My Own Dear Brother

by Holly Müller

  But Ursula couldn’t imagine that – Dorli didn’t seem to know Anton at all.

  She slipped upstairs and into Anton’s room and closed the door behind her. He was hunched over the windowsill, the glass opaque with his breath, looking out at the dark of the yard where the fir cones and seeds lay wet and mushy at the feet of the tall trees.

  ‘Mama’s so upset,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t care,’ came the abrupt reply. ‘I’m sick of this place. I’ll not be here much longer.’

  ‘Not here?’ Fear lurched in her – those words ‘not here’ unthinkable. ‘You’re not going? Are you?’ She moved closer. The ceremonial dagger was on the sill beside him, a tapered, elegant shape. His arm rested next to it in an awkward fashion, so that the inner forearm was upwards and exposed. The skin was dark, wet, glistening; between the wrist and elbow of his left arm were a dozen furious cuts, criss-crossed, raised and bleeding.

  She halted, aghast; a small pool of blood gathered on the painted wooden sill. ‘Toni!’ she croaked. She took a step towards him, heart thumping. He clamped his arm possessively against his front; the other side was red too, where he’d been leaning. He angled his body away.

  ‘If he stays, I go,’ he said.

  She edged nearer, eyeing the dagger. Could she get to it? Her heartbeat thudded impossibly fast in her chest. Should she call Mama? A doctor? How deep were the cuts? She struggled to calm her breath.

  Anton glanced at her, sly, watchful. ‘If you won’t . . . if you’re with them now.’ He reached for the dagger, picked it up.

  ‘Don’t, Toni!’ She held out her hands.

  He pushed the point against his arm near the elbow where the skin was still white and clean. ‘I want rid of him.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He dug the blade and dragged, a stiff movement, blood beading then spilling in a dark, deliberate trickle.

  ‘Ursula!’ Mama called from downstairs.

  She jumped hard; her throat constricted so that no words would come. It was agony to see him do it. Terror strangled her momentarily.

  He stopped.

  ‘You’re stupid,’ she whispered. ‘Stupid!’

  After a while he let her come and dab the blood away. She used her skirt, gently wiping, bending close to look. The cuts were long and ragged-edged, slashing messily one over the other, like the efforts of a drunken ploughman. But they weren’t as severe as all the blood would suggest – with tight binding they’d be staunched and would heal. But still her fingers shook violently and a deep ache squeezed in her chest. It was as if he’d cut her too. She bent to kiss where she tended; the flesh burned beneath her lips. ‘You have to wash this. I’ll bring water.’ Tears stung her nose and filled her vision.

  ‘I could be useful,’ he continued. ‘I could do well.’

  She blinked rapidly to dry her eyes. ‘At the Front?’ She imagined the house without him, vacant. No one to comfort her or understand about the shadows and anxious dreams. If he left – she daren’t think it – alone he might push the knife too deep. The tears came properly then. She pressed her cuffs to her eyes, which were quickly sodden. ‘And what would I do?’

  ‘You’d be all right.’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’ve got your new friends.’

  ‘Schosi?’

  ‘And that Commie, Sontheimer.’

  ‘Ursula!’ Mama called again, impatient.

  ‘He’s not my friend.’

  ‘More than,’ he said. ‘Well, go to her then. She probably can’t stand us talking.’

  Ursula removed her skirt – she’d wash the blood out and put on another. She crossed the room to the door. ‘It’s not more than.’ She held the latch as if it were important, hand still shaking; she felt helpless – a gasping fish pulled on to the stones. What could she say to please him? To keep him? ‘I don’t like her either.’ But the statement was limp and forced. She didn’t hate Mama like Anton did; she didn’t even hate Siegfried. But he had to go; that was clear now. ‘Write the note,’ she said. ‘Let’s do it tonight.’

