My Own Dear Brother

by Holly Müller

  17

  Herr Esterbauer took Frau Hillier home after the foreman eventually agreed to release her for the remainder of the day. They left the factory to the sound of his complaints, Frau Hillier leaning heavily on Herr Esterbauer and not seeming to hear the grumbling of her boss. Outside it was pleasant sunshine and Ursula trailed behind the grown-ups; she was worried that Frau Hillier knew, or would find out, that she’d taken Schosi through the village, or would somehow learn it was she who’d taken the apples. The regret she felt was becoming intolerable and she was tempted to confess just so that she could be punished in the way she felt she ought to be. Every few minutes Frau Hillier sobbed audibly, then calmed and became quiet, only to break into tears again. She spoke as soon as they’d left the village and had reached the secluded track.

  ‘I can’t simply go home,’ she said amid fresh sobs. ‘I can’t sit there. I’ll go mad.’

  Herr Esterbauer nodded.

  ‘I have to go to him.’ Her voice grew high-pitched. ‘I can’t bear to think of it – he’ll be frantic.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Herr Esterbauer. ‘Of course you want to. But I don’t think you should. It’ll be easier for me, as his employer, a Party member too.’ He looked at her. ‘I know it’ll be torture waiting here without knowing. But it might make the situation worse if you come – they’ve said things about you, invented reasons to call you an unfit mother. They’ll be more likely to listen to me. A more professional angle, you see?’ He was stroking her elbow. ‘I’ll explain he’s of vital importance to the running of my farm, a trusted farmhand. I can vouch for his never having stolen from me.’

  She sighed but didn’t disagree. ‘It was Frau Gerg,’ she said with grim certainty. ‘She couldn’t stand to let me keep him.’ She broke off and was silent.

  When they reached the entrance to Ursula’s yard Herr Esterbauer ruffled Ursula’s hair. ‘I’ll be off on the bus this afternoon. I’ll have him back safe in no time, with God’s help.’

  But he was a little too jovial; he could never be as sure as he sounded. She supposed he still thought her a child, who’d believe whatever a grown-up said, but she wasn’t; she was old enough to leave school. ‘I want to do something,’ she said. ‘I’ll come to the hospital and help find him.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You can’t do that. It wouldn’t make any difference if you did. You stay here.’

  She tried to think of something useful she could contribute, other than to say it should be her; she should make amends. After a moment they said goodbye. She went across the yard, despondent, to put her bicycle away.

  Anton was inside the shed. He was oiling his gun. He barely acknowledged her as she parked the bike against the shed wall then stood watching him. His hands were dirty and he tossed his hair back every so often to get it out of his eyes. His long legs, made for running, were smutted with oil below the turn-ups of his shorts; his sleeves, rolled to the elbow, showed his slim arms, the muscles flickering as he worked. He continued to ignore her and she felt a stab of anger. He didn’t care at all that her friend was forced from home, from his mama, from her, that he might never return.

  ‘He’s been arrested and sent away like you wanted.’ Her voice was hard.

  Anton carried on polishing, looking at her from between his lashes, as though assessing whether he needed to bother with her or not.

  She leaned towards him, fists balled. ‘You meant this to happen. I bet you even went to the police station with that horrible woman.’ Fury made her light, replaced her guilt for a moment. ‘That was low, if you did. To team up with her. Well, he’s my friend and he’ll very likely die and it’ll be on your conscience!’

  ‘Not your friend,’ said Anton. ‘More like a dog.’

  ‘No! I like being with him. He’s nice to me.’

  ‘Calm down!’ He placed his hand over his ear. ‘Stop yelling.’

  ‘I won’t!’ she shouted more loudly. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on my side. I thought you were supposed to look out for me. Well, you’re not, and I—’ She couldn’t say she hated him: it wasn’t true.

  Anton stood and wiped his fingers on a rag. ‘He wasn’t good for you.’ His tone was flat.

  ‘You’re wrong. He is good for me. You’ve got your gang at the HY. What have I got?’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not!’ She walked towards the exit. ‘You didn’t want anyone knowing, that’s the only reason. It’s all about you and that stupid dagger. You didn’t do it for me. Well, I’m going to find him.’

