My Own Dear Brother

by Holly Müller

  ‘You want to keep this one?’ Pasha held up the novel he’d been reading. Lamplight reflected on his glasses in golden semicircles; the lid of the chest obscured his body and he peeped over the top like a funny, long-nosed dwarf. Ursula nodded. She’d like it to remember him by. Perhaps he was even a friend. This thought added a further layer of sorrow so she felt quite buried. Maybe it showed on her face because Pasha said, ‘Your brother is angry?’

  She sighed.

  ‘Why?’ He came out from behind the box and sat near to her. ‘You cannot help what happens in this house.’

  She looked at him and saw he meant it. ‘He doesn’t know that,’ she said, with difficulty, struggling against the syrupy thickness to say what she meant. ‘I’m his sister.’ And brothers love sisters with hot fury, try to rule them, to keep them. ‘I disappoint him,’ she added. But this wasn’t the right word; she couldn’t think what it was, but she felt it: it was that she hurt him, wounded him. And he wanted to wound her too because she no longer belonged to him. He was afraid. She thought this vaguely, uncertainly. ‘He’s troubled.’ She repeated Herr Esterbauer’s words.

  Pasha rubbed his knees and nodded. It was quiet in the living room, in the whole house, aside from some shuffling on the floorboards above. She felt sorry again for stealing from Herr Esterbauer, for lying. She wished she knew why she did it and how to stop. ‘He likes to kill things. And people too.’ Pasha’s dark eyes blinked thoughtfully at her. ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘Difficult, I see.’

  This was the most Ursula had ever told anyone. It felt good. But such honesty was unfamiliar and it was as though she was breaking the rules, cheating by confiding in this man, the enemy. She plunged onwards.

  ‘He tried to kill Schosi – to have him killed. He hates him because he’s slow.’

  ‘Hate that boy? Hate everything if he hate that boy.’

  ‘Something bad will happen.’ She swallowed against the lump that clogged her throat. ‘He’ll do something.’ Something ferocious. She looked at Pasha. ‘I have to find him.’

  Pasha insisted they accept a farewell gift: several fine handkerchiefs embroidered with the initials FS, which they all knew he’d pinched from Friedrich Siedler.

  ‘We’ll have to pick the stitching off,’ Frau Hillier commented.

  Pasha gave a rueful smile. ‘He has too much – you have too little.’ He patted Traudi on the head and his eyes were wet. ‘This sweet one knows nothing about it. I am sad to say goodbye to you, devotchka. You make my heart feel lighter.’ Then he ruffled Ursula’s hair also. ‘Be careful – yes?’

  She nodded. The previous night someone had taken a sledgehammer to the Red Army vehicle parked in the yard, a shocking racket that resounded in the early hours. When they’d run outside, lanterns flashing, they’d found no one, but of course they’d all known who it must have been. The head of the hammer was buried in the windscreen, the handle protruding like a curious animal horn; the tyres were punctured. Ursula had been glad to know Anton was still close by; her daily searching had yielded nothing. But beneath this she was afraid.

  Dorli and Efim said goodbye to one another in the hallway. There was uneasiness in the officer’s look as he bowed, the rest of the family watching. Perhaps he felt himself a foolish figure who’d lost his head, an interloper who’d forced himself on a stranger, a young girl. Perhaps he feared the attack on the vehicle was meant especially for him. In any case, he appeared half glad to go, half maudlin. He seized her hand and asked haltingly for a photo.

  ‘I haven’t got one,’ she replied.

  ‘But how I will remember you?’

  Dorli looked at the floor.

  ‘I carry picture here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘I take to Russia. I not forget.’

  He leaned forward as though to kiss her. She drew back.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Mama.

  Efim released Dorli’s hand, cast a look of reproach then left the house.

  Meanwhile, Ursula met Immanuil’s stare from where he waited in the yard. She frowned with as much energy as she could, her face con torting, eyes blazing with the urge to blink. She concentrated, held his eye until he glanced away. She savoured the feeling.

  Efim, Pasha, Immanuil and Viktor shouldered their bags, bent to lift the packing chest, and departed.

