by William Ryan
He heard Agneta’s footsteps behind him – he recognized them, of course. Watching and listening to Agneta was almost all he did – he needed to know where she was and that she was safe. He placed the photographs back into the diary and closed it.
‘Herr Brandt?’
‘Agneta.’
‘We’re finished upstairs.’ She paused. ‘I’ve washing to do.’
‘I’ll get out of your way.’
Brandt turned to face her. He held the diary in both his hands like a promise. She looked at him, waiting for him to move. But, for a moment, he was transfixed. Something about the way the light caught her standing in the doorway reminded him intensely of how she had been in Vienna. He swallowed.
‘I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else.’
He passed her, taking the diary into the main kitchen. The photographs burned brightly in the stove’s firebox – the diary less so. He wondered what had possessed Schmidt to keep them. And then Brandt’s eyes strayed to the rucksack he wore when he came to work.
Inside it now were three small packages, wrapped again – but without their labels. Aside from the gold, there was a package full of foreign currency and a package full of jewellery.
They would come in useful, he decided.
17
ON THE Wednesday of the second week working in the hut, Mayor Weber came to fetch him down to the village hall. It was a mild evening, so they walked. The news from France was bad and even worse from the east, where the Russians were tearing Army Group Centre to pieces. The mayor, loyal optimist though he was, had begun to think of the valley in strategic terms. He waved his hand as if the landscape they looked across were a map.
‘The dam is the key, Brandt. The reservoir extends right the way up into the higher valley, where the slopes are higher and steeper, and easy to defend. Below the dam, there’s only the village bridge between the dam and the town. There’s nowhere for the Russians to easily cross if we release water from the dam.’
Brandt said nothing. He’d grown up in the valley, he knew what was where.
‘If the Soviets capture the dam or the bridge intact, they’ll have a crossing. Of course, we will destroy the bridge if they advance too close. But the dam is a different story. Army engineers have drawn up plans for its demolition if the worst comes to the worst – but I believe it could be held – by committed defenders. After all, if it’s blown up, it might weaken our defences further up the valley. On top of which the factories in the town would no longer have electricity.’
‘I see,’ Brandt said.
‘Also,’ Weber continued, warming to his task, ‘if the dam is destroyed, the flooding further down the river would extend for a great distance, making a counter-attack more difficult. It’s all about tanks these days, Brandt. Our Tigers and Panthers are superior to anything they have – we let them extend themselves and then we throw them back to Siberia. That’s what I think must happen.’
Brandt nodded as if everything made perfect sense.
‘So you see, Brandt, our little village is a place of some significance after all. With brave leadership and iron will, we might hold the Soviets here. This might be where their attack fails. Right here.’
Weber’s chin rose slightly, and Brandt wondered if the mayor saw himself as being the brave leader who would save the Reich in this meaningless place. ‘Sacrifices must be made if Germany is to survive. We should be proud if fate gives us the opportunity to make them on the nation’s behalf.’
‘Of course,’ Brandt said.
‘This is why I wanted to walk with you. So that we understand the challenge that may await us.’
They had passed the dam now, and the mayor stopped, turning to look back at it. It rose twenty metres above the river beneath it.
‘The destiny of the boys you speak to tonight could lie here. It’s important they should be prepared for the task they may have to fulfil.’
Brandt looked at the mayor and then at the dam, thinking of all the water that was held behind it. Surely they would just blow the thing up. Surely they wouldn’t use children to fight a pointless battle. If they did, he was having none of it.
‘I’ll do my best for them,’ Brandt said.
§
Brandt found himself standing on a small stage. The boys sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, their skin brown from the sun and their clothes dark from working in the fields – every hand was needed to bring in the harvest. They wore red and white cotton scarves at their throats, gathered together by brass rings they somehow kept bright, despite their manual work.
Brandt stood behind a long metal gun, its barrel honeycombed, the wooden stock curved to fit a man’s shoulder. In front of it ammunition belts had been stretched across the table like snake skins. He felt like a stallholder at a market.
