by William Ryan
‘The Führer spoke to my soul with his sanity and logic.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I am not quite in my right mind – it’s probably the concussion. I’m not alone. The morale at the Front is not what it was. We fight because there’s nothing else to be done.’
‘What do you think?’ Brandt inclined his head to the east.
‘It’s a mess. When they attack it will be like last summer, and the summer before – only worse. And they won’t wait for the summer.’
Brandt nodded. Jäger blew a smoke ring.
‘I’m going straight back to the Front. The doctors have to approve it this time. I’m physically fit enough – a little bit of pain perhaps, and if I have to hold my hand to keep it steady, that’s all right. There’ll be plenty of Russians to aim at.’
‘Don’t you have leave coming? Because of the wound?’
‘Leave? I’ve nowhere to go, Brandt. An air raid. On Berlin. I thought I mentioned it.’
As he spoke, Jäger turned away from Brandt so that it was impossible to see the SS man’s facial expression. Brandt wondered if he was trying to hide it from him. Jäger stamped his feet twice, as if shaking snow off his boots – and then left the room. The door swung shut behind him.
Brandt looked at it for a moment, running back over the conversation – extracting what information there was to be had from it – evaluating his own words for any risk they might have placed him in and considering whether the Hauptsturmführer was a danger – or something else. Then he heard the front door open and Peichl’s footsteps coming through the entrance hall. With one deft movement, he removed the glowing tip from the SS man’s excellent cigarette by knocking it against the heel of his boot, then stamping on it to extinguish it. He pinched the tip of what was left and placed it in his pocket.
It was too good to waste.
27
IT WAS Christmas Day, for most people, but for the SS it was Julfest – an ancient Germanic celebration. The Bible students had prepared a hunter’s stew, in keeping with the proposed shoot the following day. There were no geese to be had.
‘Not bad. Not bad at all. Is this your work, Gertrud?’
‘We have no nutmeg,’ Gertrud said, lowering her gaze as if embarrassed. ‘It should have nutmeg.’
‘I’m sure the officers will understand. The British blockade is hardly your fault.’
He knew the reason the Bible students prepared the food was nothing to do with their culinary abilities – rather because their literal belief in the Bible’s precepts meant they wouldn’t poison anyone. Still, they took pride in their work.
‘Herr Brandt?’
The pretty telephonist was standing in the middle of the kitchen. She appeared unsure where to look. Her gaze wandered the room, looking everywhere except at him. He was surprised that she hadn’t become used to his physical appearance by now. Perhaps she thought it was contagious.
‘Fräulein Beck? How can I help you?’
‘Obersturmführer Neumann would like to see you.’
As usual it was only her mouth that spoke to him.
‘Of course.’
He turned to Gertrud and Katerina.
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, continue as you propose.’
The women’s heads were bowed but of course they were listening. The prisoners were always alert.
He followed the auxiliary up to the floor above, allowing himself to examine the way the bottom half of her body moved underneath the thin grey military skirt. There was nothing else to look at, after all. After a step or two she clasped her hands behind her back, as if by chance, managing to block his view. How had she known?
‘He’s in his office,’ she said, when they reached the floor above. Her hands now rested in front of her, between them. ‘He’s waiting for you.’
She was looking at him intently now, he noticed. Her cheeks were redder than usual.
‘What does he want to see me about?’ he asked, at least partially to break the silence.
‘I don’t know.’
For a moment, he thought that was all she’d say, but it wasn’t.
‘Perhaps it’s about our evacuation?’
She pushed at a wisp of hair that had slipped down to curl around her chin. He, meanwhile, did his best to appear calm.
‘Our evacuation?’ he asked.
‘The local Party have prepared a plan for the evacuation of civilians – I heard the Obersturmführer discussing it with the mayor. And last week they finally began to decommission the camp. So if the camp is going, and there’s a plan for the civilians, then there must be a plan for us too. Don’t you think?’ Her voice tailed off. ‘As a precaution, of course. Like a fire exercise.’
She held his gaze for a moment and he saw she was concerned about his reaction so he nodded his agreement with her suggestion, not trusting himself to speak. When she continued, it was in a softer, more plaintive tone, one more inviting of a shared confidence. She did not look in his direction, but there was no one else there.
‘Perhaps it is something you might have discussed with the Obersturmführer? Or would like to? Just an exercise, of course – as I said. But how we would leave? Where would we go? When?’
‘You’re sure about the camp?’
She nodded, a swift nervous smile.
‘And it’s already begun?’ He kept his voice neutral and low. The camp officers had been discussing an evacuation for some time – that it must happen soon, that they were waiting for authorization from Berlin. The authorization must have come.
‘Some of the . . .’ she hesitated, before continuing, ‘the installations – are being deconstructed. And the officers are drawing up plans for removing the prisoners.’ His question must have shown in his eyes. ‘To other camps, I believe. Further back.’
‘I see.’
‘Will you ask him?’
‘Yes,’ he said, considering each word as he spoke. ‘And if you could keep me informed about any developments at the camp? It would make sense to make each other aware of anything we hear.’
