My Own Dear Brother

by Holly Müller

  MY OWN DEAR

  BROTHER

  HOLLY MÜLLER

  For Mr Ballinger

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Part Two

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Part Three

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  Prologue

  Every year the saint came to the house. When Ursula was eight she and her brother Anton knelt on the window seat and looked out from the living-room window. The saint’s white beard glinted in the porchlight; his tall bishop’s hat nearly touched the lintel and in his fat-fingered hands he clutched the curling golden staff and ancient book. His cheeks were dark like smoked ham, eyes half buried by pudgy lids – burnt currants peeping from an over-risen cake. Breath plumed from his purplish lips. Ursula looked for feet below his robes. Was he touching the ground or did he hover just above it? She couldn’t see Mama or Papa in the open doorway, only the yellow light falling on the steps and dirt outside, with their shadows cast long and dark within it.

  Ursula’s older sister, Dorli, was dusting the ornaments in the living-room cabinets and pretending not to care about the visitors. Her eyes betrayed her by their constant nervous darting towards the door. Ursula wondered if Saint Nikolaus knew they were watching and she supposed he did because he knew everything and could see inside their heads. In his book would be a list of all she’d done wrong; nothing could be hidden or denied. He was magical – worse than God Himself, because he came into the house. She peered into the shadows of the yard. Against the snow she could just about discern black figures, some capering to and fro, some crouching, others lumbering near the edge of the vegetable border. The dark outlines were tall and broad – a few stood still, like tree stumps, watching. She readied herself to draw away from the window should one of them step into the light. Mama’s voice trilled with mirth, joined by Papa’s low rumbling laugh. The top of Saint Nikolaus’s hat nodded, a gilded tulip.

  ‘There are so many,’ said Ursula.

  ‘They’re going to let them in.’ Anton climbed from the window seat.

  ‘And we all know whose fault it is,’ said Dorli.

  Anton went along the hall to the kitchen. Ursula followed, ears straining to hear beyond the shuffle of her own feet and Dorli’s that came close behind, beyond the voices at the door, and out to the dark areas of the yard. Soon it would begin. She dreaded the first sound.

  Ursula and Anton sat at the kitchen table while Dorli half-heartedly dried a dish. The clock on the wall loudly measured the seconds and Jesus on his wooden cross gazed regretfully at them from beneath the thorns on his brow. Yesterday Ursula had been caught thieving sugar at the grocer’s – fingers in her mouth, wet with saliva, disgusting as a gypsy brat. She shifted on the hard chair and absent-mindedly smoothed the back of her hand where Mama’s wooden spoon had cracked against the bones in five angry strokes.

  Then, from the yard at the front of the house, perhaps from the living-room window where she and Anton had been moments before, it came – rattling, harsh like cutlery in a drawer, but deeper, louder, continuous. A tremor passed through Ursula’s insides – her breath shortened. She glanced at Anton then fixed her gaze on the bleached wood of the table, following the deep grooves of the grain, finding the knots that were like eyes, the one that had fallen through and left a clean round hole. She would have liked to hide under the table if it didn’t make her look a fool in front of him. The rattling began again, and a heavy dragging sound, the hollow clonk of metal on wood. Something clattered on the other side of the kitchen wall. Then came a tap-tap at the glass. And finally the sound Ursula had dreaded most that made the hairs rise on her arms. It was worse than screech owls, worse than the strange coughing of stags at night in the woods, worse even than the almost-human screams of the fox; a gibbering, swelling high note that rose to a frantic pitch and squealed there for an eternity, then died away to silence. The sound was repeated just outside the kitchen window. Ursula’s heart thumped and she swallowed all her saliva away; Anton’s jaw muscles flickered with concentration. The shutters, which would normally be closed, were hooked open to expose them to the night. She daren’t turn her head, though she had to force herself not to, knowing what was looking in, its dreadful face against the windowpane. Dorli wiped her hands on the cloth and hurried into the pantry to hide. She closed the door behind her.

  ‘Coward,’ said Anton.

  The tapping ceased. There was a period of quiet. The house waited. The children waited. The fire crackled in the stove but it brought no feeling of warmth or safety, only a picture in Ursula’s mind of Hellfire, of eternal burning. The windows glowered and breathed chill air. Voices rose in the hallway as Mama ushered the saint inside.

  ‘They’re in the kitchen,’ she said.

  ‘Should I bring my companions?’ Saint Nikolaus’s words echoed theatrically in the hall.

  ‘Yes,’ Mama replied, also pointedly loud. ‘I think you should.’

  Immediately there was a fearful din – the metallic scrape and jangle came swiftly down the hallway towards the closed kitchen door; growls and guttural cries ricocheted up the stairwell, grew loud and close to the door panels. Ursula imagined coarse fur brushing against her winter coat that hung on its peg; there was the clack of hooves. The handle turned by increments. She looked at Anton in panic.

  ‘You don’t have to stay,’ she whispered.

  ‘I won’t let them take you.’ He gripped her hand.

