at ’em. Or grabbed the little bastards and slit their guts open.’
As Fischer chuckled to himself, Marc didn’t know where to look or what to say. He felt uncomfortable, not just because he’d been released into the custody of a nutter, but because the hospital had badly shrunk his brown suit when they’d boil-washed it to kill off all the bugs.
‘You French kept Old Fischer prisoner for two years in the last war. You think it’s bad here? You should have seen how you treated us.’
Fischer worked around a tin of tomatoes with a can opener and began tipping them down his throat.
‘Vogel sent Alain off to punishment camp,’ Fischer said, as he held the can out towards Marc. ‘Tom toms?’
No prisoner ever turned down food, but as Marc reached for the can, Fischer snatched it, then gobbed a big mouthful of chewed-up tomato into Marc’s face.
‘I hold my grudges,’ Fischer said, grunting with laughter. ‘Alain may be gone, but there’s still plenty of his mates on the Oper. I’ll put you in with ’em if you muck me about. Got it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Marc said, as he wiped tomato juice and spit on to his sleeve.
‘Old Fischer’s in charge of the Oper, the main prison barrack behind Großmarkthalle and three other prison boats. Now wherever you go, there’s always prisoners with a racket. Prisoner knows how to get extra food. Prisoner with gold hidden in his mattress. Your job is to find ’em and come tell me all about it.’
Marc looked stunned.
‘I thought you liked flapping your trap, snitching to your boss?’ Fischer teased. ‘You snitched me to Vogel well enough, didn’t you? Earned me and the other guards a right bollocking.’
‘Prisoners who snitch get their throats cut,’ Marc said weakly.
‘Best be careful then,’ Fischer said, with a laugh. ‘But keep information coming my way, ’cos if you’re no use to Old Fischer …’
The guard finished his sentence by swiping his finger across Marc’s throat. As Marc sat there trying to think up a plan, Fischer opened another tin of tomatoes. This time he let Marc dip his fingers in and take a couple.
Marc scoffed the bitter tomatoes so fast that juice ran over his wrist into the cuff of his shirt. Then Fischer yanked his arm and sadistically bent back his fingers.
‘You’ll do what I say, when I say it.’
As Marc writhed off his chair and hit the floor, a small glass jar rolled out from the inside pocket of his suit. Fischer snapped it up and roared.
‘Yoghurt!’ he shouted. ‘Haven’t seen that since before the war. Did you steal it from the hospital?’
Marc flinched, expecting a boot in the gut, but Fischer unscrewed the cap, dipped in two fingers and sucked the creamy liquid off his fingertips.
The reaction was explosive as the foul-tasting substance burned Fischer’s throat and tongue.
‘Christ,’ Fischer roared, banging his fist on the desktop, then swirling juice from the tomato tin around his mouth to clear the taste. ‘What kind of filth is that?’
Marc would have laughed, but Fischer didn’t need much provocation to smash your brains out.
‘It’s the ointment they gave me for my eye,’ Marc said, trying to keep his voice neutral as Fischer scraped his tongue on a tobacco-stained handkerchief.
‘Why didn’t you say before I licked it?’ Fischer asked. ‘Think you’re funny, do you?’
Marc hoped the question was rhetorical and didn’t answer.
‘I’ll get one of my men to find you a bed aboard the Adler,’ Fischer shouted. ‘Report back here at eight tomorrow. Make sure you’ve got something I’ll want to hear.’
*
Adler was the largest of the prison boats moored in Frankfurt’s East Docks. She had three levels above the hull and four below, and while Oper was usually bedded in mud, Adler was moored on the riverbank and floated free.
The ship’s gentle swaying made Marc queasy as he lay on the second bunk in a stack of five, two decks beneath the nearest fresh air. There was no ventilation and the build up of cigarette smoke and stench of toilet buckets made it feel like breathing soup.
Marc’s mood was black. He’d gone from top to bottom. From friend of the commandant with a cushy job, to number one enemy of a sadistic and unstable guard. From having good mates and an escape plan, to being alone and as far from getting home as he’d ever been.
Adler’s prisoners were older than the crowd on the Oper. Dutch, Poles and Slavs all mixed together. If any of the fifty bodies packed in Marc’s