by Owen Sheers
He looked back up at Maggie. Her face was haggard and loose, the light in her eyes dulling even as he watched them with his own. He brought his hand up to her cheek and held it there, cupping her face in his palm. “Look,” he said quietly to Sebald, “at what it does.” He knew this face too well, had seen it too many times before. In Holland, Belgium, Russia. Its features knew no borders, no nationality. He’d created this face in others, and even worn its mask himself, in a bunker on the outskirts of Moscow, a letter dated months earlier falling from his hand. It was not the face of war but the face war left in its wake. The numb, ghosted expression that set upon the features at the moment of a spirit’s leaving.
Albrecht lowered his hand. “Put on your uniform,” he said to Sebald, still speaking quietly, as if Maggie were asleep and he might wake her with his speech. “Then take Mrs. Jones to Mrs. Lewis and stay there with them.” He stood up and walked over to a desk in the corner of the room. Tearing a piece of paper from a notepad, he wrote over it quickly, then folded it once. “Give this to Mrs. Lewis,” he said as he passed the paper to Sebald. Then he walked over to Alex, who was standing silent at the side of the room. “I’m sorry,” he said in a whisper, placing a hand on his shoulder. Then, almost as quietly, as he walked up the stairs, “Battle dress, double-time.”
At the top of the house, Albrecht opened a window and scanned the valley with Steiner’s pair of binoculars as the clatter of the men assembling rose up through the rooms below him. Slowly pulling the fields and trees through the circular view, he eventually found the colt. The horse was, just as Maggie had said it would be, lying in the meadow beside her farm, the grass around its head stained dark with blood. A black ruff of crows fluttered about its neck, busy with their beaks, their wings clamouring above them.
When Albrecht came back down into the front room the rest of the patrol were waiting for him. As he ducked his head under the low beam at the bottom of the stairs, Alex brought them to attention with a scuffing of heels and a rattling of weapons and webbing. As Albrecht looked over them, at their threadbare uniforms, their helmets spotted with rust, their rifles and machine guns cumbersome in their arms, his heart sank in his ribs and a faint nausea rose in his stomach. One bullet. That was all it had needed for this to happen, for the men he had come to know so well to slip behind the uniforms of the soldiers he no longer did. The uniforms were necessary, though, and not just to prevent any incoming troops mistaking them for British insurgents. No, Albrecht needed them too. He was grateful for them. They would make it so much easier for him to hold his resolve and stay true to the promises he’d made to himself yesterday.
While Alex and Maggie were at the show Albrecht had spent much of the day in the hollow up at the Red Darren, sitting before the map once more. The darkness of that cavity in the cliff, the map itself and its resonance of centuries had calmed him. Illuminating it with his torch he’d stared into its half-imagined countries and illustrations, searching once more for the answers to the questions within him, and it was then, as he’d studied the map in its makeshift chamber, that he’d decided. He would not go back, whatever happened, even if there were a way of doing so safely. He would not return to the life he’d endured for the five years before fate and this map drew him to this valley. He would continue with his escape, reach again for the life he’d discovered to be his. But he would not do so alone. That was the other decision he made, sitting before the map in the dark. There would be no point in reaching for his life, in fighting for his life, if he left the woman he wanted to share it with behind him. So he would take Sarah with him. After the seven months he’d spent with her, he couldn’t imagine it being any other way. But not yet. First there were the other women to be protected and these men standing before him, the men he’d chosen as they rested on that lawn outside a burnt-out cottage on the coast. He’d chosen them, he had decided their fate, and so he must stay with them until the very last moment, until it was time, at last, to leave them. Gathering himself, he walked towards the four soldiers standing to attention in their faded uniforms, placed his steel helmet on the table, and began issuing his orders.
The first thing Gernot saw when he came to was the crows. A pair of them, hopping between the low bilberry bushes, close enough for him to make out the layered feathers on their chests and the points of light reflected in the beads of their eyes. He turned his head and the crow nearest him flapped away, cawing brashly at his movement. There were high clouds above him scudding across a deep blue sky. The low sun threw a light across the hills the colour of honey. He couldn’t tell if it was early morning or the beginning of evening. Suddenly he felt a shock of pain pulse up his leg and through his back, then another stabbing at his hip. And then he remembered. A bird disturbed, a grouse skimming away from the hooves of Bethan’s pony like a flying fish from the prow of a boat. The pony shying at the grouse and bolting from under him. His vision suddenly all sky, all ground, all sky as he lost his seat and fell from the pony’s back. And then nothing. Just the sound of the pony’s hooves resonating through the dry earth of the mountain, slowing, fading away from him, and then silence.
Where was Bethan’s pony now? He tried to shift onto his side and raise himself on an elbow. The pain pulsed through him again and the ground swelled beneath him. He fell back, groaning, sweat pricking at his temples, the taste of bile rising at the back of his throat. Another shot of pain ran through his leg, like a voltage deep in the bone, making him cry out and drop his head back to the ground. He lay there, breathing as heavily as if he’d just sprinted up the slope behind him.
