My Own Dear Brother

by Holly Müller

  ‘Good God, they’re lively,’ said Frau Hillier with a laugh. ‘A schnapps too many, I think. I’d smack their bottoms if that was my house.’ She rose from the wall, warming her hands by blowing into them. She hugged Schosi. ‘You’d never fit in their baskets, Schatzi, so don’t you fret.’ She kissed his hair. ‘Bring him inside soon, before he gets cold.’ She went back into the Gasthaus.

  As Frau Hillier left, a house opened its door to Saint Nikolaus’ knock and a woman beckoned the whole mob inside. The saint and his companions crowded in and Ursula imagined the horror of the children who lived there. It was palpable even now: Mama and Papa welcoming the saint, the group of Krampuses in the kitchen. They’d surrounded her, whipped her, hissed in her ears. Anton had been ready to strike them, he’d told her afterwards, to throttle the whole lot. But instead his thumbs had pressed into the centre of her throat, cutting off the air, his face crimson above hers. The saint had read a list of her transgressions, pronounced her a thieving, sinful girl and she’d wept, kneeling on the flagstones. She remembered the throb of her heart and the cold air blowing from the open door into the kitchen – it had wrapped around her neck and drawn goosebumps from her skin. The deformed faces craned close, hungry to suck on her soul. As a finale they’d lifted her into the basket and she’d known she was condemned to burn for all eternity.

  Beside the fountain, her heart started to anxiously thud, blood beating as she relived the shame, as she again faced Herr Adler the punishing saint, old and ill and cruel, contempt swelling in his ruddy jowls, glinting in his eyes. He’d eaten death rather than face punishment for his own sins, she thought, poisoned himself in the camp before he could be hanged. She remembered how one Krampus had crouched to take the weight of her in the basket on his back. Outside into the night she’d been taken, crying, seeing only black sky and stars, the basket around her hard and scratchy, smelling of mould. From behind she’d heard Anton call and could see through the creaking wicker that Saint Nikolaus restrained him tightly so he couldn’t follow, his struggle futile. The Krampus left the yard and loped away down the track, moving fast, rattling her brains inside her skull and bruising her against the basket. She could no longer see the house. After running a little further along the track the creature dumped the basket on to the verge. The impact jarred her teeth and she bit her tongue so it bled. She clambered out, the Krampus standing tall beside her, his matted fur lifting softly in the night air. Her feet sank into the snow, straight away cold and wet because she wore felted house shoes that were broken along the seams. Then the Krampus took a handful of her dress and pulled her close. His bulging eyes locked on to hers and her limbs turned leaden, useless with terror. The Krampus struck her with his bundle of sticks. She was sure that at any moment the ground would open like a fiery throat and there would be the entrance to Hell. A scream threatened to tip out of her mouth but silence rushed in to smother it, to protect her, to warn that to make a noise was to make this worse. The sticks lashed her calves again and again and blood began to smear and spread from the many scratches. Her voice had vanished, the dagger-like tongue and glaring eyeballs inches from her face. Her legs burned – stinging, raw. She clenched her teeth. The Krampus pushed her down into the snow, knocking her breath out. He quivered his chains in threat and emitted a long growl, alcoholic breath puffing from his jaws in a cloud. Penance: she heard the voice of the saint and the priest in the confession box, the two men frowning in judgement. Penance was to suffer – perhaps pain would cleanse her and she’d be forgiven, would have another chance. A heavy foot pinned her to the ground, pushed downwards, crushingly, so that it felt as though her ribs would break. Sharp stones knobbled her back. She screwed her eyes shut, tears squeezing between clamped lids. This was when she heard the shout, blaring like a horn, and saw Anton running, the sound he made a hard blast of fury, deadened by snow. His thin arms flailed as he came across the uneven drift-covered track, his legs too short, too puny. He stumbled, eyes fixed on his sister. The Krampus looked behind; the pressure of his foot lessened slightly. The sharp yell had jolted Ursula out of inactivity; she struggled, twisted, and scrabbled for purchase on the rocks with her fingers, pulled herself out from under the foot of the Krampus.

  She and Anton ran, the Krampus pursuing. She lost both slippers, wallowing through the snow. Anton was caught. A howl of fright escaped him. He cowered and almost fell, his face con torted and tear-streaked as the demon gibbered and hissed and cornered him near the gate. He whimpered, ‘Please! No!’

