My Own Dear Brother

by Holly Müller

  By daylight, the new dormitory was tall, echoing, with high windows covered on the outside by pale green bars, the walls grey now rather than brown but still the same oil-paint smell and the same greased shine. There were even more boys here than there had been at Brauhausen, the beds just as tightly arranged and the room much larger. Schosi searched for Aldo. He was in the bed that abutted the end of his own. Schosi sat – Aldo was so small that it looked as though there was no one lying under the blanket, but there was his face on the pillow, his lavender eyelids flickering with sleep.

  Just at that moment another shrill whistle pierced the air. Schosi clamped his hands over his ears to block out the noise – the horrible, painful, disorientating blast reverberated in the echoing dormitory, worse than the tin whistle Herr Esterbauer had given to him – far, far worse. Everywhere was a sudden rustling and creaking; the other boys were sitting upright, throwing covers aside. The whistle stopped. A nurse stood inside the doorway, one hand on her hip. She had a tiny upturned nose, glasses and a cap like a handkerchief. She looked around then blew on the whistle again, a short hard blast. She let it fall on a string around her neck.

  ‘Up!’ she said, clapping.

  Across the room boys scrambled from their beds and stood to attention. The nurse clapped again, entering the room. In the bed adjacent to Schosi, Aldo lay immobile.

  ‘Quickly!’ shouted the nurse. ‘How long are you lazy bastards going to lie here?’ She whipped the blanket away from one of the boys who hadn’t risen, moved to Aldo’s bed and did the same. She threw Aldo’s blanket on to the floor – he sat up slowly.

  ‘Get out of bed!’ said the nurse. ‘I shouldn’t have to tell you twice.’ She turned to Schosi. He hastily stood. ‘Stand straight!’ said the nurse to him. ‘Hands by your sides.’ He obeyed. She tossed some clothes at Schosi and Aldo – clothes that didn’t belong to them – then she pointed at Schosi. ‘One,’ she said. She turned to Aldo. ‘Two.’ She went off around the room and counted each boy – thirty in total. ‘Get dressed,’ she said. ‘No dilly-dallying.’ She walked to the doorway. ‘Washroom in five minutes.’ She raised a warning finger. ‘I’ll be timing you.’

  Hullabaloo descended as the entire dormitory rushed to dress. Boys pushed each other out of the way, threw pyjamas (if they had any) on to the floor, writhed on the edge of their beds to pull shorts into place. Aldo hopped on one leg, struggling to get his foot into his shoe. His foot was an awkward twisted shape and wouldn’t easily fit. He lost his balance and fell back on to his bed, coughing. Eventually he recovered and managed to get his shoe on. Schosi watched as he tied the lace in a trailing knot rather than a proper bow. Aldo began to button his shirt, a ragged thing with holes at the elbows. When he’d finished it was all askew. Schosi knew that he’d done them wrongly and would be told off. He finished fastening his own buttons, taking care to do it right. Some of the other boys were already leaving the dormitory. The boy leading the line seemed to be in charge of the other boys and was quite a bit taller than the rest. He had fair hair that flicked at his temples and the nape of his neck.

  ‘Your buttons are wrong.’

  Aldo glanced down at his shirtfront and then back up at Schosi, his expression helpless. Schosi reached out to fix them but Aldo shrank back and shook his head.

  They left the dormitory, hurrying to catch the tail end of the line. All the children moved quickly, subdued and quiet. Bare feet pattered. The floor was cold. The washroom swallowed them up, a large tiled room full of toilets and urinals and sinks. They formed a queue and took it in turns in sets of three to pee at the urinals and wash their hands and faces at the taps. Schosi shivered uncontrollably. The water was like ice and there was no heater; the windows were the same as in the dormitory, tall and green-barred, admitting frigid November air through minute gaps. The glass was warped and the trees outside looked buckled and distorted.

  Aldo cried as they left the washroom because he searched for his shell and remembered that it had been destroyed. ‘My Oma said to keep it,’ he said. ‘She said never to lose it.’

  Schosi wanted to reassure Aldo but he didn’t know how.

  The next room was a long hall full of tables and wooden benches, where they had to stand in the doorway and wait. There were some girls queuing at the other entrance, all in scruffy dresses and with plaited or cropped hair. They were whey-faced, ghostly girls, and Schosi compared them to little bear, who was always golden or rosy or laughing at him. The walls of the cavernous room were red, with deep chips where chunks of plaster had fallen off. A tall clock stood against the near wall; a picture of the Führer hung above a broad archway through which nurses wheeled trolleys of food. There was a tureen on each trolley and stacks of bowls. One of the nurses indicated that the children should take their seats, and the boys and girls filed in and sat at separate tables, all quiet, all seeming to know their place. Schosi and Aldo sat next to one another. On Schosi’s other side was the boy who’d led the line, the tall one with the light feathery hair. Schosi was in awe of him and took care that neither his leg nor elbow touched him. The nurses began to push the trolleys to the tables, keeping pace with one another. The wheels squeaked and the bowls chattered. They progressed along the rows of children and doled out breakfast to each. When one of the nurses reached Schosi she stood behind, so that his neck tingled, dished up a ladleful of whatever was in the tureen, and then bashed the bowl down in front of him. The food was pale in colour, and lumpy. Steam rolled faintly from its surface. It didn’t look like much, but it was warm and had a sweet scent. Schosi salivated, gripping his spoon.

