Chapter 129: Blood Debt
Hooves thundered over the stone street.
Dozens of cavalrymen reined in their horses before Okas. Carbines hung across their backs, sabers rested at their waists, and their cold formation alone was enough to make the crowd's blood run cold.
It used to be the police who came to disperse them.
Now it was the Army.
That change alone told Okas that something was terribly wrong.
Even so, he did not retreat.
He tightened his grip on the German flag and continued forward toward city hall, limping but unyielding. Around him, the dozen or so protesters who had followed him this far also pressed on, shouting until their throats turned raw.
The cavalry offered no warning.
They did not shout for the crowd to disperse, nor did they lower their weapons as a threat. They simply sat there in silence, pulling their reins tight and staring down at the disabled veteran as though watching an insect crawl toward its death.
Then infantry appeared behind them.
A squad of heavily armed soldiers swept in from the rear, sealing the street shut.
In an instant, the whole avenue fell silent.
Not a soul moved.
Not a soul breathed.
Then a voice rang out.
"Move!"
The cavalry spurred their horses forward.
They did not charge to intimidate. They charged to kill.
Steel flashed beneath the dying light. Horses smashed into the thin line of protesters like battering rams. Sabers came down without hesitation, and what followed was not a dispersal, but a slaughter.
The street erupted.
Blood splashed across stone. Severed fingers tumbled into muddy water. Men who had marched a moment ago now screamed like animals beneath hooves and blades.
"My hand! My hand!"
"You damned Poles! This is our land!"
"Let go of me! Get off me!"
This was no heroic tale. No miracle descended to save them.
Okas was only a one-armed veteran with a flagpole in his hand. He could not halt cavalry with resolve alone.
Still, he swung.
The wooden shaft cracked against a horse's muzzle, then against a soldier's boot. The German flag snapped in the air, only to be slashed apart by a saber. The torn fabric fell into the mud and was trampled into filth by iron hooves a heartbeat later.
But Okas still did not run.
He had not fled the fire of Verdun.
He would not flee here.
A blade bit deep into his shoulder.
Pain exploded through him so violently that his vision went white. His lips trembled uncontrollably, yet he still lunged forward, trying to drag the mounted officer down from the saddle with his remaining strength.
The officer kicked him in the chest and sent him crashing into the ground.
"Take them alive," he ordered coldly. "Bring every rebel to the shore. The rest of you, begin clearing out the rebel nests."
At once the infantry spread through the district.
Then the true purge began.
They stormed into shops, smashed doors off hinges, and dragged owners out at gunpoint. Tavern patrons who shouted in protest were beaten to the floor with rifle butts. Women rushed into the streets with tears streaming down their faces, clutching children in one arm and hastily packed bags in the other, only to be ordered to leave Danzig at once. Anyone who questioned the command was struck. Anyone who resisted was tied.
The German quarter descended into chaos.
Children cried.
Mothers screamed.
Glass shattered.
Boots pounded on wood and stone.
Some tried to take photographs, but their cameras were smashed to pieces before they could preserve a single image.
Not far away, the scar-faced man watched it all from the edge of the street.
His hand tightened around the camera hidden beneath his coat. Every instinct screamed at him to intervene, to draw a pistol, to die with the rest if necessary.
But he remembered why he was here.
So he endured it.
He raised the camera when no one was looking, took another photograph, and slipped the device back into his briefcase.
Then he turned to leave.
A voice stopped him.
"You there. Stop."
The man froze.
A Polish officer approached, his boots wet with blood and mud. The scar-faced man slowly turned, already wearing the expression of a nervous civilian.
He pulled a passport from his coat and offered a cigarette with a deferential smile.
"Officer, is something wrong?"
The officer dismounted, took the passport, and examined it carefully. His eyes moved from the paper to the man's face and back again.
"Röntgen Sickenrall," he read aloud. "Not a common name."
His gaze sharpened.
"You're from Warsaw. Why come to Danzig? And why were you drinking in a German district?"
Sickenrall forced a laugh.