  Ursula barged the Krampus sideways with all her bodyweight, almost toppling him. Anton dodged from the trap. They ran into the yard. The Krampus raised his black arms but didn’t follow, sticks in one hand, chain in the other. The rest of the Krampuses were gathered near the doorstep. They caterwauled as the children passed. The adults – Mama, Papa and the saint – called from the living room, ‘Let that be a lesson!’ Their laughter rose up the stairwell as Ursula and Anton dashed to the bedroom, crying with fear, panting hard.

  The next part of the memory arrived fully formed, a story that was familiar yet strange. Details presented themselves like objects she could reach out and touch, somehow overlooked until now, though she’d always known, had woven them into her dreams, into her unthinking moments, worn them as skin and, in that way, forgotten. Anton had pulled her into his room. He’d yanked her dress off over her head, tugged her petticoats down, stripped her to shivering nakedness. She’d felt humiliated as he looked at her body, her bloodied calves. His expression was a mixture of many things she recognised but didn’t understand. He grabbed her chest, pinching with wicked force, and told her she should have screamed, fought, done something to save herself instead of relying on him.

  ‘I can’t look after you. Not always.’ His voice was a harsh whisper and his cheeks were wet. He was angry because he’d been made to cry, because she’d saved him from the Krampus. ‘Come here!’ He pushed her until she sat on the bed, her flesh mottled blue and purple with cold. He removed his trousers and his peter poked upwards in his underpants. He was often vindictive when it was like that, tormented her or was tense and cross. ‘Lie back!’ He clambered astride her and her teeth began to chatter. ‘Come on, silly,’ he said. She kept still, numb and wretched; he covered her with his body, his fingers travelling, prodding, grasping, his peter within his underwear pushing against her with insistent pressure. She was worried for him because he looked so afraid, his face pinched and body humming with distress. The pressure increased, upsetting her. A hot-cold sensation spread all over her, like the crawl of red ants and the ache of ice all at once and it was this feeling that seemed to prevent her from moving, that made her limbs lifeless and without resistance. She allowed him to rub against her, cramming and shoving, until he gave a small cry. He sat up.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that!’ he said, his cheeks dark and eyes bright, gasping like a dying thing. ‘You’re not allowed. It’s vile! It’s disgusting!’

  He placed his hands around her neck and squeezed until her breath came in a thin wheeze and his in irregular gulps. Glittering dots flew busily across her vision. ‘You shouldn’t let me. Why didn’t you struggle?’ His eyes were pockets of shadow in the lamp’s glow. He would punch a hole with his thumbs! ‘You didn’t stop me. You should’ve struggled. Don’t talk to me!’ Not that she could. She began to squirm, head thumping. She thrashed until eventually he let her breathe, slid away and under the coverlet. He hugged her then and she stayed silent, swallowing again and again against the hard knot that hurt in her throat. The cold bite of air around her face and ears was filled with his love as he whispered tenderly, repeatedly that she was his best girl, best sister, best friend. Still she shivered, danger beating in her like a drum, a slice of pain between her legs when she moved, a splitting stab that made her catch her breath. She drew her knees gingerly towards herself to get warm, her brother’s arm thrown heavily on top of her, restricting her. He slept after a few minutes. She lay awake until light glowed betwee
n the shutters.

  Ursula shifted on the wall. The queasy heat and sinking coldness revisited her from all that time ago with astounding power. She put her hand into the snow of the flower border to dislodge the disturbing thoughts. Near by, the Krampuses yowled and emerged from a house; the smiling pink-faced mother with sniffling child waved goodbye. The voices of the disguised men and boys merged like baying wolves. The three who’d frightened Schosi at the house swore loudly and kicked at each other’s legs, at the snow, at signposts and fences. One tore a branch from a young fir and used it to thrash his companions. He wore a brown woollen costume with patches sewn roughly over frayed holes; his two friends were similarly unkempt, one sporting a grey fur-lined coat turned inside out, again with great rents in the fabric, and the other wore a mask he’d carved himself by the crude look of it. The wood was whittled into bulging cheeks, long spear-like tongue and splintered mouth. Misshapen eyeholes had been hurriedly cut. The effect was grisly.

