The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  ‘Poison?’

  ‘My mother got some poison, because of Waltraud, you know? She says we’ll all be slaves now. That’s what it said in Der Panzerbär. Under the Russians. And the Americans. They’re as bad. She’d rather die.’

  ‘What about you and Waltraud?’

  ‘We’d go with her.’

  ‘What?’ Bette said. ‘Do you know what you’re talking about?’

  ‘Sure,’ Greta said. ‘It’s cyanide. She has a little ampoule of it round her neck.’

  ‘Do you want to die?’ Bette said.

  She lifted her knees towards her chest and hugged them close. Lots of people were dead, not just the Führer. Others too, people she knew. Herr and Frau Baumann. Tante Winkler. The Müllers. Otto. There were all the extra bodies buried in pits in Friedrichshain Park, as well as corpses she saw in the street. She didn’t want to blow up like one of those, have her guts gnawed by maggots, eyes pecked by crows. She didn’t know if Oma and Großvater were still alive.

  ‘What would I do without you?’

  The door opened and Frau Weber came in. ‘Greta, come,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t she stay?’ Bette said. Her mother wouldn’t be so cross with her in front of Greta.

  ‘No,’ Frau Weber said.

  ‘Are you going to give her poison?’ Bette said.

  Frau Weber narrowed her eyes. ‘What have you been saying, Greta?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Greta said. ‘We were just talking about the Goebbels family.’

  Bette had never heard an outright lie. She wouldn’t dare be untruthful to her mother, not even a fib. Perhaps Mutti was right. They were common, after all. Greta scrambled to her feet, walked out of the door, waved her fingers at Bette. She watched as they left, Frau Weber, Greta, and Waltraud, her head low, her feet shuffling. She had lost weight.

  She heard her mother shut the front door, her footsteps as she walked across the hall, into the sitting room. Bette stood behind the sofa, staring at her feet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to slam the door like that. The wind caught it.’

  ‘I know,’ her mother said, but her voice was weak and she began to cough, a deep, phlegmy rumble. Bette looked up. Her mother was holding onto the door frame with one hand, the other clamped over her mouth. She looked paler than usual. ‘I’m going to lie down.’

  Bette rushed out, towards her.

  ‘You haven’t taken poison, have you?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ her mother said. ‘Go and wake Lieselotte. She has to take care of you today.’

  ‘Why?’ Bette said.

  ‘I don’t feel well.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Mutti was never ill. ‘Is it the Führer?’

  ‘I have a nasty cold,’ her mother said. ‘That’s all. A summer cold. They’re the worst.’ She gave a small, lopsided smile and coughed again, pulling out a rag, spitting into it. ‘Go on. Wake your sister.’

  Bette stood for a moment, then knocked on Lieselotte’s door. She’d never had to do that in the old days, before the Ivans came. It had been her room too, and she could come and go as she pleased.

  §

  There were chores to do, the apartment to clean, even though there seemed little point, but Mutti insisted it was done every day and Lieselotte said they had to do it as Mutti was ill and otherwise she’d be cross. They used the last of the water to wash through their threadbare towels, then went out to refill the buckets.

  A notice had been posted onto the wall.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Just bla,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Looted goods to be returned. Weapons to be handed in, bla bla. Execution for anyone harming a Russian soldier, bla, bla, bla.’ She looked round to make sure no one could hear. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

  ‘Boris?’ Bette said. ‘I thought you liked him.’

  ‘I don’t like him. But I pretend I do, and that protects us.’ She smiled, turned to her sister. ‘He keeps the others at bay.’

  ‘But what if he goes away?’ She didn’t want Lieselotte to end up like Waltraud, because Greta said that it happened again and again, not just that first night, and there was nothing Frau Weber could do. ‘What will happen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, shrugging, but the pull of her mouth showed worry.

  ‘No, I mean what will happen now? Now we have no Führer and Berlin has surrendered. Is the war over?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lieselotte said. They’d reached the standpipe and Lieselotte filled one bucket, reached for the second. The spring breeze feathered her skin, soft as a bird. Bette turned her face towards the sun to catch its warmth.