  In the hall she put on her coat and buttoned it high, then wrapped her scarf around tightly. It made her feel protected, less visible. She went outside to lock the chickens in their coop. Just as she did so Siegfried’s car came along the track, exhaust snarling in a grey cloud from its damaged pipe, sending roosting crows flapping from the treetops. She hurried around the corner to the henhouse so that she was out of view. After shutting the hatches against the fox, she waited till Siegfried had gone inside. She prayed that Anton wouldn’t bolt at the first glimpse of him, that he’d keep his temper and hold to their plan. When she went back to the front of the house she saw his outline in the upstairs window and was reassured. She entered the porch, quietly removed her boots; her mind strayed constantly to the terrifying task that awaited her. As she passed the framed world map in the hallway, she caught sight of her own reflection. Her face was a white triangle, hovering vaporous over the red expanse that was Russia. She tried to smooth the tangles of her hair but her fingers got stuck in the knots.

  Just then she heard a sharp creak. She turned and there was Siegfried, coming down the stairs. He’d probably gone to put his bag and luxurious coat in Mama’s bedroom. He no longer hung the coat in the hallway. She supposed he’d noticed how often his wallet was returned to a different pocket, minus a few Reichsmarks.

  ‘Ursula,’ he said, in his pleasant, well-bred voice. ‘I didn’t see you there. Are you all right?’

  She nodded. She didn’t often answer Siegfried when he addressed her though he was persistently attentive. He always asked her if she’d enjoyed her day at school and she responded with a monosyllable, unused to such consideration from an adult or to the concept that school could ever be enjoyable, convinced he merely courted her in order to more comfortably exploit them, exploit Mama.

  ‘You look pale.’ He came down with a dry swish of his hand along the banister. ‘Are you sure you’re well?’ He bent to look into her face, frowning. She nodded again, feeling treacherous. A few flecks of cotton wool adhered to his cheeks where he’d cut himself shaving; the skin looked pink, too tender. ‘You seem under the weather. You should get some sleep.’ He touched her lightly on the arm. ‘Do you want something hot to drink?’

  She shook her head vehemently and ran up the stairs.

  After dark, once Mama, Siegfried and Dorli had retired, Ursula moved like a breath along the balcony to Anton’s room, the clouds gone, the wind calmed so that she had to tread with extra care. Anton opened the window. She climbed in and sat beside him on his eiderdown. Between them was the envelope ready for the station mailbox, addressed to Felddorf Police. Anton held the note itself and unfolded it for her inspection. He’d written in his splodgy hand all their accusations. From somewhere – the bureau probably – he’d found Siegfried’s Vienna address and included that also. She nibbled her nails as she read; Siegfried’s kindness lingered like an accusation. They were doing a bad thing; she’d regret it. And what if they were caught? The Hitler Youth patrolled the streets at night and punishments were harsh for youngsters breaking curfew. But Anton risked all, including his precious dagger. She daren’t show cowardice now.

  They skulked on the pavement opposite the station. The sky was cumbersome with stars, a glimmering lid over the village. A still night, thought Ursula, to help her be still. But her whole body shook. Anton was more composed, the note in his pocket. The street was deadly quiet with no patrol in sight.

  ‘Let’s do it.’ He took her hand, pulled her towards the station.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ He gave her an assessing look. ‘What you scared of?’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  She didn’t answer and after a moment he sort of hissed at her then set off across the road. She knew she should follow but instead drew back into the thick fir hedge. What a gutless creative she was. Anton walked briskly up to the station, open
ed the mailbox and put the letter inside as confidently as if he delivered post to the police every day. The lid of the box shrieked rustily. Ursula shrank further into the hedge so that the fir fronds meshed together in front of her face and cloaked her. She peered in each direction along the road, afraid to see a lantern or torch beam, but the street was dark. Anton recrossed the road and together they ran home. Her heart pounded with fear, guilt, dread, relief, her steps lifted by a heady, hysterical feeling, tears almost springing free but not quite. It was done – there was no undoing it now. She closed her mind to thoughts of Siegfried. He was a cuckoo in the nest, a leech. He didn’t mean anything to them.

