They wait in shifts. Standing in the slow-moving, murmuring line. Sitting on the wall across the road from the shop, watching the bags. Swapping when the church bell sounds the quarter hour. When the twins aren’t in line, they throw stones from the road into the river below, dare each other to run along the top of the wall. The woman behind Lore gives Peter a couple of raisins from her ration and he holds out his hand for more. Lore pulls Peter’s hand away and thanks her, embarrassed, but the woman smiles.
At midday they are inside the shop.
—Nuremberg coupons?
Lore takes a coin from her apron pocket.
—No money. Only coupons here.
—But we’ve been waiting all morning.
Liesel can’t help herself, Lore jabs her in the back. The woman with the raisins steps forward.
—Give the children something to eat. There’s five of them. A baby, too.
—They don’t have coupons, Frau Holz.
—Look how thin they are.
The twins push their way into the shop and up to the counter next to Lore. An old man at the door grumbles loudly to himself.
—Why don’t you share your rations with them?
—You know I have children of my own.
The shopkeeper raises his voice.
—I am not running a black market here. Nuremberg coupons only.
—Why don’t you let them wait? Maybe you can give them what’s left at the end?
—And what do you think the Americans would say to that, Frau Holz?
—I suggest you don’t tell them, Herr Roeding.
Frau Holz gives them a slice of her bread before she leaves. The grumbling old man gives Liesel an egg. Lore isn’t sure if the shopkeeper will give them anything or not. They stand in silence by the counter and the people avoid eye contact as they collect their rations. Lore shares out the bread: one bite each. The street outside slides into shadow as the sun moves overhead. Peter cries and Liesel walks him up and down on the pavement until he falls asleep. The twins whisper with each other for a while and then lapse into restless silence: standing at the window, sitting on the bundles.
The queue dwindles, ends. Lore fixes her eyes on the shopkeeper as he wipes down the counter, sweeps the floor. She wonders if she should call Liesel in with Peter. There’s still at least one loaf, some butter, too. Also some sugar. She steps up to the counter.
—I’ll pack you what’s left, but not a word to anyone. Understand?
Lore nods. She sends the twins outside to sit on the wall with Liesel, unties their bundle, ready for the food. Behind the counter, with his back to the door, the shopkeeper wraps two loaves, butter, an egg. The door opens. The shopkeeper turns round, shields the parcel from view.
—Can I help you?
The young man doesn’t speak until he is at the counter. He touches his fingertips against the wooden surface.
—If you have any rations left, I would be very grateful.
—Coupons?
—I’m not from Nuremberg. I only thought, if you have any left.
The shopkeeper turns back to his work, gestures to Lore.
—This young lady is my last customer today.
The young man looks at Lore. He smells sour. His wrists hang long and thin from his black sleeves.
—My brothers and my sister.
Lore points out of the window. The children are lined up against the wall, watching, waiting for the food. The man nods, smiles, and leaves the shop.
Lore asks for some water, and the old woman offers them a room for the night. There is a cot and a quilt, which Lore gives to Liesel and Peter. She and the twins build a nest on the floor with the bags and blankets. Lore pools their food with the old woman and helps her cook a thin stew. They eat in her tiny kitchen, crowded around the crooked table, standing because there are no chairs. It is cold and damp in the house. They go to sleep with their clothes on.
The old woman wakes Lore in the night. She carries a candle, her sleeve pulled down over her hand to protect it from the wax.
—I’ll need something for this. You can pay me now, please.
Lore stares at the pale eyes, the yellow hooded lids.
—You have something to pay me with? The Russians killed my sons. I have nothing.
The old woman pulls at Lore’s collar, wax splatters on the floorboards. Her mouth is flat; lips pulled taut over her teeth. Angry tears well up against her sparse lashes. Lore fumbles under the blankets for her apron pocket and hands her two coins. The old woman sniffs at the money.
—Nothing else? A spoon perhaps? Silver?
