Bunker

by Andrea Maria Schenkel

  Not a sound. ‘Hello, did you understand what I said? We can work together. I’ll help you. Let me out of here and I’ll help you.’ Silence. Was I wrong about the footsteps?

  Suddenly I have a feeling of being stared at from all sides. I turn very quickly. Nothing. Just this long dark room. I want to get out of here! My mouth is dry, my jaws hurt. My heart is beating incredibly fast.

  I turn back to the door, shake the handle. Tug it and pull it. Hold it firmly with both hands, push it down with all my might. Click. The door opens. It wasn’t locked at all, just stuck. I was too stupid to try opening it.

  I begin laughing hysterically. My voice sounds strange to me, but after a little while I calm down again. I’m calm now. Perfectly calm.

  I leave the cellar, go up the stairs. On my right the closed door, nothing to be seen of the dead rabbit now. But the floor under the place where it was dangling is covered by something dark and gleaming. My eyes wander over the rest of the room, which is a little lower than this part, and has nothing interesting about it except for old machinery and wooden things. My heart starts beating hard again. I can hear it pulsating in my ears. I go over to the stairs. The trapdoor is above me. I was imprisoned up there for several days. It’s dark, which is a relief to my eyes; bright light hurts them.

  There’s no one in the house apart from me. It’s eerie, there’s a strange, ominous feeling about the mill. As if it were alive. As if pairs of eyes were watching me from every nook and cranny. I go on to the iron front door. As before, it’s just a crack open. I force myself through the gap; it’s almost entirely dark outside. Only a flickering light coming through from the side of the house is cast on the surrounding bushes. It all looks unreal, like before. I go along the wall of the house in the direction of the light. Peer around the corner of the building, through the metal remains of an old millwheel.

  He’s standing in front of a camp fire, his long shadow dances in front of me. Above the fire, on a spit, there’s a longish piece of meat. He’s holding a bottle in one hand and slowly turning the spit with the other. The smell of the camp fire lies over everything.

  I can’t shake off the sense of being watched. I look around, can’t see anyone. Oh, pull yourself together. You’ll go crazy this way. This is real. The guy is grilling something on a spit, that’s all. Now then, go over there, eat something, soft-soap him into helping you, and then the first chance you get you can finally disappear. It’d be funny if you couldn’t manage that. It’s just that I’ll never get away from here on my own.

  I stop. I’m standing at an angle behind him, trying not to stare at the fire. Its light dazzles me. I look at the spit he’s just taking off the fire. The meat looks rather charred and has a slightly sweetish smell. I still have that dry feeling in my mouth. It won’t go away, however much I swallow. Well, here we both are. Right, I’ll take the first step.

  I don’t need to turn round. I can hear her coming out of the mill and moving towards me.

  She stops, stands at an angle behind me. She waits, then starts talking to me.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She seems to have come to her senses again. Speaks normally.

  ‘Barbecuing meat, you can see that.’

  She comes a step closer, I turn to her, the spit with the rabbit on it in one hand, vodka bottle in the other. I see her face in the flickering light of the camp fire. She still looks confused and odd. Is it the fire? Her face is very flushed. Now she comes quite close to me. Only inches away. I think I can feel her breath.

  She stares at me. Eyes wide open, pupils incredibly big and black. Almost nothing of the irises of her eyes shows. She talks to me, quietly, fast. Very fast! Very quietly. All I can make out are scraps of words: ‘Wanted…say…know where the key…take me back…never get the key without me… money…’

  She keeps rambling on. There’s no stopping her. But I can only make out bits and pieces. ‘Child…murderer… rabbit…eyes everywhere…dead.’

  She’s completely round the bend, that’s what goes through my head, better not let her see I know it. Who knows what she might do? She’s as crazy as they come! I ought not to have locked her in, that sends a lot of people round the twist. They can’t cope with it. It was the same in jail. Someone was always going off his head.

  He stands there in front of me with the spit in his hand. All I can hear is the thudding and ringing in my ears. I look at the spit, don’t want to but can’t look away. I see arms in the flickering light. I see arms and legs!

  I rush forward in panic, right up to the fire, reach with both hands for one of the burning pieces of wood.