‘We are going to look at two weapons this evening. The first is the MG42 machine gun, kindly lent to us by Obersturmführer Neumann from the SS hut further up the valley. Does anyone know what the soldiers at the Front call it?’
Hands went up. He nodded to the youngest boy, a tumble of chestnut brown curls above a cherub’s plump face. Fischer. He couldn’t be older than twelve.
‘The bone saw, Herr Brandt.’
‘That’s correct. Well done, Fischer.’
The cherub cheeks reddened at the praise.
‘The MG42 sounds like a saw. Brrrrrp. The fire rate of twelve hundred bullets per minute makes it impossible to hear the individual shots. It is light, under twelve kilos with its bipod fitting in place – heavier with a tripod. It is good at its job but the barrel overheats quite easily. Tonight you’re going to learn how to take it apart for cleaning, how to clear blockages and how to change the barrel quickly – which you will have to do repeatedly in battle. When every one of you can change a barrel in less than twenty seconds – we might think about firing it.’
They smiled like little wolves at the prospect. He had to pause for a moment – a sudden image of them all lying dead in a field distracting him. In his mind’s eye, a bullet had smashed a hole where one of Fischer’s cherubic cheeks had been. ‘And then we have this.’
He reached down to where he’d placed the long grey tube with its cylindrical head, leaning against the table. It looked like a giant metal lollipop.
‘The Panzerfaust is very simple to use. You place it on your shoulder, like this, push up the sight. Like so. Not that you really need it because tanks are large and you fire this from very close – its effective range is about thirty metres but the closer the better. And then you pull this pedal. There is almost no recoil so even a one-armed man like me can fire it. Bang.’
He paused, looking down at them – wondering if they knew how dangerous firing this weapon was. They didn’t seem to.
‘If all goes to plan, the tank goes up in smoke. As I said, you need to be close. It isn’t really practical for use in open country. Why?’
A youth raised a hand. Grey eyes, freckles, blonde hair oiled back from the side parting.
‘Müller?’
‘They would see you first?’
‘That’s right. If they see you, they won’t come close enough. Their guns have much longer ranges so they will sit there and fire them until the way is clear.’
He put the Panzerfaust down beside the machine gun, conscious that the thought of the tank had made him feel nauseous. Another hand went up. A tall youth, his face thinner than it should be – all bones and sharp edges. Black hair and dark, almost black, eyes that looked at him with an intensity Brandt didn’t much care for.
‘Yes. Wessel, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Herr Brandt.’
‘You have a question?’
‘You knocked out two tanks, didn’t you? For your combat badge?’
‘I did.’
‘With a Panzerfaust?’
‘One of them.’
‘What did it feel like?’
Brandt looked at the boy, into his piercing eyes, and shivered. He thoug
ht back to lying in the slit trench, waiting for the tank – the sound of it, so loud it was impossible to tell how close it was, except that it kept getting closer. Metal grinding against metal, its tracks crushing the very road beneath it. If he moved too early the tank would kill him. When he did move, the infantry would kill him. He’d made no decision he could remember, he’d only acted. The tank had appeared to his left, rolling up over the bank of earth and rubble that the company had raised as a defence. He’d aimed. He’d fired. The heat of the explosion had pushed him backwards. The shouts of the Russian soldiers. The screams of the flaming commander as he struggled from the turret. The smell of men and petrol burning. The bullets that whipped around him as he ran along the trench away from the exploding ammunition that had lifted the tank’s turret and tossed it to the side.
He shrugged.
‘It was terrifying.’
The boys laughed again. They thought he was joking. He could see no understanding of what a tank was – a rolling, crushing death machine. He let them finish.
‘Never fire your Panzerfaust at the front armour,’ he said. ‘Aim at the sides or, even better, at the back. The armour is thickest at the front and it’s sloped, so your charge may just bounce off it. Aside from which it’s where the guns are. If you fire from the front, it will see you and it will kill you. If you’re dead, you’re no use to anyone.’
