Bunker

by Andrea Maria Schenkel

  ‘The key!’

  Police cars, fire service vehicles, engines running, blue lights, noise, the narrow path through the forest is jam-packed with them. One after another, no way of getting through.

  The forest is full of flashing light.

  Outside the mill, the compressor roaring, thick cables running over to the house. Two large searchlights set up outside the metal door, lighting up the entrance to the mill. Unnaturally glaring light, the whole scene is improbable, like something on stage in a theatre. The area outside is brightly illuminated too. The old wooden door lying on the darkly gleaming swampy ground; the bushes along the path cast harsh shadows.

  I got up early, packed my things, and now I’m on my way. There’s no one else around yet. The newsreader on the car radio is talking about rioting and violence between neo-Nazis and police outside an immigrants’ hostel in Hoyerswerda. I switch the thing off.

  Mist lies above the forest. It is early morning, the mist is beginning to drift apart and dissolve until it’s all disappeared. The ground is still moist with dew. The air smells of wet earth. I like it. I’ve wound the window down a little way, I can feel the airflow as I drive, I smell the forest.

  Pine trees grow close together all the way up to the side of the road. The road divides the forest, cutting it in two. The tarmac is still wet in many places, the road surface looks dark, almost black.

  Just before the sharp right bend I take my foot off the accelerator and turn left into the cart-track, reducing my speed. The place is hard to find. I drive on along the unmade track, reducing speed again. I continue almost at walking pace over gravel, avoiding the potholes left by the last heavy rain. The path gets narrower and narrower; the ride is bumpy now. There are deep ruts in the ground, a space that rises higher between them. I avoid large stones to keep the undercarriage of the car from coming down on them. The further the track leads into the forest, the more the undergrowth and bushes encroach on it. Branches brush against the car, I let it move forward very slowly. I stop at the big fir-tree root. No motor vehicles can get any further along the track.

  I switch off the engine, climb out of the car and go round to the rear door. The bloody boot is stuck again, won’t open. The jolting and the unmade surface of the track have tilted the old chassis out of true. I hit it with the palm of my hand. No good. I need a tool to lever the catch open. There’s a screwdriver in the car. I get it out of the glove compartment, insert it under the catch of the rear door to the boot, and it springs open.

  Now that it’s open I take the plastic bags and my backpack out. A bag in each hand and the backpack over my shoulders, I trudge along the overgrown forest path. The thorns of the brambles catch in my trouser legs. I take no notice, pull myself free as I walk on, try to avoid them. The path runs slightly downhill here; I go down it to the pond. Wet leaves and mossy stones make the path slippery. The pond is an artificial one, laid out long ago as a fishpond, fed by damming and diverting water from the little stream. It was supplied through a wooden spillway, but over the years that has rotted, and the pond has turned to swampy, brackish mud. It only fills up occasionally after long, heavy rainfall. In hot summers it stinks to high heaven. Then the mud turns leathery and dull, and broad cracks appear in it, scaly and smelly.

  I follow the path on along the bank and over to the old mill. The millwheel is stuck in the mud of what used to be the supply to the pond, with reeds growing around it. Only a few wooden ribs still hang in the metal frame of the wheel. The house itself is still in good condition, except for the roof. Every strong wind does more damage, and soon a storm will take the whole thing off. I ought to repair it.

  At some time the old wooden front door was replaced by an iron one. The old door lies outside in the mud, bridging a marshy patch of ground. I raise the iron door slightly to open it, bracing my whole weight against it. The hinges are rusty, and it’s difficult to open. The room beyond is dark, the air musty and heavy with the damp. No electricity, only paraffin lamps in the house. I put the bags down on the floor and take off my backpack. I light the lamps with my cigarette lighter. I close the door.

  He tied a blindfold round my eyes before pushing me into the car. I lie there with my hands bound behind my back. The toes of my shoes just touch the floor of the car. As he drove over the bumpy road the blindfold slipped. Through the narrow space, I can see the back of a car seat. The drive seems endless. But then the car stops and the door is opened.

  ‘Come on, stand up!’

