All of a sudden she’s perfectly quiet, looks even paler. Bends her head, looks at her bandaged hands.
I look at my bandaged hands. Everything’s going round and round in my head. I can hardly form a clear thought. My heart is racing. Keep calm, try to keep perfectly calm.
‘Why were you in my apartment?’
‘I was watching you.’
Does his face distort into a slight smile when he says that?
‘Why did you take the photo of me and my brother?’
He looks at me, the smile is gone. His voice is impatient, he’s obviously all on edge.
‘That little boy’s your brother? I might have known it. The picture reminded me of something, that’s all.’
I close my eyes. It’s all black. Now what? Think! He isn’t Hans. That makes everything different. He didn’t know Joachim at all, he had nothing to do with him. He’s a total stranger. A kidnapper. A criminal. A murderer.
I know what I have to do.
I’m freezing. I have to get out of here. Out! Out!
Damn it, damn it, don’t just stand here wailing! Try to remember! Try to remember! I hit my face with the flat of my hand, strike my head. Remember when Father was building this bunker for an air-raid shelter. ‘Air-raid shelter’ – I ask you! He was always drivelling on about the bunker. As a child he told me he’d been buried in rubble during the War. He had to dig his way out of the ruins with a tin mug and his bare hands. A man who’d been buried too, along with him and my grandmother, had helped them, he said.
He changed the story every time he told it. The old airraid warden turned into a soldier, the soldier became an expert on hand-to-hand fighting, a hero. His own part in the story kept getting bigger and more heroic as well. He talked about the bright light that met them when they finally dug themselves out. In my imagination I could see them with bloodstained weals on their hands, dirt under their fingernails, sweat.
Only much later did I realize that the story was a pack of lies from beginning to end, like most of his stories. He wasn’t even three in May 1945, he couldn’t have experienced those events.
All the same, he was talking about the bunker the whole time – he insisted on calling it that. A shelter, a kitchen, a bedroom. With the old furniture we’d thrown out.
He thought of a way to get a water supply in. Pumping up water from the well was no problem, but what about the outlet for the waste water? The pipe led straight into the stream. I had to help him dig out the place for it. This ‘brilliant idea’ led to the collapse of the stream bed and the complete flooding of the shelter in the bunker. It took us weeks to get everything sealed. We put thick concrete tanking on the bed of the stream to secure it, and repaired the concrete wall of the central kitchen area of the bunker, which had mostly been carried away, using brickwork. We filled the space in between with the old tiles from the roof, most of them broken, which had been stored in the cellar before. Then he decided to do without a proper water outlet and a toilet, said a large hollow space with gravel under the kitchen area would have to do. He was a great one for changing his plans. He probably didn’t believe there was going to be a real air raid, the bunker business was just an excuse. He wanted a hiding place where he could go if one of his many business deals blew up in his face. He always had something on the boil. Sometimes he had plenty of cash, sometimes he was broke, always looking for the great coup, the big one, the deal of his life…he traded in anything and everything, like smuggled cigarettes. Went around making out he was a gas-meter reader, an advertising agent for newspapers, an insurance broker. He was a loser, always on the verge of jail. Air-raid shelter, talk about ridiculous!
The air supply was another great fiasco. He fiddled about with that for a long time; none of his ideas looked like being really successful. A proper ventilation system would have cost a lot of money, and he wasn’t willing to pay out for it. Finally he decided on always leaving the door into the cellar just a crack open. The simplest ideas are usually the best; who would think of climbing down a dark, slippery passage in the cellar of an old mill? That was him all over, never did anything properly, his ideas were silly in the first place and he always left them half done.
And now here I am in the shit. Talk about an idiot. I only wanted to pick up the key to the safe, then get the money and go. Now what?
The door to the cellar is closed. From inside it can’t be opened except with its key, and its key is in the other side, damn it. Every breath I take is using up air. Who knows how long it will hold out? Well, if necessary there’s always the narrow crack under the door.
