by William Ryan
‘Come on,’ he said, opening the door. ‘There is no one else to take you.’
Katerina walked towards him, her eyes on the floor in front of her. Gertrud followed, also avoiding his gaze. The women said nothing.
They walked along the concrete path that ran along the side of the hut, hearing the revelry above them. The concrete was icy underfoot and Brandt saw Gertrud reach for Katerina’s arm when her clogs slipped. And here he was, walking behind them, the key to their prison in his hand.
The sound of their footsteps changed when they turned towards the bunker – the gravel on the path was frozen together and it crunched apart under their weight. The noise from the dining room receded and the silence of the valley took its place. Above them countless stars were scattered across the sky – the snow-shrouded trees shining in their silver glow. The women stopped beside the heavy metal door, standing aside while he inserted the key. He needed all his strength to turn it and, when the door was unlocked, he had to lean his whole body on it until momentum took over and it swung, squealing, open.
‘It’s only this once,’ he said as they entered. ‘I’m not one of them.’
‘Who are you, then?’
The voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. He wasn’t even certain anyone had said anything, it was so quiet. Agneta.
He swallowed his bitter retort, pushed the door closed and turned the key in the lock. He felt desperate, cornered like a rat. He had betrayed her once again.
As he walked back towards the hut his frustration grew until it solidified into a need. A need to take some action. A willingness to risk all.
34
POLYA KOLANKA lay in her new uniform, her new quilted jacket over it, wearing her new winter boots which were keeping her feet snug and warm. She had taken the best spot, over the tank’s transmission – still warm from the night’s march – and now snow was covering the tarpaulin under which she lay like a second blanket. Life wasn’t too bad. She’d savour this warmth for as long as she had it, the clothes for as long as they were clean and free from lice and engine oil. She’d enjoy the weight of the bellyful of food until she needed to eat again.
Best of all, no one was shooting at them – they’d reached the position undetected. She listened to Avdeyev the machine gunner and Vitsin the loader digging the tank in, their spades sounding brittle on the cold earth. Polya would have to get up in an hour and take her turn, of course, but at least their spot in the forest was relatively free from roots. Artemeyev’s lot hadn’t been so lucky – she could hear them swearing as they chopped their way down, centimetre by centimetre. They’d been told to do the job properly, that they’d be here for a while. And the Germans were close – so the deeper the hole, the safer they’d be.
She was tired. Her shoulders ached from pushing and pulling at the steering levers on the march, although she’d never admit it to the others or use it as an excuse to get out of the digging. She might be a woman but she wanted no special treatment. Anyway, Avdeyev and Vitsin had broken through the frosted crust now – so her part would be easier. By the time they finished they’d have shifted tens of tonnes of soil – but the tank would be safe unless a German shell landed straight on top of them. And when they’d covered it with branches and brush only the crows would know they were here – and by the morning, the crows would have forgotten where. As it should be.
It was worth the effort, the German artillery would pound them if they knew the battalion was here. And she hated artillery.
She was pleased that all their hard work making sure Galechka was ready for the coming battle had paid off. They’d had no trouble on the march here, while some of the skirt-chasers who’d spent their time running round after the field hospital nurses had broken down and been pushed off the road. And when the battalion had made its way through the forest, tank by tank so as not to let the Fritzes know what they were up to, Galechka had slipped through the trees like a ghost. They were only a few hundred metres away from the trenches – close enough to hear rifle fire – but some people, like that fellow in the third company, didn’t understand the operational necessities of being quiet. Crushing a motorbike? What a piece of work that was. The Germans must have been asleep not to have heard it.
‘Well done, Polina Ivanovna – not bad for a girl,’ Lapshin had said to her when they’d arrived. She knew he’d been teasing her, that he’d expected nothing less. Little Polya had done it again. She’d been glad he’d been up behind her in the commander’s seat, unable to see how her face had glowed with pride. She liked, as well, that he used her given name and patronymic – it was respectful. Although, she thought, calling her Little Polya, as everyone else did, would be quite acceptable also. She lay on top of the tank, feeling the heat from the engine against her back – and decided it was best not to think too much about Comrade Lapshin. It was distracting. Yet here he was coming towards the tank, picking his way across the snow. She knew the sound of his walk. She listened for it when he wasn’t there.