  ‘I hate semolina,’ whispered Aldo once the nurse had moved on.

  ‘What’s semolina?’ said Schosi.

  ‘This is,’ said Aldo, pointing to his own bowl, lined with the same pale mess.

  Schosi had never heard of semolina. Perhaps he should hate it too, but he was too hungry for that. As soon as the nurse gave permission to begin, he shovelled the sticky mixture into his mouth, devoured the lot in less than a minute, and then wiped up some of the remnants with his finger. He looked hopefully around for a second helping, but the trolleys were gone and only one nurse remained, watching them as they ate.

  The leader boy beside Schosi ate with deliberate slowness, as though he was forcing his food down, or else it was the opposite and he didn’t want the meal to be over. He slid the spoon into his mouth, pinching his lips tight and drawing the spoon out completely clean. Schosi watched from the sides of his eyes, fascinated by the calmness that surrounded him. He slowly turned his head to study him more openly. The boy was clear-skinned and very fair, blue smudges showing below his eyes, and his lips were almost the same colour as his face. His eyelashes were long and curved, like a cow’s, thought Schosi, and his hair pretty like a girl’s. After a moment the boy turned to look at him. He pulled the spotless spoon from his mouth.

  ‘What?’ he said, so quietly that Schosi almost didn’t hear.

  Schosi blushed and looked back at his empty bowl. The boy stared at him for a while and then went back to his methodical breakfast. Schosi could feel the unfriendly gaze of several boys who were seated opposite. He kept his eyes on the table.

  When breakfast was finished, the children stood and filed over to the archway where the Führer’s portrait hung to deliver their empty bowls to the trolley. Everything at the hospital seemed to be about walking or standing in lines, in the right place, in the right way. When Schosi was nearly at the trolley, the boy directly behind hit him on the elbow so that his bowl flew from his grasp and landed on the floor. It cracked like a great egg and a thin spray of semolina flicked across the wooden floor.

  ‘Who was that?’ A nurse came down the line.

  The boys retreated like a tide so that Schosi was left stranded. He saw Aldo ahead, leaning to look at him, a scum of semolina around his mouth. The nurse stopped in front of Schosi. It was the same woman who’d blasted on the whistle that morning. She thrust forwards her miniature nose.

/>   ‘Was it you?’

  Schosi glanced around. The boy who’d pushed him – a knock-kneed lad with a bulbous forehead and dark skin – slid a look at Schosi then returned to the mute scrutiny of his own toes. Schosi looked again at the nurse.

  ‘Clumsy child! Go and fetch a cloth! Take those pieces to the rubbish bin immediately!’

  That was too many instructions for Schosi, and delivered too fast. He stared at her in confusion, felt a sudden need for the toilet and grasped at his groin to prevent pee from escaping.

  ‘Hands!’ yelped the nurse. ‘Hands!’ Schosi returned his hands to his sides. Warmth spread between his legs, and relief. The nurse turned away. ‘Ugh. Revolting. Nurse!’ She called for a colleague, who trotted pony-like through the arch to join them. ‘Take this one to the washroom. He’s made a complete mess of himself. He’ll require a nappy.’

  The second nurse, a pale-haired girl, nodded and took him by the elbow and walked with him across the hall – she didn’t look at him but as she went she slowed her pace so he didn’t have to hurry so much. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said.

  Schosi wondered where she was taking him, to the toilet, he hoped, because he still needed to pee some more. His mama said he should learn to make it on time, and today he’d failed, in front of everyone. The shame of it brought him close to tears. Nappies were for babies. The boys and girls turned in their queues to watch him and a cautious whisper began amongst them. They were silenced immediately by a remark from the small-nosed nurse.

  The young nurse’s black shoes oink-oinked on the polished floor as she escorted Schosi along the corridor. Her delicate fingers gripped his arm. She took a turning, away from his dormitory, down a shaded corridor. As they passed along it, Schosi saw a patch of wall that was covered in scribbles – pencil or charcoal – lines that criss-crossed and looped. It wasn’t a picture – perhaps it was words. Schosi couldn’t read them, but then he couldn’t even read his name. His mama had tried to teach him, but he’d disappointed her.

  The nurse spoke when they reached a door. ‘Wait here a moment.’

