Gerta

by Tučková, Kateřina

  “Wait, I’ll get cups,” Ida said, and turned back to run inside the house, coming out again moments later with several mugs.

  “Here you are, go on, take,” she said, passing them out to the women, who, reaching for them eagerly, filled them and drank.

  After a while, the episode was over. Each of the women, their faces glistening, still fearing a shortage, took away cups filled with water. Gerta brought hers straight back to Barbora. She dipped in the tips of her finally clean fingers and held them to Barbora’s lips. Barbora at once began to suck on them so greedily and desperately that Gerta’s eyes again filled with tears. Supporting her little head, she dribbled a bit of water right into Barbora’s tiny mouth. At long last, their thirst was sated.

  Ida then brought out petticoats and blouses so that they would have something to change into while they washed their clothes and waited for them to dry. She then offered them her own bedroom and a small room at the top of the stairs. Scrubbed and fed, each of them looked for a place to lie down and go to sleep. Gerta lay down at the edge of a bed near the baby carriage in which nestled Barbora, bathed and freshly swaddled. She herself felt clean and, having eaten two slices of bread and plenty of soup, so full that her stomach hurt. Lying back-to-back with her to keep herself warm was the girl with the knocked-out front tooth.

  “Teresa Bayer,” she introduced herself in German. “My mother, Erna, about whom I was asking back at the camp, well, I found her, out by the fence. A sight I wouldn’t wish on anyone,” she said before they both fell asleep.

  IX

  Starting on the second day following their arrival in Perná, the new residents of Zipfelová’s house got up with her just before five o’clock every morning. One of them tended the geese and the chickens, as well as a pig that the two Zipfelová women had kept all through the war, until the night at the end of August when a few Russian soldiers, drunk from the Dožínky harvest festival, shot it and cut the animal up right in its sty. Luckily, they hadn’t broken into the house that time, as the women, who by then had finally recovered some sense of dignity, would have been hard-pressed to get away. All ten women were employed on Hubert Šenk’s farm, where they had to show up for work every day at six o’clock in the morning. Hubert Šenk lived alone with his aging mother, having grown up without his father, his older brother having enlisted and then fallen somewhere on the front lines, and his sister having married and moved to the village of Bavory. The Šenks owned the fields that lay in the direction of Bavory, two large vineyards, and a farmstead with pigs as well as a herd of cows that grazed in a meadow adjacent to the farm buildings. A few days later, the women also began to work on a German farm that had been allocated to Šenk by the National Committee in Břeclav. It had previously belonged to the Knitz family, and they had been among the first to flee. This meant that the ten women were working in all the fields as well as on both farms, on top of which they were rushing back and forth to milk a herd of cows that had wandered into the vineyards out of nowhere. These animals hadn’t been milked in so long that their udders had become engorged and they were bellowing with pain. They yielded so much milk that it was barely possible to collect it all. There was enough to supply the whole village of Perná, and Hubert Šenk even had some delivered to the camp in Pohořelice, where people were still hungry and dysentery continued to rage. Although Perná had been a village where, for decades, Austrians, Germans, and Czechs had lived peacefully side by side, these days, as Gerta made the rounds distributing at first pails of milk and cream, and then later sour milk, the reaction she got from the remaining Germans was a curt rebuff and a refusal, either out of disdain or fear, to accept the Czech milk. If only they knew what it meant to be hungry, thought Gerta to herself, but looking around at the cottages with their rambling gardens, she imagined that on such properties it was probably always possible to find enough to eat.

  During the month of June, several of the remaining German families disappeared overnight. Some had lived here for generations and had deep roots in Perná through land they owned and through longtime neighborly ties. Others were Germans who had ended up here because of the war. Supposedly, it had started right after the Russian soldiers arrived. Thereafter, night after night, someone would be fleeing across the Austrian border, going ahead to get things ready for the rest of the family, preparing a place for them to resettle. Over the course of June, they would make regular trips back and forth by night, so that by morning they had managed to cart off bundles of their belongings in duffel bags while their mothers or wives pretended for a few more days that there was nothing unusual going on. After the initial euphoria, however, the Russian soldiers came back under the steely hand of their command and spent fewer nights drinking in the wine cellars around Perná, and were instead posted on regular sentry patrol. By the time Gerta had been working on the farm for two weeks, nightly shoot-outs in the area were routine for the sentries. Gerta never found out how many locals the Russians caught or how many they shot. She had no access to any information. At most, she would overhear something from Zipfelová, who, forgetting that some of the German girls spoke and understood Czech, would tell Ida the latest news. For example, that on the village square in Dolní Dunajovice, they had lynched Kurt Knitz, who was on his way home from the war, oblivious that his family had long since fled.

