Somewhere in the camp there were three or four dogs that howled all night.
Lloyd felt dirty. This was the second night he had spent in the same clothes. He needed a bath and a shave and a clean shirt. The toilet facilities, two barrels in the corner, were absolutely disgusting.
But tomorrow was Monday. Then there would be some action.
Lloyd fell asleep around four. At six they were awakened by a Brownshirt bawling: ‘Schleicher! Jorg Schleicher! Which one is Schleicher?’
Maybe they were going to be released.
Jorg stood up and said: ‘Me, I’m Schleicher.’
‘Come with me,’ said the Brownshirt.
Robert said in a frightened voice: ‘Why? What do you want him for? Where is he going?’
‘What are you, his mother?’ said the Brownshirt. ‘Lie down and shut your mouth.’ He poked Jorg with his rifle. ‘Outside, you.’
Watching them go, Lloyd asked himself why he had not punched the Brownshirt and snatched the rifle. He might have escaped. And if he had failed, what would they do to him – throw him in jail? But at the crucial moment the thought of escape had not even occurred to him. Was he already taking on the mentality of a prisoner?
He was even looking forward to the oatmeal.
Before breakfast, they were all taken outside.
They stood around a small wire-fenced area a quarter the size of a tennis court. It looked as if it might have been used to store something not very valuable, timber or tyres perhaps. Lloyd shivered in the cold morning air: his overcoat was still at Bistro Robert.
Then he saw Thomas Macke approaching.
The police detective wore a black coat over his Brownshirt uniform. He had a heavy, flat-footed stride, Lloyd noticed.
Behind Macke were two Brownshirts holding the arms of a naked man with a bucket over his head.
Lloyd stared in horror. The prisoner’s hands were tied behind his back, and the bucket was tightly tied with string under his chin so that it would not fall off.
He was a slight, youngish man with blond pubic hair.
Robert groaned: ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s Jorg.’
All the Brownshirts in the camp had gathered. Lloyd frowned. What was this, some kind of cruel game?
Jorg was led into the fenced compound and left there, shivering. His two escorts withdrew. They disappeared for a few minutes then returned, each of them leading two Alsatian dogs.
That explained the all-night barking.
The dogs were thin, with unhealthy bald patches in their tan fur. They looked starved. The Brownshirts led them to the fenced compound.
Lloyd had a vague but dreadful premonition of what was to come.
Robert screamed: ‘No!’ He ran forward. ‘No, no, no!’ He tried to open the gate of the compound. Three or four Brownshirts pulled him away roughly. He struggled, but they were strong young thugs, and Robert was approaching fifty years old: he could not resist them. They threw him contemptuously to the ground.
‘No,’ said Macke to his men. ‘Make him watch.’
They lifted Robert to his feet and held him facing the wire fence.
The dogs were led into the compound. They were excited, barking and slavering. The two Brownshirts handled them expertly and without fear, clearly experienced. Lloyd wondered dismally how many times they had done this before.
The handlers released the dogs and hurried out of the compound.
The dogs dashed for Jorg. One bit his calf, another his arm, a third his thigh. From behind the metal bucket there was a muffled scream of agony and terror. The Brownshirts cheered and applauded. The prisoners looked on in mute horror.
After the first shock, Jorg tried to defend himself. His hands were tied and he was unable to see, but he could kick out randomly. However, his bare feet made little impact on the starving dogs. They dodged and came again, ripping his flesh with their sharp teeth.
He tried running. With the dogs at his heels he ran blindly in a straight line until he crashed into the wire fence. The Brownshirts cheered raucously. Jorg ran in a different direction with the same result. A dog took a chunk out of Jorg’s behind, and they hooted with laughter.
A Brownshirt standing next to Lloyd was shouting: ‘His tail! Bite his tail!’ Lloyd guessed that ‘tail’ in German –
Jorg’s white body was now running with blood from multiple wounds. He pressed himself up against the wire, face-first, protecting his genitals, kicking out backwards and sideways. But he was weakening. His kicks became feeble. He was having trouble staying upright. The dogs became bolder, tearing at him and swallowing bloody chunks.
At last Jorg slid to the ground.