She heard him climb up the side of the tank and slip under the tarpaulin alongside her.
‘Comrade Lieutenant?’
‘Ah, home sweet home. How long till our turn to dig?’
‘An hour. I kept the watch.’
‘Time enough for a nap, then.’
‘All went well?’
‘With the meeting? Well, enough. Your driving was picked out by the battalion commander for special praise – “If Little Polya can drive her tank like a man – everyone can.” Don’t expect kind looks from the third company – they were singled out for criticism.’
In the darkness Polya grinned hard enough to split her face.
‘And now?’
‘We wait. No more stripping engines, Polya. It could be at any moment. Turn her over, grease her up, keep her warm but nothing more than that. Now, if you’ll excuse me – an hour’s sleep is an hour’s sleep.’
There it was, just like that. Comrade Lapshin had called her Polya. She smiled, turned on her side, and shut her own eyes.
As Comrade Lapshin said, an hour’s sleep was an hour’s sleep.
35
IT WAS STILL dark the next morning when Brandt opened the hut’s front door. He hadn’t had much sleep and he felt anxiety like a physical weight. He’d tossed and turned in bed and eventually got up, going downstairs to sit in the armchair and have a smoke – at which point his eyes had promptly closed. He awoke feeling tired and stiff, the key to the bunker, which he’d removed from the bunch, still clutched in his fist. What had he been thinking – taking it?
Brandt turned on the light switch and, miracle of miracles, light resulted. He checked his watch, just past five o’clock, and looked around the entrance hall – the must of stale cigarettes and spilled wine clung to the air. And something else. He found the vomit under a carefully placed armchair. The Christmas tree had been pushed sideways at some stage so that it now leaned crookedly against the wall. He tugged it upright. At least someone had snuffed out the candles. He wrapped his fingers around the key in his pocket. He’d say it came off by accident when they asked him. It didn’t make sense, of course. But he could think of no better excuse.
Adamik brought the women in at six. Brandt knew he must have used a spare key to open the bunker, so the guards knew the other one was missing. Brandt waited for the question, but Adamik barely even looked at Brandt – just took the cup of hot milk Brandt had made for him. Brandt felt the cold sweat sticking his vest to his skin. Perhaps it was a trick. He felt the key’s shape in his pocket like a weight dragging him into his grave.
The officers began appearing for breakfast around seven. They were dressed for the shoot, in winter jackets and woollen jumpers. Most of them looked as though they’d rather be in bed. At least they had nothing to complain about – the dining table was once again covered in a clean, crisp cloth and the smell of fresh bread and soup had replaced the other, more unpleasant odours.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, he began to prepare the meat f
or the evening meal. He waited. Maybe they were waiting for him to take it to the guardhouse. Perhaps holding on to the key was the worst thing he could do. He pressed the mutton onto the spiked carving board and began to trim away the fat. He tried to focus completely, for a moment, on the blade and the cutting. On days like this, his missing forearm hurt him – and not just where the material of his jacket rubbed against his still-raw stump. Each of his lost knuckles ached, even though they were long gone.
He wondered if perhaps his fingers were still there, in another version of this world, attached to a version of him that hadn’t been to war. A different world from this one, where the camp had never been built and the valley was as it always had been. Where he had finished his studies and never had to kill a man. One where he hadn’t taken the damned key.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps descending the staircase that led to the hut’s upper level – the wood creaking under their weight. Someone was coming now – looking for him.
‘Brandt?’ Peichl’s voice came down. ‘Are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ Brandt said, forcing the words through the fear that filled his throat.
‘And?’
The key pressed against his thigh, cold through the fabric of his pocket.
‘At your service, Herr Scharführer.’
Three more steps, the boots and belt appearing. Then four more. Then the final three. Peichl’s black belt cut into the taut fabric of his uniform like a tourniquet. Brandt reminded himself to breathe.
‘What’s wrong with you, Brandt? You seem out of sorts.’
Peichl made his way over to him, standing so close that Brandt could smell the onions and stale schnapps on his breath. The SS man, not being an officer, had taken his entertainment in the village the night before. Brandt wondered if he might still be drunk.
‘I wasn’t aware I was out of sorts, Herr Scharführer. I thought I was just the same as every other day.’
Peichl laughed, walking over to the cast-iron cooking stove. He lifted his buttocks one after the other onto the round metal rail that ran along its length.