  The kitchen door opened, the empty frame a ghastly space from which only the worst of things could come. Black figures stepped into view, the ones Ursula had seen in the yard; the group of Krampuses. They pushed through the doorway – so many, crushing, crawling, tongues hanging like dogs’. She wanted to look away but couldn’t, took in their revolting movements, the baskets swaying on their backs, horned heads and eyes bulging as big as onions, the crimson tongues long as neckties but thrusting outwards, thick and stiff. She hid her face in her hands. Straight away they crowded near, chains dragging on the tiles with a dry, scouring sound. She curled downwards into her chair. They began to prod her, sharply, roughly, on her shoulders and arms; foul breath, fiery with alcohol, blasted on the back of her neck where her hair parted in pigtails. She smelled their rancid pelts.

  A voice spoke from near the kitchen doorway. It was the saint. ‘You’, he announced, ‘are a thief!’

  Ursula peered from between her lashes, the saint a gaudy shape a few metres away, red, gold and white. She avoided looking at his small, black eyes, the unhealthy, livid face. She
felt a disturbed twist in her belly, a different type of fear.

  ‘On your knees!’

  She fell from her chair, bashing her kneecaps against the floor. She bowed her head. ‘Dear Lord,’ she began. But she couldn’t think. She couldn’t form a prayer. They would take her. They were going to take her now – she felt them grasp her arms.

  ‘You must be punished,’ said the saint. ‘It is wrong to steal and lie and sneak.’

  At this she was tugged and shoved from side to side; there was a keen swishing noise and she knew it was the Krampuses lashing the air close to her ears with their cruel sticks.

  ‘Stop it!’ said Anton from somewhere near by. He’d left his chair, trying to reach her.

  Ursula opened her eyes to look for him. One of the Krampuses was beside her, its face pushed close, the rigid point of its tongue curled as if to lick her cheek. She raised her hands. I repent, she thought – her voice had deserted her. Sticks sang in the air and sharp pain lashed the backs of her calves. She contracted into a ball, her face close to the stone floor. Blows fell on her back. She was gripped about the arms and middle and lifted.

  ‘Get off!’ her brother shouted. ‘Put her down!’

  The Krampuses panted heavily with the pleasure of their task and Ursula was hoisted high in the air. Would they dash her on to the flagstones?

  ‘Take her! Take her!’ said the saint with glee.

  And so they did.

  Part One

  1

  Summer in Austria was hot and oppressive, full of baking mornings that burned knees and ears like crackling, and afternoons that darkened abruptly into night beneath storm clouds, accompanied always by a sudden strong wind that drove scraps of straw in anxious cartwheels along the road. Dusty fields of maize and rye, and gardens hemmed in by five-foot fences to keep out the marauding deer, were wetted and then dried again in a perpetual cycle as clouds broke their undersides on the Alps in the south and spilled their bellies across the country. There were several storms like this each week – the rain fell like buckets of bath water, cleansing and warm on the skin; in the mountains marmots shot to their burrows at the first pulse of thunder, and chamois bolted. Forked lightning tore the sky along its seams and speared the ground. The goats and marmots had good reason to run.

  After a downpour the sun returned and the tall firs that shielded Ursula Hildesheim’s house were peaceful once more, releasing their pale souls to heaven, or so it looked as the vapours rose from them, their trunks streaked rust-red with rain. The Hildesheim place was similar to many other Austrian homes, though poorer and barer than many of their neighbours’, clad in pine with foundations of stone, a dark bulky structure leaning with age, top-heavy with balconies and overhanging eaves, a shipwrecked galleon marooned on the flood plain of the River Traisen. They had what Mama called a ‘measly smallholding’, enough to feed them and keep them working in all their free time, with one cow named Edi, a few goats for sausages and caged rabbits for stews. Trout swam in a concrete channel near the cherry trees, heads to the current. It was an unchanging place, other than the slow slump of the house into the earth, the greying and splitting of the cladding and sag of the roof, and the thickening of cobwebs in the sheds. The only thing that had altered in Ursula’s memory was that Austria was called the Ostmark since the Germans came and the region where she lived was no longer Lower Austria, but the Lower Danube. Also, many of the men had gone to war, including her papa.

  ‘Poor Herr Hildesheim,’ complained the people of the nearby village of Felddorf where Papa had lived since boyhood. ‘He’d be ashamed to see how his children run wild. That woman. Doesn’t spare time for church – a high days and holidays type.’ And somehow Mama, having had the audacity to hail from a large town and style her hair in curls rather than coiled plaits, was blamed for the Hildesheim poverty – despite the fact that she worked long hours on the neighbouring farm – for Ursula’s muddy, bare feet and light fingers, for Papa’s failures: drinking, gambling and debts.