  The man takes hold of my arms and legs, tries to pull me out of the car. I’m scared. What’s he going to do to me? I can’t get out of the car fast enough for him. He pulls my hair. Hands behind my back, legs gone to sleep. He couldn’t care less, the bastard. He goes on pulling me out. I stumble, can’t find my footing, try to get my hands in front of me, can’t. I scream. I fall forward, can’t support myself on anything, I land on my face. As I fall I turn over on my side. Leaves, fir needles, earth in my mouth, in my nose. I cough, spit stuff out, I stay lying there. Everything hurts. The cord round my hands is cutting into my flesh worse than ever. My head hurts so badly.

  ‘Stand up!’

  The bastard is shouting at me. Why doesn’t he understand that I can’t, not with my hands tied? I just want to stay lying on the forest floor. The ground smells good, smells of mushrooms, earth, moss. All of a sudden I feel calm, I’m not afraid any more. Let him do whatever he likes! I’m staying here on the ground. If he wants to kill me he’ll have to do it here. I’ll just stay lying where I am, I won’t move. My life might end here and now. There’s something peaceful about the idea. I feel a strange wish for it: just to stay here for ever and ever.

  His hand is tugging at my shoulder. He grabs me, hauls me up. Why can’t he just leave me alone? I get a bit of purchase on the ground once I’m kneeling. He pushes me in the ribs until I stand up, then forces me back to the car.

  ‘Now, sit down! Wait!’

  I try to sit down, but I slowly slip to the ground, my back against the car door. I stay squatting on the ground. I hear quiet footsteps. The car doors are opened and closed. The slight sound of footsteps again, dry twigs snapping. Then silence. Nothing happens. I wait. Why should I wait here? Why isn’t anything happening? Insects humming quietly around me, that’s all, a lot of birds twittering. I sit there, breathing, calming down. Nothing happens.

  Am I alone? I rub my head against the car, pushing the blindfold further up. It works loose and falls off. I open my eyes as far as I can with one of them so swollen, see the irregular outline of the treetops moving slightly back and forth, rays of light from the setting sun falling through them. I sit there leaning against the car, it’s warm, my body relaxes. No sign of that guy, I’m alone.

  As if by some miracle, I’m still holding the little pocketknife. I didn’t drop it when I fell, I kept it clutched in my fist. I was trying to open it all through the drive. I didn’t succeed. Now, sitting here with my back to the car, I try again. And this time it works. I can open the knife. A little way, then a little more. The knife jumps out of my hand and falls to the ground. Bloody hell! I grope about on the ground with my fingers. I can’t find it, but I touch a squashed tin can. I rub the cords against the sharp lid of the can. I shift, it scratches my wrists, but never mind that now. Desperately I tug and pull at my bonds, until the cord comes apart and my hands are free. I shake them, rub my sore wrists. Everything is still calm around me. I cautiously look in all directions. The forest, the woodland track, the car.

  Slowly, I get to my feet. I’m alone. I’m free. I can get away. I walk round the car, taking care with every step. Maybe the key’s still in the ignition. I slowly press the door handle until the driver’s door opens with a loud click. Hell! I stand there for a moment, drawing air in sharply through my teeth, and looking in all directions again. Thank God, still no one anywhere in sight. I open the driver’s door fully, lean forward and into the car. Where’s the ignition? Out of sight under the steering wheel. I put my hand th
rough the spokes in the steering wheel and grope for the ignition, feel the longish slit.

  Damn, no key.

  At that moment I hear something crack behind me. Leaning half over the steering wheel, I stare straight ahead, I daren’t move. I feel sweat at the back of my neck and running down my backbone. I’m still in the trap, that bastard must be behind me.

  Slowly, I straighten up, duck my head as I clamber out, take a step backwards, look cautiously around. Nothing! Just the insects humming and the birds twittering, no human being.

  I have to get away from here. Along the forest path, the way he brought me in the Fiesta? He’ll be sure to search that first, and with the car he’s bound to catch up with me. That’s no good. I must cut through the forest. Find a road or a house.

