The Constant Soldier

by William Ryan

  He decided to say nothing in response.

  After a moment she began to shake her head slowly, placing her hands on her hips. He saw her mouth tightening and it made him smile. He shook his head, equally slowly, also in the negative.

  ‘What do you mean – shaking your head like that at me?’

  ‘You mean the way you’re shaking yours at me?’

  He wondered if she’d been offended by his not allowing her to carry his bag. Or was it just his standing here? A mutilated, one-armed soldier – perhaps she thought he made the station look untidy?

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ she asked, ignoring his question.

  He’d had enough of her now.

  ‘I hear you. I see your bench. But it’s shaded over there and I need to be in the sun. It’s good for my skin, the doctors say. They’ve ordered me to spend as much time as possible in the sun. Therefore the relationship between me and the sun is a military matter. And as you know – military matters take precedence over civilian concerns until the final victory is achieved.’

  She looked at him for a moment, her mouth open. He was impressed as well. He hadn’t spoken that many words, all at once, since he’d been injured. He lit his cigarette, closed his eyes and, leaning back against the cast-iron column, allowed the smoke to wash through him. Even through his closed eyelids, the sun was red and hot. Somewhere nearby a bonfire was burning and grass had recently been cut.

  He heard the woman grunt, then listened to the sound of her footsteps making their way back into the station. He imagined her angry mouth had shrivelled in on itself. Woe betide anyone who didn’t have the right ticket this afternoon.

  The satisfaction didn’t last long. He felt regret. He’d promised himself, back in the hospital, to live his life in a certain way. Not like this. He thought about following her and apologizing – but decided against it. She wouldn’t take it easily. He could be certain of that. It would only make things worse. No, he should just enjoy his cigarette and the warmth of the sun and forget about the whole thing. That would be best.

  So he did.

  §

  ‘Paul?’

  The tone was uncertain, but he recognized the voice. He opened his eyes and found his father was smaller than he remembered – his face thinner. His black hair was now grey and there was less of it, the mottled skin of his scalp visible through its thin covering. His blue eyes were still clear, though. They were also wary.

  ‘Here I am, Father. Home from the war.’

  He saw relief, tinged with a more understandable regret, which his father did his best to hide.

  ‘Good, I’m glad of it. I’m late, of course. And today of all days. It was unavoidable. An Order Police road block. I should have left earlier.’

  Brandt shook his head.

  ‘Don’t worry – I’ve been enjoying the sun.’

  His father climbed the steps toward him, reached out and touched Brandt’s arm with the tips of his fingers, gently, as if concerned he might hurt him if his touch was any heavier.

  ‘It’s good to have you back,’ he said. ‘Thank God you made it through. You don’t look so bad, you know. Not so bad at all.’

  Brandt couldn’t help himself, he laughed. He knew what he looked like. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

  His father said nothing in response. He leant down and picked up Brandt’s suitcase, his expression grave. He took Brandt’s arm once again to guide him across the road.

  ‘You must be tired. Come on, the buggy is over there. I can’t tell you how happy I am. Monika and Ernst and the others are at the farm, waiting to see you. It’s so good to have you back.’

  His father tried to carry on, but shook his head – unable to.

  Brandt made an effort to smile. He wasn’t sure what the smile would look like, if it would look like anything at all. Hopefully it would appear agreeable. His father appeared more vulnerable than before. He wanted to reassure him, to wash away the harsh sound of his earlier laughter. They mounted the buggy and sat side by side in silence, his father unwinding the traces and then flicking the horses onwards.

  There were very few people on the streets as they made their way through the town and those who were about showed no interest in them, walking with their heads low, focussed on the pavement in front of them. They passed the Party offices, where blood-red flags hung loose, adorned with spider-like swastikas. His father guided the buggy through the market, closed today – empty boxes piled beside empty stalls. The main square was also deserted, the Catholic church’s doors closed. He imagined people watching them from windows. Eyes following them as the horses made their way slowly along the road that led out of the town in the direction of their village. He felt cold, even though the day was warm.

  The outskirts of the town had changed out of all recognition. Factories stood where open fields had once rolled. Steam and smoke pumped out of tall chimneys and the clank of heavy machinery could be heard. They passed a building site, on which thin men in threadbare uniforms worked. They spoke to each other in English.

  ‘British prisoners of war,’ his father said, in response to his unvoiced question.

  ‘And them?’ Brandt asked, inclining his head towards a column of shaven-headed men, their cheeks hollowed and their eyes shadowed. They wore striped pyjama uniforms. On their breasts were white strips on which were numbers and symbols. Many of them, but not all, had yellow stars. Others had green triangles, some red. Many were barefoot or wore hand-fashioned wooden clogs – some had caps – others didn’t. All of them were black with sun and dirt. None of them paid any attention to Brandt and his father. Four bored-looking guards walked alongside the column, SS badges on their collars.

  ‘There’s a work camp outside the town,’ his father said in a quiet voice, when they had passed. ‘The prisoners are assigned to the local factories and farms.’

