The Constant Soldier

by William Ryan

  §

  Neumann showed him round the hut personally.

  ‘Prisoner Müller and Prisoner Lang, the Bible students, can be trusted to prepare food for the officers and men. The others cannot.’ He handed Brandt a key. ‘You have control of the cutlery and knives. Don’t take risks.’

  ‘And what is my role, Herr Obersturmführer?’

  ‘Your responsibility is to ensure that the officers who visit the hut are kept content. Meals must be of good quality, plentiful and, most importantly, on time. Their rooms must be clean, the linen spotless. Alcohol must be available in quantity whenever and wherever they might look for it. We have an extensive cellar, I’ll show you.’

  ‘Do the officers drink much when they visit, Herr Obersturmführer?’

  Neumann smiled.

  ‘They come to relax, to forget about the Front or their often difficult work. They want to unwind, of course. Sometimes things can get a little raucous – but all within the bounds of propriety. Just make sure any mess is cleaned up before they awake. Here, you’ll wear one of these. It looks about your size.’

  Neumann handed him a white mess coat.

  ‘A white shirt, black trousers and a black tie. A simple uniform. We have a Jewess tailor who can make alterations if you need it. She’s very good. Many of the officers have her make uniforms for them.’

  Neumann frowned.

  ‘We had two tailors until this morning.’

  That was the only comment Neumann made on the killing of the prisoner.

  In the kitchen, Neumann introduced him to Prisoner Lang and Prisoner Müller – the trusted Bible students. They nodded to him, confirmed their names and turned back to their work.

  ‘Müller and Lang know everything and they are reliable. I’ll leave you to make yourself acquainted, Brandt. Remember, you are in charge here. You must tolerate nothing except excellence.’

  When Neumann left, Brandt stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the sound of his own breathing. Considering the situation. He hadn’t thought it through properly, he realized. Now that he was here, somehow, without intending it, he had become complicit, whether he liked it or not. He was as good as a guard in the women’s eyes. Still, the situation was what it was.

  ‘My name is Brandt,’ he said.

  His instinct was to shake the Bible students’ hands – but he knew he couldn’t.

  ‘Good morning, Herr Brandt,’ they said, almost in unison.

  He did his best to smile, but they had already turned away.

  ‘What are you making for lunch?’ he asked.

  ‘Roast chicken,’ the younger one said, speaking over her shoulder as she peeled potatoes.

  ‘Good. Very good,’ he said in response and felt self-disgust threatening to overwhelm him.

  There were two smaller rooms at the far end of the kitchen – the scullery and the laundry. He walked towards them. The Jewish prisoner he’d seen outside on his walks was working in the laundry. She was pressing down on a linen tablecloth with a heavy iron. Uniforms and shirts hung on a rail behind her. He knocked on the doorframe to get her attention and she turned to him, her face wet with tears. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. She quickly dried her eyes, avoiding his gaze and taking a step backwards as she did so. He saw her fear. She thought he was going to punish her.

  ‘I’m Brandt,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘The new steward.’

  His voice sounded uncertain, hesitant. He saw an echo of the dead girl’s face in the prisoner’s. Half-considered words were already leaving his mouth.

  ‘The dead girl – were you related?’

  Her surprise was clear.

  ‘She was my sister.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear it.’

  Something flickered behind her wary expression – a secret thought. An unspoken comment on his sympathy. It made him even more ashamed – not only of himself but also this whole tragic business.

  ‘What was her name?’

  It was all he could think of to say.

  ‘Glasser.’

  She spoke a cultured German, he noticed, the kind that wasn’t supposed to be spoken by a woman with a shaven head and hollow, sallow cheeks.

  ‘I meant her first name.’

  ‘Lena.’

  Her voice had dropped to a whisper. His question had unsettled her. He wanted nothing more than to be away from this room – to leave her in peace.

  ‘I’m sorry about Lena.’ It wasn’t a lie. He was more sorry that there was nothing he could do. ‘Take your time today. I’ll send someone in to work with you, if you’d like. Some company.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her.

  He walked back out into the kitchen. The Bible students didn’t look at him but he knew he was the focus of their attention. Judith and the other woman were peeling vegetables in the small scullery to the laundry room’s right.

  It took a moment for him to gather himself. It hadn’t occurred to him, outside the hut, how life must really be inside. How his appearance here must inevitably place him, in the women’s eyes, alongside the likes of Peichl. He had been prepared for danger – had understood that he would be putting himself at great risk. He hadn’t, however, expected this terrible guilt – this soul-scraping self-loathing. He had played a part in all this, even from a distance. He had known about the mass killings and what was happening in the camps – everyone had. And this was being done in his name. What was more, this was what he had been fighting for – whether he’d known it at the time or not. It was his responsibility – and everyone else’s.

  But he had a more direct reason for his guilt. He had brought the Gestapo to the meeting place where she’d been arrested. If he’d looked around – if he’d seen them – they would probably have caught him, but probably not her. She might still be free. It was her, of course. He hadn’t been certain, even after he’d seen her outside, but now he was this close, he wondered how there could have been any doubt. It had been a long time and she’d changed – but then neither of them would be the way they were that day in the cafe on the Ringstrasse again. That was behind them.