  I see the guy staring at me in surprise. Eyes wide, mouth open. He drops the bottle and the spit, raises both arms, holds them in front of his face to protect it. I keep bringing the piece of wood down on his head. Embers everywhere, sparks leaping in all directions. Burning bits of wood eat little circles in his short hair. Wisps of smoke rise. There’s a smell of burnt hair. He lowers his arms and stares at me. I stand in front of him, the piece of wood still in my hands. I see his horrified glance; I look at my hands. Blackened, blackened all over. And now I feel the pain. My hands won’t let go of the wood. That wall of spectators, they’re all around me again. Coming closer without a sound. The spectators stand close together round the fire, their faces grave.

  She collapsed beside the fire, the piece of wood still in her hands. My God. She’s in shock. And no wonder; her hands look charred, they’re stuck to the burning wood. Must get it off, she has to plunge those hands into cold water. I learnt that on my paramedic course in the army. Our instructor held a container of peas in front of our noses, shook it vigorously back and forth and blathered on – something about molecular movement that had to be halted with plenty of cold water. OK then, water! The bucket is standing by the stairs. I fetch it, run to the water butt and fill it with cold water.

  I come back with the full bucket. She’s kneeling by the fire, raising and lowering the thing that’s a combination of her arms and the piece of wood, babbling nonsense. She’s off her rocker. What have I let myself in for? She’s going to freak out again any moment. Vodka! She needs alcohol to deaden the pain and numb her, and to get the charred bits off her hands. Right, one thing at a time. First, to stop the burning. I tip the water over her hands – there’s hissing and smoke. She doesn’t even notice, just crouches there babbling on. I go carefully all the same, she’s violent. Now the vodka. I hold my bottle to her lips. She drinks in big, greedy gulps.

  I don’t know if it’s the shock, the vodka or whether she’s cracked up completely now. She smiles, sits there grinning madly to herself while I get the charred wood off her hands with the help of the alcohol. Or rather I get the wood and the skin off her hands. Not a pretty sight. Like skinning the rabbit. At least the rabbit was dead.

  I quickly get the first-aid box out of the car. Let’s hope the silly cow stays sitting there and doesn’t start on anything else, but drunk as she is she can’t move from the spot. There’s even a packet of dressings for burns in the first-aid box, who’d have thought it? Right, cover the burn dressing with cotton wool as padding, I get that from the mill, then another layer of ordinary bandage. Now she’s wearing thick white boxing gloves. They suit her, and I feel safer.

  The patient, now entirely naked, is carefully moved to the operating table. The respiratory tube, blood pressure monitor and venous cannulas are all checked by the anaesthetist. Legs and arms are strapped to the operating table. The metal frame to secure the green operating cloth is screwed down. The cloth is stretched over the frame level with the patient’s neck. Only the body is now in the surgeon’s field of vision.

  A swab is inserted into a pair of forceps. The stomach area is wiped down three times with the swab, which is soaked in a solution of alcohol. The brownish-red liquid forms a little reflecting puddle in the navel. It runs over the stomach and drips off both sides of the body on to the operating table.

  Two smooth parallel lines on t
he skin, coloured dark by the disinfectant, are all that can now be seen of the cleansed stomach wound.

  My head hurts horribly. The pain’s at the front, in my forehead, moving to both sides. The pressure on my temples feels as if my whole skull is jammed in a vice with someone slowly tightening it. Every time my eyes move, even if they’re closed, the thudding starts up. My whole skull is ringing with the sound. I feel sick.

  My tongue is sticking to my gums. I can get it loose only with difficulty by clicking it. I still feel thirsty. Terribly thirsty. I move my tongue around in my mouth. At first just poking cautiously, my mouth gets a little moister, then I move it back and forth between my cheeks and my jaws a couple of times. A dull, bitter taste spreads through my mouth. Then there’s a sour one as my gorge rises. I feel so sick.

  My hands are pulsating, no, going wild. My fingers will hardly move, as if they were frozen. They’re strangely heavy. They’re inside something, it feels like gloves. What’s going on? I must open my eyes. Open them! I know this headache will kill me, but I have to know what’s the matter with my hands. Was I drunk yesterday? I can’t remember anything about it. It’s all a blackout.