She waits, Lore looks past her into the black room. Apron corner tucked into her fist, Mutti’s jewelry sewn inside. She will give no more. The old woman blows out the candle and leaves.
Peter screams in the morning, pulls at his clothes. He doesn’t want to be lifted or touched. Liesel sits next to him on the cot and scratches at her sides, her legs. Her ankles are raw under her socks. She lifts her blouse to show Lore the red, itchy skin over her ribs. It is still cold in the house. Lore takes Peter out into the sun, pulls off his clothes. He screams, choking. The old woman is in the garden.
—Lice. You’ll have to burn his clothes. Wash him with paraffin, too. That will kill them. I think. You need to kill them.
She points at Peter’s neck, pulls at her chin, can’t keep her fingers still.
—I have some paraffin. Wash the baby in it, and the girl. I’ll burn their clothes.
She brings out the paraffin and a tub, goes through their hair with her bony fingers. Lore flinches as she scratches at Peter’s scalp with her broken nails.
—You and the boys are clean. But you should soak your clothes. And all of you should wash. All of you.
—Yes. Thank you.
—I will need something for the paraffin.
She holds the bottles against herself. Lore wants to cry. Peter screams and twists in Liesel’s arms.
—I am sorry, but I can’t give it to you. Do you have something?
Lore turns her back and lifts her apron. She tears the hole in the handkerchief pouch a little wider, pulls out Mutti’s silver chain.
—But it’s worth more than the paraffin.
The woman says she has nothing else to give, they can stay an extra night instead.
They undress at the side of the house, hidden from the road by the trees. The old woman pokes at Liesel and Peter’s clothes with a stick, takes them inside and stuffs them in the stove. Lore soaks the rest of their things in the tub of paraffin, biting her lips to stop the tears. Liesel holds Peter, crouching on the ground. The boys are quiet. Lore rubs paraffin into the children’s limbs and chests and hair. Peter screams again, his body red. The oil smarts in the torn skin around Lore’s fingernails, the cracks around her nose and mouth.
The twins rinse the clothes, but there is no soap, so the paraffin won’t wash out. The woman boils water for them, carries it out from the kitchen in buckets. She brings scissors, too; drops them in the grass next to Lore and looks away while she speaks.
—You should cut the girl’s hair, and the baby’s. Take it all off.
—But you said it would kill them. The paraffin.
The old woman shrugs, Mutti’s chain around her neck. Lore looks away too now, and the old woman goes back into the hourse. Liesel picks up the scissors and cuts off her braids. She sits down in front of Lore and promises not to cry. The twins stand by the wall and watch while Lore works her way closer and closer to Liesel’s scalp with the blunt scissors.
Peter’s curls are long and soft. The blades look huge against his face and he won’t keep his head still. Lore wishes she could save his hair. Send it to Mutti, but she doesn’t know where her mother is. She cries and sweeps Peter’s hair into a pile with Liesel’s, takes it inside to the stove and fills the old woman’s house with its bitter smell. Outside, she rubs the last of the paraffin into the stubble on her sister’s head.
The twins lay their shorts and shirts an
d vests out in the sun to dry. Lore pulls on wet clothes and walks into the village to get food and something for Liesel and Peter to wear. If no one wants Mutti’s money now, Lore doesn’t know how she can make Mutti’s jewelry last. She is furious, frightened.
A cart comes toward her on the road, the farmer raises his hat. Behind him sit people with bundles. The young man in the black suit is among them, legs dangling from the back of the cart. Boots bound in rags, twisted knots of cloth, huge at the end of his thin legs. He catches Lore’s eye, shrinks back in recognition, hands moving up to cover his face. Lore looks away, too, shock like a clamp around her guts.
She looks back again after the cart passes. The young man is watching her. He raises one hand slightly in greeting. Lore waves back, hurries on. Blushing in her wet, paraffin-stinking clothes.
Jüri points out the young man again the following evening, behind them in a soup line.