  They passed another factory, and then crossed the river. They turned right onto the gravel road that led up to the valley. It ran alongside the river, farmland rolling away on either side of them into the distance. He could see young men working in the fields, their arms thin but muscled.

  ‘Who are they?’

  His father squinted across at them, then shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Not from the camp. Foreign workers or prisoners of war. They could be Poles – most were sent further east four years ago, but they’ve brought thousands of them back as labourers now.’

  ‘I remember. So Pavel works for you now?’

  His father nodded and spat onto the verge. As if he had a bad taste in his mouth. Brandt couldn’t remember him ever having spat in the past.

  ‘He does. It was the only way he could stay in the valley.’

  ‘Thank you for the letters,’ Brandt said, changing the subject. ‘They were always welcome.’

  ‘And yours. Not so many of them, of course. But I know how war is.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’re taller, did you know that?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Ten centimetres, I should think. Or perhaps I’m shorter. And your voice is very different.’

  ‘The injuries weren’t only external.’ There was a pause in the conversation. Brandt wasn’t surprised – in fact, he had expected things to be more awkward than they were. He looked around him, seeing how the surroundings had changed and yet also remained the same. Up ahead the road rose, as did the forested hills on either side of the river, closing in as they did so. Soon they would be shaded by the trees that overhung the road. It was just as well – the heat was making him sleepy.

  ‘How was it?’ his father asked when the pause had stretched so long that Brandt had begun to wonder if he might have to say something himself.

  ‘How was what?’

  ‘The last few years, of course.’

  Brandt glanced across at his father, who gave him a half-smile.

  ‘Well, I can see it wasn’t good,’ his father said. ‘I may be older but I’m not
blind. Is it as bad out there as they say?’

  ‘It’s everything they say, and then worse again.’

  His father nodded, his suspicions confirmed.

  ‘So you didn’t become a believer, then? In all this?’

  ‘A Nazi? Me? No.’

  ‘We thought at first – when you enlisted – that you might have.’

  Brandt shook his head.

  ‘I got into some trouble and I was arrested. They gave me a choice – a camp or the Wehrmacht. It wasn’t much of a choice.’

  There was a long pause. Brandt remembered sitting in the back of the van on the way to the Hotel Metropole – the Gestapo Headquarters in Vienna. The last time he’d seen her. They’d sat facing each other, knee to knee. The Gestapo men had been beside them, talking about a football game they’d been to – ignoring them. He pushed the memory away from him but not before he wished, as always, that he’d leant forward and kissed her, one last time.

  ‘It must have seemed strange,’ he said.

  ‘It did. We found out what had happened later on, of course – some of it, anyway. We were proud.’

  Brandt felt the temptation to laugh once again, but suppressed it. The idea that his father should be proud of him seemed odd. He took a deep breath.

  ‘It was childish stuff, really,’ Brandt said. ‘Posters and leaflets. We were students. Naive. We didn’t last long before they caught us. I couldn’t write and tell you anything, of course. My post was monitored. I had a black mark against my name.’

  ‘We guessed as much.’

  Another long pause before his father continued.

  ‘You hear stories about the east and then you see what happens close to home. All the Jews have gone from the village. Every single one of them. And from everywhere around as well. The work camp in the town is bad enough but there’s a much bigger camp – further down the river. Everyone knows what goes on there, even if no one speaks of it. And this is Germany, for now at least. It must be even worse out there.’

  ‘It’s bad everywhere.’

  There was another lengthy silence. He hadn’t known there were camps this close to the village, but there seemed to be camps wherever there were Germans. The thought made him sick.

  When the silence became oppressive, Brandt took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He offered the packet to his father.

  ‘Here, these aren’t too bad.’

  His father took one, running its length under his nose as though it were a fine cigar.

  ‘I might save it for my pipe. Have you many cigarettes with you?’

  His father tried to sound offhand, but he didn’t quite convince. Yet another humiliation of the war – to want things so badly that it became necessary to embarrass yourself to obtain them.

  ‘A couple of hundred – I got as many as I could before I left the hospital. Go on, smoke it, you might not get the chance later. That’s what we used to say at the Front. Are they hard to come by here?’

  ‘Very hard. There’s the black market, but it isn’t worth the risk. If I was a member of the Party, then it might be possible, but I’m not and there’s Monika to think of. I’ve got a black mark against my name as well, you know. And they like to make examples of people from time to time, even though they know everyone does it.’

  ‘What kind of black mark?’

  ‘I don’t practise any more. When the Jews were still here – well, some of them had been my patients for years. I couldn’t just abandon them.’

  ‘They stopped you practising?’

  ‘The mayor advised me to concentrate on the farm. You’ll remember him – Weber the baker. He was in the Party from the start – before you even left, I think. Back before the war.’

  Brandt remembered Weber. A thick-armed, thick-chested man with unnaturally round eyes and corn-blonde hair. A weak man in a strong body.