  9

  Schosi sat in the attic on the edge of his bed. He was restless and wanted to go outside. It was nearly time to feed the cats and then it would be a while longer before his mama came home from the factory. He got up and went to the window, which overlooked the garden as small as a postage stamp. Below, Simmy jumped the fence and set off across the meadow. He always chose to go in the same direction, parting the grass with his thick body, and Schosi was comforted watching him strike out on his journey. He often wondered where the cat went and had once followed, the evening sun catching the red of Simmy’s coat so that it flamed, until they reached the edge of the woods. The trees swallowed the cat but Schosi dared not go where the sunlight couldn’t reach.

  The girl – little bear – was daring and comforting too, he thought. It had been good to sit with her at the table playing with the wool. She’d helped him not to grow wild when Anton had flown through the Hildesheim kitchen black with anger. He was pleased that now he was allowed to see her and that his mama would sometimes go with him. She said that there were still rules – he mustn’t forget, he was only allowed to the Hildesheim house in the evenings or at the weekend, not any time, not wandering after Simmy.

  As Schosi looked out, a woman appeared on the track. For a second he mistook her for his mama but this woman lifted her feet high over the grasses and patches of mud like the fine horse in the painting on Herr Esterbauer’s wall. She had a thin face quite unlike his mama’s. Her gloved hands waved as she tried to keep her balance on the rough ground. Schosi drew back from the glass and hid behind the curtain; she was a stranger. She stopped directly in front of his fence. She looked at the house, peered into the downstairs windows for a few moments, then raised her face and looked up at the attic window, shielding her eyes against the low sun. He kept still – he didn’t like the way she looked. Her mouth was small and her eyebrows were two thin lines. It reminded him somehow of the Führer’s face. She might be the type of person his mama warned him about – unkind, someone who didn’t understand about him and meant him harm. He moved away from the window and sat once more on the edge of his bed, took out his comfort blanket and twisted it round his finger. He let it unravel and watched it spin.

  When he heard the scrape of the gate against the path he knew that the woman was now in the garden. She would be looking in at the windows. He felt scared in case she could get inside but the door was locked, he reminded himself, the bolts drawn tight. He pressed the face of his wristwatch to his ear and listened to the small, tight tick. He remained in this position until he heard the gate scrape once more. He wanted to creep to the glass to check, to be sure she was gone, but she might be out there, waiting.

  He dragged the covers off the bed and wrapped them around his shoulders. The chill of evening had begun to fill the house and darkness too, blanking out the corners of the attic room. He didn’t light a lamp even though he was scared of the dark. He lay down, the blanket tucked protectively around his neck, and prayed his mama would soon come.

  10

  Schosi had begged and begged and pestered and pestered to go to his papa’s grave until Ursula had thumped him on the arm and told him that she’d take him, but to keep his mouth shut about it. She went when she knew the church would be quiet and took him along a footpath behind the houses rather than along the main street. She knew she oughtn’t to break Frau Hillier’s regulations but he’d rot away from boredom at this rate, always having to be accounted for and never allowed to try anything new. He would come to no bother on a short walk like this. She hoped he felt a kick of life in his veins as they went through the fields dotted with rye stooks – a secret, an adventure, a scheme; that he enjoyed the soft breeze and the birds above zigzagging against the sky. To their left, gaps in the hedges and fences showed portions of the village. Schosi pointed excitedly when he saw the Gasthaus, its name painted on the front wall in fine scrolling letters and soldiers standing by the fountain smoking, a motorcycle parked amongst them. A group of Hitler Youth were going door to door for scrap metal, dragging a handcart full of dented pans and piping and a rust-ravaged bath. Ursula was in a nervous mood, not only because of their forbidden excursion but because Siegfried hadn’t been to visit for almost two weeks. This had put Mama in a vengeful temper, careering from tears to silence to snappishness. But at least, she thought, it had prevented Anton from leaving. As the days passed she became less and less certain whether she’d be regretful or glad if a letter arrived with news of Siegfried’s arrest. She didn’t want to be the reason for Mama’s alarming, fragile pallor, the red-eyed gloom she brought downstairs each morning, which clung to everything like low-lying fog. She hadn’t truly understood the depth of her mother’s attachment until now. Mama was no longer full of energy and alight with hope; there was only the belly, taut and huge, pushing everything else aside. She offered Ursula barely a smile and a thousand criticisms: lazy, useless, stupid girl, why can’t you be more like your sister?