His forehead throbbed inside his helmet, which felt heavy and awkward after so many months without wearing it. Unbuckling the strap at his chin, he let it fall away behind him, allowing a welcome breeze to brush across his brow. His rifle was still on his back, digging into his spine. With a movement that made him grimace, he edged its strap over his head until he could lie flat on the ground again.
It had felt strange for Gernot to be wearing his uniform again, to be clipping ammunition cartridges to his belt and strapping on his webbing. Even stranger to have the captain issuing orders, telling them to leave The Court and make their way across the valley in combat formation, swinging their rifles over the same fields he had, just yesterday, strolled across to go fishing down by the river. At The Firs they’d picked up Menna and her children. The captain had explained to her what had happened to Maggie’s yearling. She’d looked over them with shocked eyes as he did so, the men who’d been helping on her farm now standing before her as German soldiers again. Once she’d understood what was happening, they’d escorted her to Mary’s, where the captain had ordered Gernot to stay and guard the house and the women while he, Alex, and Steiner performed a sweep of the valley opposite Maggie’s farm. As the three others left Mary’s house, Steiner had looked back at Gernot, his face pale under the rim of his helmet. Gernot had waved to him from the door, as if to say, “It’s all right, this is all right,” although he knew in his heart it wasn’t.
The crows had come closer again, made bold by his stillness. He raised his head to look at his broken leg and they hopped backwards, flapping their wings. There was no blood, no bone protruding, and yet still the slightest movement brought a wave of pain and nausea washing over him. His hip felt dislocated. He raised himself higher on both his elbows and looked about him. The scene swam before his eyes, but there, across the hummocks of the bilberry bushes and heather, he could make out Bethan’s pony. It was grazing, the reins loose about its head. He thought about trying to crawl over towards it, but even the slightest attempt to turn his leg made him cry out in pain. He fell back to the ground again, cursing the captain, Mary, and his own stupid impulse.
The rest of the patrol had been gone for no more than ten minutes when Mary had come into the front room. Gernot was sitting at the window, his rifle at the ready across his chest. Without looking at him she’d walked to the front door and opened it. “Get out,” she’d said.
Since Bethan had left the valley, Gernot had stopped asking Albrecht for English lessons, but he’d understood Mary clearly enough. He didn’t know what to do. He wore the uniform of a soldier but he no longer felt like one. Should he order Mary into the back of the house, lock all of them—her, Menna, and the children—in a room and stand guard at the door? That’s what he would have done before. But now, after the months they’d spent here working alongside these women, tasting civilian life again, that would seem ridiculous.
“Get out,” Mary had said again, looking him in the eye, her fingers still hooked on the latch of the door. “What d’you think you’re protecting us from, anyway? It’s you as should be worried, boy. Not us.”
Gernot had felt himself blush. He stood up but Mary didn’t move, just held the door open, looking at him as if he were a child. Through the open door he saw the top of the valley, the sweep of its curve, the bareness of its slopes over which this woman had sent Bethan away. His embarrassment turned to anger. It wasn’t meant to happen like this. He was waiting for Bethan to return, to fulfil the promise of that kiss. Until then nothing should be changing. This is what they’d agreed, this is what the captain had promised. They’d seen too much of war, known too much of its stench and pain. They were all waiting for it to be over, but now the captain had ordered them into their uniforms and told them to carry their weapons again. Why? Because they were being threatened; because everything they’d hoped for was threatened. Well, if it was, and he had to be a soldier again, he wasn’t going to stay here guarding women and children. He wanted to defend what he cared for: his chance to be here when Bethan came back, the chance for them to sit in the bracken once more, watching the evening light compress and darken over the hills.
Gernot walked up to Mary, holding her stare, and stood before her. He could feel the fear emanating off her, the fear of him, of everything. He’d recognised it because he’d felt it too. His knuckles were white on the stock and body of his rifle. “Get out,” she’d said again, her voice smaller and cracked. Breaking her stare, Gernot looked out at the bare hills, turned back to meet Mary’s eyes once more, then walked out into the valley. He heard Mary close the door behind him, but he didn’t look back. His mind was suddenly clear. He would track down whoever shot the horse, and he would kill him. And then they could go back to living in the valley as before. They could take off their uniforms and he could go back to waiting, to watching out of his bedroom window for Bethan to appear at the thorn tree above him.
After leaving Mary, Gernot had gone straight to the paddock at the back of the house where Bethan’s pony was grazing. He’d watched her ride it up on to the hill before the winter, and again after the thaw, so he knew where she kept the saddlery in the lean-to in the yard. He’d never ridden much himself, but several times over the past few months he’d been out to check the flock with Alex, riding one of the two old cart horses kept at The Court. The captain had sent Otto to The Gaer, from where he was observing the mouth of the valley. The rest of the patrol were sweeping the woods and fields lower down. If there was anyone still there they’d be driven up onto the hills. So that is where he would go, up onto the plateaus that surrounded the valley.
Swinging his rifle across his back, he’d caught Bethan’s pony by its forelock and begun leading it down towards the yard, keeping an eye on the side door of the farmhouse in case Mary should try and stop him.
