Winter of the World by Ken Follett Page B

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 Jörg.’
    All the Brownshirts in the camp had gathered. Lloyd frowned. What was this, some kind of cruel game?
    Jörg 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 Jörg. 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, Jörg 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. Jörg ran in a different direction
with the same result. A dog took a chunk out of Jörg’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 –
der Schwanz
– was slang for penis.
The man was hysterical with excitement.
    Jörg’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 Jörg slid to the ground.
    The dogs settled down to feed.
    The handlers re-entered the compound. With practised motions they reattached the dogs’ leads, pulled them off Jörg, and led them away.
    The show was over, and the Brownshirts began to move away, chattering excitedly.
    Robert ran into the compound, and this time no one stopped him. He bent over Jörg, moaning.
    Lloyd helped him to untie Jörg’s hands and remove the bucket. Jörg was unconscious but breathing. Lloyd said: ‘Let’s get him indoors. You take his legs.’ Lloyd
grasped Jörg under the arms and the two of them carried him into the building where they had slept. They put him on a mattress. The other prisoners gathered around, frightened and