  She looked up as he approached – a cautious, covert assessment. There was no recognition in her glance. She didn’t see Oskar in the damaged man who stood a few metres away from her, and she’d never known him as Brandt. It was good she didn’t know who he was. He wasn’t here to talk over old times. It was important he kept his distance, for the moment. Still.

  ‘My name is Brandt,’ he said. ‘Paul Brandt. I’m the new steward.’

  Her eyes reserved judgement. The woman working alongside looked up in acknowledgement. They said nothing.

  ‘Would one of you—’ he turned to the other woman. ‘You perhaps – go and work in the laundry today.’

  She nodded and made her way past him. He stood for a few moments, looking at Judith.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Gruber.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I don’t bite. I don’t even bark much. First name?’

  She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze.

  ‘Agneta.’

  ‘Thank you. And your colleague?’

  ‘Joanna. She is Polish.’

  ‘I see. May I ask – what does the red triangle signify?’

  She looked down at the number on her chest, then back up.

  ‘It means I am a political prisoner.’

  She held his gaze for an instant. She showed no emotion and her tone was carefully neutral, but there was surprise, he thought, that he didn’t know what the red triangle meant. He was grateful for his injuries now – it was unlikely she would be able to see anything of the turmoil he felt. That was for the best.

  He gave a half smile and made his way back into the main kitchen. He felt better now – more certain of what he was doing. Seeing her so close, her face worn and gaunt – her eyes still, despite everything, the same – had clarified things. His presence here wa
s necessary. He owed her this and more.

  It was strange he thought, as he climbed the stairs, that it was only now, after all this time and all they’d been through, that he finally knew her real name.

  11

  BRANDT LOOKED across the table at his father’s downturned mouth, at the way his skin was pulled taut by disapproval. He shifted his attention to Monika – unnaturally pale, her eyes fixed on her plate. There were no happy smiles for Brandt tonight.

  There was food arranged on the table. There were plates and cutlery. His father had said grace – in an angry growl. They should be eating. But they weren’t eating. They were waiting to see who would raise the topic of Brandt’s taking a job with the SS first.

  They had found out during the day somehow, that was clear. Perhaps his father had seen him there or someone had told him. Brandt had been wondering how best to approach the matter, concerned that he might get off on the wrong foot and make a mess of it. At least he didn’t have to worry about that any more. It already was a mess.

  ‘I was going to tell you this evening,’ he said, after considering his options – which weren’t many. ‘It isn’t what you might think.’

  No one said anything. A wisp of steam rose from the potatoes. Eventually, his father began to scratch at the stubble on his neck. A sign of irritation. Brandt could hear the rasping sound quite clearly. His father’s voice, when it came, was little more than a whisper.

  ‘What might we think? What do you think we might think?’

  Brandt sighed. It was never going to have been an easy conversation.

  ‘You might think I’ve gone to work for the SS for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘What right reasons could there be?’ His father’s voice was rising. ‘I told you about the camp, I told who those people are over there.’

  ‘It’s not just what happens at the camp. There are prisoners in that place,’ Monika said, her tone more measured. ‘Women prisoners.’

  ‘I know who the SS are. I know what they have done. I know about the women prisoners.’

  He reached across and pulled the bowl of potatoes closer to him. He didn’t feel like eating but he needed his strength. The scrape of the bowl across the table’s wooden surface sounded louder than it should. His father and sister might have stopped breathing, the silence was so profound.

  ‘So answer me this question,’ he continued. ‘If you want to prevent evil, should you watch from afar and do nothing or take steps to confront it directly?’

  Another silence.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ his father asked.

  ‘I’ve probably had a serious head injury. Who knows what state I might be in? So if I do something stupid, there’s no reason for you to be held accountable. Unless you knew something about it in advance, of course.’

  He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and put them on the table.

  ‘Just so we’re clear,’ he said, ‘I’m not working for the SS for their damned cigarettes.’

  He lifted the packet to his mouth, opening it with his teeth.

  ‘Tell me,’ he asked, turning to his father, ‘when you saw me at the train station – did you recognize me?’

  His father hesitated.

  ‘The honest answer, please. I won’t be offended.’

  ‘If I hadn’t known you were coming,’ his father began. ‘If I hadn’t known something of your injuries, rather – then, no, I probably wouldn’t have recognized you. If I met you in the street, that is.’

  Brandt nodded, pleased.

  ‘I thought so. Don’t worry – I don’t recognize myself these last few days. I’ve changed. And that, believe me, is a good thing.’

  12

  AGNETA wondered what had happened to Brandt. He’d certainly been burnt. Even though the surgeons had done their best for him, his face reminded her of melted candle wax – the features made indistinct, the skin thin and taut across his cheekbones and around his narrow-lipped mouth. His blonde hair, which he wore short, was ravaged to the point of desolation in places, revealing scars and burns over much of his scalp. Most of his left ear was missing and, of course, his arm. It must have been an explosion, she decided. She wondered what he’d looked like before.