  ‘I think he meant well – in fact, I think he intervened on my behalf. He was involved in evicting the Poles but at least he was from around here. He did his best for those he knew – he’s turned a blind eye to Pavel for all this time. The Jews we can’t speak about – and he was in that up to his neck – but there are far worse than him.’

  ‘All of them are gone?’

  ‘The Jews? All of them. He organized it. He knew where they lived. He led the operation personally.’

  ‘I see,’ Brandt said. He felt a shiver run through him and rolled his shoulder to shake it off – but the disquiet stayed with him. He closed his eyes for a moment, the sunshine seeming too bright for his dark thoughts.

  ‘It was Weber who told me about Vienna. About your arrest. At the time, I was frightened for you but it explained some things. At least you did something. I wish I had done more.’

  ‘You did. That’s why we both have our black marks.’

  His father nodded.

  ‘Maybe I did a very small thing. Not enough.’

  Brandt couldn’t help but nod. It was the right thing to think – it was what he thought. He’d been given another life, after all. It was tempting to think there might be a reason for it.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come before,’ Brandt said. ‘I wasn’t allowed to for the first three years. Local passes only – two days at most. And by then we were fighting in Russia. After that, whenever my turn came round – and it didn’t much – something came up to get in the way of it. They gave the married men priority, naturally – particularly the ones with children. And then there were the Party members, of course. I nearly made it once but then a man in my platoon lost his wife in an air raid. Two children in hospital, so he got my place. And then it was last year and we were surrounded for a week and had to fight our way out, and after that, well, it was more difficult. I’m sorry.’

  His father shook his head in disagreement.

  ‘Your mother understood. She knew you’d have come if you could.’

  Brandt nodded, conscious that he hadn’t told the entire truth. He wondered if his father could tell.

  ‘Things are very different,’ his father said. ‘Not for the better. Many people have left. We live in a German village now, you see. There’s no room for non-Germans. And even the Germans have been thinned out. Just women, children and old men like me.’

  Brandt was glad when another silence developed between them – not entirely a comfortable one perhaps, but one that didn’t need filling. It was such a peaceful scene – the perfume of the flowers that lined the verges filled the air around them. He wanted just to exist for a moment or two. To let some of the emotion he felt fall away. Perhaps he was successful in his aim, or perhaps the warmth of the sun and the rhythmic sway of the buggy combined to have their effect, but he soon found himself struggling to keep his eyes open.

  Whether he drifted off or not, he couldn’t be sure, but he must have come close. What alerted him, abruptly, was the change in temperature. He found that he was fully awake, looking around him for something not quite right. They were inside the trees now, following the winding road that ran along the steeply sloped side of the valley. It was narrow here, and the drop to the river below was almost vertical. The only noise was the sound of the horse’s hooves and the turning of the buggy’s wheels. Brandt found himself squinting upwards, looking for something or someone in the dark shadows of the wooded slope to their right. He had the strong sensation that they were being watched.

  ‘They don’t bother anyone during the day, don’t worry,’ his father said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Partisans, bandits, people trying to survive. They hide out in the forest around here. The Order Police used to sweep for them – but there aren’t enough Order Police left for that now.’

  ‘Partisans? Here?’

  ‘Most certainly here.’

  Brandt lit a cigarette and handed another to his father. He stopped scanning the forest. If they were there, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. When he finished half the cigarette he stubbed the butt out on his heel, putting it in his pocket.

&
nbsp; ‘For your pipe,’ he said when he saw his father looking across at him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  They sat, once again silent, listening to the horse’s heavy tread. The road levelled off as it turned gently to the left, the trees thinning where the valley widened. Soon they would be able to see the church’s spire.

  5

  SEVERAL HUNDRED years previously, a bridge had been built ahead of them, where the river was calmed by a wide bend in its course. Not long after the bridge had been built, a church had followed and, as the valley here was broad and fertile, a village had grown around it, building by building. Fields had been cleared on the gentle slopes that rose and farm buildings scattered on both sides of the river – right up to the tree line.

  The bridge’s arches still marched across the river’s width but the dam – built further up the valley where it narrowed once again – now carried most of the traffic that would otherwise have come this way. The church’s spire still dominated the village’s few streets and alleyways and, as they approached, its bell rang out twice, as if in greeting. There were some new houses on the outskirts and some of the older buildings had been re-roofed and spruced up while others had tumbled still further into disrepair. It was even sleepier than Brandt remembered it.

  The road took them along the main street, where the butcher’s and the bakery still stood, past the police station and the small village hall, then through the church square to the higher valley beyond. The only people they passed were two youngsters in brown shirts and shorts, talking underneath the square’s oak tree. The red scarves at their necks marked them out as Hitler Youth. Apart from the boys, who paid them no attention, they saw no one.

  ‘It seems empty without—’ Brandt began, but his father interrupted him by raising a hand – nodding in greeting to an older man approaching them along the valley road. It was neatly done. Brandt didn’t recognize the man but he returned Brandt’s gaze intently, his grey eyes bright in a face dark from the summer sun. They strayed to Brandt’s empty sleeve before turning their attention to Brandt’s father, nodding in response to his raised hand.