by Holly Müller
Glass clinked on the beach. Boys were retrieving bottles from the snow.
‘Is he the simpleton?’ one of them shouted, bottle in hand. ‘He looks like one! Head like a potato!’
The Krampuses holding Schosi laughed and shook him from side to side. Ursula and Sepp skirted the firelight by some metres, cloaked by shadow and undergrowth. They positioned themselves not far from Schosi, behind the needled branches of a pine fallen across the forest floor. Here they waited and watched, leaning forward with hands on knees, breathing softly through the bristles. The third Krampus pushed his splintered mask on top of his head so that it perched like a peculiar hat, and turned towards Schosi. Ursula saw Anton’s face lit by orange firelight. His cheekbones were thick-looking as Rudi’s had been, his nose bloodied, his lips lean over his teeth. Schosi moaned, recognising him.
‘Look at that!’ Anton played to the gallery. ‘He’s wobbling like jelly.’ Some of the boys sniggered and came closer to watch the display. ‘Did you miss me? Come on! Don’t be rude. You’re living in my house, for God’s sake. You ought to be grateful.’
‘Where’s the rent?’ called one of the boys. ‘Go on! Cough up!’
‘He’s shit his trousers!’
‘He’s pouting like a fish!’
Anton put a finger on to Schosi’s underlip and jabbed so that the flesh gave way and the shaft thrust into his mouth. Schosi flattened himself against the trunk, eyes bulging. ‘No crying!’ Anton removed his finger, wiped it on Schosi’s coat-front. ‘Are you a baby? No. You’re old enough to touch my sister.’
Ursula’s stomach lurched and she shifted uncomfortably beside Sepp.
Anton aimed an abrupt kick at Schosi’s middle and he doubled over, gasping. He kicked again and Schosi fell, the two Krampuses releasing their hold. He made an alarming hooting noise with each attempt at breath. Anton kicked him again.
‘Stop it!’ Ursula scrambled from beneath the fallen tree and into the open, Sepp following. Anton registered their presence with a short stare and a few blinks. His eyes slid over Ursula sideways.
‘Rudi!’ he said. ‘Tomas!’ The two Krampuses came forward and seized Sepp. They forced his arms behind his back, scuffling until he was fixed to the tree as Schosi had been.
‘What are you doing? Why are you doing that?’ said Ursula.
Anton looked at her but didn’t reply.
She dropped to her knees beside Schosi. He was breathing hard, wheezing. She put a hand on his shoulder – his whole frame shuddered. His left eye was bloated and split across the brow, and he nursed his aching stomach. Anton grabbed Schosi by the coat and yanked him to standing, knocking Ursula out of the way.
‘Don’t you hurt him! Don’t you dare!’ Her veins filled with scalding broth.
‘Or what?’ said Anton. ‘What’s so brilliant’ – he knuckled Schosi in the ribs. Schosi jerked and yelled – ‘about this stinking, flea-bitten spastic?’
‘He’s my best friend.’ Anger opened in her, hot and deep, bringing strength, a thirsty energy, a sense of her own power, an ability to hurt him as she’d never dreamed of doing. ‘A better friend than you’ve ever been!’
Anton snorted. ‘You’re wrong – you don’t think – you’re wrong!’ He spat words like pieces of rotten food. She studied him; he could barely form his sentence. Her blow had struck home. The gaping mouth of anger began to slacken and close – too easily filled, too easily satisfied. Pity crept in.
‘What on earth are you doing out here?’ she said. ‘Just come home.’
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘For Christ’s sake, I won’t! With those Russkis all over you? And now that cripple and his bastard brat?’ His eyes were half-eaten by his narrowed lids. He released Schosi’s collar. Schosi tottered away and stood near by catching his breath.
‘I didn’t want to,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what it was like.’ She couldn’t explain to him about the Russians; there were too many things. He never thought about how she felt, only himself. ‘It was terrible, Toni.’
‘Don’t!’ He raised an imperious palm. ‘I know you’re lying. I saw you—’ A bubble of rage burst. ‘I know you!’ He kicked at the pine needles, gouging the soil. Ursula readied herself to dodge his fist. ‘I fought them. I tried to keep them back so they wouldn’t reach you. I did that!’ He glared at her, his eyes wet. Tears began down his cheeks. ‘You just forgot me!’
‘You forgot me!’
He shook his head. ‘Such a liar. Always like this. Always.’
