There were treasures in all those crates. I knew what they contained, every item. I had weapons, lots of weapons. Particularly swords, knives, guns and pistols. I needed them, too. I had to defend my mill. Against pirates and robbers. There were enemies lurking everywhere. Especially down in the bunker, where I wasn’t allowed. Father had forbidden me to go there. On pain of punishment. All the same, I kept secretly peering under the wooden trapdoor, and I saw the slippery steps. The light of my candles wasn’t strong enough to show me the door to the bunker; I could only guess at it. But I knew my enemies were there. They never showed themselves, they always stayed in hiding, but I was ready for them.
I’m sitting on the big wooden crate looking up. She’s walking up and down. Walking up and down like Mother. Father was always locking Mother in. She’d be up there every few weeks. What she’d done wrong I didn’t know, and I didn’t dare ask. Father was sure to be in the right. Father was always in the right. Now and then I heard Father and Mother quarrelling, shouting at each other. I always put my hands over my ears then and sang at the top of my voice so I didn’t have to listen. Maybe Mother didn’t even mind him locking her in up there. Then at least he couldn’t hit her.
When Mother was locked in upstairs I could play great games. All day and all night. Father always went away then, and when he did come back, days later, he was drunk. Sometimes Mother shouted after Father. ‘Unlock the door, please! Please unlock the door!’ Sometimes she called for me too. Then I always kept very quiet and made out I wasn’t there. I crept into the blowing engine and played engine drivers. I didn’t want to hear her, I couldn’t help her. Father was in the right. He was always in the right.
It’s some time now since I heard any footsteps up there. The place is quiet. I steal carefully upstairs, unbolt the trapdoor and open it. She’s lying on the bed, quite calm. Eyes closed. She’s breathing heavily, fast asleep. I go over to the bed. There she lies, holding the photo in her hands. I don’t want that – I don’t want her having the picture. I take it away from her. Pull it very carefully out of her hands. She doesn’t notice, she goes on sleeping.
I take the quilt and cover her up. I don’t want her getting cold.
I slept badly. Nightmares. It’s dark in here, only the moon shining in a little. But that way at least there’s some light in the room. I can just make out the shapes of the furniture. Yesterday there were still paraffin lamps here. Where’s the picture? I was holding it when I went to sleep. I know that perfectly well, I’m not stupid. He covered me up, like yesterday. That’s weird. I’m shivering in spite of the quilt. No one in the room apart from me. I can’t understand what he wants me for. At first I thought he just wanted the money, but not another word about the money or the keys, not since we’ve been here. Odd. My thoughts are going round in circles. After a while I go to sleep again.
It’s twilight. All of a sudden I’m wide awake. I need to go to the toilet. I haven’t been all day. I can hardly hold it in any longer. I knock, I lie on the floor and call through the crack around the trapdoor: ‘Hello, I need the toilet, I have to go, it’s urgent!’ Nothing, he doesn’t stir. ‘I’ll go in this room if you don’t open the door!’
Nothing, not a sound, all’s quiet. The pressure in my bladder is getting worse and worse. If I don’t get to a toilet right away I’ll wet my knickers like a little kid. ‘Hey, you down there, open up! Don’t you hear me? I need the toilet!’
That bastard isn’t listening. I hop from leg to leg, it doesn’t help. I cross my legs, bend double. ‘Can’t you hear me? I need a toilet. Or a bucket!’ I search the place for something to go in. Nothing. Wait, the plastic bag! The plastic bag in the chest of drawers comes to my rescue. I pick up the bag and go to the farthest corner of the room. Would it be a good idea to undress completely? There’s no clean underwear to put on. No time now. I pull my skirt up, take my panties right down and squat, holding the bag under me. No, this isn’t going to work. If anyone could see me now they’d die laughing. I feel more like crying. I’m going to pee any moment now, and then it’ll all be in the room, no rag to wipe it up, no bucket of water. I fold the top edge of the bag over until it will stand on the floor by itself. That’s better. Squat low, and there we are. Sudden relief, oh, that feels good. To think something so simple can make you feel happy. Now, tie the top of the bag together, push it under the chest of drawers, done it.