  I open my eyes. The same wooden ceiling, I’m back in bed in the mill. Covered up again. What’s the matter with my hands? They’re lying on the quilt, thickly bandaged.

  I sit up and stare at them. Huge white Christmas tree baubles.

  Now that I’m sitting upright in bed the throbbing in my hands gets worse. They feel terribly hot. The pulsating and the heat feel worse every second. I must get this bandaging off, I can’t stand the heat.

  Damn it, it won’t come off. I get the end of the sticking plaster between my teeth. I begin pulling the bandaging off my right hand. Good heavens, how many layers of stuff are there? The sticking plaster clings to my lips. Fibres of bandage get stuck in my teeth. At last I’ve unwrapped the bandage, strip by strip. Now for the cotton wool. I try shaking it off, every movement of my hand hurts horribly. I pull the rest off with my teeth. The cotton wool sticks to them; I spit and blow it out. Another layer of bandaging. The more bandaging and cotton wool I get off, the stronger it smells of burning. The taste spreads right through my mouth like something charred. The bandaging has more and more black marks and stripes as I get it off. The last layers are soaked in something reddish-brown. I look at my hand. I feel sick again. It’s not my hand any more, it’s a lump of charred, stinking flesh.

  I’m not back at the house yet when I hear her screaming and shouting. She screams like a wild animal. No wonder, the effect of the alcohol has worn off and she’s in pain. I run the last of the way to the house. Better get in there fast before she goes stark raving mad. She’s beside herself; the silly cow will end up falling downstairs and breaking her neck. Then I really will be in the shit! I almost slip on the wooden door lying on the ground, just stop myself falling over in time. Through the metal door, over to the staircase.

  Her screaming is almost unbearable inside the house. I left the trapdoor open on purpose; she can’t get down the steps with those hands anyway. The unwrapped end of the bandage is hanging through the hatch. It almost reaches the low brick wall across the room. Standing on the first step of the stairs, I look up.

  She’s standing right above me. One leg on the first step. Both arms slightly spread, forearms raised, her left hand is still completely covered with white bandaging. She’s almost unwrapped the bandages on the right hand, there’s only a little muslin still sticking to it.

  I try to calm her down, climbing the stairs slowly, step by step. I talk to her soothingly all the time. I don’t want her freaking out again and maybe jumping through the hatch. Soothing them always works with my rabbits, it takes their fear away. She seems to be calming down, too. She looks at me. White as a sheet. I can see she’s in a bad way, just by looking at her. Her eyes are normal again, the pupils aren’t dilated like they were yesterday. She’s swaying. Hell, I hope she doesn’t fall. If she falls now she’ll land on me, and then both of us will crash to the stone floor.

  ‘Stop there! I’m coming up, I’ll help you. I’ve got something for the pain. Go back and lie down on the bed. I’ll help you!’

  She starts trembling, her body shakes, she’s swaying more and more.

  Get up there fast now, or she’ll fall. Two steps at a time, I’m making my way up with arms and legs at the same time. I ram my head into her stomach and she falls backwards – can’t break her fall with her arms.

  I’m half-lying on her, my head on her lower body. She’s turning her head back and forth, whimpering.

  ‘It hurts. Hurts badly. I can’t stand it any more. Help me! I can’t stand it any more!’

  I stand up, take her under the arms and drag her over to the bed. I heave her up on the mattress like a sack of flour. Instead of doing anything to help, she just wails quietly to herself, makes herself heavier by stretching out.

  I tip the contents of my plastic bag out on the bed. Needles, syringe, the stuff itself, and some citric acid. It cost a packet. She lies there, writhing about, whining and whimpering to herself. I can’t just let her lie here and leave her to die.

  ‘Watch out, you’ll have everything on the floor!’

  ‘Help me! It hurts so much!’

  I unpack the syringe and the needle, open the little bag with the stuff in it. A small amount of the white powder in a spoon. There, let’s hope that’s enough. Too little will do no good, too much and she’ll die. A few drops of citric acid on it. Mix it up with a few drops of water from the bottle, cigarette lighter underneath the spoon, bring it all to the boil. A small piece of muslin to make it easier to draw up. A single-use syringe, put the needle in, remove the plastic cap. Done it.

  ‘Keep still!’

  I fasten the belt around her upper arm. She twists and turns, hits out. I tighten the belt, the veins on her forearm stand out slightly.