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t bite. I don’t even bark much.’

  She’d been surprised that he’d spoken to her in a polite voice. And that his lips had twisted into what she thought must be his smile. His voice sounded constrained, as though it had been altered by whatever had happened to him.

  She and the other women were wary of him – the SS orderlies who he replaced had been free with their fists and curses. Who was to say he wouldn’t turn out to be the same? And it was difficult to read him. Brandt could smile, more or less, and he could nod, of course, but the tiny visual clues that revealed a person’s true feelings were largely absent. Who could tell if he felt anything at all? Perhaps he understood this – perhaps that was why he was so specific in his explanations of what he expected of them.

  She realized that she remembered him from before he came to work in the hut. They’d been working in the garden one afternoon not long before and he’d passed on a horse and cart with an older man she knew lived nearby. She remembered Brandt had nodded to her as if he knew her. She’d thought, at the time, that his injuries had made him simple – because no one who passed the hut looked up at it, unless they were SS, of course. The old man knew this – he’d kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of him. But Brandt examined the building without fear. If she’d seen anything in his expression, as she remembered it, she thought it might have been disgust. Perhaps that was another reason she’d been surprised when he’d shown up at the hut.

  Perhaps he was a good person. His kindness to Rachel counted in his favour. It was hard to be sure, of course. You would never be able to tell from the camp Commandant’s benevolent exterior that he’d sent countless souls from this world to the next. And how many SS had she come across in the camps who had seemed to be ordinary men, yet had turned out to be monsters? Brandt could be the same – his stiff features gave nothing away.

  Then again, it occurred to her, the prisoners’ faces were also masks. They held their emotions tight within, even amongst themselves. How could you trust anyone when betrayal might mean their life as opposed to yours?

  Perhaps Brandt was also protecting himself.

  13

  FROM THE ROAD, the hut had the hard edges of a newly constructed building – its woodwork barely scuffed, the paint still clean. The interior, however, was very different – ancient oak panelling, polished by smoke and time, clad the walls in the entrance hall to a height of over two metres, while above the panelling pikes, swords, crossbows and muskets had been fixed to the creamy plaster in great semicircles. Even the floorboards were ancient, creaking under Brandt’s weight as he walked through the hut – making it hard to move silently, if he ever needed to.

  It was what Brandt imagined a Vienna gentleman’s club might be like – with its time-polished armchairs and sun-washed Persian carpets. It was only the SS banners and the portraits of Hitler and Himmler that spoiled the illusion. Although a visitor would also notice, soon enough, that all the other paintings were of battles and heroic military endeavour. There were no pretty pastoral scenes or anything like that. Nothing that might weaken the officers’ resolve. He could understand why the officers liked to come and visit. It all felt timeless – not quite part of the world outside. It might just be possible to forget the murder and violence here, for a day or so. Or to reinvent it, as the paintings on the wall had done, into something noble and worthwhile.

  §

  There were only a handful of officers in the building for the first few days. Three of them were on leave and had chosen to spend it here rather than try to make their way home across the war-ravaged rail system. The other two were recuperating from their wounds, still under the auspices of the SS hospital that formed part of the camp. All of them would be returning to the Front, so
oner or later. They were easy enough to deal with. They noted Brandt’s injuries and decorations, but didn’t mention them. They looked older than they should, their uniforms faded and their skin roughened from years fighting in the open. They carried within them the tension of those waiting for battle.

  The camp officers arrived at the weekend – a busload of them. As soon as they stepped out of it, it was obvious they were different from the men from the Front. Their uniforms were smarter for a start, tailored tunics and patent leather boots. They weren’t active men, however. These men spent their time sitting at desks. They reminded him of successful businessmen – particularly when they changed out of their uniforms, as they soon did. They looked prosperous in their country tweeds, their shirtsleeves weighed down by heavy gold cufflinks – watches glittering on their wrists. Business, to judge from their jewellery, was good at the camp.

  They looked like someone you might talk to on a train. Only one or two of them carried their crimes with them like dark shadows.

  Later, in the laundry, when he came across a pile of their clothes waiting to be washed, he understood why they changed out of them so quickly. His nostrils caught a familiar scent and he leaned down.

  Their uniforms were impregnated with the stench of burning flesh.

  14

  PERHAPS IT WAS the thought of returning to the camp and breathing its foul air again that caused Schmidt, a young untersturmführer, to shoot himself. It was the first Sunday morning Brandt spent in the hut and he was pouring what passed for coffee into Neumann’s cup in the dining room. The officers were cheerful enough, talking amongst themselves, but the conversation stopped mid-sentence when there came the muffled pop of a pistol shot from the sleeping quarters. Neumann’s dog, Wolf, got to his feet, his clever eyes anxious.

  There were eight officers gathered around the table and each of them was completely still. Neumann was the first to move, reaching for his napkin and bringing it to his lips – dabbing them – then reaching down to place a calming hand on Wolf’s neck.