Then his father beat him, beat him black and blue. He was always hitting him, he beat him almost every day. It was normal, Hans never defended himself. He just stood there and took it.
But the way he behaved to us could be unpredictable; he sometimes lost his temper. And then nothing and no one was safe. Just a small spark could do it, but once he got really worked up he’d flatten everything in his path like a steamroller.
He left Gerold in a real mess. Big-mouthed Gerold, Gerold the show-off. Today he works in the savings bank, he’s turned all serious. It suits him. He was just the opposite of Hans: small, quick as a weasel, a real joker, a jack of all trades. And full of nasty digs. He used to pester Hans more than any of the rest of us.
It was Gerold who started the rumour about Hans having it off with that little boy. No idea whether there was anything in it. Gerold kept on and on at Hans, needling him all the time. Maybe Gerold wasn’t so wide of the mark with his suspicions, because Hans had problems with girls anyway. So it would make sense if he fancied little boys. He couldn’t just sweat it out, could he?
‘Suppose Hans ever does find a dimwit to marry him, what will he ask her on the wedding night?’ This was one of Gerold’s favourite jokes. ‘Guess! Come on, it’s obvious: How many little brothers do you have?’ And Gerold always roared with laughter at his own joke. We laughed as well, not because we thought it was particularly funny, but we were all glad Gerold wasn’t cracking jokes at our expense.
Hans didn’t laugh – he chased Gerold all round the village. He caught up with him at the Huber farm and laid into him. We stood there watching, doing nothing. If Farmer Huber hadn’t come along, who knows, maybe Hans would have killed Gerold, he was in such a rage. At first even Farmer Huber couldn’t separate them. Gerold was screeching blue murder. Like a sow being slaughtered. Then Farmer Huber went over to his tractor, because there was no other way to deal with it. He separated the two of them by taking Hans’s head in the hay grab. Everything happened quite fast then. Hans was in such a fury that he never even noticed Farmer Huber driving up on the tractor. Somehow or other he got Hans’s head lined up, tightened the grab and began lifting until Hans was hanging half a metre above the ground. But Hans still had Gerold in a headlock. He wasn’t going to let him go, he never let anyone go once he had the better of him. However, this time, finally, he had to. Even Hans didn’t have that much strength. Gerold landed on the ground like a ripe plum, breaking his leg. Hans raged and swore, clinging to the hay grab with both hands. Then Huber dropped him in the water of the pond the firefighters used for extinguishing fires. The grab had left two long wounds, one each side of Hans’s head; they were bleeding copiously, but he took no notice. He calmed down quickly in the water, splashed out like a small child paddling, happy to be the centre of attention. And we all stood around the pond gaping. Hans put the whole incident behind him, as if nothing at all had happened. He just had those two scars on the right and left of his head. He looked funny, but then he always did. He suffered no worse damage. Very likely there was only straw inside his head anyway.
Keep still, you stupid animal! Don’t struggle like that. Take it easy, take it easy, my beauty. The rabbit is lying on my right forearm, I’m holding its front paws firmly. I press its back paws slightly against myself with my elbow. My left hand is stroking its head, very gently. I run my fingers along the outer rim of its ears. From its head back to the tip of the ears. I do that several times. At first the rabbit laid them back in alarm, then it relaxed them, and they’re slowly standing up as I gently pull them.
That’s right, my little one, my pretty.
Rabbits are beautiful. Their fur is like human hair. They don’t get on my nerves, they don’t scratch or bark. They nestle against you, all soft and warm.
My first rabbit, Cuddles, was the prettiest of all. Maybe because he was my first. Maybe because I got him after Mother was gone.
I don’t know what breed he was. He was mine, he belonged to me and no one else. He always listened to me. There wasn’t anyone else who listened to me. He could come into bed with me in the evening, although he often made a mess there, but I didn’t mind. And Father didn’t mind. Keeping clean wasn’t in his line. Specially not now we were on our own. He got tight almost every evening, lying on the sofa dead drunk. He stank, lay in his own filth, sometimes he even wet himself. Or he went down and shut himself in the bunker.