  Where’s he gone? Never mind. I must just get out of here before he turns up again. I force my way through the brambles and undergrowth, going further into the forest. I run, I stumble, I jump up. I have no idea where I’m going, I’m just running, running away. I see a path through the trees, it’s almost overgrown. My blouse catches on thorns. I trip over a root, tear my tights, scramble up again, wipe the dirt off my knees and run on. I keep looking round, but no one’s following me. The path leads along the bank of a dried-up pond. A big, black wooden house beside it. I cross an old wooden door lying over a muddy stream. The door wobbles as I cross it. I go up to the house. Its rusty iron door is open just a crack. I make my way in. Now I’m the other side of the door.

  The light of the setting sun falls through the doorway into the room. Casts golden light on a narrow strip of floor and the wall beside it. The rest of the room is dimly lit. I stand there waiting. It will take my eyes some time to get used to the darkness. Slowly I start to make things out. A large room without any windows, with a low, narrow brick wall across it, beginning in the middle of one wall. My glance moves over the projection to the darkness beyond and the opposite wall. There’s a closed door on the other side of the room. Part of a wooden ladder to the right, beside the door. Its top rungs emerge from an open trapdoor to the cellar below. I lean over and look down. I see large crates and thick pipes going up to the ceiling. Everything is all jumbled up. Nothing’s tidy, the place looks deserted. A wooden staircase rises to my right. My eyes follow the steps up. The stairs end at another trapdoor. The back of the room is in gloom, a little light coming through from the upper storey. A bright strip around the edge of the trapdoor picks out its position on the dark ceiling.

  I hear footsteps above. Someone’s up there. My eyes try to follow the invisible person. The weight of his footsteps sends dust trickling through the cracks between the wooden planks in many places. Motes drifting slowly down, floating in the narrow strip of light shining through the crack of the open doorway. I look up, transfixed. Stare at the dark ceiling until my eyes hurt. A sharp burning pain makes me close them.

  Who’s up there? I’ll have to ask if he can help me. Will he take me to a phone box, or maybe he even has a phone here? I must call the police. But suppose it’s him? No, he’ll be searching for me in his car, going back along the road. He’d think I could never be silly enough to run into the middle of the forest without knowing where I was going. But suppose it is him after all? There’s still time to get away from here. Hell, what am I to do?

  I pluck up all my courage. The bottom step of the stairs creaks when I try it. I stop, hold my breath, looking up in suspense. I wait. Nothing happens. No more footsteps up there. Silent as the grave. Did whoever’s there hear me? Is that why it’s so quiet?

  Nonsense! Don’t be so stupid! The next steps don’t make any sound at all. There’s a cast iron catch fitted to the underneath of the trapdoor. I hesitate for a moment, then I take hold of the catch and push the trapdoor up. It’s very heavy; I push at it with my head until I can open it a crack. I peer through the gap. The legs of chairs and a table in the middle of the room, to the left an old bedstead with a faded flower pattern painted on it, to the right a chest of drawers and a wardrobe with round feet. No one in sight.

  But I can only see part of the room through the crack. I raise the trapdoor further. Tilting my head back, I reach up and push it open as far as I can reach, rubbing against the rough wood, my hair snags on it. I still can’t see enough, I can hardly hold the trapdoor open. I take one more step, push the door further up until my head is halfway through the opening. Now at last I can see more. I realize I’m getting out of breath. The trapdoor is pressing against the nape of my neck. The bloody thing’s so heavy.

  ‘So there you are!’

  I lose my footing on the stairs. I stumble, I slip. Let go of the catch of the trapdoor, hit my head on the steps, stay lying at the foot of the stairs. Everything goes black around me.

  A paramedic comes through the metal front door of the mill, which is wide open, walking backwards, carefully placing one foot behind the other. His jacket is bright red in the glaring floodlights, the reflective strips on the back of it are radiant white. Little by little, the stretcher is brought into the light. The legs of the person lying on the stretcher appear first. The paramedic at the front casts a long shadow on the body lying under the blanket.

