Denham was woken from a dreamless state by the voice of a man sitting at the end of his cot. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep under the harsh electric light.
‘They’ve patched you up, I see.’
He opened one swollen eye and saw the sheen of a jackboot. Fear surged through him, and he shrank against the wall with a moan.
‘It’s all right,’ Rausch said, reaching over and putting a hand on his arm. There was a stink of wine on his breath. His hair was dishevelled and his uniform was undone at the collar. ‘I’ve come to say a friendly hello, that’s all. Just a friendly hello.’ The man’s nails were bitten to the quick, Denham saw, and stained yellow from those noxious Murads.
Rausch leaned back, his head hitting the wall with a soft thud. ‘Do you know what trouble this is bringing me, Denham?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Have you any idea what could happen to me? I’ll be thrown down here with you, that’s what. The Obergruppenfuhrer is most displeased. Wants to have a go at you himself. Wants to twist it out of you. You wouldn’t want that, believe me, Denham. You wouldn’t want that.’ The blue eyes dilated, struggling to focus.
‘This started so well. Outstanding intelligence work. That’s what he said. Should have got me decorated…’ Rausch folded his arms and started shaking gently, so that whether he was crying or laughing Denham couldn’t tell. Spittle foamed at the sides of his mouth, and when he spoke again his voice was ill-controlled. ‘I was this close
…’ He held his thumb and forefinger with a tiny space between them. ‘And then you entered the picture.’
Denham thought of protesting the truth once more, but getting the words out would have cost him too great an effort. And what was the point?
‘You’re one of those types, aren’t you, whom beatings only make silent. Isn’t that so? I’ve seen it before.’ He sighed. ‘You and I both, Denham. We’ll hang for this…’ His face reddened but he suppressed the rising sob.
A strange silence opened between them for a while.
‘This dossier…’ Denham whispered. ‘Why?’
Rausch slumped forwards and cupped his forehead in his hands so that Denham thought he was about to vomit, but then he said in a distant voice, ‘Wish I knew.’
He sat up, remembering something, fumbled in his tunic and pulled out a cigarette packet. ‘HBs,’ he said, opening it and offering one. ‘Your brand, I believe.’
‘Water,’ Denham croaked.
Rausch struggled to his feet and opened the cell door, swaying. ‘Water in here.’ Seconds later he was handed a jug. Denham sat up despite the hot knives stabbing at his ribs, and reached for it. It sloshed over the rim and onto Rausch’s hands, dripping to the floor. Cool, clear water.
But Rausch didn’t give it to him.
‘Tell me now, friend,’ he said, standing in the middle of the cell, his feet set wide apart to steady himself, ‘and spare us both. Once and for all. Where is it? Please… tell me where.’
Denham shook his head sadly without taking his eyes off the jug.
The interrogator staggered backwards, his eyes closed, as if seeing his own doom. His nostrils flared, and a drunken roar came from his chest. With a wide arm he bowled the jug, smashing it against the wall behind Denham’s head, covering him in water and pieces of earthenware. The next moment Rausch was on top of him, punching and screaming.
David John
Flight from Berlin