  After a while they came to where the camp fence ran adjacent to the footpath. Structures much like sturdy hunting towers stood at each corner. If Siegfried were thrown into a place like that he might be beaten or starved. He’d certainly suffer. She pictured him as thin as those escaped Bolsheviks had been, as frantic. In one of the towers a guard stood with his back to the outside world. His shoulders were sharp and Ursula saw the butt of a gun. They trod quickly and quietly until the camp was behind them, Schosi seeming to understand the menace of that place, that watchful figure.

  They joined the road near the church; fallen berries popped beneath their boots with a satisfying sound. This would be the first time she’d visited the church since the day Frau Gerg had shamed them in the churchyard and Anton had warned her away from ‘the wrong type of boy’. She’d seen Sepp since, once or twice at school, but hadn’t spoken to him. It was hard to resist; he often waved and seemed so wholesome. Only the other day at school she’d observed as he played marbles alone; he often seemed to be without companions, as she was. He’d squatted and taken a careful shot, his long legs doubled at either side like a grasshopper’s. She’d liked his grey shorts and the polished tan of his knees. The smooth healthiness of his skin reminded her of a conker, or a walnut bowl rubbed with oil.

  She sighed while she walked, preoccupied, squeezed Schosi’s arm as warm feelings filled her body – longing, admiration. How would it feel to be kissed? What would she do? She remembered the way Sepp had stood in the graveyard with his fists full of leaves, how wondrous he’d looked, as though all the brilliance of summer was in that single face. She imagined kissing him: he was unable to hold her because his hands were full; she lifted her arms to his shoulders – their lips softly touched.

  Schosi looked at her and put his hand on hers.

  She waited at the top of the slope while Schosi visited the church. He loved to show her what he could do without help, so she let him. It was good for him to try. She sat cross-legged at the edge of the road as he went down the hill and stepped inside the church porch. He re-emerged after a few minutes holding the tin cup from the font. She smiled, watching him; he progressed gingerly over the grass to his papa’s grave and was soon out of sight.

  After a while she grew cold and damp. She tried to shin up the wall that overlooked the graveyard so that she could see what Schosi was doing, but the wall was too sheer
and she grazed her knee on the stones. She wandered a little along the lane, which had a few houses on it. She found an apple tree overhanging a garden fence. The lowest bough was just within reach and she deftly plucked several apples, glancing over her shoulder to check she wasn’t being observed; another few fell to the ground as she did so, ready and ripe. She hid the stolen fruit under her coat and returned to her waiting place, put them in the long grass and resumed her pacing. Eventually Schosi appeared, a boy with him; the boy opened the gate for Schosi so that he could walk out and Schosi came over the grass and up the road towards Ursula while the boy looked on. It was Sepp.

  ‘There were dead bugs,’ Schosi said, out of breath when he reached Ursula. He pointed back at the churchyard. ‘In the dish.’

  He meant the dish of holy water on his papa’s grave.

  ‘Did you tip them out?’ she asked absently.

  He nodded. Sepp began up the hill towards them. Ursula raked her fingers through the ends of her hair, smoothed her skirts and pulled her socks up to where they ought to be. ‘Slattern’ was the latest insult launched her way in school and she was afraid it was true; her sloppiness was undeniable. It also occurred to her that if Sepp hadn’t known about her mother’s disgrace last time they met, he surely would now. From the size of Mama’s bump he’d probably wagered on bastard twins.

  ‘Hello!’ he called when he’d almost reached them. He stopped beside Schosi. Ursula smiled and put her hands inside her cardigan sleeves, which she’d hastily rolled to hide the fray. She thought he seemed slightly taller than before and he was dressed very smartly. He wore a good suit and his hair was combed treacle-smooth. ‘I’ve just been talking to your friend.’

  Schosi tried to speak; his stutter forced his arm to flop up and down, an involuntary spasm, as though to whip the stuck words out into the open. Sepp waited. After a while Schosi gave up, red-faced from effort.