‘Ursula,’ said Sepp quietly. ‘It’s all right. Don’t listen to him.’
Anton lunged, but didn’t strike. ‘Hold your tongue, traitor! I know what you’re after.’ He snatched his mask off altogether and flung it at Sepp’s feet, the splintered eyeholes turned to the treetops. He put his hand around Ursula’s throat. His fingers dug deep.
‘Don’t, Toni,’ she said. Her belly grew rigid with threat. He pressed deeper. His tears had dried. Her breath became shallower, the air curling wintry around her face as she stifled. Her voice hissed out flat and dry: ‘Bully!’ Glitter drifted, little splinters of ice that swam in front of her brother’s face, fragmenting him. Sepp shouted from behind but she couldn’t quite hear – around her, vaguely, more boys floated, silhouetted by stuttering light. Pain sent her throat into spasms. ‘You—’ She tried to speak. He shook her by the neck. The rubies rattled softly. ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’ His fingers gripped tighter so she could say no more; fingers thin and long and hard at the tips, fingers that had travelled over her, taken what they wanted, accompanied by threats, smothering, tenderness. What did he want from her? She used to think she knew.
He released her abruptly. ‘Uschi, I had to.’ His tone was cajoling. ‘It wasn’t right for you to be so much together.’ He’d misunderstood her – he thought she was referring to Schosi. ‘You know he really wasn’t—’ He touched her hand.
‘Not that.’ Her voice was hoarse; she pulled her hand away from his. ‘You weren’t supposed to do those things to me.’
Anton tried again to take her hand; it was as if he hadn’t heard her.
‘What about what I’ve been through?’ he entreated. ‘What about that? I loved you, always.’
‘You loved me wrong.’ She spoke loudly so that he couldn’t ignore her this time.
‘Hold your mouth!’ one of the boys yelled.
Anton looked at her for a moment. He glanced at Schosi and Sepp. ‘You’d rather have them? Would you?’ His lips closed in a soft line. ‘Well?’ He searched her face. Sadness surfaced in his expression, reminding her of another time, of the many occasions he’d brought her here to escape the battles that raged in the house, of the ripples that glided when he swam, suffused with melancholy light.
‘Well?’ he said again then he reached towards the red glint that showed between the buttons of her dress.
Schosi hit Anton from the right, a sudden flurry, a long arm raised, fist swinging with a downward crash on to Anton’s head. Anton staggered, almost collapsing, steadying himself with a hand on the ground. Schosi dropped the rock and stared. The boys moved closer and stared too. Anton was white-faced. He seemed unable to stand. Blood rolled slow and black down his temple. He tentatively touched his skull. He sought Schosi and his eyes cut like blades. He sprang up. He pushed Schosi again and again; he kicked and clobbered and whirled him about. The boys scattered. Ursula was bashed aside by a spinning arm or leg. He dragged Schosi by the coat so that it half peeled off him, Schosi’s white back exposed, then forced him with great powerful tugs on to one of the oval rocks that overhung the pool. With a precise, deliberate strike Anton sent Schosi over the edge.
He hit the ice with a crash and went straight through, leaving a large black hole at the centre of the white. Ursula screamed. The boys on the beach yelled and jumped from their perches. A second later Schosi surfaced with arms splashing. He gulped air; the broken ice clattered around him. He sank again, hands reaching, unable to swim. Ursula ran to the overhang, loo
ked down. Anton was beside her. He watched her, an unwavering, questioning gaze, face painted with blood. She met his eye. She felt no love for him then, only dread, and could think of nothing but Schosi, panic almost sending her off the edge in a flying leap. But she wasn’t a good swimmer. She’d drown.
‘Hey!’ A loud voice called from the top of the slope; light scissored through the trees, a torch beam. Someone careered downwards through the undergrowth, ran to the edge of the riverbank and flung the torch on to the ground. It was Pasha.
Cold water enveloped Schosi. Breath left him in a plume of bubbles. When he opened his eyes there was blackness. The cold was pain in his head and he tried to paddle but couldn’t. His waterlogged coat constricted his limbs; his movements were heavy and difficult. He kicked, looking upwards, seeing nothing. There was no way out, something blocked his way at the surface. The ice above him formed a lid. He inhaled water and it was agony in his lungs. He tried again to surface but strong arms kept him down, liver-coloured gloves. His body grew numb. He remembered Krampus in the corridor, the bathroom, the freezing room; it had followed him and waited for him to die. It had chased him here. He tried once more to reach the air, moving faintly. But he couldn’t fight against the brawny arms, the vice-like hands. He stopped trying and bobbed beneath the ice. The deep bath water sloshed above his head. From somewhere the birds with grey beaks croaked, ‘Hartburg! Hartburg!’ There was no way out this time.