—He wanted the food in that shop, didn’t he?
—Yes. Not so loud.
—Why did the shopkeeper give it to us?
—Because we were there first.
The man has seen them, too. Lore can feel his eyes on her as she asks for an extra portion to give to Peter. They crouch down to eat at the edge of the square. The soup is watery, but it has small chunks of meat at the bottom. Lore fishes two or three out of the steaming liquid and blows on them for Peter to chew. The hot food is painful against her gums. They smear dripping onto the bread with their fingers. The man sits down in the middle of the square, leaning back against the sandbags around the statue, facing the children while he drinks his soup from the bowl. He eats quickly, ravenously. Lore feels him watching them. She rubs dripping into the raw corners of Peter’s mouth, but he licks it away again.
Jüri helps himself to more bread, and Lore doesn’t stop him, takes another slice for herself. Jüri stands up and walks across the square with the fistful of bread and dripping held out in front of him. He stops in front of the man, offers him the food. Lore sees the man take it and push it straight into his mouth. Jüri pauses for a second, watching, then runs back across the square to Lore. He crouches down quickly, as if to duck out of sight, whispers.
—He took it.
Jüri looks at Lore, holding out his empty, greasy hands. His eyes are red and wet, surprised.
—He didn’t say anything to me.
He wipes at his eyes with his sleeve.
—It doesn’t matter.
Lore divides the rest of the bread between them. Jüri passes his share to Jochen. Lore looks over to the fountain, but the young man is walking away from them, across to the other side of the square and out of sight.
They are on a long straight road. Pale yellow-brown sticky clay, with heavy wet fields on either side. It runs along a low ridge and Lore can see for miles: the long walk ahead, and the young man behind. He has been there since dawn, head down, keeping pace with them. Lore has Peter and the bundle, and keeps the children ahead of her, the twins at the front and Liesel in the middle. The boys have spent most of the morning whispering to each other, but they are quiet now. The rain started about an hour ago, a fine mist that wets their hands and faces and works its way through their stockings. Lore wraps Peter in the oilcloth and hopes he isn’t cold. She wipes his face every few minutes with her handkerchief and he smiles up at her each time. She is thirsty, but the children haven’t said anything. Lore guesses they have been walking for around three hours. They will stop in an hour or two. She notes a tree on the horizon and decides to pass it before lunch. They have no more food.
Lore hears a humming noise. Coming from the left or the right. She’s not sure. Her feet are warm and wet in her boots, and Peter smiles when she wipes his face. How long has the noise been there? She looks back along the road, but there is nothing to see apart from the man. In front of her is the tree, their target, and the bulk of the bag strapped onto Liesel’s narrow back. The morning is mapped out. They can easily keep walking like this for an hour or two: tree, twins, Liesel, smiling Peter, and then Lore, and behind them the man. The hum is still there.
She can see something now, a flat black shape moving parallel with the horizon, seemingly through the middle of the field to the left of the road. A jeep, maybe. The wheels are hidden behind a ridge. It is still a long way off. Half a kilometer. Perhaps not so far. Lore wipes Peter’s face, but he is asleep now and she gets no smile. She looks back at the man and he is still there, no closer, no farther away. She looks ahead at the tree, and that, too, is still on the horizon: their no-food lunch marker. The jeep is a fast thing in a slow landscape, gaining ground. Peter sleeps.
Perhaps we should run. Lore doesn’t know where they are, who the fields belong to. Maybe they aren’t in Germany anymore. We should run.
—We have to go through the field.
She tears at the bundle, struggling to pull it off her shoulders, shifting Peter from arm to arm, jolting him. He stays asleep. Blankets trail from his legs, getting wet. Lore grabs handfuls, stuffing them up under the oilskin.
—Through the field. This one.
Still Peter sleeps. The children watch their sister grappling with the baby’s blankets, shocked to be standing still after the long hours of walking.