Father gave me Cuddles for my eighth birthday. No one had remembered my birthday, no present, no cake, no candles. Well, there wasn’t anyone around to think of it by then.
‘Sorry, forgot again, but I have so much on my mind.’ That’s what he always said when it came to giving presents. But on my eighth birthday he went into the stable, and when he came back he was holding a little ball of fluffy fur. It was soft and smelled nice. It was really cuddly, I thought, so I called my rabbit Cuddles.
Two years later Father came along, picked up the rabbit by the scruff of his neck and said, ‘Well, his time’s come or he won’t taste good any more. Come along, you can watch!’
I didn’t say anything. I knew it was going to happen. Cuddles was my friend, and Father was going to kill him.
The old threshing flail was leaning against the wall. I can see it still before me, leaning there against the wall, all dusty. Hadn’t been used for ages. I wanted to pick it up and hit Father over the head with it. But I stood there rooted to the spot, couldn’t move. Stood there and watched.
Keep still, you stupid creature. Keep still, sweetie. I hold the rabbit by its ears. The side of my hand comes down on the nape of its neck. A moment’s twitching and then it hangs limp and still. Now to open the main artery, skin it, gut it. There we are.
The anaesthetist is summoned. He discusses the case with the duty surgeon. Everything goes smoothly, with few words, a matter of routine. All the theatre team are in their places, know what they have to do.
The patient’s dirty outer clothing is cut away. A tourniquet is applied to the upper arm. Veins stand out. The injection site is dabbed with alcohol. A cannula is introduced into the vein through the skin. The metal trocar that inserted it begins to be withdrawn with a slight twist while the catheter that had surrounded it stays in the vein. The trocar is removed entirely. Blood runs out of the self-retaining cannula, showing that it is functioning properly. The infusion tube is connected, an infusion solution drips quickly into the injured patient’s bloodstream.
Meanwhile the patient’s head is laid right back, the mouth is opened, the intubation spatula inserted. The spatula moves the tongue aside, raises the flap over the larynx. Now there is a good view of the larynx itself, the tube is inserted into the windpipe through the vocal cords and secured there. The respiratory tube is placed on the tube already in place. Now linked to the anaesthetic apparatus, the patient is no longer breathing independently. The machine ensures deep, regular breathing.
Meanwhile the surgeon has been examining the now naked body. He removes the last compresses still lying on the patient’s injuries. The large wound in the stomach comes into view. Encrusted with congealed blood everywhere. The doctor carefully separates the edges of the wound with his hands. Yellowish-white fat cells, gleaming tissue in between – good God, what a mess! The abdominal cavity is opened up. This is going to be a major operation.
It’s suddenly quiet in the room. The rain has stopped drumming on the roof. I get up, go over to the window, look out. The sky has cleared slightly. The glass pane is clouded, the putty brittle. Out of sheer boredom, I try scraping the putty out of the frame with my fingernails, little by little. The window is an old double-glazed one. There were windows like that in my grandmother’s house. You could open them in the middle to clean the outside. A little hook above and below, unhook the halves and they came apart. Once they were open like that, you always found ladybirds inside them towards the end of winter, waiting there for spring and sheltered from the cold. I give up and go back to the bed, simply let myself drop backwards on the mattr
ess, bounce for a moment and lie there. I stare at the ceiling. After a while I sit up, drawing up my knees, legs pressed close to my upper body, and my thighs clasped in my arms. I begin humming to myself, rocking my torso in time, and several minutes pass before I notice what I’m doing. I immediately think of the monkeys in the zoo, sitting behind glass and rocking back and forth, or the big cats in their enclosures prowling up and down all day, up and down again and again. When am I going to start pacing up and down this room? I stop rocking, stretch my legs out straight again, prop myself on the bed with my elbows. Half sitting, half lying, I look around me, look at the floor, the bed, until my gaze finally stops at my toenails. My toenails are painted red. Were painted red. The varnish is already cracking at the edges. A little red varnish is left on my two big toes. The left toe more than the right toe. Do I step harder on my right foot than my left foot? Or why has the varnish suffered more here? Perhaps my shoe is a little tighter on that foot. The edges of the red marks are jagged, the colour is bright red. Too bright. Looks kind of cheap. And cracking too! Sloppy. Not like me at all. A darker shade of red would suit me better. I’ll have to get a different nail varnish.