Exhausted, I lie down on the bed.
How did that picture of Joachim and me get here? What does this guy want? Why did he bring me here? I don’t understand any of it. I rack my brains. There’s no sense in it, none at all. Think. Right. This weird character must have stolen it and brought it here, can’t be anyone else. He must have broken into my apartment. But why? He didn’t take anything but the picture. Or at least I didn’t notice anything missing. I can’t remember finding money or anything valuable gone.
But why that picture? Why would anyone go to the trouble of breaking in and stealing just a single object, a picture of me and my little brother? Any reasonable person would steal something more valuable. My stereo system, my colour TV, money, jewellery, how should I know what? If it was a bit of me he wanted he’d have taken something else. Like underclothes. I once read how Japanese like that sort of thing, they steal used underwear. Of course if he’d taken only one or two items I wouldn’t have noticed. Clean or dirty underwear, whatever. I don’t spend my time counting my pairs of knickers, after all.
But why a picture with Joachim in it? I had my new jeans on in that photo, my first really tight jeans. I got into a hot bath in those jeans, on purpose, to shrink them so they’d be a skin-tight fit. After that I always had to lie on the floor to get the zip done up. Wow, was I proud of them! Hair in a ponytail, dark glasses and a pouting mouth. Just like Brigitte Bardot. All her films were on TV at the time. In black and white. No colour TV then, or at least we didn’t have it at home. My girlfriends stared at me, open-mouthed in envy when they saw my new look. The boys too, of course. The really cool characters had bikes with ape-hanger handlebars, banana saddles and a fox-tail blowing in the wind. The height of fashion at the time. Our contact with boys consisted of hair-pulling, spraying each other with water and teasing, but all the same we all knew what the others were doing. The others were the boys from the village school. They were always out and about on their bikes from morning to evening. The photo with Joachim was taken on a cycling trip. One of my girlfriends had a camera from a branch of Photo Porst. I remember it very well. The camera cost ten marks at the time, a cheap one, but to us that was a lot of money. And as usual I had Joachim tagging along with me. I had to take the silly little brat everywhere, he was a real pain in the neck. I was never on my own, he was always hanging on. Clinging like a burr. He used to eavesdrop on the rest of us and tell tales at home. How that little snoop got on my nerves! In the photo he was wearing those nasty pale blue canvas shoes with the striped laces. I’ll never forget them! And the way he whined. ‘Can’t go any further!’ ‘Want a rest!’ ‘Want a drink!’ Then, when I gave in to him and we went into the café on the allotments – what did it call itself? The Sunlit Land or something like that – I’d found there were only fifteen pfennigs in my purse. And that little horror pretending he didn’t know anything about it. He squirmed and screeched like mad. Everyone was looking at us. A man got up from the next table and came over to tell me off. Until I took Joachim’s purse out of his trouser pocket and found my five marks fifty in it! That little thief! It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, but this time I’d caught him in the act.
So why the picture? Does this guy know me from the past, from my childhood? Or Joachim? I’ve no idea.
I lie here, far away in my thoughts. I’m thinking of the village, the meadows in summer. Lush grass, knee-high. I can remember the warm wind, and how I ran over the fields with my dress blowing in the breeze and my plaits dancing. If I close my eyes I can still feel the warm sunlight on my face. I run and dance over the soft green until I’m out of
breath. Hands propped on my bare knees, I breathe deeply in and out. I have the smell of the newly mown grass in my nostrils. Its aroma is green and earthy. I’d like to stay in that lovely meadow.
I’m brought abruptly out of my memories by the creaking of the floorboards. I keep my eyes closed and pretend to be asleep. Even a daydream is better than the reality. I hear steps in the room, and the trapdoor falling into place with a thud. Only now do I open my eyes and sit up in bed. There’s food and drink on the table. Oh, how thoughtful, he’s taken away the plastic bag full of my pee and left a new one on the chest of drawers!