  Overhearing this, Gerta thought of Friedrich. What could have happened to him? Had he been captured and killed on the eastern front? Had he found himself at the end of the war on the western front? Or had he ended up somewhere in Germany? She had no idea. Her father had tried to find out and had sent letters, to him as well as to the authorities. Since November there had been no reply, not from Friedrich and not from the authorities. Gerta found herself thinking about her father. Had he fallen victim to the bombing of Brno, or was he now in some forced labor camp, like all of the other German men still fit for work who had remained in the city? She had heard the rumors again and again, first on Mendel Square when they had rounded them all up, and later during the march from Brno to Pohořelice. Countless women would speak about how their brother, husband, or father had been taken away to a camp in Klajdovka, Kounic College, or Maloměřice. When her father hadn’t come home after the night of liberation, it had occurred to her that he might have ended up in one of those places. And that at least he would have to atone for the wartime misdeeds he had committed in Brno by working off his guilt, which Gerta felt served him right. The days had gone so fast, especially once Jaroslav Stránský, the minister of justice, and President Edvard Beneš had returned from exile, that between having to report daily to her rubble-clearing work—which involved finding a place to leave Barbora and then searching for her again to pick her up afterward—and the endless scrounging around for food, there had been no time to look for him. Besides, why would she have gone looking, when she was relieved not to have him around? And furthermore, the main priority was to take care of Barbora and herself.

  By now it seemed obvious what would happen to them—they would either be expelled, or they would be killed. That was the word going around Perná, and although no one had attacked her personally, she could read in the faces of the locals that, as far as they were concerned, she was here for one purpose only, and that was to do work, and that eventually her case would need to be dealt with as well.

  One day on the way to the vineyard, with the perpetual question of what would become of them running again through her head, she suddenly heard a man’s voice coming from the field. He was calling for help so softly that it was almost inaudible. Overhead, swallows were frenziedly flying about, circling above the road along which she was walking with Johanna, one of the other German women who now resided at Mrs. Zipfelová’s. Gerta had first looked up at them and then at the sky, to see whether their swooping flight might be a harbinger of rain. She thought she must have imagined the voice. Or that it was her own inner voice calling out for help in German. But then she heard it again, and then again for a third time. She grabbed Jo
hanna by the elbow, stopped short, and then they both heard it with unmistakable clarity—someone was calling for help.

  It sounded quiet and desperate. Holding each other by the hand, they retraced their steps back down the road along which they had come. Again they heard it: “Hilfe.” They stepped off the road into the ditch beyond which the field began, where the uniform border of the grain strip had been disturbed by a few broken stalks, flattened to the ground. Deeper into the field, the stalks straightened up again, but there were still obvious signs of someone having carelessly walked through them.

  “Is anyone there?” Gerta called out in both German and Czech.

  “Hilfe,” answered the voice from not too far ahead of them.

  “Let’s not go there; it can only mean trouble,” said Johanna, grabbing Gerta by the elbow and holding her back. “What will you do if it’s a German?”

  “I don’t know.” Gerta shrugged her shoulders. She was scared.

  “It could be a trap. By the farmers, to see if they can trust us. Or it could be a returnee, you know, someone who has come back for his things or to get revenge. Neither would be good for us.”

  Gerta knew this. What if it was some fascist Nazi? What would they do with him?

  “Hilfe, I’m wounded!”

  Gerta turned to look back at Johanna, whose apprehension was written all over her face. With pursed lips, she was shaking her head no and backing away.

  “Wait, we can’t just walk away.”

  “What if he’s lying there ready to shoot us?”

  “I won’t shoot; please help me; I’m bleeding. I need a doctor.”

  “We can’t just leave.”

  Johanna shut her eyes and shook her head.

  “You’re crazy, and you’re taking chances. We have children.”

  “If you want to leave, then go,” replied Gerta.

  Johanna was silent for a moment and then said, “You go first. I’ll help you.”

  Gerta forged on, pushing aside the stalks of grain. She came upon a flattened hollow in which, right in front of her, lay a man. He was on his back with one hand holding the left side of his lower abdomen. His shirt was soaked with blood.

  “Help me,” he whispered when he saw them standing over him.

  A short distance away, they saw a weapon, a hat, and a duffel bag. He didn’t seem to be a soldier. He could have been a bit over fifty, his body slight and withered.

  “How can we help you? There’s no doctor in Perná. But Hubert Šenk could bring you to one. We work for him.”

  The man grimaced and vehemently shook his head.

  “Not Šenk.”

  Gerta looked helplessly at Johanna.

  “So how can we help you?”

  “Get me the doctor from Dunajovice.”

  “We can’t go to Dunajovice; we’re not allowed. We’re here to work.”

  He groaned.

  “If someone doesn’t help you, you’ll die here.”

  “I need Dr. Renner from Dunajovice.”

  Gerta shook her head. That was more of a risk than she could afford to take for him. She noticed that Johanna heaved a sigh of relief at her firm refusal.

  “We can’t go there; it’s too much of a risk. We’re being watched, and our children are with Mrs. Zipfelová.”

  “Then at least give me some water.”

  Gerta pulled a bottle out of the knapsack in which they carried their tools, as well as food and water for the whole day. She uncorked it and was about to raise the man’s head and give him a drink. The man, however, propped himself up on the elbow of the arm with the hand that was clutching his side, and with his other hand made a grab for the bottle. Gerta was surprised to see he had that much strength left. He snatched the bottle and drank from it in great gulps. Then he sank back to the ground.

