No one took the slightest notice of Hencke and the lieutenant. Not even when one of the nurses slopped something into a bucket and brought it over to the large bin close to where they were standing did she look at them. Hencke saw that the slops were yards of entrail, and the bin contained amputated arms and legs, some still with their boots on, in addition to much gore. He desperately wanted to vomit, but looking at the nurses made him feel foolish. He swallowed the bile and clenched his jaws until he thought his teeth would crack.
The lieutenant seemed unaffected; he had seen it many times before. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and dragged Hencke towards a door on the other side of the room which required them to push past the table. Still no one looked up. Hencke suspected they would still be there, bent over the table, even when the Russians came.
As he and Hencke walked through the door the lieutenant switched on the torch buckled to his belt, for whatever was on the other side was in semi-darkness. It was a large room, packed with beds jammed side by side which could only be reached by narrow passageways at their feet. There were well over 300 beds, all full, many with two patients sharing each narrow palliasse. In spite of the hum of a ventilation fan the stench was appalling, a rancid mixture of death, decay, gangrene, sickness and broken bowels. By torchlight a handful of nurses were floating about the room, ministering, comforting, cleaning. One was carefully unwrapping the bandages from a corpse, laying those which appeared the least soiled on a table for later use. The door of a medicine cabinet on the wall stood ajar, the shelves inside bare.
‘I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear you’ve brought them hope,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Still, a truckful of aspirin might have been more practical.’
Their journey was not yet over. Hencke was led along the side of the room, past patients who groaned with pain, some of whom reached out and implored them for a cigarette, many who seemed to lack the strength either to complain or to implore. Without knowing where he was going, Hencke hurried on. At the far end of the room was another door like the one through which they had entered and Hencke approached it with a feeling of considerable relief. The lieutenant stood back to allow him through first, proffering the torch.
Hencke’s first impression was that this was another hospital ward, for he could see rows of cots lined up in the gloom. But as soon as he took a breath he could tell this was not so; the stench was gone, or was at least different. He flashed the torch around and could see bodies on the beds.
‘Turn off that fucking light, you fool,’ a voice growled in the dark. Hencke shone the torch in the direction of the sound. In the beam of light he could see an overweight, pink body stretched out on a bed. It was one of the drunken generals he had seen earlier that evening. Astride him, her breasts bobbling up and down as she tried to get some rhythm going, was a young woman. He shone the torch away and played it quickly over the rest of the room. It needed no more than a second for him to realize what he had intruded upon. The room seemed to have been intended as a small extension to the main hospital ward, but the beds were strewn around in haphazard fashion. On many of the beds lay men entwined with women, sometimes with two women, either actively involved in sex or taking a break with a bottle or cigarette. To one side several beds had been pushed together, and on top of this platform Hencke saw the confused and contorted shapes of group sex. The men appeared to be mostly elderly, the women all young. ‘Angels of the night,’ whispered the lieutenant, ‘who work just as hard as the girls next door. They call this the Recovery Room.’ From somewhere in the gloom, accompanied by raucous laughter and much crudity, a young female voice began to groan and then rise, unintentionally mimicking the anguish of a wounded soldier. Hencke felt sick again.
‘Join in if you want. You don’t have to make reservations,’ the lieutenant muttered. The angry snatch of Hencke’s head gave him his answer. ‘OK, if you’ve seen enough, follow me,’ and they passed through a side back door into bright light. They were in a rest area, with comfortable chairs and sofas arranged round coffee tables. It was yet another world, and officers sat exchanging conversation and bonhomie with each other and a variety of women while orderlies passed between them dispensing drinks. Hencke shook his head to clear his thoughts, trying to ensure that what he had just witnessed was not simply the product of an exhausted mind beset by twisted dreams, but the stench of the hospital still swirled in his nostrils and he knew there was no mistake.
‘I need a drink,’ the lieutenant said, and without asking went across to a table that served as a bar and ordered two. He and Hencke tossed them straight down.
‘Who are these women?’ Hencke enquired.
‘A mixture. Mistresses. Secretaries. Civilian personnel. Even housewives. Some are just spectators, here for a gawk and a good time, but many of them have run to the Reich Chancellery terrified of Ivan, fleeing from what they imagine is going to happen when he gets his hands on them. It seems that most of them after a drink or two prefer German hands, and plenty of them.’
The door behind them opened and the general, now fully clothed but with his uniform jacket unbuttoned, came through. He was pink with the exertions of his latest victory and raised a triumphal paw in greeting at a fellow officer who was drinking with three women. He strolled over to join them; there was no sign of the girl he had left behind.
‘Down the corridor there’s a dental surgery,’ the lieutenant continued. ‘You know, big black leather dentist’s chair which can be adjusted to different positions. The latest trick is to strap a woman in it and tilt it to whatever angle you fancy. Two men often have a go at the same time. Then you stop for a drink, strap her in the chair some other way, tilt it to a new angle and start all over again. It’s a particular favourite with the generals.’
‘Rape?’ Hencke was incredulous. He had thought himself no longer capable of surprise.
‘Don’t be a bloody fool. The girls are queuing up for it. Look around, do you see anyone complaining? It’s like collective hysteria. There’s nowhere else for them to go. They’ve probably lost their husbands or lovers in the war, they’re alone and frightened. They come here and throw themselves at the nearest man with a pistol on his belt, desperately seeking protection and a way out. But after a couple of days and nights down here in the cellars they seem to catch the contagion. They call it Kellerkrebs – cellar cancer. As long as they can’t see the war or hear it too well behind twenty feet of concrete, they manage to persuade themselves that it no longer matters, that Ivan’s buggered off and they’re safe. They drown everything in drink and fuck away all their cares. Live for today, for tomorrow we die … Who knows? When you think of what is going to happen, maybe they’re right.’
He turned to order another drink and as he did so, three prettily dressed women wandered into the room, and the hubbub of conversation momentarily became subdued. They were in their late twenties or early thirties and appeared to be looking for a friend, for another woman detached herself from a group of senior officers and hurried to greet them. After exchanging a few moments of girlish laughter they all left together, and the conversation in the room resumed unabated.
‘Who were they, Lieutenant?’
‘Them? Doesn’t pay to notice them, Hencke. Particularly not in this part of the Chancellery. Forget you ever saw them.’
‘It seems there is a lot this evening I am supposed to forget.’
‘No, Hencke. Don’t forget the rest. I want you to remember all that sewage we’ve just waded through, because that’s the Berlin you’ve come back to save. And if you’re half the saviour Goebbels supposes you to be, it makes you the most dangerous man there is in this insane city.’