Pasha threw off his overcoat, hat and glasses and plunged into the water. After a couple of seconds he reappeared with eyes screwed shut. He took several noisy breaths and dived beneath the thicker ice that was unbroken at the edge of the pool. He stayed under for quite some time. The disrupted water began to still and the reflections of firelight joined to form an undulating glow. Ursula hoped the Russian was strong – she thought about Tobias Messer and Mama’s account of the lethal effects of ice-cold water, how it could deaden muscles, stop the heart. Pasha popped up like a cork, sucking air, sweeping hair from his eyes. His mouth opened wide and then he dived again. This time he didn’t come back up for what felt like minutes and Ursula began to fear that two lives would be lost. She looked around for Anton but Sepp had replaced him – Sepp picked up Pasha’s torch and shone it on to the pool. The two Krampuses who’d held him were nowhere to be seen.
When Pasha reappeared, he held Schosi in his arms. Schosi floated limply as he was towed shorewards, hair straggling over his face like riverweed. When Pasha reached the beach the remaining boys bounded up the bank and away leaving their bottles behind. Pasha pulled Schosi clear of the water, laid him flat, listened for breath, placed his lips over Schosi’s and blew. He did this a few times then tilted Schosi on to his side, limbs flopping lifeless and sodden. Pasha struck him on the back. Schosi coughed; water sprayed from his mouth. He kept coughing.
‘Bring clothes!’
Ursula and Sepp seized Pasha’s coat and hat and delivered them to him. The fire heated the air beneath the curve of the bank and Pasha tugged Schosi free of his drenched garments. His skin was blue-white with only a borrowed glow from the firelight. He looked as dead as he had done in Vienna, except he shook from head to toe and his teeth clattered. Pasha wrapped him in the coat, which was full-length and fur-lined, and placed the Red Army hat on his head. He fastened the earflaps under his chin then shifted him so he was lying on hay and stuffed sacks, rather than on bare stones. Ursula put her arm around Schosi. The bulky hat dwarfed his narrow face. She stroked his chilly cheek. Schosi tried to move but he was stiffened with cold. Sepp gave his coat to Pasha who was grey-lipped and shuddering.
Once he’d recovered somewhat, Pasha lifted Schosi and they hurried together out into the field, towards the house. Beyond the hoop of light from the torch there was no sign of Anton or the boys. Ursula talked to Schosi as they went, trying to cheer him, though tears strangled her and made speech difficult. ‘Who’s your favourite cat?’ she said.
But when he tried to answer he only coughed and Pasha told Ursula to let him be. Sepp tramped through the snow close by and a heavy feeling accumulated in Ursula’s chest as she thought of what had occurred, what she’d lost for always. She recognised it; she’d felt something similar when the letter had come telling them Papa would never be home again. It was a squeezing sensation, a spreading ache.
47
There was a note attached to Herr Esterbauer’s Last Will and Testament, written in his formal, old-fashioned hand. It said:
Dear Frau Hillier
Make the land work for you. Whip Ivan into shape.
Let the boy be useful – the cattle are his.
Your loving friend
Esterbauer Erich
They moved up to the farm with their few possessions as soon as Schosi was well, Simmy yowling captive in a box. The Hildesheim house was bereft without them. Ursula, Dorli, Mama, Siegfried and Traudi couldn’t fill it: the rooms seemed too big and the evenings too quiet. There was much to do in helping Frau Hillier and Schosi to settle at the farm and Ursula was glad to assist, cleaning and carrying and following Frau Hillier’s instructions. Frau Hillier frequently stopped in whatever she was doing.
‘I can’t believe it.’ She’d raise her eyes to stop the tears from falling out. ‘The old devil. How can I refuse his last wish?’
On the evening of the second day, she called a meeting with the farmhands and Russians. She announced that she was now in charge. She stood stoutly before everyone and spoke without raising her voice – in the thin pocket of her pinafore the outline of a pistol was clearly visible.
‘Be honest, respect me and my son and my property – that’s all I ask.’ She introduced herself to each farm worker and soldier. Schosi was by her side and looked smart and clean in a fresh shirt that used to belong to Herr Esterbauer and with his hair combed over and swept behind his ear. The soldiers smiled and an amused hum of voices began. Frau Hillier clapped her hands, silencing them.