I slowly straighten up and grope my way over to the iron door. The surface feels cold and rough. I slip my fingers over the flaking paint, the rusty patches, until I’m standing upright. My whole body is stiff, it hurts. Keeping my fingertips on the metal, I turn to the room. I feel the door behind me. In this total darkness I’ve completely lost my sense of direction. The door behind me is my safety anchor. I overcome my fears, step into the darkness, take small tripping steps in what I think is the direction of the entrance to the kitchen area. If I couldn’t feel the ground under my feet I wouldn’t know which way was up and which was down. I open my eyes wide, although they’re not the slightest use to me. Step by step, heel to toe. One foot after another, don’t panic, keep calm, don’t panic. Where’s that bloody wall? The room can’t be that big. Oh, shit! I put my arms right out ahead of me, my fingertips feel the door frame, run along it slowly, thoughtfully. Keep calm, don’t panic. This is the door frame, through here and I’m in the kitchen.
Just to my left is the little kitchen counter; I feel my way along it. The fittings. As well as the bad air supply, water could be a problem. No one’s used this place for years, Father least of all. The bunker didn’t do him much good, no air raid, and what did he get instead? Years in jail for theft and crimes of violence, as they so delicately put it in official language. He was violent and no mistake. Particularly to Mother. Not that that was what put him in jail. On my sixth birthday he beat Mother half to death. Hit her in the face repeatedly. At first she held her hands in front of her, then she gave up, which didn’t stop Father hitting her again and again. Always in the face and always with his clenched fist. Until her eyebrows were bleeding, her eyes swollen, her lips thick as your finger. I can’t remember any reason. There probably wasn’t one.
He disappeared for a few days, we were glad of that. On Mother’s instructions I dabbed her face with cold water. But it became more and more distorted, turned into a face like a clown’s – I can’t help laughing when I think of it. Here I am in the shit, laughing myself silly over something that’s not funny at all. I’m the same kind of idiot and loser as Father.
I turn on the tap. A mixture of water and air splashes out. More air than water, because soon there’s only a trickle, then drops, then no more. Right, so I’ll have to go thirsty. The air seems to be holding out. There ought to be food in the cupboard. A few years ago I opened one of those gleaming cans. Pumpernickel. It was dry but edible. I grope for the door of the kitchen cupboard. Open it. Don’t knock your head on the door. Cautiously reach in. In this darkness every move I make is slower, more hesitant. I stretch, literally. Right at the back there are still some cans. Including small ones – there ought to be meat in those. I shake the tap, it drips again. I hit it, the dripping gets stronger. A cup under it. I need a cup or a glass. Here. I feel the cup with both hands, then the tap. It all takes time, I just hope the dripping won’t stop. There, done it! I wait, count the drops. Can’t concentrate, keep beginning again. The sound of the drops of water changes as more water falls into the cup. I dip my forefinger in to see how full the cup is. Half full. I take it in both hands, carry it to my mouth, sip – it tastes stale, but I drink it. Another little victory. I won’t die of thirst. Hey, Father, I’m not such a loser as you after all! Take a look this way, wherever you may be now! Arsehole!
I lean against the sink and look into the darkness. Arsehole myself! Idiot! If
only I’d taken the key out of the other side of the cellar door I wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’t be trapped in this bunker. Something has to happen. I slowly feel my way back to the iron door. I brace myself against it, push, shake it. The damn door is riddled with rust, but I can’t get it to give way. No luck! I kick it until my toes hurt, again and again, again and again. I’m not giving up.
But I’m thirsty again, so back to the sink, faster this time. I’m already getting used to the darkness, I feel more secure. Just a little push against the door frame and I’m in the kitchen. Take the cup again in both hands, carefully. Don’t spill anything. Drink. Now I need the loo. There, now across the room to the toilet. Your work too, Father. Toilet, that’s a good one – just an earth closet! I hope I won’t piss myself. That’s all I need. The jet of urine hits the gravel, splashing amongst the stones.
Back to the cup, drink, over to the door, lie down on the bed. All going well so far. Only how do I get out of here? I can’t think of anything else, always the same: how do I get out of here? Getting help from outside, shouting or screaming – no, ridiculous. I try it all the same. I shout and shout, so loud that my ears hurt, there’s an echo in them, then a deathly hush, quieter than silence itself. I’m buried alive, my life’s not worth a bean. Bloody hell, I’ll never get out of here!