  She went into the room, leaving Schosi in the corridor. A covered cart with tall wheels crouched against the wall near by, the blue canvas unfastened and trailing. It was different to the farm carts at harvest time or his mama’s handcart – it had no dirt or straw on the wheel spokes. But perhaps a cat lived there, asleep amongst offcuts of wood and scraps of hay, a favourite place for the cats at the farm. A pang of intense homesickness struck him in the stomach. His shorts were uncomfortable, the pee had turned chilly and the wet material stuck to his skin. Cold air blew out from the doorway – he looked inside and saw a couple of beds, and windows covered by the same cage of pale green bars, except that these windows were propped wide so that the bars were exposed. Schosi could hear a breeze in the branches of the trees outside. He wondered if a bird might fly in by mistake. There was some banging and shuffling from somewhere in the room and he guessed it was the nurse, though he couldn’t see her. He edged inside a little. A boy in the nearest bed lay with his back to Schosi. He was small and Schosi was surprised he wasn’t frozen solid because he had no blankets. He went a step further so he could peer around the edge of the door. Rows of beds filled the room just like his dormitory, but this was a smaller space. Each bed had a child asleep even though it was after breakfast time. None had blankets. There was a girl lying a few metres away, her hair in rags across her face, a long trail of drool joining her mouth to the mattress. Her feet were greyish-blue. There was vomit on the floor beside her bed. He began to notice the smell. Perhaps it was his own shorts, but the stink of pee was very strong and the medicine smell was even worse, stronger than anywhere else, as if this was the place where it began, spreading from here to the rest of the ward. A strong gust of air came in through the windows and lifted the nightgown of the drooling girl so that her legs were exposed. She didn’t stir. He began to feel afraid. There was a feeling in the room, something he recognised – it felt like when the cats got old and went off to lie somewhere alone, not moving any more, not seeing through their eyes, not breathing at all in the end – that sour smell, the stiffness, the eerie quiet. He heard another bang and craned his head round to see the nurse. She was closing a tall cupboard with plain wooden doors. Schosi dodged from sight.

  16

  The sheets must match exactly,’ said the nurse instructing Schosi and Aldo. She stooped and squinted along the regimental dormitory beds, checking that each folded sheet was level with the rest. ‘When the inspecting officer comes, he should be able to see a precise line from here to the end of the room, like this.’ The blanket was to be arranged in a square with the second sheet turned over. The square of blanket should be positioned at the foot of the bed, the pillow at the head, plumped and smoothed. The sheet overlapping must be the exact length of two toothbrushes; the nurse demonstrated using a toothbrush belonging to one of the other boys.

  They were ordered to practise and the nurse slapped them sharply every time they paused or got it wrong. After their third or fourth failure the nurse grew angry. She tore the bedding off.

  ‘No! That is wrong. Start from scratch! You will make your bed one hundred times until you have learned. Here at Hartburg we value discipline and order. We will not tolerate sloppiness.’

  And so they spent long hours on this strange ritual, confused and frightened, hopelessly inept. Later, the angry nurse was replaced by a younger nurse with soft loops of pale hair pinned over her ears. She was less fierce – Schosi realised it was the same nurse who had accompanied him to get his nappy. She showed Schosi and Aldo what to do once more, but at a slower pace. Eventually, they were able to produce something close to the military precision that was expected, their beds tamed and geometric, mirroring the others in the dormitory. Schosi was tired and his arms ached. His stomach growled with hunger. They’d been allowed no food or drink while they worked.

  The pale-haired nurse gave them each a piece of bread and then put them out in the side garden to play. There was another nurse in the garden, this one with a chalk-white face and heavy coat pulled tightly around her body. It was very cold, the sky full of yellow snow clouds. Some of the other children were already there, but they ignored Schosi and Aldo who stood against the hospital wall. Schosi’s nappy scratched between his legs and embarrassed him. He’d been given another pair of shorts, tatty and too loose. The side garden was a narrow strip of grass with bald patches of mud. A sign stuck out from the brickwork with a white number on a blue background. Aldo told Schosi what it was. It was the number fifteen. Schosi remembered that that was his age and also the age of Ursula’s brother.

  He was reminded of Anton a second time when he saw the tall leader boy walking near the garden fence. Schosi thought the boy moved in a similar way to Anton, though more slowly. It seemed that the boy didn’t want to play while they were in the garden. Instead he broke things. He snapped twig after twig that he found on the floor, and he broke stones (using other stones – banging, banging until they split), he kicked holes in the dirt with his elegant feet, peeled shreds of bark from the tree trunk, tearing deeper and deeper until the wood was raw orange and bled clear juice, curls of skin strewn on the tree roots. After a while the black-coated nurse came hollering over, cuffed him around the head so that he cowered momentarily. But he shot upright as soon as the nurse stepped away, rigid, rebellious, staring darkly.

  Later on, when they’d come inside and were passing the dining-hall doors, they met other children in the corridor who were going in to eat. They weren’t the ones from the freezing room but they looked ill – some were deformed. Schosi was unnerved by the sounds they made, groans and strange shouts; some had heads like lumpy rocks and mismatched faces. One child was so small she couldn’t walk properly. A girl with hanging breasts clutched the toddler’s arm, helped her not to fall.

  ‘Poor bastards,’ muttered one of the boys from Schosi’s dormitory. ‘You don’t want to eat what they get fed.’

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