Then there was a pause, an intake of breath that rattled in aged lungs. Then, ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Good. Then you will know why I'm here. I've a car waiting outside. I want you to come with me. If you resist, or try to call for help, I will shoot you dead. Understand?’
The other obviously understood because with some difficulty he struggled up out of his chair, a gaunt silhouette against the lights from the street outside. He groped on the table, located a greasy trilby hat and jammed his head, pulling the brim down over the other’s forehead. He would offer no resistance. Wolskel stood back, motioned for the other to shamble outside ahead of him.
The street was still deserted as Lech Wolskel pushed Bremmer into the passenger seat of the Volvo. The engine purred into life and the car slid smoothly away from the curb. Another glance in the mirror just in case they were being followed. They weren't. The Hawk had been beaten at the death.
***
Within a quarter of an hour Wolskel was pushing the senile Nazi into the door of his own house, locking it behind him. The other seemed resigned to his fate, obeyed every command, offered no resistance as he was pushed towards the cellar steps, gripped the rail as he descended.
When Wolskel had executed Stalhein he had gone through the process of a ‘trial’ beforehand. In many ways it had detracted from the purpose of his vengeance. Judge and executioner: the denials, the pleas of innocence, had been rejected. Death by hanging was the only outcome. The evidence in itself was damning, he was not looking for a stay of execution.
Falteringly, Bremmer allowed himself to be led on to the platform, the noose draped around his neck and tightened.
‘My Father was at Katyn,’ Wolskel's whisper echoed in the confined space. ‘That is why I am going to hang you.’
The Nazi did not answer, the only sound was that of the phlegm bubbling in his tired lungs. He made no excuses, no denials. Wolskel was glad that he was unable to see the other's features and made no attempt to confront his victim. He had no wish to look upon the one who had ordered his father's shooting. Death itself would be sufficient, the vile corpse destroyed forever by the lime. Then it would be all over.
With an effort he resurrected his anger, recalled the hatred which was beginning to slip away from him, for without it all this would be futile. He might as well have left Bremmer for the Hawk.
‘You bastard!’ He forced himself to shout. ‘Fourteen thousand lives wasted. Widows and orphans left to grieve. I was one of them. I still am. I've cried for my father night after night. Tonight I will cry no more.’
The shape on the gallows seemed to have taken on a new grotesqueness, the frail body had filled, the neck swelling and bulging, the rough hemp abrasing the bloated flesh. The breath hissed like a steaming kettle as the bound wrists struggled against their bonds.
Wolskel stepped back, suddenly afraid. No, it was a trick of the light, his own nerves were mocking him now that he has got his man. Go and look at the face, see for yourself. Gaze upon the shrunken flesh of an old man who is now harmless!
I don't want to see!
‘I die for the Fuhrer!’
Wolskel recoiled, those fanatical powerful tones vibrating his brain, the ringing in his ears shrill and hysterical like fourteen thousand souls screaming for vengeance.
Hang him before it's too late!
Wolskel grabbed for the lever, gripped it with sweaty fingers, sensed the evil that emanated from the man on the platform, a force that came at him with terrifying suddenness. He threw his full weight on the iron handle, it seemed to be defying him, pulling against him. Then it yielded, threw him backwards as it released the platform. A clang as the trapdoor fell, followed by a full second of awful silence in which he thought that his victim was not going to drop, that by some impossible means Bremmer was treading air, mocking the law of gravity.
He cried his relief aloud as he felt the jarring thud, the structure swaying slightly as the falling body was jerked to a spinning halt, heard a loud crack that might have been the .38 accidentally detonating in his own pocket. The gallows vibrated, shuddering like a small ship that had hit an unexpected squall and then eased into a calm.
Lech Wolskel crouched there, smelled his own body odours, then prayed to the God which he had almost forgotten that the Nazi beast was dead; that it was finally over. He trembled and closed his eyes. That inexplicable force, whatever it was, seemed to have gone. He listened to the steady rhythmic swinging of the body below like a metronome that was slowly running down. Until at last it stopped.
You'll have to cut him down, throw him into the pit.
He recoiled at the thought, accepting its logic. No way could he leave Bremmer to rot on the rope, filling the house, which already smelled of death, with the stench of decomposing flesh. He heaved, almost vomited, and accepted what he must do. It would only take a minute or two.
Shakily, Wolskel clambered down the rickety steps, made his way round to the front of the gallows. The corpse had twisted round and thankfully come to a standstill facing away from him. He noted with relief that the body was not bloated, that it was pathetically emaciated in the way it had been prior to the execution. His nerves
