Free The Commissar by Sven Hassel Page B

than a slight tremor of his body
.
    ‘
Water!’ he thought. He kept on thinking about water until the moment he died
.
    Two weeks later his mother, a war widow of World War I, received the obligatory postcard:
    In the name of the Führer, Adolf Hitler, we regret to inform you that your son:
Lieutenant Georg Friedrich,
Platoon Commander of Infantry
,
    has fallen fighting bravely and in line of duty for Führer, Volk and Fatherland
.
    The Führer thanks you. Heil Hitler!
    *
degtrareva
: Russian machine-gun
    *
Grofaz
: Greatest Leader of All Time (nickname for Hitler)
    † NSFO: Nazi political officer
    *
Tovaritsch
: Russian for comrade
    *
PAK
: German abbreviation for anti-tank gun
    *
Cojones
- Spanish for balls (testicles)
    *
Kraft durch Freude:
Strength Through Joy (Nazi holiday organization)
    * A cup of black coffee with a dash of schnapps (or vodka).

THE FAT LEUTNANT
     
    The town which has been chosen for us to recuperate in looks neat and clean. The war has moved through it quickly, leaving only a few wrecked houses to mark its passage. The gasworks had been blown up, of course. Gasworks are always blown up during a retreat. But we don’t care. Who wants gas, anyway? Not us!
    The Hotel
Ssvaeoda *
hums with activity. The owner, Tanya, stands behind the bar, dressed in an ancient mauve party dress, and flanked by three attractive, short-skirted waitresses, ready to welcome the German liberators. She has an interesting, and very ripe, vocabulary which she has picked up from the Mongol troops who were stationed here before we arrived.
    Porta and Tiny start immediately to teach her the equivalent expressions in German. Two days later she is welcoming everyone who enters the bar with a pleasant:
    ‘Lick my arse?’
    Tiny has his hand up under the mauve party dress. He is trying to persuade her to tell him where the commissars hid their vodka and caviare when they left.
    ‘Fuck?’ he tempts her, lasciviously, in a whisper which makes the rafters ring, and the stuffed bear by the fireplace blink its blood-red eyes.
    With the proud gait of a Czarina, Vera Konstantinovna comes through the door. She keeps her expensive fox fur on indoors, despite the heat of the room. She is said to be a woman of rank, married to a high-up commissar, who hasgone off with the Red Army. The others address her, jeeringly, as ‘Your Grace’, but cannot hide the fact that they are really not a little afraid of her.
    ‘Shag, then?’ suggests Porta, making the international sign for copulation with his thumb. ‘A trip on the old pork dagger?
Panjemajo
?’
    On their way upstairs Porta already has both hands searching about under Vera’s skirt.
    ‘I will just wash
ma petite soeur
,’ she murmurs, pouting her lips for a kiss. ‘My husband installed a bidet here, before he had to leave. You know what bidet is?’
    ‘A trough to wash out ol’ Porky Pig’s kennel in,’ laughs Porta. ‘They’re all over the place in France, but they fuck more there too.’
    While she is in the bathroom Porta takes off his clothes. He throws his heavy Russian pistol clattering on to the dressing-table, but, as usual with him, retains his yellow topper and his boots.
    From down in the bar Barcelona’s heavy bass voice can be heard:
Wir, im fernen Vaterland geboren,
nahmen nichts als Hass im Herzen mit,
Doch wir haben die Heimat nicht verloren,
unsere Heimat ist heute vor Madrid . . . *
    She has nothing on but her shoes and stockings when she returns to the room. Her reddish-golden hair swings loosely around her shoulders.
    ‘What a peach,’ shouts Porta, admiringly, smacking his tongue. ‘Come with me to Berlin. You could make a fortunein the
Zigeunerkeller
. They pay 200 for a single, and 500 for a round trip there!’
    She comes slowly toward him, her lips parted in a sensual smile.
    ‘Oh Jesus, Jesus,’ he mumbles in a hoarse voice, his small eyes rolling round in his head. ‘You’re enough to make a dead man get it up again!’
    ‘You are a