‘A house-warming dinner will be served tomorrow at six. You’re all invited.’
When the following evening came, the Hildesheims and Siegfried shared a table with Frau Hillier, Schosi, several of the neighbouring farmers, their wives, the farmhands, the resident Russians, and Pasha. Frau Sontheimer and Sepp came and some other factory workers who were friends of Frau Hillier’s. Frau Hillier said if the Russians were to be sharing the land and the house then they must all cooperate – she’d have no prejudice on her farm in either direction and they must eat elbow to elbow. The kitchen was brightly lit with lanterns on every surface and there was the atmosphere of a party; songs played loudly on the wireless and there was soon plenty of chatter. Frau Hillier served a tasty broth and the Russians contributed fish and bread. Sepp was ushered to the seat beside Ursula. She managed to perform the polite kiss to each cheek without fumbling or misjudging her approach. She was determined to keep her timidity at bay. On the night of Schosi’s ordeal there’d been no voice in her head that whispered a list of her failings, reminding her she was no good. She’d been free of all that.
She maintained her composure throughout dinner, tried to be unselfconscious about her choice of words, gestures and inflection, her appearance. She tried also to ignore the young Russian with dust-coloured hair who kept smiling and winking. The rubies round her neck seemed heavier than usual; she lowered her eyes to her meal but the Russian was determined.
‘Bread, Fräulein?’ He shook the basket at her, reaching across the table and trailing his unbuttoned jacket through the butter dish and plate of cheese. He was tipsy. ‘Bread?’
‘No, thank you.’ She studied Frau Hillier’s tablecloth. It was embroidered with colourful flowers and pictures of Austrian men in lederhosen holding hands with Austrian women in dirndls. She toyed with the noodles that floated in her broth, pushing them to the sides of the bowl and watching them drift back to the centre.
‘You don’t like it?’ asked Sepp. He’d wiped his bowl clean – perhaps he wanted to finish her portion.
‘It�
��s nice,’ she said.
‘Delicious!’ Sepp aimed this comment at Frau Hillier but she was chatting loudly on the other side of the table and didn’t hear. Then he said, ‘I’ve a new bike. Well, it’s not new actually – it’s second-hand. But it’s quite good. D’you want me to show you some time? I got it for my birthday.’
‘From Marta?’ She straight away wished she hadn’t said it, it was a stupid question and a peculiar one, but perhaps she wanted to be reminded of how hopeless was her crush, to mention Marta and see his response.
‘No.’ He looked mystified. ‘From Auntie. Why did you think that?’
‘I don’t know. Because you’re sweethearts.’
He shook his head, frowning with haste. ‘No. Not at all.’
‘But you’re often together. You get on so well.’
‘No, we don’t, I can tell you! She’s a snob. And I can’t stand gossips. It was just this confirmation thing. She likes to think we were sweethearts but we never were and now she just keeps hanging about.’ He smirked, mischievous. ‘Are you glad to hear it?’
She reddened, saying nothing – she felt quite giddy. He knew her feelings; she’d let them be seen just like that; like the contents of an overful cupboard they’d tumbled out. And he’d willingly opened the door. It felt so wonderful all she could do was smile. She felt intensely grateful to him for disliking Marta, and for remaining somehow removed from things like she was herself. She listened and nodded as he told more about his new bike, warmed by his closeness, by their understanding. He’d visit soon, he said. Tomorrow, if she didn’t mind. She was glad that this year they’d made an effort and the door of the house showed the chalk scribble of C + M + B. She’d written it herself while Mama and Siegfried burned the blessed herbs, Siegfried with his sleeves rolled flicking holy water over the threshold and asking Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar to protect their house from fire and water for another year. Perhaps Sepp would let her ride on his handlebars and she’d lean against his chest as she’d seen other girls do with their boys, his hands either side of her hips, the bike swerving, whirring, the slab of his fringe lifting in the breeze at the corner of her vision. She’d wear her yellow ribbons. She found she didn’t care a jot whether he’d hidden a Soviet prisoner all that time ago, whether he was a Communist or anything like that – perhaps Sepp and his aunt had saved another decent man like Pasha, an honest soul. She glanced at Pasha who was tucking into his third helping of dinner, thoroughly spoiled by Frau Hillier.