  She’d fetch her things right now and go, she thought. She didn’t care what he said.

  ‘You won’t be able to.’

  ‘Yes, I will!’ She left the shed, shoving the door so it crashed against the wall. She walked rapidly towards the house.

  He stepped out behind her. ‘If you go after him I’ll leave!’ he called. ‘I’ll be gone when you get back.’

  ‘Fine!’ She turned to aim her words more forcefully at him. ‘See if I care.’

  She packed her knapsack in a frenzy, grabbed spare clothes, a toothbrush and flannel, a few pieces of bread from the kitchen, and a small amount of money filched from the change jar. She expected Anton to appear at any moment to try to prevent her but he didn’t and she supposed he’d gone back into the shed to prove a point. She thought about leaving a note for Mama but there was no time and she ran straight out of the house, across the yard and away down the track before Anton had a chance to reappear. He’d have a shock when he discovered that she’d really done it. Her bag bumped awkwardly at the base of her spine and she began to gasp with exertion; she didn’t know what she planned other than to be there when the bus arrived and to go to Brauhausen Hospital – to find Schosi and bring him back to Felddorf.

  At the bus stop Herr Esterbauer waited wearing a thick coat with collar upturned and a heavy, wide-brimmed hat. He had changed into smarter clothing and his boots were clean.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ he said as soon as he saw Ursula with her bulging knapsack. He gestured for her to go back the way she’d come, making a sweeping motion as though she was an intrusive leaf blowing into his hallway. ‘Get away with you!’

  ‘I’m catching the bus, Herr Esterbauer. I want to help.’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ he said again.

  She turned away from him. He couldn’t stop her.

  ‘You’re not listening. I’ll tell your mama. You ought to be ashamed, disrespecting your elders like this.’

  She ignored him, face flushed. She had to go, she just had to.

  The bus appeared, wallowing over potholes, slow and mud-splashed. With a discordant squeal of brakes it stopped beside the waiting villagers. She wriggled towards the front of the queue.

  ‘No you don’t, young lady!’ Herr Esterbauer came up behind her, took her arm and tried to pull her back. She wrenched herself free. He attempted a gentler tone. ‘You mustn’t come with me. I don’t want you to. It’s not safe and your mama will be upset.’

  She shook her head, dodged him and shoved through tutting people until she was out of reach of the farmer.

  ‘Fräulein Hildesheim!’ People paused in fishing for coins and turned to see who was making such a din. ‘Come back here!’

  The elderly lady in front of Ursula climbed aboard and Ursula followed suit as quickly as she could, clutching the handrail, not looking at the other passengers, heart hammering against her ribcage, breath ragged, determined. She wouldn’t listen; she wouldn’t listen to anyone.

  18

  Steam enveloped the lingerers on the platform and billowed against the windowpane of Ursula’s carriage as the train exited Brauhausen station. She rested her face against the glass and beside her the farmer settled in his seat, his leather bag across his knees, his cleaned and polished boots crossed. She avoided his eye and didn’t speak; the least she could do was not bother him. The visit to Brauhausen Hospital had been unsuccessful. Ursula had known somehow, even as she walked behind the farm
er along the leafy path that led to the hospital lobby, that Schosi was no longer there.

  ‘I promised to send word to Frau Hillier if there was any news,’ Herr Esterbauer had said curtly as they exited the hospital grounds and made their way to the train station. ‘But the most urgent thing is to press onwards. You know the risk? You know his life is in danger?’

  Ursula had nodded. She was glad that the farmer spoke to her frankly, albeit brusquely – he made no more mention of her behaviour earlier that day and she was thankful he involved her.

  ‘Your mother will be wondering where you are,’ he continued. ‘You’d better write to her.’

  At Brauhausen train station she’d stood a little way off on the platform, leaving him to smoke and check his watch repeatedly. He’d allowed her to hop on to the train ahead of him and hadn’t tried to send her home this time. Perhaps he knew she’d only defy him. They’d settled in the same compartment with a terse, unspoken truce between them, she fidgety with defensive shame and gratitude, he irritated, resigned, worried.