‘I will,’ she said – and they were in agreement. He took a deep breath.
‘I have some advice, Fräulein Beck. Even if there are no orders, don’t wait until the last moment – you and Fräulein Werth. If the Soviets come this way, stay ahead of them. Hide if they are close. Don’t fall into their hands.’
She looked surprised and he found his mouth had opened once again. Was there no end to his stupidity?
‘It’s best to be prepared for all eventualities. Both of you. I have some experience of this – from the Front. And, whatever you do, don’t fall into their hands in uniform.’
She said nothing for a few moments and he watched a tear form in the corner of her eye, grow large and then roll swiftly down the side of her nose until she stopped it with the tip of a long finger. She wiped it away.
‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ he said.
She nodded and, to his surprise, smiled. A pretty, cheerful smile.
‘Thank you, Herr Brandt.’
She had always had a cheerful disposition.
28
NEUMANN SAT at his desk. He’d arranged his papers and his pen, ready to start his work. But he found himself staring at them, without the slightest inclination to begin. He should be preparing for the Commandant’s visit. He would, as always, have questions. But there had been more bombing last night. They had mentioned Hamburg. Marguerite was near there. And the boys. Their town was small – barely twenty thousand people – but they were bombing towns not much larger now.
The thought of Marguerite and the boys saddened him. He had heard nothing from her since her letter. Nor from the boys either. And now it was Christmas.
There was a knock at the door, quiet. Two more knocks, quiet but firmer. You could tell a lot from a person’s knock. It was something that could be studied. This one wasn’t going away unanswered.
‘Come in, Brandt.’
Brandt slipp
ed around the door. He was an interesting fellow, full of a false obsequiousness. Neumann almost admired the deception. No doubt he felt superior to them. But at least Neumann was here because he had been ordered to be here – even if the Commandant had been behind the orders. Brandt had been bought for a cigarette ration. He had no reason to feel superior to anyone.
‘Sit down.’
‘Thank you, Herr Obersturmführer,’ Brandt took the chair in front of the desk.
‘All is well? In the kitchen?’
‘I think so. When will the officers arrive?’
‘Hopefully at three. I’ll suggest a walk down to the reservoir when they arrive, if the weather isn’t too cold. To stretch their legs before it gets dark. Then they can change for dinner.’
‘And in the morning?’
‘They’ll be up early for the shoot.’
‘In which case I’ll need the prisoners early as well.’
‘I’ll tell Peichl.’
Neumann looked up at Brandt, at his missing arm. He wondered.
‘Do you think you could manage a camera, Brandt? The Commandant would like someone to take photographs of the dinner. Something to remember the evening by.’
Neumann thought he saw the glimmer of a smile draw at the man’s raw mask. He should pull him into line. So what if the Commandant wished to remember this evening in later years. Yes, everything would no doubt be different but it was his right to do as he pleased in this place until things changed. In their world, for the moment, the Commandant was supreme. All fortune and misfortune was in his power.
On the other hand, of course, Brandt might have a point. This place and these times would be best forgotten, if that was possible.
‘If it’s an easy enough camera to handle, I can do it.’
‘It’s a Leica. I’ll set the exposure for you. Just get close and press the button. You wind the film forward with your thumb, I’ll show you. It’s easy enough.’
‘Then I’m at the Commandant’s service, Herr Obersturmführer.’
‘Good. And the tree?’
‘It’s ready.’
Neumann nodded his satisfaction. A thought occurred to him.
‘Before, I mean, when you were younger.’ Neumann found himself nodding towards where the man’s missing arm should be. Exactly the kind of thing he’d wanted to avoid.
He gathered himself.
‘Did you shoot, is my question. Animals, birds, that sort of thing. The Commandant has asked for this hunt and the mayor has helped arrange it. It’s not something I know anything about. Will it be a success?’
‘I should think so. The mayor knows his business. All you have to do is stand in a long line and shoot anything that comes your way. A bit like at the Front.’
Neumann wondered if the man was mocking him. There was no hint of it – but it was hard to tell.
‘Let’s hope the animals don’t shoot back,’ Neumann said, and Brandt’s thin mouth turned upwards.
‘Speaking of the mayor, Herr Obersturmführer, I understand he is making preparations for an evacuation of the civilian population – purely as a precaution, of course.’
‘And you’re wondering if we should do the same?’
Brandt nodded. Neumann considered rebuking him, but decided it was too much effort. ‘We have no orders yet – perhaps this evening. When the Commandant comes. I intend to ask him.’
‘Thank you, Herr Obersturmführer.’
When Brandt had left, Neumann got up from his chair and walked to the window, looking down across the frozen reservoir and then over to the hills on the other side. In the reflection he thought he could see a shape behind him, just beside the door – the blurry outline of a man.
He paid it no attention. If he jumped every time he thought he saw a ghost in this place, he’d be worn out by breakfast.
29
THE OFFICERS from the camp were late and there had been yet another power cut. The third already that day. Brandt lit a candle and started his final check with the bedrooms at the far end of the building, the end closest to the village.
