marta demanded disgusted. “Oh don’t you knock it Marta. c***s aren’t the be all and end all you know. Tongue can be far more appeasing.” “You or her?” Marta returned, nose wrinkled. “It depended. I love to cane a naked backside, and she possessed the perfect specimen. I did for her and she consented to my quirk shall we say. Oh, I know I could have taken what I wanted when I wanted, but with her I didn’t want to.” Klara stamped out her butt saying. “It sounds like you fell for this Russian b***h. Where is she now?” “I’m not sure.” “So, who’s going to lick you out now Irma?” Klara persisted. Ignoring the question she huffed instead. “How bloody long before they put us on those luxurious rail cars?” A nearby German civilian overheard. “We are apparently waiting on a link. Another train already crammed to hell with civilian prisoners. And that might take an hour or ten. Who the f**k knows anyway? Welcome to Russian Railways mismanagement. At least we Germans could run a f*****g railroad on time.” A nearby Russian soldier moved close and spat his opinion. “Vy, nemtsy, ochen’ khorosho umeli ubivat’ nevinovnykh, v tom chisle detey. Iznasilovaniye russkikh zhenshchin. Genitsid i massovoye vorovstvo. Posmotri na sebya seychas. Teper’ vy poymete, kak oshchushchayetsya botinok.” The women turned to Irma for a translation. “Basically Germans are very good at murdering the innocent, including children. Raping Russian women. g******e and stealing. He says we will now understand how the boot feels. I assume he means we are in for a good kicking. Physically or psychologically? He wasn’t precise.” “Both,” the soldier told them in German. The other transport arrived, eventually, some four hours later. Hungry, thirsty by then, people looked to their captors for sustenance. There was none forthcoming. For years the Reich had stomped on anyone that stood against their totalitarian regime, the German populace helpless puppets in their scheming. The worm had turned and many felt the need for some recourse, the obvious being revenge. Especially maligned were those from Eastern Europe who the Nazis saw as worthless. Many a Wehrmacht soldier expected nothing less than a general condemnation and retaliation for the horrors they themselves had inflicted on those helpless people. It was the civilian population that were swept aside by first rumour and then reprisals that knew little of the liberties levied by their army. The crowded contents of the second train spilled on to the platform to be engorged by that first near empty transport. Once Irma had been hustled into the press, air to breathe rapidly became a luxury, especially once the doors were closed and bolted. Fuchs passed her time as the locomotive laboriously chugged its way across northern Germany on its way to Poland, selecting who looked likely to fade out before the next stop. Irma studied her fellow travellers as some did her. The abominable truth of what she had been, and where she had worked, were not as then general knowledge, so vilification was not a problem. It would be in time as their Russian accompaniment would no doubt enlighten those willing to listen. By then Irma intended to have dispossessed the uniform. The people were a mix of those the Russians failed to trust or were perceived to be a threat to the Motherland including many of their own nationality. Any prisoners taken by the Germans were seen to be traitors to the Kremlin, as they should have died fighting. The red army were to ship nearly three million Germans to camps across Russia of which four hundred thousand were civilians. Those that survived the war then had to endure the peace. There are two main ways of exacting a retribution, which clearly the Soviets had every intention of doing. There was the physical and there was the psychological. A demeaning means of the latter was disappointment. To be permitted to attain hope and then see it dashed. The Russians were very good at manipulating hope and despair. Having allowed Irma’s group to clamber into the cattle truck, the door was opened again and several soldiers boarded and hustled all but Irma out, with no word of explanation. As the door was slammed shut she heard shots and assumed the worse. The question thereby hung, why not her? For a time she felt lonesome, vulnerable and miserable, just what her captors wanted. Gaining her ‘sea legs’ became the first obstacle to overcome as the train snaked its way through a war-torn landscape. The constant veering and shunting of transports threatened to destabilise those crammed standing. The ascending temperature inflicted heat stroke and the frail readily succumbed, those affected falling to be propped by those around. The smell of body waste began to assail the senses, old and infirm unable to restrain themselves, a single metal bucket provided for the purpose of relief. Determined to survive, Irma pushed her way to the door where gaps permitted some air to gain access. Face pressed to the wood she watched through the cracks at the ponderous progress of that human made calamity. Anyone who objected met with the Fuchs stare and soon melted back into the suffering body of the desperate. Their first stop was late that day, some place in Poland. There people were permitted to dismount and partake of frugal rations including great urns of tepid water. Those that had held their motions grabbed the opportunity to go wherever they could regardless of the public eye. Sustenance consisted of cabbage soup, or tepid water that might have seen a green leave on its journey to the pot; plus a small hunk of hard stale bread. The time would come when she would have cut of an arm for a slice of fresh German rye bread. Talking with her travel companions she was astounded to find out why they were being shipped as prisoners. Many were forced to an interview under the threat of being summarily shot if they didn’t. They were evaluated and then in most cases jailed. They had been separated from husbands and children with no explanation. Irma found the revelation disturbing, probably as her own kind had executed similar if not worse conditions on those now holding the whip hand. Maybe then the first taste of guilt touched a callous heart. At stops she bundled out and grabbed what she could utterly careless of others that were not so agile. The thought never occurred that she might help those less fortunate. Thus Irma kept her strength while others faltered. Losses mounted and the trucks became less crowded. Those cattle trucks were periodically hosed out, not so much for the sake of the prisoners but more to prevent an outbreak of typhus. It had a temporary effect of cooling the box car. While the thousands milled about, Irma looked for her friends, perhaps in vain, maybe not. Next she scanned for an escape, the forests of Lithuania proving tempting. The guards were ever vigilant and the odd shot and fallen escapee kept most from trying.