  Mama announced her intention to go to Vienna a few days later. She planned to travel alone, a kind of pilgrimage to look for Siegfried’s apartment where he’d lived with his wife.

  ‘I need to know for certain,’ she said, but what she needed to know exactly she didn’t explain. She hurried about the house gathering things for her trip, stocked her rucksack with snacks and a flask of water, her identity card, which she’d need to pass between occupation zones. She strapped Traudi to her front using an old pinafore, a fat, drooping bundle. ‘Don’t try to talk me out of it!’ she called in a high voice. She refused to look into the dismayed faces of her daughters or to acknowledge the dry expression of Frau Hillier. ‘Don’t make a fuss now! I’ll only be gone for a day.’

  Why couldn’t she wait like the other women? thought Ursula. Plenty of men had disappeared and their women didn’t go searching. Why must she be so reckless? And if she found Siegfried and he began to visit again Anton would never come home. She found herself gritting her teeth. ‘You shouldn’t go, Mama. We need you here – at the farm. Herr Esterbauer can’t manage without you.’

  ‘Pah!’ she replied, stuffing a spare scarf into her bag and pulling on her gloves. ‘For one day? Don’t be silly.’ She set off down the hallway.

  ‘A woman by herself in the city, full of troops and pickpockets and rapists,’ Frau Hillier cried, going after her. ‘It’s ridiculous!’

  ‘It’s safer in the city. More people about. It’s for Traudi’s sake.’

  ‘He might have been captured,’ said Ursula. ‘No one will have news of him.’

  ‘Then I’ll come home.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ pleaded Dorli.

  Frau Hillier put on her coat.

  ‘No, no!’ said Mama. ‘You don’t have to come with me. What about work?’

  ‘It’s beside the point. You can’t go alone.’ Frau Hillier finished doing up her buttons then regarded her friend for a long moment as if waiting for Mama to re-evaluate but Mama only looked back at her with her jaw set. Frau Hillier sighed then addressed Ursula and Dorli. ‘She’ll clearly not listen to reason. Stay at the farm until we’re back – we’ll collect you as you soon as we can.’

  Ursula stared, aghast that Frau Hillier had given in so easily. But then, she knew Mama well.

  After Ursula and Dorli had been escorted across the fields and deposited at the farm, the women left for the city. Ursula went cursing to her tasks. Why didn’t Mama stay and help seek Anton? Why must she run after Siegfried like a madwoman with the child slung on her belly, with no thought in her brain? So selfish – so careless. She dismissed the realisation that she herself had done a similar thing in her search for Schosi. How could Mama leave them at such a time?

  In the barn, she and Schosi worked side by side. She sat on folded sacks and washed dried sweat and mud from the halters and harnesses. She attended to every seam and stitch, scrupulous in order to deflect the anxiety that threatened to absorb her. The regular sound of Schosi’s whetstone divided the minutes like a hypnotic clock, the slithering sweep of the blade always the same volume and duration, six strokes on one side of the blade, six on the other. But the repetitive work did little to calm her; her mind slipped into confused thoughts about Mama and Siegfried, Anton, Immanuil, Herr Esterbauer and Frau Hillier, Sepp’s concern and Marta’s pointing finger, her silver-bell laughter at seeing the necklace, absurd in its glory against her soiled dress. She felt now for the gems against her chest, pressed the stones to her flesh. It belonged to her – she’d forgotten that in fact it did not. Her fingers trembled as she worked and she wrestled with fury and also with fear because she realised she’d grown up bad inside
, like a rotten fruit. She glanced at Schosi. He bent close to his work, face rapt; he dipped his whetstone into the water pouch at his waist. Even to him she’d been unfair, wicked. She’d used him as comfort, much like he used his blanket. She’d let him come into her bed and they’d lain with arms around each other’s middle, or she’d traced shapes on his bare back, muscled nowadays and peppered with spots. She’d let him touch one of her breasts through her dress. He was careful and kept his hands still, cupped over the small mound as though he’d caught a cricket. She knew he had the same stirrings as any man, as her own for that matter – except whenever she felt that stirring, the almost-ache between her hip bones, she’d push him out of bed and tell him to go away. And now she’d push him away even more because Anton was back.