"I came to look into foreign trade. I thought Danzig was ours already, so I didn't expect this sort of... trouble. Looking at it now, this is clearly no place to do business."
The officer studied him for a few seconds longer, then accepted the explanation. He lit the cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke.
"It will be ours soon," he said. "In a week, these troublesome Germans will be gone."
"All of them? Killed?" Sickenrall asked, as if merely curious.
The officer snorted.
"Not all. Most will be driven out. Those who resist, or refuse to leave, will end up like those fools."
He jerked his chin toward the captured hardliners being hauled toward waiting trucks.
Sickenrall followed his gaze.
"What will happen to them?"
The officer laughed once.
"Something more final."
Then his expression turned hard again.
"That is none of your concern, Mr. Sickenrall. Go. And if I were you, I would leave Danzig before the week is over. It will not be good for business here. Not now. Not for a long time."
Sickenrall bowed his head.
"Thank you, officer."
He walked away at a measured pace until he reached the end of the street.
Only then did his clenched jaw loosen.
The district behind him was still burning with panic.
From there, he bought a boat ticket for the next morning, hid for a time in a dockside tavern, and watched the trucks carrying the arrested Germans leave the district one by one.
When the last of them had gone, he slipped into his car and followed from a distance.
He did not dare get too close. Only when the vehicles left the main road and the traffic thinned did he abandon the car and continue on foot.
Soon, the convoy reached a deserted ferry point by the sea.
Sickenrall stopped well short of the beach.
He found a slope overlooking the shoreline, pressed himself against the cliffside, set his camera within easy reach, and raised his binoculars.
Below, the prisoners were dragged from the trucks.
Black cloths covered their heads. Hands were bound. Many stumbled. Some were sobbing openly now. Others had gone silent with shock. Okas, bleeding heavily, stood among them like a broken pillar that still refused to fall.
He understood where this ended.
He did not beg.
When the men around him began pleading for mercy, he shouted over them.
"Why are you begging them? Germany will avenge us!"
But terror is stronger than pride in most men.
The pleas continued.
Then Okas began to sing.
It was rough at first, strained by blood and pain, but unmistakable. The old German anthem rose over the surf and the wind, a sound that seemed impossible on that desolate strip of shore.
One by one, the others joined him.
Their voices shook.
Some sang through tears.
Some sang through clenched teeth.
But they sang.
The Polish officer frowned. He did not understand the words. He gestured irritably to a soldier who knew German and ordered him to ask what they were singing.
Okas answered in Polish before the interpreter could speak.
"Chuj ci w dupę."
Then, with blood on his lips and hatred in his eyes, he added:
"My country will avenge me."
A gunshot cracked across the beach.
Okas dropped where he stood.
Blood spread across the wet sand.
The song died with him.
The rest were executed moments later.
Some were shot where they stood. Others were forced to their knees first. When it was done, the soldiers tied stones to the corpses' legs, loaded them into boats in batches, and rowed out to dump them into the sea.
By tomorrow, the sharks and currents would do the rest.
No graves.
No names.
No evidence.
Only silence.
On the cliff above, Sickenrall said nothing.
He watched until the last boat returned and the last soldier departed.
Then he exhaled for what felt like the first time in an hour.
The sea wind carried the smell of blood up the slope. It did not cool his rage. It fed it.
He looked at the photographs in his camera, then at the beach below where the tide already lapped at the blood-dark sand.
Without wasting another second, he returned to his hiding place.
Inside the small rented room, he lit the lamp, knelt beside the floorboards, and pried them up.
From beneath them he pulled an oilcloth-wrapped map, the product of nearly two years of work: the Polish military deployment in Danzig.
He tucked the film into his sock.
He slid the map into the back of an old oil painting.
Then he searched the room one last time to make sure he had left nothing behind.
When he was certain, he put on his black felt hat, drew his overcoat around him, and looked out the window.
The sky was beginning to pale.
Dawn was coming.
So was the reckoning.
Without another glance back, Sickenrall left the room and headed straight for the docks.
.....
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