  ‘There, keep still now.’

  The skin in the crook of her elbow tenses as the needle goes in. She tries to pull her arm away but I hold it firmly, press the plunger down in the syringe. The liquid disappears into her body.

  Almost at once her head stops turning this way and that, her tightly closed eyes relax, so do the muscles of her face. She’s breathing deeply and slowly. Her mouth opens, a smile appears, she begins to moan. She looks quite peaceful now.

  After a minute she closes her mouth and falls asleep. There’s only a quiet murmuring to be heard.

  Bloody hell! Now I have a seriously ill woman on my hands. I ought to have planned this whole thing better. I’m so in the shit.

  I have to dress her hands again or she’ll cap it all by getting blood poisoning. Let’s hope I didn’t forget anything in my hurry. I unwrap the old dressing layer by layer – it sticks to the skin, or rather to what’s left of it. I moisten the dressing, then it comes off better. Little Brother Vodka comes in useful again. First a gulp from the bottle, then clean the wounds with the soaked compress. What you’ve once learnt you don’t forget. New dressing and bandage, there we are.

  She lies there sleeping peacefully.

  I dream of the meadow again. I turn and run away, with my dress blowing in the wind and my plaits dancing. The meadow is full of dandelions. A sea of green flecked with yellow. I run on. I come to a little stream, jump over it. The grass hasn’t been mown on the other side. It gets taller and taller. Grasses and wild flowers come up to my waist. Butterflies are fluttering about, I put out my hand and a little blue butterfly settles on it. I can feel it licking salt off my skin with its proboscis. I put my face down very close to it, puff at it. It spreads its wings and flies away. I watch it go. The sun’s shining into my face, the light is so bright that I have to put my hand up to shield my eyes. I feel incredibly light and happy. I want to go on, on and on, running and jumping until I’m out of breath. Hands on my bare knees, I breathe deeply in and out. The scent of the freshly mown meadow is in my nostrils. I’d like to stay in the lovely meadow. I’d like to stay here.

/>   The meadow turns, and I’m back standing on the stage again. But it’s not a real stage, I’m tiny, terribly tiny. A hand is reaching for me. Reaching down into the set from above, as if it were a box. I run into a corner and try to hide, crouch down, make myself even smaller. No, I don’t want this, no! Stop lifting me out of here. The hand closes around me as if I were a little bird. I want to stay here. Let go, no!

  I see the wooden ceiling, the stupid wooden ceiling. I’ve woken up so often to see that filthy wooden ceiling. I try to push the quilt back. Stupid quilt. My hands are thickly bandaged and the throbbing in them is starting again. I can’t think of anything else. The pain goes all along my arms. Bloody hell, I want it to stop! I want to get out of here.

  That guy is sitting on the bed beside me. Grinning. My God, what a shock. I quickly look back at the quilt, don’t want to talk to this grinning character. What does the oaf want? He’s supposed to be helping me.

  I feel awful. Suddenly there’s a terrible pressure in my stomach. Everything coming together there. I have this big lump in my throat, I don’t want to bring it up.

  ‘I feel sick!’ And it all comes up and gushes out of me in a torrent. I throw up over everything, the bed, the guy, everything. Again and again, I retch, I feel as if my stomach’s turning upside down. Everything hurts. I have a stitch in both sides. I feel as if my stomach itself were coming up, as if my guts were tearing loose, and I can’t stop spewing it out until my body’s entirely empty. I retch again and again, although there’s nothing left to bring up.

  Exhausted, I drop back on the pillow. I’m wet with cold sweat. My stomach won’t stop contracting. It’s several minutes before it slowly calms down.

  Only the eyes in the faces of the operating team show, everything else is covered by their face masks and caps. The surgeon wears horn-rimmed glasses. Their thick lenses make his eyes look unnaturally large. Hands protected by sterile single-use gloves, the surgeon introduces his forefinger and middle finger into the wounds of the stomach cavity. Concentrating entirely on his sense of touch. He isn’t even looking at the patient, he’s looking straight ahead, impassively, at the operating theatre. ‘The lower stab wound didn’t penetrate the peritoneum, you can stitch that afterwards, here. We only have to work on the upper wound.’