Lore glances behind her to look for the man. He has seen the jeep, too, and is walking faster now, head up, white smudge of face under a black hat. He has one arm raised, as if pointing to something in the sky, but he looks straight ahead, at them, coming forward, half walk, half trot.
Peter hangs around Lore’s neck, a sleeping deadweight. No warmth comes through the oilskin. Like a sandbag in her arms.
—Take the bundle, Jochen, we have to run.
—Now?
Lore can see the jeep from the corner of her eye, so she knows it is too late. She doesn’t want to look for the man. She’s got it wrong, everything is too close now.
—Yes, come on.
She pushes Liesel forward into the ditch dividing the road and the field. Jochen picks up the bundle but doesn’t move. Jüri slides down the grassy bank on his bottom. Liesel holds out her arms to take Peter and the jeep pulls up next to them. Sharp exhaust in the damp air.
Lore turns her head away, facing down the road toward the man. He is gaining on them, only a hundred meters away now, still walking, trotting.
The soldier speaks. In German. Maybe. She can’t understand him. There are two of them. The soldier speaking at the window, and another pair of eyes in the driver’s seat. Lore looks down the road to the man. He has almost caught up with them, still holding one arm in the air. He is speaking but she can’t hear what he’s saying. He should be shouting if he wants us to hear.
The soldier speaks again. American, but speaking German, his accent difficult.
—Where are you going?
The other soldier whispers to him. The man is still there, coming closer. Lore can see the mud on his trouser cuffs. Yellow on black wool. His face is wet, like hers, like Peter’s.
—Where are your parents?
—I don’t know who he is.
Lore points at the man as he comes alongside the jeep.
—What?
—She’s talking about this other one.
—I don’t know him.
Lore knows they don’t understand her, but at least they both turn and look at the man now.
His neck is long and thin, and his head is bony. Full of teeth and gaps where teeth used to be. The jawbone works on and on. He is speaking quietly, persistently, and his Adam’s apple jumps between tight cords in his neck. He slows down now and carefully lowers his arm to his side as he reaches the group.
—Do you have papers?
The other soldier is speaking to Lore now. His accent clearer. The man is almost at the jeep, slowing down walking, breathing, talking.
—We lost them.
—We’re going to Oma.
Jochen puts the bundle down as he speaks. Lore watches the soldier for his reaction.
—Not fa
r away. We’re nearly home. She’s waiting for us.
The man comes to a stop next to Lore. Too close. She steps aside and Peter shifts in her arms. The man reaches out and touches the door of the jeep. His nails are wide and pale, his fingers wet.
—I have papers, here, I have papers, look. We need a lift, if you have the room. We’re nearly home. We have people waiting.
He shuffles on the yellow clay, keeps up his slow insistent monologue, hands going through the pockets of his dark suit. Lore can’t look at the soldier, has to keep her eyes on the man. She stands between him and the children, holding Peter hard to her chest, making herself wide.
—I have my papers. Where are you driving? If we could go as far as Fulda with you, maybe, that would be very helpful. Let me find them. We lost the others, you know how it is, but I still have mine. Here they are.
The man has an identity card folded into a damp square of thick gray paper. He pushes up his sleeves and holds out the paper to the soldiers; resting his pale, bare arms against the jeep; keeping up his slow chatter as they consult with each other.
—Anywhere further along would be good. We’ve been walking for a long time, you understand. So if you have the room, the children are tired, you can see that, of course, not strong.
He looks at Lore, smiles and nods. His eyes are friendly. Pale. Lore feels the children edge closer to her.
—Where have you all come from?
The soldier speaks to the man now, and the man stretches out his long, bare arm and points at his sodden papers.
—Buchenwald. You understand? On the card. We were moved to Buchenwald, and we were there until the liberation, you see?
—Yes, but where from today, yesterday, the day before?
—We’ve been traveling from Nuremberg this last week now.
—Movement is strictly forbidden. You did know that?
The Dark Room Page 9