My fingernails look disgusting too. There are dark rims just under the nails. I get the knife off the table, sit on the bed again. Sitting cross-legged, I try to clean the dark brown dirt out of my nails with the broken kitchen knife and scrape the remains of varnish off. That works quite well. If I use the sharp, broken edges of the knife, the varnish comes off easily, flaking away in little bits. I work on my toenails until my feet go to sleep and there are little splinters of red varnish all over the sheet. Now what am I going to do with the knife? There’s no water to wash it. I tug the far end of the sheet out from under the mattress and wipe the knife on it. Looks clean enough. I sniff it; there’s that typical dirt-under-the-nails smell. Disgusted, I push the knife under the bed.
Food’s on the table, like yesterday. No rolls this time, just four slices of dark rye bread. Not even fresh. Some kind of sausage, a bit of cheese. The milk smells fresh, a whole litre of it. I suppose these are my rations for the day. Not enough for a whole day! But who’s interested? I push the plate back and forth with my fingertips. I don’t have any appetite. Maybe later.
The fat fly is crawling over the table. Goes a little way, stops, goes on, stops again, cleans itself, moves on. Its proboscis gropes over the top of the table until it finds a breadcrumb. Starts in on the breadcrumb. I put my face as close to the fly as I can. The thickened end of its proboscis looks like a pair of lips. It gets the lips above the crumb. Do flies have lips? It keeps taking its proboscis away and then reaching it out again. It doesn’t seem in the least bothered by me watching it, putting my face so close. It’s shut up in this room just like me, it’s my fellow prisoner. Hi, fellow prisoner! How can we get out of here? You could fly through the window pane if I broke it, but I couldn’t. My fellow prisoner has six legs, a hairy black body and huge eyes. As far as I can remember from biology lessons, they’re compound eyes, with facets. It sees everything a thousand times over with them, or maybe not quite that many. I was never too good at biology. It’s a restless little thing. It leaves its breadcrumb and flies across the room. Settles on the ceiling, runs a little way along it. Takes off, comes down on the table again. Starts cleaning itself. One of the fly’s front legs keeps passing over its eyes. It’s a jerky sort of movement. Can flies move their eyes, maybe in different directions, like a chameleon? Now it’s unfolding one of its wings. As it does that it puts out one leg, so now it’s standing on only five legs, and then it puts out another. The little thing moves really well. After that it takes off again. Comes down on my arm. With a tiny, barely perceptible movement I shake it off. It’s not going to be shaken off, comes back to settle on my arm again. Persistent, aren’t you? I keep still, feel the touch of its little legs on my skin, a very light touch. It feels my skin with its proboscis, licking up the saltiness. That tickles. You’re getting on my nerves, little fellow prisoner. I shoo it away, flapping my arms and hands back and forth. It’s not bothered, it keeps coming back, even settles on my face. Oh no, you don’t, my friend! It takes off again, flying on its rounds. I pick up the towel and swipe at the empty air several times. Like an idiot, I follow the fly through the room, swinging the towel wildly. I knock over the carton; milk runs out and spills over the table. By the time I can set it upright half the contents are lost. A large white puddle on the table, slowly widening towards the edge. Finally it runs over the edge of the table, a thin stream of milk running down to the floor. ‘You just wait, you brute!’ The fly crawls through the puddle of milk on the table. It’s really running just above the surface. I hit out at it, try to kill it with my towel. It cleverly avoids all my blows. Flies up in the air. I lash out wildly, without keeping my eye on the fly, I just brandish the towel. It snaps through the air. One of my blows hits home. Suddenly the fly is lying on the table in front of me. Beside the pool of milk. Just lying there. Right in front of me. I look at my victim with interest. At first it lies there apparently dead, on its back, legs at an angle. I blow at it. The little legs begin waving in the air. My puff has brought the breath of life back into it. It waves its legs some more, hesitantly turns over, gets on its legs again, begins crawling. It looks funny, left wing unfolded and sticking diagonally into the air. It can’t fold the wing again. The other wing is dragging on the table. Damaged like that, it runs in a circle. Lost your sense of direction? Too bad, little fly, it’s all over now, you can’t bother me any more. Not you, you little horror. It tries to fly, gets into the milk again. It leaves a white, winding trail. I watch it for a long time until it begins to bore me, and I get tired of it. There you go then, sweetie. I flick the fly away with my forefinger.