  ‘Here,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Let’s go back.’ She lifted up her pail, hooked it over her arm. ‘Boris said that we Germans did some dreadful things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Destroyed villages,’ she said. ‘Murdered thousands. Rounded them up and starved them and killed them in cold blood. Jews and Gypsies and all sorts. Thousands and thousands and thousands.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  Lieselotte looked ahead, taking in the carcass of the street, as if the devastation were new.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice soft and fretful. ‘Yes. He saw it. Horrific things, beyond imagining. Except we did them, Bette, we Germans. Some of the things he told me, I couldn’t repeat to you. They’re too hideous, too evil. He says we will be punished. Germany will be punished.’

  ‘So Frau Weber was right? We shall be slaves.’

  ‘Frau Weber is a malicious gossip and a Party member,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Why else do you think Waltraud was so fat?’

  ‘We could run away,’ Bette said. ‘Go to Dahlem, find Oma. Is it far?’

  ‘Miles away.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ Lieselotte said. ‘We’ll go and find her when the war’s over.’

  They rounded the corner. Boris was waiting for them outside their building. He was holding a bicycle, brushing the back of his hand over the handlebars as if it were a prize mare. He grinned as they drew close, the gap between his teeth dark and moist. The bicycle was large, a man’s bike. It must have been kept under lock and key, for the paint was shiny, the chrome gleamed, the tyres were new.

  ‘Gut,’ he said in his German, pointing at the bike then at Lieselotte. ‘You, me. We go.’

  Lieselotte shook her head, nodded at Bette. ‘Him, and me.’ She made cycling movements with her finger.

  ‘Net,’ Boris said, shaking his head. ‘Net. Dangerous. Thief. Bad man.’

  ‘Please,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Bitte. Half an hour. Bitte.’ She pointed to Boris’s watch, painted a semicircle with her finger. ‘For my brother.’ She pointed at Bette. ‘For the boy.’ She made a pedalling motion with her legs. ‘He needs fresh air. To get out.’

  Bette hadn’t even thought about a ride, but now Lieselotte had raised the possibility, she wanted to go too. The sun was high and she felt its heat and light, the brazenness of the afternoon. She stepped close to the bike, pointing to herself.

  ‘There.’ Lieselotte nodded at Bette. ‘My brother will look after me.’

  A Russian came out of their building, leaving a puddle of urine in the entrance hallway. He buttoned his flies and saluted Boris. Bette was staring at him, didn’t see Vasily come up behind her, hook one arm round her chest and the other between her legs, squeezing. He hoisted her onto the crossbar, holding the handlebars to steady the bike. He was grinning, his face close to hers, pimples bloated with pus. He knows, Bette thought. He knows. He pointed to her, to himself and, straddling the bike, took the handlebars from Boris.

  ‘Nein.’ Bette jumped down, catching him off balance. He put his foot down to stop the bike from smashing on the ground.

  Boris shouted at him in Russian, and Vasily shouted back. She couldn’t understand what he said, but she sensed the menace, watched as Boris wavered. Please God, she thought, no. She had no doubt
what Vasily intended for her, was mapping in her head how to get away when Boris grabbed the bike and, hoisting it over his shoulder, walked into their building and up the main staircase. They usually came up the service stairs, barging through their back door as if they owned the place. Vasily took Lieselotte’s bucket and Bette followed behind, watched as Vasily climbed to the apartment, avoiding the broken bits, as if he knew each step and crack by heart, as if he had lived here all his life.

  ‘Where’s Mutti?’ Bette asked as they entered. She ran into the bedroom. Mutti was sleeping, her breath rumbling, echoing in her chest. Best not to wake her. She heard the door to Lieselotte’s bedroom click shut.

  She didn’t want to be alone with Vasily. His spots made her queasy and she was uncomfortable with him, especially now, now he knew. He want good girl. Clean girl. You know? He’d have no qualms about taking her, she was sure, raping her in front of her mother’s nose. She slunk towards the front door and opened it without making a sound. Greta. She’d find Greta, sit with her, perhaps play a game of Ludo. Or they could tell stories. Greta knew what was going on. Mutti forbade her to go out alone, but she’d only be a minute. She sidled down the broken staircase, listening, holding her nose. The place smelled like a public lavatory. She stopped. Not a sound. She peered over the broken bannister. Not an Ivan in sight doing their business, or worse.