  By late evening Mama and Frau Hillier had still not returned and Ursula, Dorli and Schosi were put to bed in Herr Esterbauer’s hayloft, there being no space in the house. They huddled beneath dusty horse blankets, amongst owl pellets, bat droppings, the skeletons of mice, tickling chaff and spiders’ webs. Dorli was paranoid that the lantern oil would run out so she plunged them into darkness as soon as they were horizontal. Ursula itched and scratched and wriggled and eventually slept, only to wake hours later with a dull pain in her lower abdomen, her skin hot to touch, her breasts tender. She felt wetness between her legs and put her hand there to check what it was – an oily substance. She tried to rouse Dorli but her sister only grunted and turned away. She clambered from under the blanket, put on her skirt and cardigan and climbed carefully down the ladder. Outside, she inspected her hand in the pale dawn; her fingers were stained dark. She went to the animals’ drinking trough, which was frozen over with a thick crust of ice. She broke the ice with a stone and dabbled her hand until the stains washed away. She was disgusted and cried suddenly, unexpectedly, suppressing the sobs as best she could so as not to be heard. She didn’t want it to begin. She didn’t want any of this. She crept into the barn again and found the rag she’d used to wipe the tack. She put it between her legs – she should go back up to the loft and try to sleep but she didn’t think she’d be able to rest with the strange feeling that pulled downwards, like a weight was attached to her private parts, dragging her earthwards. Instead she walked into the field. All was hushed, the hill veiled with frost, the sky a tentative ash blue, the sun not quite up, the birds beginning to call, one here, another there. She noticed the moon, ghostly, floating above the trees as if unsure, the face – the shadowed eyes – invisible. Her back ached too and it was soothing to walk; she guessed it would be another hour before the others woke. She wandered towards the woods, thinking about how she used to long for her monthlies, to know how it felt, to be like her sister, to be grown-up. She wondered why it felt so desperate now, so much like grief.

  In the forest a skin of ice covered the ground. The woods were secluded and suited her mood. It was just habit to look for him; she searched for a sign of someone having been there, snapped twigs, battered ferns and grasses. She daydreamed, spotting grey snails as big as fists moving like slow tongues across the log stacks; hoping to see deer at the huntsmen’s mangers. She soon came to the top of the steep slope that ended at the river pool. She’d go down to the water, bide her time until work. She descended, grasping ferns for a handhold. Amongst the plants were streaks of exposed earth, as though someone had skidded down not long ago. She went to the edge of the pool. On the beach in the shelter of the overhang was a heap of charred logs encircled by stones. Someone had built a fire since her previous visit. She scrambled down to inspect it. The waterfall trickled, most of it frozen in a white column, the surface of the pool also solid. The smell of wood smoke tinged the air. She inspected the logs – warmth emanated from them and fresh splashes scattered the stones. Near by was the small red bucket she and Anton had used when this was their special place. She picked it up. It was wet and the rock inside was gone. She looked around; she wandered further along the beach, which narrowed and continued beside the river.

  She saw the boys when she was only metres from them. They weren’t moving and had very likely been standing amongst the tree trunks for a while, watching her. There were seven of them, all different ages, wearing an assortment of scruffy clothes. Some wore Hitler Youth shorts or the Hitler Youth shirt minus the necktie. Their faces were blackened by dirt, their legs also, and they were very thin, almost as thin as the prisoners in the camp, with kneecaps like bulbous turnips. She stopped and stared. They weren’t local; she didn’t recognise them. She waited for one of them to speak or move; the hairs on her arms and neck prickled and rose. She’d heard of Hitler’s Werewolves, a network of Nazi fanatics living in hand-built shacks in the Alps, resisting the occupation, plotting revenge. Or so the radio had proclaimed before the Reich fell. But these boys weren’t as she’d imagined the Werewolves to be; they were too small, emaciated and threadbare. They looked more like guttersnipes.

  ‘Hello!’ she called. None replied. If she offered food maybe they’d realise she was no threat. But she didn’t have anything with her. ‘Have you seen my brother?’ The question came before she’d thought, urgent and involuntary. The boys inched forward, moving as a group, treading softly over the brambles and sliding their hands around the skinny trunks of saplings. Should she offer them something even though she had nothing? They’d be distracted and then she could escape. ‘I’m looking for my brother, Hildesheim Anton.’