Bethan had been walking since midmorning. At first, when Helen Roberts had called at her aunt’s house just before curfew last night, she hadn’t believed what she’d said. But Helen was adamant. Margaret Jones in Llanthony, clear as day, and her mother wanting her back, soon as possible. Once Bethan was convinced Helen was telling the truth, she hadn’t needed any more persuading. She’d left Hay-on-Wye this morning, carrying just the same bag over her shoulder with which she’d set out from the Olchon six weeks before.
Bethan recognised her pony long before she could see her properly. She’d ridden her since she was a girl and would have been able to identify her outline against the sky even if she’d been standing with a herd. It was only when she got much closer, however, that she saw Gernot, lying on his back in the distance. She went to the pony first, picked up the reins and led her over to where Gernot lay. Letting her go to graze, she went and knelt beside him.
At first, when Gernot opened his eyes and saw Bethan looking down at him, he thought he was delirious. But then he felt the touch of her fingers at the back of his neck as she lifted his head.
“Here,” she said, holding a bottle beneath his chin. “Drink this.”
Gernot opened his mouth and let her tip the bottle to his lips, which were dry and parched. He drank thirstily until she pulled the bottle away. “Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse in his throat.
Bethan stood up and looked about her. She’d been away for less than two months but it felt like a lifetime. During her stay in Hay-on-Wye she’d witnessed another occupation to the one she’d experienced in the valley. Before she’d left for the town her mother had made her swear on the family Bible to remain silent about the missing men. But that oath had been unnecessary. She knew now, all too well, after what she’d seen and heard in Hay, about what happened to families found to have links with the insurgency.
Her second cousin, Eve, whom Bethan had known only vaguely before the war as a childhood playmate at family gatherings, had become her guide through the realities of life under occupation. They’d shared a bed at the top of the house above her aunt’s grocery shop. Every night, before they went to sleep, Eve would tell Bethan another story about what the Nazis had done in the town, and in other towns and villages too. It was only recently, however, when she could no longer hide the swelling of her stomach from her roommate, that Eve had told Bethan her own story. Finding Bethan’s hand in the dark, she’d guided it onto her distended belly. She was, Eve told her, carrying the child of a German soldier. She had no way of knowing which one because there had been two of them. At this point Eve’s voice had wavered and broken. Bethan had stroked her hair and said it was all right, she didn’t have to tell her if she didn’t want to. But Eve said she did want to, very much, and so she’d continued.
It was early on, a few weeks before Christmas. There had been more sabotage attacks and all the men, including her father, had been rounded up in the town hall. That’s what they’d said, anyway. Eve didn’t believe them. She thought it was planned, that the commanders wanted to give their troops a Christmas present. Because she hadn’t been the only one that night.
The two soldiers were drunk. She and her mother were closing the shop, but the soldiers wouldn’t leave. Her mother understood a little German and she’d leant over the counter, straining to make out what the two of them were saying. “They say,” she’d said slowly to Eve, “what they want isn’t on the shelves. That they want … something from behind the counter.” It was only when she heard herself translate their words that her mother went suddenly pale, and that was when the dark-haired one flipped up the counter flap and led Eve out the back of the shop and up the stairs. She’d tried struggling but he held the barrel of his rifle jabbed into her hip. The fair one had stayed behind, watching over her mother, then later, when the dark-haired one had finished, they’d swapped. It was a small building above the shop, a cheap conversion with thin walls and floors. Her mother would have been able to hear but she’d never said anything to Eve since, except, that same night when she’d come and stood at the door to her bedroom. “Don’t tell your father,” her mother had said quietly, the streetlamp outside Eve’s window casting a sodium glow across her face. “It would kill him if you did.”
Even now Eve’s mother refused to acknowledge her daughter’s swelling bump. Eve said she was planning to go away, to Hereford. She’d heard they had places there where you could have your child, then leave it. That, she said, is what she planned to do.
Everything Eve told her made Bethan disgusted with herself. She felt like a child who’d only just woken
to the adult world. The curses that had softened with her visits to the thorn tree above The Court hardened again, and every time she passed a group of soldiers in the street she muttered at them under her breath, energised with real venom once more.
During her time in the town, Bethan had also become disgusted with the other women in the valley; women older than herself who should have known better. Just the other day she’d heard that David Lewis, Tom’s brother, had been confirmed killed in action during the counterattack. And there was his sister-in-law, Sarah Lewis, allowing that German captain to visit her every day, taking walks with him beside the river, even letting him play her music records while her husband was missing and his brother had died fighting the fascists. She hated the world she’d discovered outside the valley, but she still wanted her mother to leave the Olchon and come back with her to Hay. Better by far to live in the truth and know it, however bad it might be, than hide yourself away behind ignorance and habit.
Bethan put the bottle of water back in her bag, slung the bag over her shoulder, and walked away from Gernot towards where the pony was grazing. When she reached her the pony nuzzled at her pockets, hoping for a treat of some oats or calf nuts. The reins were tied at her neck to stop them falling to the ground. Bethan undid them, then swung them over the pony’s head to lead her back to where Gernot lay among the bilberry bushes, his right leg angled awkwardly from his hip.