  The back door had long since been removed, so she ran across the courtyard to the Webers’ apartment, knuckles poised to rap on their door. She paused. What if Frau Weber had poisoned everyone? What if they were lying there dead and she, Bette, found them? Mutti was asleep and Lieselotte busy, so who could she tell? She thought for a moment. She’d knock, and if there was no reply, tell Mutti. She’d know what to do, wouldn’t be cross with her for disobeying as this would be an emergency.

  No, she told herself. Frau Weber would never dare kill them all. She might have fallen to pieces, like Mutti said, but she wasn’t mad. She knocked hard, and called out. There was a screech as Frau Weber dragged the heavy chest of drawers away from the door and opened it a crack.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘Come in, come in.’

  Greta was standing behind her.

  ‘Guess where I’ve been,’ Bette said. ‘Just guess.’

  Greta raised her eyebrows, and Bette circled her fingers as Lieselotte had done, then leaned on pretend handlebars, lifting her legs and pushing down.

  ‘Dummy,’ Bette said. ‘I’ve been on a bicycle.’ It wasn’t quite a fib, but two could play at that.

  It was almost dark when Bette came back to the apartment. Boris and Vasily had left, taking the bicycle with them. There was no sign of Lieselotte, or her mother. She guessed they were both in bed. Bette listened to make sure no one had come up the back stairs when they saw Boris and Vasily leave. She went into the kitchen. There was a slab of fresh butter on the table, some herring and bread. She cut a slice, slapped the pickled fish on top.

  She couldn’t waste a candle so tiptoed into the bedroom, changed into her nightdress and crept into bed. Her mother’s breathing was silent now, but she was hot, hotter than Bette had ever known a person. Hotter, even, than she’d been when she’d had the measles four years ago.

  She rushed out of the bedroom to Lieselotte’s room, didn’t bother knocking.

  ‘Mutti,’ Bette said, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the bedroom. ‘She has a fever. Come quickly.’

  Lieselotte ran then into the room, felt her mother’s forehead.

  ‘Frau Weber,’ she said. ‘Fetch Frau Weber. She was a nurse. She’ll know what to do.’ It was dark now, not quite curfew but too late to be out. Bette pulled on her trousers and shirt and ran to the door. She felt her way to the staircase. It was dangerous at the best of times, but in the dark, who knew what could happen? She tapped the broken steps with her toe, listening. A step, a rustle. A stone fell. Bette jumped. Something ran across her foot. She choked back a scream, feeling for the wall. A scuttling. Her heart was hammering hard and she froze. Nothing. The building was silent, the street noises muffled. A rat. It was probably a rat. Or a ghost. Greta said that there were ghosts in the building. Bette felt dizzy, her breath thin and light. She wanted to climb back up, find her sister. No. Step by step. What if an Ivan was hiding in the shadows, grabbed her from behind, hand over her mouth, hand between her legs, like Vasily? Clean girl. She breathed in, tensed, counted the steps one by one, silent feet, no sound, no loose stones, hands on the wall walking her along until she knew she was on the ground floor. She ran through the opening, across the yard, hammered on Frau Weber’s door.

  ‘Frau Weber. Kommt. Kommt. Schnell.’ She tried the handle, but the heavy furniture was blocking it from inside.

  ‘Frau Weber? Wo sind Sie?’ She could see that the apartment was in darkness. What if— She screamed, hammering on the door. ‘Frau Weber, Frau Weber.’

  She heard the furniture dragged back and the door opened a crack. Frau Weber peered through.

  ‘What are you making this racket for?’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Bette began to sob. ‘It’s Mutti,’ she said. ‘Mutti.’ She could say no more.

  ‘A moment.’ Frau Weber yanked Bette through the half-opened door, pushed her along the hall and into her room. Greta and Waltraud were in bed and the old grandmother was on a chair, her feet propped on a stool. Frau Weber pulled off her nightdress and stood, naked, while she grabbed her frock and tugged it down over her body. Bette stared. Mutti never did that sort of thing. She opened the door a fraction, sidling out, grabbing Bette with one hand, and they ran across the courtyard, stumbling up the steps, into the apartment. Lieselotte had lit one of the candles Boris had brought and had placed it on the table next to her mother’s bed. Mutti was asleep, her breath cracked and strangled. Her lips looked blue in the flickering light.