After I’ve eaten I’m bored again. I’m slowly losing any sense of time. I haven’t washed for ages. My teeth feel coated when I run my tongue over them. I expect I’m beginning to get smelly. How long have I been here? I sleep, wake up, eat, doze gently, go to sleep again. The sky is cloudy, it never gets really light in this room. The paraffin lamps are still here, but he hasn’t lit them again, and there are no matches to be found. I’ve looked everywhere. He probably doesn’t trust me with fire. Any more than he trusts me with soap and water. But at least he’s leaving me alone.
The hospital reception area has neon strip-lighting. The light is cold and glaring. Through the frosted glass panes of Accident and Emergency, the blue light of the ambulance shows as a blurred beam regularly flashing. The two halves of the big glazed door open automatically and slide apart without a sound.
Noise, footsteps, calls.
The paramedics hurry in with the injured victim, moving fast, pushing the stretcher ahead of them down the corridor.
Nurses and orderlies hurry to meet them, take the stretcher. One glance and they see how serious the situation is. Everything happens quickly, without a word. The stretcher is pushed into the resuscitation unit.
I sit on the bench in the children’s playground opposite the sandbox, waiting. I can see the entrance of the building from here without being seen myself. She’s punctual. As usual, she leaves the apartment block at eight-thirty in the morning. And she’s wearing the beige coat that she wears every day. Bag over her shoulder. Hand around its leather straps. She goes along the path past the playground to the bus stop. I duck slightly. Head lowered, looking at my trainers. I don’t want her seeing me, don’t want her to notice me. She passes me and I watch her go. I see her walking past the refuse bins in the direction of the bus stop.
I stand up, follow her, an old newspaper in my hand. I stop level with the refuse bins, open the lid of one of them, throw the newspaper in. I wait. Peering out from behind the open lid of the bin. I see the bus coming closer, stopping – she gets in. The bus drives on. I close the lid of the bin and go back to her apartment block.
At random, I press one of the many bells. At the third attempt I’m lucky and I hear the hum of a door opener. I brace myself against the door, it opens, and I’m inside.
The hall of this building is hardly any different from the hall of my own opposite. The only difference is that instead of the green line running around the walls about a metre above the floor, the line here is red.
I take the lift up to the mezzanine floor leading to the fourth storey and climb the few steps up. I tread on them carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible each time I put my foot down.
I put my hand in the pocket of my army jacket and take out a small plastic card, which I insert in the groove between the door and the door frame. I bring it down a little way until it meets resistance. Take it a very little way out and then press against the latch, level with where I felt the resistance. A click and the door is open.
I look in all directions. Nothing. I disappear into the apartment.
In the corridor I stand behind the door, breathing deeply, my heart thumping. Crazy and ridiculous. This isn’t the first time I’ve broken into a place, yet this time it’s different. I don’t want to steal anything, I just want to look around.
The apartment is like my own, except that it’s a mirror image. In the corridor a coat-stand with coats, a jacket, a pair of shoes on the floor. A mirror opposite. A pinboard on the wall. Cards for the theatre and concerts. I look at them more closely. Musicals, straight plays, The Phantom of the Opera, Cats, Starlight Express, Die Fledermaus and Richard Clayderman. Not my kind of thing.
I reach for one of the shoes and pick it up. A light brown leather shoe, the toe pointed, the brown insole slightly worn around the heel area. The heel itself is medium high, slender, slightly trodden down on the outside. I sniff it: a pleasant leather smell. When I was a child I always used to go to the cobbler’s with my mother. His whole shop smelled of leather and cobbler’s glue. My mother said you got addicted to that smell.
To the left, the door to her living room, no, the bathroom. Only logical, it’s all a mirror image of mine. Small bottles, tubes and pots all over, under the mirror, on the glass shelf. I spray some of her perfume in the air, smells good, delicious. Clothes for washing dumped in the bathtub. I poke around in them a little. Blouses, tights, panties, a bra. I hold it up. Flesh-coloured, not at all sexy.