  The second paramedic appears. Nodding his head back and forth, calling instructions like ‘Careful!’ and ‘Over to the left a bit’, he guides the first paramedic out of the house, over the old wooden door lying on the ground, and along the forest track to the ambulance. The stretcher is pushed into the vehicle, the door is closed with a loud metallic bang.

  I’m lying there with my eyes closed. Listening to music, soft, pleasant, especially the singer’s voice. I like his husky tone. It’s an oldie, I must have listened to that song thousands of times before. I start humming along softly to the tune. The quilt is wrapped around me, I feel good. I stretch, slip further under the quilt, pull it up to my eyes. It’s too short, now my feet are sticking out. Not that it’s cold, but covered up is more comfortable. I cross my feet and rub the sole of one over the back of the other. I clasp the toes of one foot around the toes of the other. Slowly I run my hand over my body. I’m naked!

  All at once the pleasant sensations of the last few minutes are gone. I know I didn’t undress myself! I open my eyes. A stabbing pain. I see the wooden ceiling of the room, but the room itself is entirely strange to me. Where am I? Don’t panic – think! The last thing I remember is the bloody trapdoor…and that guy. He was standing behind it. I was scared to death, and then I don’t remember any more. What happened? Did he put me on this bed? Did that man undress me, put me on the bed and cover me up?

  I sit up in bed and look at the room. It’s the one with the upper trapdoor leading to it. How long have I been asleep? My watch has gone as well.

  I look around me.

  He’s sitting on the chair, arms on the table, his head buried in them. He’s asleep. I draw my legs up and clasp my arms tightly around them. I crouch like that at the far end of the bed. Now what? Quick! Think! Come on, girl, do something! Fight or flight? Go on, make up your mind! I look at the trapdoor. I look round the room again. That guy has fallen asleep sitting at the table. Fast asleep, I can hear his heavy, noisy breathing.

  Flight, then. But how? First I need my clothes, they must be lying around somewhere. He’s fast asleep, so get moving!

  Cautiously, I put the quilt back, very slowly, like in slow motion. My neck is all tense, my eye is swollen. It feels numb; I can’t see properly. No sound. It bothers me, being naked. I work my way to the edge of the bed, sit on it, can’t see my clothes anywhere.

  I can’t get out of the place like this, with nothing on. I need my blouse at least, or a towel. I can’t take the quilt if I’m going to run for it, it would just get in the way. Maybe my things are in the wardrobe?

  I feel for the floor with my feet, slowly stand up. Start moving cautiously. On tiptoe. The floor gives slightly under me, creaking. I stop. Oh, come on, pull yourself together, the man’s dead to the world, he can’t hear you! I bite my lower lip, try to st
op myself panting. I walk on. When I reach the table I stop for a moment, looking down at his head. His hair is cut very short. His breath is rattling a bit; when you listen hard it’s almost like snoring. He’s sleeping deeply, I can do it! I go on moving cautiously towards the wardrobe. The key is in the lock. What a bit of luck! I mustn’t make any noise, that’s all. It’s hard to turn the key. I know these old things, my parents had an ancient wardrobe like this in their bedroom. The damn thing gave me no end of trouble when I was snooping about. In time, however, practice taught me how to open it without any sound at all, you just had to put your hand against the door and push at the right moment. If you didn’t do that, the mechanism sprang open with a deafening click.

  I cautiously turn the key, a little more, a little more again.

  Crack!

  Was that loud? No, it’s just that I was concentrating so hard it seemed to me terribly loud.

  The wardrobe door slowly swings opens. Now it’s slightly ajar. I can’t hear him snoring any more. I daren’t move. My pulse-beat is thudding in my head. I can’t tell whether the guy is still asleep or not. I stand there, rigid, listening to the booming in my head.

  And I feel something behind my back, or at least I think so. Not a touch, not pain. It’s his eyes. I can sense it. I’m sure that guy is staring at me the way I’m staring at the wardrobe door.

  Weren’t things bad enough already? I’ve been beaten up and kidnapped. Now I’m standing in front of him naked. I let my head sink against the wardrobe door.