He paused to let his words sink in. They were attentive now.
‘If you’re dead, you’re no use to you either. You won’t achieve the things you dream of, you will never kiss the perfect girl and, most importantly, you won’t be able to hit the next tank. So fire at the sides or, even better, its behind.’ He paused, looking down at the upturned faces. ‘And watch out for the infantry – a tank is almost never without infantry. They are there to stop people like you. They will stop you by killing you.’
No one was laughing now.
‘I need a volunteer to strip this machine gun and show us how it’s done.’
No one raised their hand.
‘You, Fischer. Come on. Let’s see what you can do.’
As Fischer rose to his feet, Brandt glanced towards the back of the hall, where the mayor stood, his arms folded. He wondered whether he had gone too far – but no. Weber was nodding with approval, his expression grave.
Brandt wondered if the mayor was imagining a desperate battle for the dam. It wouldn’t be like the paintings up at the hut if it came to that. There would be boys lying dead on the road, crushed so flat by Russian tanks that all that would be left was a wet smudge and blood-soaked scraps of a uniform. The defences would be strewn with collapsed corpses, bloodied marionettes that had lost their strings.
There would be no glory in the defeat.
18
THE LAST WEEKEND of August a party was held at the hut for the camp officers, their families and selected guests – well over a hundred people. It was beyond Brandt and the women to cater for such a large gathering. The mayor volunteered the Hitler Youth from the village to act as waiters and the Commandant provided three fat-armed, round-bellied SS cooks from the camp to work in the kitchen.
‘Brandt,’ Neumann said on the morning of the event. ‘It is important that our guests should enjoy themselves. Today the war must feel a thousand kilometres away. They have been very busy this summer.’
‘Of course, Herr Obersturmführer,’ Brandt said, wondering if Neumann had forgotten the numerous wounded officers convalescing at the hut. It had been a hard few months at the Front as well, and there was no shortage of limping, bandaged soldiers to remind the camp officers that the war was coming closer.
The guests began to arrive at lunchtime, those with families nearby bringing their wives and children with them. As it turned out, no one noticed the wounded officers walking amongst them, like ghosts at a wedding feast. Nor did they pay much attention to the prisoners, an even more obvious reminder of what they were meant to be forgetting. It wasn’t long before the gardens around the hut were filled with elegantly dressed women and well-scrubbed children – their menfolk gathered in small groups. It was hot but the breeze from the hills made it bearable. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the SS cooks glowered at Brandt whenever he asked them to do anything. He ignored their mutterings and low laughter. At least if they were making fun of him they were less likely to be picking on the women.
Brandt made his way upstairs to the terrace, where officers had gathered to talk and drink. The Commandant, his oiled hair precisely parted, was holding court at one end, surrounded by the eager smiles of younger officers. At the far end a soldier who had been wounded in the fighting in Warsaw was talking to a group of less enthusiastic camp doctors. Some of their glasses were empty so Brandt took a bottle over to them.
‘Why is it taking so long? That’s what I want to know,’ one of the doctors was asking, his nose already pink from standing in the sun.
The soldier’s head was bandaged and his face looked sallow underneath the white cloth. He appeared to be finding the conversation tiresome.
‘They are determined and well led and they fight to the last man,’ he said. ‘Each building is its own battle.’
‘We should just destroy the place, brick by brick.’
‘That’s what we’re doing, believe me.’
‘But it’s been weeks now.’
‘It takes longer than you’d think to flatten a whole city.’
Brandt topped up his glass with wine, noticing Neumann joining the group.
‘Send them to us, we know how to deal with sub-humans,’ the first doctor said.
‘These sub-humans have guns,’ the wounded officer said, allowing his irritation to show now. ‘These ones shoot back.’
Neumann took his chance.
‘Comrades, join the others down in the garden. Möller has his accordion and we’re going to sing songs.’