  As she gazed out, the train picked up speed. It emitted a high whistle, took a bend in the track and crossed a tributary of the Danube. They headed outwards through the bombed edges of Brauhausen town. They passed the demolished factory and oil refinery, debris scattered here and there as yet unattended to, the train windows framing the stricken scene. It was her first sighting of bombing on this scale, though she’d seen plenty of footage on the Weekly Update at the cinema, shots of explosions and blast craters at the Front. But this was different – it was so vast and there was not the grainy distance of celluloid between her and the ruins. Flakes of ash drifted and smutted the snow. Blackened sheds and unrecognisable buildings stood with no walls remaining, only charred timbers or metal girders poking out like broken bones from a carcass. The windows on the train were closed but a smell of sulphur and smoke entered the carriage. The fires hadn’t long been extinguished and still smouldered. The train shuttled by, not fast but steadfast. The destroyed factory was soon left behind and they were amongst suburbs. Large houses lined the track, peeped like coquettes from behind high fences. Wide eaves, generous balconies, gardens blanketed with drifts, and paths carved clear with snow shovels. Ursula noted all the things she saw that were different to Felddorf, her worry for Schosi eddying beneath. She replayed the row with Anton; tightness sat high in her chest, restricting her breath. Would he really go? Surely he’d not meant it; surely he’d wait for her. She thought again of his cruelty, his snarling, mocking face. She hoped again that nothing would happen to Sepp or to his aunt. They seemed like good people, even if they had done a traitorous thing. Would there be anything definite to denounce them with? Anything more than rumour and Anton’s loathing? It might be enough, she didn’t know. Snow had been cleared from the track and heaped at the edges to form a jagged ridge. She’d never been this far from home – there were so many new places and unknown people. And then the capital – it wouldn’t be long until the train reached its destination. She prayed for a swift journey. For Schosi, she thought.

  Brauhausen town fell away and for a while the track was shielded by trees; mountain ash and untamed hazels with a hundred broom-handle offshoots. Beside Ursula, Herr Esterbauer was silent and stiff-backed, the shadows of the hazel brooms flickering across his countenance. Fields emerged, which swooped up to join the rim of the monochrome forest, snow-laden, and above bald peaks capped in ice. Tiny villages similar to Felddorf appeared and disappeared, no more than a few houses and farms, a Gasthaus and a painted church. The train stopped at many of them so that one or two people could get out or climb aboard. Every time the train halted Ursula found herself clenching her hands in her lap and Herr Esterbauer tapped his fingers on his leather bag with an incessant pattering. On the ground near one village was a row of dead wild boars, with straggling bloody coats, twenty or more resting on their broad sides, hooves curled as though in flight. The breathless sound of the pistons and the rattle of wheels filled the compartment – the panelling trembled, the luggage vibrated in the overhead rack.

  The staff at Brauhausen Hospital had acted as shiftily as criminals. When Ursula and Herr Esterbauer had arrived and asked them for the release of Schosi, it was clear that they weren’t going to be helpful. First the receptionist, a woman with dark bobbed hair and glasses, spent an age sorting through files, pretending that she couldn’t find any record of Schosi Hillier until Ursula was on the verge of losing her temper. She forced herself to be calm; she mustn’t give Herr Esterbauer reason to send her home. Once the receptionist finally found the name, she told them that Schosi was no longer under their care and that there was no record of his current whereabouts. Herr Esterbauer threatened to involve her manager if necessary, until she said that all she knew was that Schosi had been transferred by military decree to another institution, the whereabouts of which they’d be informed of at a later date. Herr Esterbauer at this point demanded to speak with her superior and a doctor was called into the room, a pallid, unhealthy individual who barely made eye contact with Herr Esterbauer and totally ignored the existence of Ursula. He ushered them into an office with a varnished door.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said, moving about the room then stopping at his desk to absentmindedly organise papers.

  ‘I need to find my employee – Hillier Schosi – who was brought here two days ago,’ said Herr Esterbauer. ‘But he’s been transferred. I need to know where he is. His admission was a mistake – he’s a capable worker.’