I go into the living room: three-piece suite, green cord covers, smoked glass coffee table. A shelving unit on the opposite wall, pale pine. I take a good look at the things on the shelves. Romances, cookery books, reference books, Yoga for Everyone, self-help manuals and a guide to the opera. In the top row, right in the back corner, something is jammed between the books and the side of the shelf. It looks like a picture frame. I reach up, take hold of the frame and pull it out. A photograph, colours yellowing a bit with age. I like the picture; it reminds me of my childhood. My mother was only a few years older than the girl in the picture when she fell pregnant. The same dark-blonde hair, the pale face. She was so slender and fragile. I take the picture with me, put it in my jacket pocket. She’ll never notice.
Suddenly there’s a rustling sound behind me. Quite soft. Then a scraping. I stand perfectly still, listening. I don’t move from the spot. The sound gets louder. Where does it come from? The door? Damn it, she lives on her own. No one lives here except her. I open my jacket a little way and reach into the back right pocket of my trousers. I take my hunting knife out. It clicks softly as I open it. With the open knife in my hand, I steal out of the room on tiptoe and cross the corridor. The sound comes from the kitchen. Knife in my right hand, I push the door gently with my left hand. The door is ajar. It slowly opens. I take a step forward, look around. No one there.
A loud clatter, followed by a clinking sound. I spin round, the knife still in my hand. Then I see the cat, standing on the table and hissing, its fur on end. It jumps down, races past me through the open door. Broken china on the floor. Bloody animal, how it scared me!
I close the knife, put it back in my trouser pocket. Go down the corridor to the front door of the apartment. Look through the spy hole. No one outside. I leave the apartment.
I’m bored to death. I walk up and down, climb on the chair, look at the sky and the treetops, lie down on the bed. The sky is getting darker and darker, it’s beginning to rain. The rain patters down hard on the roof. I hear the water flowing away along the gutter on the side of the house. I imagine the single drops falling on the tiles, running down, collecting, forming a little rivulet, splashing into the gutter and into the downpipe. Hurrying down the side of the house into the water butt. I lie on the bed, and in my mind I follow every single drop on its way. Roof, gutter, downpipe. Again and again, roof, gutter, downpipe.
And suddenly my mind goes back to that photo, to Joachim and the way he’s grinning at me in it. Who knew him? No one alive now. Our stepmother died years ago. I took the photo when I had to clear her place out, along with some other sentimental stuff. Joachim didn’t have any friends. Or not real friends. He was always tagging along after me. Sticking to me like a burr. And he used to go around with Hans, the two of them spent a lot of time together. Hans the village idiot. You’re not supposed to say that kind of thing these days, but it was perfectly normal at the time. Every village had its i
diot, a village idiot was supposed to bring luck. The way Hans walked, the way he talked, everything about him was slow. He was retarded. Apparently he didn’t even make it to special school. Hans was shapeless; a massive body, big clumsy hands, everything about him seemed to me huge at the time. Perhaps because his clothes were always too small for him. The bottoms of his trousers flapped around his shins, and of course his shirt-sleeves were too short as well. He always wore a grubby vest under his shirt. In fact the whole idea of washing was foreign to him. His body wasn’t misshapen, but his shabby old clothes always made him look funny. His parents were from the East. Belorussians or something like that, I’ve no idea exactly what, and it never interested me. Anyway, Hans didn’t speak German properly. However, he wanted to belong, and he did all he could to be one of us.
We always had a lot of fun with him. We’d egg him on to do all sorts of silly things. Like the time when we made him steal a pig for us from the biggest farmer in the village. It was one of the tests of courage we set him. He’d never have thought up the idea by himself, he was far too guileless. It didn’t take us long to persuade him. Hans was strong, stronger than any of us. I can still see him grabbing hold of that pig, a young one, it struggled like mad. Hans had it in a firm grasp, both arms around it. Its hind legs were hanging down, getting in Hans’s way as he tried to make off with it. But he didn’t mind. He didn’t let go of the pig however it twisted and turned. None of the rest of us could have caught it and taken it away like that. Not even two or three of us together. Part of the test was to throw it into the well. He actually did it, too. The pig squealed with fear, and we fell about laughing. You could hear it all over the place. Its squeals alerted the whole village. The volunteer firefighters pulled it out again. And Hans got all the blame. He didn’t have to do what we said, they told him. He should have said no, he was a real fool.
Bunker Page 4