The door! I have to break the lock of the iron door open. I stand up, go into the kitchen, feel about for the drawer, pull it open. Get it right out. It falls to the floor, the cutlery clatters. I kneel down, feel the contents lying on the ground. Try to fish out a piece of wire, or something like wire. There, sharp, long, flexible. I go over to the door, colliding with several obstacles in my way. I feel the metal door with one hand to find the lock. At last! I manage to get my chosen tool into the opening. The key is in the door on the outside, so I’ll have to push it out and then pick the lock of the door. But I can’t shift the key. Bloody hell!
I hit the wall with my fists, I can’t take any more. I turn round, let myself slip to the floor with my back to the wall. I begin to cry. I sit there like a little kid, knees drawn up, hands in front of my face, crying.
The wall. The bloody wall. I must get through the wall.
Get through the wall, but how?
I see myself going into the kitchen, walking carefully. Like in one of those action movies I’ve watched dozens of times. Only this time I’m the hero in the paramilitary boots and army jacket. I take my jacket off. Run both hands over my short hair. I reach for the heavy gold chain round my neck, carry the cross to my mouth and kiss it. After that I put one leg against the wall, at an angle. Take three long, slow, strong breaths. Fix my eyes on the little bit of wall next to the kitchen counter. I push off from the wall with a war cry, shoulder turned to it. The wall breaks with a deafening noise. Bright light comes in through the opening.
Or that’s how it’s supposed to go. Pull yourself together, you’re the hero. I wipe the tears and snot from my face with the back of my hand, stand up. Desperately I beat my fists on the wall until my knuckles hurt. I go on hitting it, again and again, kicking it, hitting it with the palm of my hand… just a faint slapping sound. Damn. In my rage and disappointment I prop myself flat against the wall with both hands. Push my head against it until my nose meets its hardness with a loud crack. The pain makes its way inside me. I’m numbed, I lose my balance and let myself fall to the floor again. My nose is swelling and warm blood drips on my hand. The wall stands there, firm and immovable. I’m in a dungeon.
In my rage I go on hitting the wall. A clear, slapping sound. It sounds different just here…test it again. Yes, it does sound different!
Cautiously, I knock against the whole wall with my right hand, from bottom to top and back again. The sound changes, it’s a duller, darker note at the top. What sounds duller, darker? Bricks! The top half of the wall is bricks. The solution, that’s the solution! There’s no getting through concrete, but bricks I can deal with! Quick! Mustn’t lose any time. I crouch down, feel the floor for tools I could use, as sharp and pointed as possible. Knife, scissors, fork.
I stand up, hack at the wall as hard as I can. Clench my hand into a fist and hold my tools firmly. The scissors are the easiest to grip. I hack and hack until I hear the plaster flaking away, first in small crumbs, then in larger pieces. I keep feeling the part I’ve uncovered. The sweat starts running down my body. I don’t give up, I scrape and scratch with the scissors, the knife and fork, until I can feel joints between the bricks. Yes, they’re bricks all right, I’ve won!
I hack, scrape, thrust until my whole arm is throbbing with pain. My fingers are sore, they hurt like hell. But one of the bricks is already moving, shifting slightly. I need a lever. Damn it, I need a lever! The long, steel, the knife-sharpener! I could use that as a lever! I search the floor for it. There it is! With all my might, I put the steel to the joint and the brick shifts more and more, its neighbours start wobbling as well. One of the joints is damp, presumably from my sweat; I was leaning against the wall to get a better grip. I’m sweating like a pig.
Go on working, you must go on working! Why is the floor suddenly wet? I feel the wall. It’s wet too. The brick in the middle is wobbling. By shaking it I loosen it until I can pull it a little way out. I can hear the bricks grating against each other. They slip, they get caught against one another. I try to loosen the brick entirely. My fingers can’t get a good purchase, they keep slipping off. I have almost no strength left. With the very last of it, I tug at the brick and it suddenly comes away. Holding it, I stumble back into the room, fall and lie on my back. Hell! I’m lying in a puddle. Everything’s wet, the whole floor. I run my fingers back and forth in the wetness. Cold water, my trousers and shirt are drenched, everything’s sticking to my skin, unpleasant damp cold behind me.