  ‘Just silly boys,’ said Schosi, cowering close to her.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She lowered her face and pulled her headscarf forwards so they wouldn’t notice her as they passed.

  The Krampuses began to clown for some of the villagers who were gathered near to watch the fun. They hit the legs of the young girls and smacked them smartly on the bottom. The girls shrieked and huddled together. Ursula spotted Marta amongst them – she was accosted, her backside swiped hard enough that she yelped, jumping, and Ursula didn’t know whether to feel glad or envious because Marta was there, as ever at the centre, while she was at the edge. The trio of ragged Krampuses shoved Marta to the ground – the sticks connected, singing as they flew, producing deep muscular thuds that would certainly cause pain. Marta braced her arms over her face and head.

  ‘Stop!’ squealed her friends, surging forward. ‘Get off, you brutes!’ The main group of Krampuses hung back – some yelled to lay off, but the three wild Krampuses ignored them. They landed more vicious thwacks then sprang away into the ranks.

  ‘Damn you!’ Marta struggled upright, her fine coat dirtied, blood on her cheek. ‘Disgraceful louts!’

  Pushing and shoving erupted amongst the boys, Krampus masks waggled, chains tangled around ankles, and bundles of sticks were used in earnest. As the boys fought, Ursula waited for an opportunity to get Schosi back into the Gasthaus – the brawling Krampuses were now blocking the door. One of them shook off his attackers and came straight towards them. The glint of eyes moved behind the eyeholes. The mask was lifted away and Sepp appeared, scarlet and rumpled. He rubbed a hand through his hair.

  Schosi yelled, in fright and half in jubilation, ‘Sepp – it’s Sepp! Just a silly boy!’

  Sepp sat on the wall and removed the rest of his costume; he tugged the long furry garment off his body and tossed it aside. ‘Hello,’ he said, once he was done.

  Ursula was confounded, a mixture of shock and embarrassment, remembering her outburst in the village and the exposed necklace, her unkempt appearance, her degradation. She glanced about for a sign of Marta. The group of girls some distance away fussed over the scratch on her cheek. Why hadn’t Sepp dashed to her aid a moment ago? Courtships had been terminated for less.

  ‘They’re all mad,’ he said. ‘Drunk.’

  She nodded, wishing she could borrow his mask to hide her confusion.

  On the outskirts of the fray a couple of Russians pitched in; the three ragged Krampuses flew instantly at their backs, gripped their necks, punched their ears. The Russians, intoxicated, reeled and fell. The Krampuses laid into them, stomping and lashing. The Russians lay inert. Ursula watched in distress; they’d be trampled, badly injured. Hostility crackled in the air, an electric charge she was sure she could feel. It was fearsome the way the boys attacked each other, catapulting high in the air like battling goats, heads clashing, legs kicking, not caring if they were hurt. Where were the police? Somebody should stop this.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Saint Nikolaus bellowed from the periphery as the noise rose to a cacophony of screams and yells. His bishop’s hat was askew. ‘Boys! Boys! Stop this at once!’

  Ursula recognised him as the irritable shopkeeper, Herr Wemmel, from whom she’d stolen countless items.

  The thrashing bodies and limbs whirled suddenly in their direction. She grabbed Schosi by the hand – if they dodged around to the right and behind they’d be able to reach the Gasthaus. Frau Hillier peered worriedly from the doorway. Another cluster of Russians came out of the beer hall and hollered for order. One was Pasha; Ursula caught a glimpse of his wire-rimmed glasses and hooked nose. He tried to keep his comrades from the rumpus, but five or six shouldered past him and joined the fight.

  ‘Quickly!’ Ursula pulled Schosi from the wall. They hurried around the outskirts. They’d almost reached safety but the throng abruptly swirled like a river in spate, and surged on to the pavement. The punching and swearing boys collided with Schosi. She lost her grip on his hand. He was dragged into the pounding of the crowd, was snatched and set upon. Bewildered by the churn of bodies, she tried to locate him. She saw his legs, outstretched on the floor; the next moment she glimpsed him again, standing this time with his hands raised to protect his face.