  Walking home from school along the track Ursula escaped into surroundings where mud and barefootedness were usual, where no one watched her with distaste, and where the only thing she could hear was the toot of the train as it came along the valley, the summoning clang of the church bell, birdsong, wind in branches and Mama’s long yell across the hill when it was time to eat. Occasionally she dallied in Felddorf when there was a dance at the Gasthaus and the soldiers on leave played their trumpets and drums so she could hear a tune spill out on to the street, or catch sight of a courting couple. She’d sit between bushes in the flower border, hidden from view, and study the way their fingers moved, twining together like plaits of straw then untwining and twining again, a wordless message. If she was lucky they’d kiss and she’d watch their lips and jaws and cheeks move in slow and lingering rhythms, the touch of their noses, the glisten of tongues, the pink of their faces, their bodies pressed tight. It would be blissful, she thought, to know such feelings – tenderness, a warm touch, romance; to be a woman. Even imagining, she was moved, and a leaping started inside her like March hares. Dorli said she was still a child until she started her monthlies. Ursula prayed they’d soon come. Perhaps they would – Dorli had started at Ursula’s age, which was thirteen.

  She befriended Schosi Hillier on the day the letter came. It was January 1944 and Papa had been missing since Stalingrad. The Party didn’t know whether he was dead or a prisoner in Russia, and they said to hold on because it wouldn’t be long until the final victory.

  ‘I hope they’re right,’ said Mama, who hated the war and said it only made things worse for everyone. ‘It’s gone on long enough. We need your papa home.’

  While Ursula and Dorli prepared dinner in the kitchen and Anton removed clinker from the stove, a nervous postal worker handed a black-edged envelope to Mama at the front door. He kept his eyes on the snow-covered ground and his cap in his hands.

  ‘Lord, help us,’ said Mama, turning and coming inside.

  ‘Papa’s fallen,’ said Anton, whispering close to Ursula’s ear, as though answering a question in a school test. He went off to fetch his new pearl-inlaid letter opener. Ursula thought about when Opa died and he’d been put into the ground in a way that had seemed unceremonious despite the doleful prayers and the flowers that had covered his cheap coffin; he was lowered quickly and earth tossed over him, dug under like manure, not like a man who’d walked and talked and carried her around on his shoulders. She supposed that Papa had been treated in much the same fashion, in some faraway place. Mama sliced the envelope, her hair still twisted in the pins she wore at night to make it curl. Her skin had turned as white as porcelain and her hands trembled so violently that it looked as though the letter was stuck to her fingers and that she was trying to shake it off. She read and a flutter of laughter escaped like a moth into the room. Ursula looked sideways at her sister, who was sixteen and usually stepped up for things like this but Dorli had frozen beside the workbench where she was in the middle of making bread rolls. She didn’t move at all, her hands ghostly with flour and shreds of dough, holding them carefully above the mixing bowl as though even then it mattered whether she dropped something on the floor. Ursula wanted to knock the bread mix on to the flagstones. Couldn’t her sister forget herself this once? Ursula knew that there were sobs and awful cries filling the room and that Anton had walked out of the house, but everything had become muted as though she was buried under a mountain of blankets.

  Schosi Hillier was standing on the track near the gateway when Ursula went out looking for her brother. She knew who Schosi was – he lived in the small house near the woods and had a job at Herr Esterbauer’s farm where Mama worked. She’d seen him going back and forth across the fields. Once or twice his mother, Frau Hillier, had joined the Hildesheims and walked with them to church on a feast day. But the boy was left at home. He couldn’t speak or else was so shy that he wasn’t worth bothering with. He hid behind his mother’s skirts, despite being far too old.
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br />   ‘He’s a blessing and a curse to his mother,’ Mama sometimes said. ‘They’ve nothing at all. We must thank God, Uschi, for what we’ve got.’

  When Ursula saw him lingering there, uncertain and ungainly, his coat far too big and hanging like a sack, she remembered that his papa had been killed too. Not so long ago the black-edged death cards had been handed out by Frau Hillier.

  ‘Seen Simmy?’ Schosi called. His voice was hoarse and he stuttered like a woodpecker – he wasn’t dumb after all.

  ‘Who?’

  Schosi didn’t look at her; his eyes darted into the corners of the yard. ‘My cat.’

  ‘Your cat? I haven’t seen it.’ She wondered why he chased after it. A cat only returned if it wanted to.

  ‘Came down this way.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She continued across the yard, the snow mashed with mud from boots and wheelbarrows and carts.

  Inside the cowshed it took a moment to discern the shape of Anton’s legs dangling from the hayloft trapdoor.

  ‘Toni.’ She kept her voice soft because she knew he was angry. As she waited for his reply she sensed someone standing behind her. It was Schosi, blinking shyly from beneath his thick dark fringe. She turned back to her brother. ‘Come down.’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  She began up the wooden ladder, not caring that Schosi might see her underwear because he wasn’t like other boys. She reached the top and sat on the edge of the loft platform so that her legs hung beside her brother’s. His hair stuck up in a tawny shock from his forehead as though he’d been trying to pull it out and his skin glistened with a faint sweat that gave him a feverish look. The letter opener was embedded in his hand.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt,’ he said. He kept the hand carefully in his lap. There wasn’t much blood and the letter opener looked unreal, the way it poked from the top of his hand, the tip of the blade, when he turned it to show her, just bursting through the skin of his palm like a tiny beak emerging from an egg. She held his good hand and rubbed the cold skin.