There wasn’t much to be checked. The rooms were small and bare – designed for brief stays rather than permanent occupation. Jäger had been here for six weeks now, but he was an exception and he should be going tomorrow if the doctors who were coming for the dinner approved his return to active duty. The narrow beds had been made up with several blankets and the linen was clean and freshly ironed. Each room looked like a mirror of any one of the others – all very disciplined, all very regular.
Next, he checked the washroom with its row of sinks and the toilet cubicles – all appeared spotless. He would like to be absolutely certain but the flickering candlelight prevented this. There would be consequences if the expected standards weren’t met. Not for him but for the women prisoners. The doctors, in particular, had a horror of dirt.
He walked through into the dining room. It was warmer here, a fire had been lit and the orange glow from its flames swirled across the ceiling. The long table filled the room and each place had been set. Twenty-four would sit down to dinner. Silver cutlery twinkled golden and the glass sparkled in the firelight. The windows that lined one side of the dining room, overlooking the yard, glittered.
If he was concerned about anything, it was about the candles. Antique silver candlesticks lined the centre of the table like soldiers on parade. He wouldn’t light them yet. Already a candle was worth two packets of cigarettes. Candles, cigarettes and matches were as good as money when the world turned upside down. Perhaps they would be worth as much as a human life soon. He wouldn’t waste them.
The Yule tree – as Neumann insisted it be called – stood in the entrance hall. It looked like a Christmas tree to Brandt. He found Neumann standing in front of it, a candle in his hand, contemplating the silver swastika that had been placed at its top with a look of puzzled concentration. He was wearing his dress uniform, a golden braid hanging down from his left shoulder epaulette. The braid and his polished black boots reflected back what light there was. He looked tired.
‘If only we could have found a goose.’
Brandt wondered if Neumann expected him to go out and try to find one, in the dark, on Christmas Eve.
‘The stew is good, Herr Obersturmführer. The mayor tried everything. There are no geese to be had.’
‘I know. And we are soldiers, not children. Still – for the time of year – a goose would have been more appropriate.’
Neumann looked at his watch and then walked to the window. It was pitch black outside. He looked out as if hoping to see the officers arriving. The only sound was the crackling of the burning logs in the fireplace.
‘We should light the candles.’
Brandt found himself frowning. All those candles burning down, just for one man.
‘The candles, Herr Obersturmführer?’
‘The tree should be lit when they walk through the door – it will set the tone for the evening. It will put them in a better mood.’
‘An excellent suggestion, Herr Obersturmführer.’
‘It wasn’t a suggestion, Brandt.’
Brandt found his teeth had clenched, top against bottom.
‘I will light them,’ Neumann said. ‘You will take photographs. I want to have this memory for my children. I want them to know I wasn’t always a . . .’ He paused as though searching for the correct word. ‘A soldier. That there were quieter times. That I thought about them. Especially tonight.’
Neumann turned to face Brandt once again.
‘The camera is on the table. You must hold it very still – rest it on something perhaps. In this light, if you move, even slightly, the image will be blurred and the moment will be lost.’
‘I’ll make sure I hold it steady.’
Brandt listened to himself speaking, conscious the words had revealed some of his anger. Neumann didn’t notice.
Brandt positioned the camera on the back of an armchair and squinted through the viewfinder. Neumann lo
oked small beside the enormous tree – it was nearly twice his height. Brandt had had to find the tallest of the Ukrainians and a step ladder to place the swastika and the higher candles.
Neumann stooped to light the long taper in his hand from the fireplace.
‘Can you make out my face?’
‘Not clearly.’
‘Am I in shadow?’
‘Yes.’
Only his oiled hair, his boots and his gold braid reflected any light.
‘I’ll light some of the candles.’
There were twenty-four on the tree. Neumann addressed them one by one, and soon the SS officer’s face was a half-moon against the dark behind him. Click, whirr. Click, whirr. With each photograph the image of Neumann in the viewfinder became more distinct.
‘Doesn’t it look magnificent?’
Neumann stood back to examine his handiwork. ‘Very elegant,’ Jäger said. ‘Just like a Christmas tree.’
Brandt hadn’t heard Jäger come in but here he was – in black tanker uniform with silver runes at his collar and a chest and neck filled with ribbons and crosses. His sardonic smile was in full working order.
‘A Yule tree, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Neumann corrected him.
‘Of course. A Christmas tree. As you say.’
Jäger stepped closer to it, passing a hand over the flame of a candle. Slowly.
‘So, when do our comrades arrive from elsewhere?’
‘In half an hour. For certain this time.’
‘Excellent,’ Jäger said. ‘The Last Supper will finally take place.’
Neumann frowned.
‘What’s the matter, Neumann? It was at Christmas, wasn’t it? The Last Supper? Brandt, you went to university?’
Jäger’s gaze shifted between Brandt and Neumann – but ended up with Brandt.
‘It was Easter, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Brandt said. ‘The Thursday before Easter.’
‘I see. My mistake. It’s only that I’m hungry, Neumann,’ Jäger said, giving the Obersturmführer a pleasant smile. ‘I feel like I’ve been waiting for a very long time for this supper, you see.’