  “Now leave.”

  “We can’t. We have to find a way to help you. Without help, you’re going to die here.”

  “So go to Dunajovice.”

  “Impossible. I’m going back to get Mrs. Zipfelová. She might have a better idea of what to do.”

  “Don’t you dare,” the man groaned in alarm. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I have to. We’re not about to just leave you here to die.”

  The man made a sudden lunge in the direction of the firearm. Gerta and Johanna both screamed and ran for the road. They raced back to the village.

  “You left your knapsack and bottle there,” Johanna shouted after her.

  Gerta kept on running. They didn’t stop until they reached the first few cottages of the village.

  “Now what?” She turned, out of breath, to Johanna.

  “You left your knapsack and bottle there,” Johanna repeated.

  “I know. So what now?”

  “If someone finds your things there, they’ll think we helped him. Šenk is going to ask you what happened to your knapsack.”

  Gerta hid her face in the palms of her hands, then let them slide down her forehead to her chin. She stood there frozen, her hands covering her mouth and her eyes fixed on Johanna.

  “If we tell anyone, they’ll probably kill him. Or he wouldn’t be so scared.”

  “Maybe he was exaggerating.”

  “I don’t think so, not these days. They shoot people all the time.”

  “You have to tell someone.”

  Gerta shrugged her shoulders.

  “You have to tell someone, or if you won’t, I will. Everyone knows we were together, and I’m not about to put my children in danger. I’m going to look for Mrs. Zipfelová.”

  Johanna took off down the street, ran across the square, and kept running until she got to old Zipfelová’s house. Only there did Gerta finally catch up to her. Ida was sweeping the courtyard.

  “Not her . . . Wait for Zipfelka. You’d best tell her first. She’s more understanding.”

  Johanna shrugged her shoulders.

  “We have to tell someone before they find that knapsack. Ida?”

  Ida looked up and blinked in alarm.

  “How come you’re not at Hubert’s? Did he send you?”

  Gerta shook her head.

  “Something happened. Could we speak with Mrs. Zipfelová?” blurted out Johanna.

  “What happened?” asked Ida, scrutinizing them both with suspicion, surprised.

  “Something unpleasant, Ida. Someone’s in very bad shape.”

  “Who? Hubert? Old Mrs. Šenková?”

  “No, not them. Someone out in a field. He needs help.”

  “Who? Come on, out with it. What’s going on?”

  “We found someone lying in a field,” answered Johanna, her relief as she said it palpable. “He’s lying out there in a field, shot in the stomach. He’s bleeding. He called out to us, and we went off the road and found him. Gerta left her knapsack and water bottle there.”

  “Who is it? What does he look like?”

  Gerta kept silent. Not even Johanna said a word.

  “Is he German?”

  Both nodded.

  “Is he from around here?”

  “He asked for Dr. Renner from Dunajovice.”

  “Renner? That’s strange.”

  “He didn’t want us to give him away. He was afraid of Šenk and even of Mrs. Zipfelová.”

  “Of my mother-in-law? That can’t be. Who would be afraid of her?”

  “A German from this area?”

  Ida finally moved toward them. She lifted her broom off the ground, walked right up to them, and, taking Johanna by the hand, motioned for them to step inside. In the kitchen, the children were sitting around the table while old Zipfelová busied herself by the stove.

  “Mama!” Johanna’s children called out, and rushed over to the women in the doorway. Gerta made for the baby carriage by the window in which lay Barbora.

  “Ida, what’s going on here?”

  “They found a wounded man in a field, Mother. What should we do? It’s a German.”

  Zipfelová leaned back against
the wall.

  “That’s all we needed. Helmut was the only doctor in this village.”

  “They say he asked for Dr. Renner and didn’t want anybody else to know, not you, not even Šenk. Who could it be?”

  “My God! What did he look like?” Zipfelová addressed the two young women.

  “He looked like he could be about fifty, slight. Skinny. German.”

  “Who could it be?” muttered Zipfelová under her breath. “Last week in Dunajovice they lynched Kurt Knitz. Germans are being lynched. This is all we needed.”

  “We have to call Dr. Renner. That’s who he wanted to treat him.”

  “Wonderful. Word will get out, and next thing you know, they’ll be saying we’re helping the fascists escape. That’s far too risky for me, not to mention for you. How badly off was he?”

  “He was shot through the stomach, somewhere here.” Gerta pointed to her side.

  “Hmm. Through his intestines. That’s not good.”

  “His shirt was soaked with blood. He must’ve been there since last night.”

  “In that case, by now he would already have bled to death.”

  “He could still move. He wanted water.”

  “Hmm.” Zipfelová shook her head and paced back and forth to the window.

  “Maybe we should just let him be and leave him to his fate. Just as if you’d never found him. Because if we go get Dr. Renner now, Renner will either save him, in which case we’d have helped someone we weren’t supposed to help, or he’ll be beyond all help, and we’d only have drawn attention to ourselves for no reason, and that’s the last thing you all need. Or you can just tell everything to Hubert Šenk, because in the end, he’s the one responsible for you.”