  The doctor mused on this and pressed his fingers to his lips. He looked at the farmer. Ursula waited at the edge of the room, gripping the shoulder straps of her knapsack to keep her hands from fiddling.

  ‘Hillier Schosi,’ he mumbled. He walked to the centre of the room. ‘We’re not generally informed about the details of transfers of this kind.’ He paused and eyed the farmer again. ‘Often the patients are collected in the middle of the night. It’s very normal for this to happen. I don’t question the procedure – I may get wind of it the following morning, you understand.’

  ‘You know where he’s gone, then?’ said Ursula.

  The doctor raised his eyebrows, evidently not expecting her to speak. ‘I wouldn’t necessarily wish to disclose information that’s guarded by the military.’

  ‘I don’t mind paying,’ said Herr Esterbauer. ‘If that’s what you’re after.’

  The doctor made a pretence at recoiling from this reference to money, but he sharpened his attention like a dog that smells its dinner, and moved closer to Herr Esterbauer. He gave an oily smile. ‘Well, I may have need of a bit of extra cash just now, as it happens.’

  Herr Esterbauer withdrew his wallet and pulled out a roll of Reichsmarks. He counted off a generous sum, which made Ursula feel rather weak. It wasn’t right that this beastly man should get so much. Herr Esterbauer handed the notes to the doctor, who glanced at them quickly in order to count them then stowed them in his pocket.

  ‘He was taken on a bus to the Vienna Hartburg Mental Hospital,’ said the doctor. ‘Along with a group of other patients.’

  ‘What kind of patients?’ said Herr Esterbauer carefully.

  ‘Mentally deficient – they’ll be put in the children’s ward.’

  They left without saying another word. Within an hour they were on a train to Vienna.

  The train passed through Wiener Neustadt, another town bombed, and then reached the low, tree-covered Wienerwald Hills and the town of Baden, where the train stopped. Passengers boarded, amongst them two women who came into Ursula and Herr Esterbauer’s compartment. They were nurses in long black dresses, white pinafores, black shoes, pointed white collars and pointed white caps. They sat opposite Ursula and she watched them talking as the train lurched away from the platform. They spoke under their breath, as though exchanging secrets, leaning close, white caps touching. She noticed the way they grasped their handbags against their knees, the redness and roughness of their hands, similar to farmers’ hands, or labourers�
�� hands, made for rough work.

  They soon reached the edge of Vienna. Like the surrounding towns, the city had been bombed. The industrial periphery was tattered and flattened, and the suburbs hung around the city like ragged underskirts. Apartment buildings crumbled here and there in ruins, others were untouched and splendid, some with golden paint or flowers scrolling across the plaster, a stark contrast to the simple houses of Felddorf. Herr Esterbauer watched the passing cityscape with dislike.

  ‘I’ve never had occasion to come here,’ he muttered. ‘And no inclination either.’

  Ursula looked at him, perplexed. How could he have never wished to see the capital? The place where the emperors had lived and where everything was grand and full of charm, where the Viennese Philharmonic Orchestra played in the glorious Opera House and where Manner Schnitten wafer biscuits were made? People dressed in long, heavy coats with crimson linings, like Siegfried, and drank coffee from tall glasses. What could he find objectionable about that? ‘Why?’ she asked.

  Herr Esterbauer huffed. ‘Because city people are a different breed. They have names like Turnicek, Kremicek, Karicek – always ending in “cek”.’

  Ursula pondered on this but couldn’t quite comprehend him. Mama had once told her that Herr Esterbauer’s own father had been Czechoslovakian and had changed his name to sound more Germanic when he’d moved here with his family. It seemed nonsensical then for Herr Esterbauer to hate all Easterners so much, though she was glad to have no Eastern heritage herself. She viewed Vienna with great curiosity as the train swayed onwards. The place seemed gargantuan. The streets she glimpsed were labyrinthine. Walls of cream and beige, with green or black railings for balconies, small parks crammed between them with regimented hedges and classical statues.

  ‘My farm in summer,’ said Herr Esterbauer, ‘with green grass and good soil and cows in the shed. That’s all I need.’ He uncrossed his feet and recrossed them in the other direction. ‘That’s where I belong.’