I’m thirsty, I drink from the carton. I put my head back and let the milk run straight into my open mouth, swallow greedily. A thin trickle of liquid runs out of the corner of my mouth and then slowly down my throat. I put the empty carton down and wipe my mouth and my throat with the back of my hand. What little was left wasn’t enough to quench my thirst. I look at the liquid on the table. A huge lake of milk made by that silly fly. Well, the fly paid for it. But I’m paying for it too! I’m thirsty, terribly thirsty. I turn my head to left and right, I know I’m alone in the room, but I still look around. I’d feel embarrassed to be watched and not know it. Maybe that guy has set up cameras all over the place? I’m the lab guinea pig in a new, perverted TV series. What does someone do when she’s been abducted and shut up alone in a room? That’s the idea. All secretly observed by a camera. A crazy TV show, with families sitting in front of the box at home wearing tracksuits, munching crisps and betting on what I’ll do next. I bend over the table. If I purse up my lips I can get at the milk. A strand of hair comes loose, falls into it. I fish it out, push my hair back, hold it in place. Holding it with both hands, I begin sucking up the liquid with my pursed lips. There, that’s quite something for you lot out there gawping at the box to watch! I slurp noisily, I stop for breath, and listen in case a noise somewhere gives away a camera running or a secret watcher after all. No, there’s no one here. Well, dear audience, you really missed something! I suck up all the milk from the table. Done it! My lips feel furry with the sucking vibrations, as if I’d been playing the trumpet or blowing up balloons for hours.
What was that sound? A rumbling noise down below. Close to the stairs?
I gaze at the trapdoor. No creaking on the staircase, there’s no one coming up. The door stays closed. Footsteps again, loud, clacking sounds, the footsteps move away and come back again.
Very cautiously, so as not to make any noise, I crawl on all fours over to the trapdoor. Lean my face slowly down to the crack until my eyebrows touch the wood.
There’s someone there! All I can see is someone holding a rabbit by its back legs, just the rabbit and the arm holding it. The rest is outside my field of vision. The rabbit is probably dead. No, suddenly it struggles and a short, violent twitch goes
through its body several times. Then it hangs limp again. I was terribly frightened, but thank God I put my hand in front of my mouth just in time to keep from screaming. I don’t want the man down there to notice me watching him.
Come on, you, take a step to the left, why don’t you? I hear metal objects clinking and clattering. He seems to be looking for something in the cupboard by the front door.
He steps forward, and his body comes into view. Bright daylight falls on him from outside, emphasizing his striking features. On each side of his head there’s a bald strip beginning at the temple and going down to his ear. A narrow strip, completely hairless, as if it has been shaved. Who on earth shaves his head in a pattern of stripes?
He turns, goes out of doors, there’s nothing more to be heard. Silence. I look through the crack again, waiting. Nothing at all happens for a long time. After a while my knees hurt. I drag myself over to the bed and go on staring up at the ceiling. Why am I here? Why me? Why not the boss? He has the key to the safe, and anyway who’d care about old wobbly-jowls? But maybe this guy isn’t after the money after all? He must have been watching me, to get into my apartment while I was out. Why did he take that picture? He can only have stolen it from my place. Who is this guy? Maybe he’s been to our firm before. But there are lots of people going in and out of the place every day. Just his kind, with close-cropped or shaven hair and army surplus clothes. Most of them want to do some kind of shady business with the boss, something involving stolen cars. The staff don’t officially know anything about that, but I’m not stupid. I keep my eyes open.
That weird haircut, two bald stripes down the sides of his head. I’d noticed them before. What kind of idiot shaves stripes like that into his hair? Could be they’re birthmarks, or the result of an injury. Only a village idiot like Hans would go about looking like that...
Bunker Page 5