Brandt followed his gaze. A young officer in a leather flight jacket was playing snatches of tunes to entice people to join him – his teeth white and his smile false.
‘An excellent idea,’ the wounded officer said, not bothering to hide his relief that he might be released from the conversation.
‘Bring your glasses, gentlemen,’ Neumann said. ‘We don’t want to leave poor Möller on his own.’
Brant didn’t know if it was Neumann’s insistence or Möller’s launching into a cheerful version of ‘Erika’, but the men began to walk down the terrace steps to join the growing choir. The wounded officer even managed a terse smile.
On the heath, there blooms a little flower. And she is called – Erika!
Neumann returned to the now empty terrace, shaking his head.
‘Fetch me if there is any more of that kind of talk, Brandt. We must nip it in the bud.’
‘Very good, Herr Obersturmführer.’
Seeing that the officers were now otherwise engaged, Brandt took his opportunity. It was quiet on the other side of the building and he needed a cigarette. He had just managed to light it when Bobrik, one of the Ukrainian guards, joined him. Brandt offered him his packet and the Ukrainian helped himself. He made an effort to build a good relationship with the guards. It was a relationship he kept warm with vodka and other hard-to-get items from the hut’s stores.
‘Not joining in the celebration, Brandt?’ Bobrik asked.
‘I can’t sing,’ Brandt said. ‘Not very well, anyway.’
‘Nor can any of them,’ Bobrik said dismissively, but not before he’d looked around in case any of the officers were close enough to overhear. Brandt smiled.
‘Anyway,’ Bobrik continued, ‘what they’re celebrating isn’t something to be happy about.’
Brandt said nothing. He knew as well as anyone what a busy summer in the camp must mean.
‘Did you hear the news?’ Bobrik asked, lowering his voice to not much more than a whisper.
‘What news?’
‘Paris has fallen to the Americans.’
It wasn’t that Brandt hadn’t expected
it – everyone knew things were going badly in France – but he was surprised by his physical reaction. It reminded him of a time he’d looked over the edge of a cliff. Vertigo.
‘You’re sure?’ Brandt asked. ‘When?’
‘It was on the radio. It didn’t say when it had happened.’
They shared a glance. Brandt shrugged – what could be safely said, after all?
‘What are you going to do afterwards?’ Bobrik asked. He made a circle with his cigarette, encompassing the hut and its surroundings. Now it was Brandt’s turn to look around in case they might be overheard.
‘It won’t be long. Not now they’re in Paris.’
He had a point. The Allies were squeezing them from both the west and the east. There was no one close – perhaps something could be risked.
‘I suppose it depends on who gets here first. If it’s the British and Americans, it shouldn’t be too bad.’
‘Maybe not for you,’ Bobrik said. ‘But for us, I’m not so sure.’
‘Of course if it looks like it will be the Soviets . . .’
They exchanged a glance. Neither of them wanted to be captured by the Soviets.
‘Have you any plans?’ Brandt asked, not anticipating an honest answer.
‘We’ll follow orders to the end, of course,’ Bobrik said, but his gaze lifted skywards, giving the lie to his words. He paused to blow out a smoke ring.
‘Of course, I know others who think differently – men who know what will happen if the Russians get hold of them. It’s one thing being a German. That’s bad enough. But if you’re from the Ukraine, you’re a traitor as well.’ Bobrik made the shape of a gun out of his hand and pressed its imaginary trigger, indicating the likely fate that awaited them if they fell into Soviet hands. ‘So these others may not wait till the end. Of course, desertion is punishable with death, so there are risks. And then, afterwards, where will they be safe? Spain? Africa? South America, perhaps? How can they get to such a place? These men have to think these things through.’
Brandt kept quiet, waiting to hear what Bobrik might say next. Bobrik nodded, smiling as if to acknowledge Brandt was right to be cautious. It wasn’t a very comfortable smile. Brandt saw the roll in the SS man’s throat as he swallowed.