  The boys reached a patch of nettles, walked amongst them without seeming to feel, their legs already scabbed and stippled with insect bites and stings.

  ‘Go away!’ called one small boy. He wore a large shirt torn at the shoulder and was covered in what looked like soot. He bent to pluck a stick from the forest floor. The other boys copied him.

  ‘I won’t hurt you.’ She tried to look harmless and kept her expression calm – she wouldn’t easily be able to get away if they attacked her, stuck as she was below them on the river beach. What on earth did they want? ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.’

  ‘Got any food?’ croaked the biggest boy. ‘We know you earn plenty extra. And your sister!’

  They snickered and looked at one another.

  Ursula blushed. How did they know about her family? Had they been spying? Had they been speaking with others in the village? But she couldn’t imagine that. Suddenly, she recognised the tallest boy, though he was so changed she had almost failed to do so – it was Rudi, his once-pudgy face hard and thickly shaped, his cheekbones so prominent it looked like he’d been bludgeoned. He stooped to collect a bulky stick. Ursula stepped back; her feet crunched through ice and sank into the shallows of the river.

  ‘Anton!’ she yelled as loudly as she could. The nearest boy jumped with fright. ‘Anton! Where are you?’ She waded into the flow of the river, testing the depth. She’d cross and climb the bank. The water was icy, a muscular current swirling above her knees. ‘Anton!’ she called again.

  A stick flew past her head and struck the water, immediately whisked away by the flow.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Rudi. ‘He’s not coming. Go away. Don’t come back.’

  ‘Why’s he hiding from me?’ She was close to tears. Her fear receded – she could feel the blood throbbing around her eyes. She didn’t care if the whole pack assaulted and drowned her. ‘Why are you hiding from me?’ she shrieked towards the trees, which whispered and waved, revealing nothing. She snatched a stone from the riverbed, submerging her arm to the shoulder, flung the stone at the boys. ‘Get away!’ Her heart hurt like it was being wrung. ‘He’s my brother. He wants to see me!’ She scooped more stones from the riverbed and launched them at the group. Water clutched her waist, painfully cold, the current nearly too strong for her. She kept her feet braced wide; she could hardly breathe because of the cold. Another stick, Rudi’s hefty one, windmilled by, hit the river surface, splashing her face; she made for the opposite bank. Something struck her on the back of the head. She ignored it, reached the edge, crawled o
ut. Her dress was heavy as chainmail – she squeezed some water from it then clumsily scaled the muddy bank. When she stood her dress was smeared brown all along its front; the rag between her legs had come adrift and bloody water streamed pink down her legs. The boys threw more sticks across the river. None hit their target – they weren’t really trying.

  ‘Go to hell!’ she hollered.

  ‘Whore! Jezebel!’ More sticks sailed overhead.

  She left with their jeers nipping at her heels, reminding her of a time when she and Anton had called Mama those same names. The blood reached her ankles; there was no way to stop it. She rushed up the slope, the treetops making a hullabaloo in the wind. Once she was out of the forest, rain spat across the field. She must go home and get clean and dry – she couldn’t be seen at the farm like this. She ran with teeth chattering down the hill towards her house.

  44

  About the only thing she recognised were the plump lips. His black moustache was replaced by ravaged skin, shiny and mottled. Black and grey hair sprang upwards in a frizz where it used to be neatly barbered and smoothed with lotion. A crutch was propped beside his chair. Traudi was on his lap and he cuddled her carefully, his expression vibrant with joy. Every time he smiled his burned cheek folded like a concertina. A large suitcase stood near the pantry door.

  ‘Hello, Ursula,’ he said. She could barely return his gaze. The whole of the right side of his face was blotched with violent purple scars, his neck too. The terrible welts descended below his collar. But worst of all was that where his right ear had been there was only a hole the size of a pfennig coin. His head looked like a mug with a missing handle. She ate breakfast while the adults talked and guilt leaked through her like a terrible ointment, searing her stomach and her guts, making her throat dry and cheeks glow. She couldn’t eat much at all.