It’s splashing! I jump up, two steps to the wall. My hands touch it, feel the water coming in. It’s flowing, streaming in!
Shit! Shit! The stream! Now I have to work really fast or the bunker will be flooded. Like all that time ago, it will be flooded right out and I’ll drown miserably.
I shake the bricks, haul one after another out of the wall. Water and mud flood in. More and more water and mud. The water rises fast, I can feel it’s already up to my ankles. I reach into the hole I’ve made. There’s a space behind the wall. I grope around, feel upwards, nothing there as far as I can go.
I brace myself, force myself head first through the hole in the wall; my arms feel the mud, try to find the ground below. Nothing solid, just cold swampy stuff. I haul myself up with all my might, lift my leg over the wall, still no solid ground. Hell, I have to try it! Shoulder first, I fling myself into the muddy void. Keep my mouth shut, hold my breath. Close my eyes. My head is sucked into the slippery ooze. I’m sinking deeper in. Slowly, I paddle my arms and legs against the mud. The swamp gets heavier and heavier the deeper I go. Slowly, without meaning to, I roll over on my back. I get more and more lethargic. It’s like moving in slow motion. Or no, I’m not moving myself, the mud is rolling me over and moving me. I’m caught like a turtle lying on its back. In a minute or so I’ll be unconscious, a few minutes more and I’ll be dead. All perfectly simple. My mind is strangely clear. It works slowly, but it’s clear.
Dead! I deserve it. I’ve killed a man. I see that mistreated, pale body, stab wounds all over, lying beside the bed. My vision moves away, the corpse gets smaller, I see the whole room, brightly lit by the paraffin lamps. Someone is hunched on a chair, I can’t see who. It’s a woman. Face hidden in her hands, head on her knees. I move further away still, see the roof of the mill, in need of repair, the forest, it all goes dark and quiet.
A bang. I open my eyes. Thick, black fluid gets in under the lids. I close them again. Gurgling and rumbling above me. Solid bits of something sink down on me through the viscous, jelly-like mush where I’m caught. Stones and earth? I want to open my mouth, scream, breathe! My wish for air gets stronger all the time. I want to breathe. Air! Hold out! Don’t do it! It’s
like in the swimming pool when whoever comes up first has lost.
Another crashing sound, dull but loud. I roll around, turn, am turned, my left arm is caught up somewhere, comes free again. I roll over, I’m pushed. I lie where I am.
I’m breathing. Breathing in and out, slowly, deeply.
I’m alive! I’m still alive. I open my eyes. I blink. There’s a huge hole in the wall opposite me, glaring light. Narrowing my eyes, I look around. Debris, mud, gooey stuff. My left shoulder hurts. Otherwise I’m all right, I can move my hands and feet, all there and movable.
I get to my feet. Rubble and debris all over the place. Through my narrowed eyes, it looks as if the beams of light are falling in through the hole in the wall. A pleasant, warm feeling flows through me, I’m happy. Happy to be still alive.
I make for the hole, slip on slimy stones, trudge through muddy water, clamber over the rest of the wall and out into the open.
Above me, streaks of cloud in a blue-grey sky. A huge crater beside the mill. I climb over the side wall, which falls away at a shallow incline. Go around the barn. The iron door to the mill is closed.
I go over to it, brace myself as hard as I can against the door. Open it. She’s sitting on the floor in the back part of the room. The room is dark, the paraffin lamps must have gone out long ago. She looks up, sees me, can’t take it in. Sits there without moving, just stares at me. The knife is lying on one of the shelves near the door. I reach blindly for it, without looking. Slowly, she stands up, doesn’t take her eyes off me. I go towards her. When I’m very close to her I stop. She looks at me. I can feel her breath on my face. She’d have left me to die in the bunker like a filthy, lousy rat. I reach for the back of her neck with my left hand, feel her hair in my hand. Lean a little way down to her as I thrust with my right hand. She’s looking into my eyes all the time.
Police cars, fire engine, engines running, noise. The entrance to the mill is brightly illuminated by strong floodlights.
Bunker Page 10