  ‘Schosi!’ But he couldn’t hear her. Sepp joined her in shouting for him. ‘Pasha!’ she yelled above the hubbub. ‘Help him!’

  Pasha, across the crowd, began searching too and calling.

  Ursula wanted to dive into the fracas but daren’t. She imagined herself with incredible strength, wrenching the boys apart, throwing them to the floor or knocking their heads together.

  Schosi burst from amongst the windmilling fists. He didn’t see Ursula or Sepp; he didn’t see anything, he hurtled down the street with several Krampuses at his heels. Ursula gave chase as fast as she could, the ruby necklace rattling. Schosi’s long strides and the sprinting Krampuses outpaced her.

  ‘Pasha!’ she yelled as she went. She recognised the grey fur coat and the ragged brown garments of the most aggressive Krampus – the one with the rough-hewn mask led the charge. She took deep gulps of air, willed her legs to move faster. She glanced behind for Pasha. Instead, Sepp followed.

  Ahead, Schosi turned off the road on to the track – he’d try to reach home. The three Krampuses tangled their sticks between his feet to make him trip. Sepp soon overtook her; he too reached the turning and disappeared. When she got there the whole lot had vanished into the night. She laboured on, the snow deep. Sepp all of a sudden was at her feet, holding his head. She almost fell over him.

  ‘They hit me,’ he said. His hand when he withdrew it was wet with blood.

  Ursula dropped to her knees beside him. ‘Oh God!’ The blood frightened her. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The stick was sharp, that’s all. It wasn’t a hard knock.’ He stood with her help.

  All around was darkness, the way ahead black. They raced on, aiming for Ursula’s house – it was the only thing they could think to do and if Schosi was leading the way he would have gone there. But what if he’d been captured? The Krampuses could have taken him anywhere.

  The house when they reached it was dark. There was no one in any of the outbuildings. They stood in the yard, undecided.

  ‘Maybe he went to his old house,’ said Ursula. But she already knew that the boys wouldn’t be there – something gnawed at her awareness – she tried to pinpoint the feeling, to decipher it. She’d met those vicious Krampuses somewhere before – shabby, damaged and intimidating.

  When she realised who they must be she was truly afraid. The boys in the forest – Rudi. And two others, one of whom, she was certain, was Anton. Who else would so purposefully target Schosi? They’d called at the house to petrify him and now they were hounding him, forcing him away into isolated dark. This was more than just a prank, more than tomfoolery fuelled by too much schnapps. This was hunter and quarry. ‘I know where they’ve gone,’ she said, her voice high and urgent, beginning to r
un. She led into the fields. Why did the whole world torment her friend? People like her brother. This time there was no Herr Esterbauer to help. They laboured uphill. Her legs ached, her muscles wasted and underfed. It seemed time itself slowed, thumping in a sluggish tempo that matched her lunging steps, the stab of frozen air in her throat, the convulsions of heart and blood, a lagging pulse, her mind reciting a rhythmic command: ‘Go to him, go to him, go to him, go to him.’ Like madness, she thought, the strange sensation, like dragging a spoon through molasses. She recalled Anton’s stranglehold, him wringing her neck, her thoughts drawling, airless, as he mouthed a mixture of love and violence.

  At the forest edge she found a trail of broken snow, the footprints of several people. They followed it, entering the trees, gripped each other’s arms as they stumbled over tree roots treacherous with ice. Ursula forgot to feel shy; she wiped her streaming nose on her sleeve. They skidded down the steep slope towards the river pool. She spotted movement – light flickered from the pool. There was fire on the beach and figures on the bank above with guttering shadows. Almost no sound came from the river, which was ice-bound and coated with snow. Only a muffled burble came from beneath the surface, the waterfall choked. Raucous voices rang clearly in the quiet. As she and Sepp approached, cautious and concealed, she saw several boys seated beside the flames, wrapped in thick coats and hats. The whole beach was covered in what looked like hay. They sat on mounds of it, or on sacks stuffed full, to keep themselves off the freezing ground. Icicles fringed the bank; the pool was a white circle, the snow on its surface dimpled and pitted like the moon’s face. The boys called up to the people above – Ursula could see Schosi now, clasped at the elbows by two of the Krampuses, his back pressed to a tree. Sepp gestured that they sneak behind. But how would they free him? How would they get safely away?