  Frau Weber went across, felt the forehead.

  ‘Aye, yeh,’ she said, shaking her hand. ‘How long has she been like this?’

  ‘We just noticed,’ Lieselotte said. ‘She seemed all right before.’

  ‘She wasn’t that ill,’ Bette said. ‘She just said she had a cold.’

  ‘Water,’ Frau Weber said. ‘And a cloth.’

  Lieselotte and Bette rushed to the kitchen. Bette grabbed a towel and the bucket, as Lieselotte filled a jug and lifted down a glass from the shelf.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Bette said. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Lieselotte snapped. They came back into the bedroom. Even though the day had been warm, the night air was cold.

  ‘Should we get a doctor?’ Lieselotte said.

  ‘It’s curfew,’ Frau Weber said. ‘You’ll get shot. Besides, what can a doctor do? We have no medicines.’

  She dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, clamped it onto Mutti’s brow. She pulled back the bedcovers, but Mutti arched, her mouth frothing, her arms flailing. Lieselotte screamed.

  ‘Be quiet,’ Frau Weber said, rolling Mutti onto her side, dipping the cloth in the water again, wiping it round Mutti’s face and neck. ‘Do you have an aspirin?’

  Lieselotte shook her head.

  ‘Fetch another cloth. Sponge her down.’ Lieselotte ran out, returned with another towel.

  ‘Is she going to die?’ Bette said.

  Frau Weber clamped her mouth in concentration. She grabbed the towel from Lieselotte, soaked it in the water and covered Mutti’s body, dabbing as her mother grasped for air, her throat rattling and growling at the same time.

  ‘She has pneumonia,’ Frau Weber said. She looked up from her task, at Lieselotte, at Bette. ‘She’s very ill.’

  Bette felt the tears prick her eyes, heard herself whimper. Lieselotte came over and put her arm round her, pulling her close.

  ‘What can we do?’ Lieselotte said.

  Frau Weber shook her head. ‘Have you heard from your father?’

  ‘No,’ Lieselotte said.

  ‘We don’t even know where he is,’ Bet
te said. ‘That’s what Mutti told us. Top secret.’

  ‘Top secret, eh?’ Frau Weber smirked. ‘She may pull through,’ she said. She lifted the cloth from Mutti, dipped it in the water. ‘I have to go. I can’t leave my girls.’ She handed it to Lieselotte. ‘Keep sponging her. I’ll come back in the morning.’

  She walked around the side of the bed.

  ‘Lock the door after me,’ she said.

  The candle burned out and Lieselotte fetched another.

  ‘This is our last,’ she said, lighting it from the embers of the old. It flickered in the breeze from the empty window, but stayed alight.

  ‘We’re running low on water,’ Bette said, wringing out a cloth, wiping her mother’s face. ‘I wish Frau Weber had stayed with us.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t,’ Lieselotte said.

  Bette felt as if her blood had turned to oil, was flooding through her veins, heavier than grief.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Berlin: July 1945

  The springs were soft and the mattress hard, but at least the old police barracks were undamaged and John had the room to himself, small though it was. There was a cupboard for his clothes, shelves in one half, hanging space down the rest. The previous occupant had left his roster on the inside of the door. Three nights on, two days off. Night shifts. Not for the faint-hearted. He’d had to work through the night more than once, took time winkling out the details in the Walterwerke and everywhere else he’d been sent in the last few weeks. Physicists, John thought, are not the most garrulous of men.

  A small table and hard-backed chair nestled under a tall casement. The room was stuffy, needed some air. John opened the window. The thin yellow curtain blew inwards, tangled itself around the edge of the frame, caught on the latch, but the breeze was welcome in the July heat. He could hear a bird singing. There was a shrub not far away, and there in its thickets John could see the outline of a nest. A blackbird was entering the tangle of leaves and branches, a worm in its mouth. Fledglings. He liked that idea. In a landscape of soot, a baby blackbird was learning to sing.