‘Bobrik said you locked the prisoners up last night.’
Brandt kept his eyes on the meat. He didn’t dare look up.
‘There was no one else. I wanted to go home. It was late.’
‘Did you tuck them in?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You think I don’t notice your little kindnesses to them, Brandt?’
Brandt said nothing. Even if he’d wanted to, he wasn’t certain his mouth could form the words he required.
‘I imagine you were an awkward soldier, Brandt,’ Peichl said. ‘Even when you were all in one piece.’
Brandt turned and picked up the knife once again, sliding the blade along and down into the flesh. Adrenaline made him clumsy.
‘I was awkward enough, I suppose, Herr Scharführer. But awkward soldiers are often good at fighting – they have their own minds, you see.’
Brandt heard the inference in his words as soon as they were spoken. He turned and saw that Peichl had heard it as well. ‘You think I wouldn’t be much use when it comes to fighting the Russians, do you, Brandt? You think I don’t have my own mind?’
With slow menace Peichl lifted himself away from the stove.
‘I could have a couple of the Ukrainians take you for a walk in the wood. Perhaps I should take you myself. Then we’d see how brave you really are, for all your talk.’
Brandt held the knife in his hand loosely. A lunge and a twist. Pull it out, slash, slash. Lunge again. He could be in the forest before anyone was the wiser. He could leave this place behind him. All he saw, for an instant, was Peichl and the place beneath his ribcage where he’d stick him. Peichl stopped, his eyes narrowing. And then there was a noise. A plate being placed, very carefully, on a hard surface. Agneta washing dishes in the small pantry. The sound calmed him. He had forgotten why he was here. He remembered now. He swallowed, allowing some of the tension to flow out of him.
Peichl hadn’t mentioned the key. And that was important. Because if he was going to, he would have by now. Brandt gave Peichl his best attempt at an ingratiating smile, holding his hand out wide – pointing the knife away from the SS man. He didn’t place it on the counter, however, that would be stupid.
‘Who would supervise your kitchen for you then, Herr Scharführer? Who would look after the officers from the camp? Who would make sure you and your men had sandwiches and soup at the end of the shoot? And a flask of something to take with you this morning?’ Brandt pointed with the knife to the army water bottle on the counter, which he had filled with brandy. ‘I didn’t mean to cause any offence.’
Peichl’s eyes narrowed, as if looking for another insult. Brandt was conscious that the only sounds came from upstairs, where the mood of the officers’ breakfast had begun to lighten. Laughter. Brandt kept his gaze fixed on Peichl’s, then leant his head forward infinitesimally. A gesture of subjugation to Peichl’s will. There was a long, tense pause. But the gesture seemed to satisfy Peichl. He grunted.
‘We can always find someone else from the village, Brandt. You aren’t irreplaceable. Not at all.’ Peichl lifted the water bottle, unscrewed the camp and sniffed. ‘This is the good French stuff?’
‘Armagnac. The best we have.’
Brandt leant his head forward another fraction, lowering his eyes.
‘Make sure the soup is hot, Brandt. It will be cold up in the forest.’
Peichl screwed the cap back on and nodded, allowing his gaze to wander around the kitchen, before turning his attention back to Brandt.
‘Be careful, cripple. I’m not a man to be crossed.’
Brandt looked after Peichl as he made his way back upstairs. And began to breathe once more. He was surprised by how much he’d wanted to put the knife into him – even at the Front he’d never felt anything like it. He shivered.
He needed to talk to Bobrik. He needed to understand why no one knew about the missing key.
36
AGNETA WATCHED the confrontation from her place in the scullery and waited for it to boil over. Peichl had killed people with his own hands. She’d seen him do it. And Brandt looked frail compared to the solidity of the SS man.
Yet Brandt stood his ground.
She watched the way he held the knife. She saw how he turned the blade so that its edge was uppermost – a small movement, easily missed. For a moment, she thought he might use it. Fillet the fat SS man right in front of them. And felt cold fear. Everything she did to stay out of sight, to keep out of harm’s way – yet something like this could happen in an instant, leaving her hanging by the slenderest of threads. But Brandt had got away with it.
Now she felt anger – and exhaustion. She was tired of being – constantly, always – caught in the moment before her own death.
She considered Brandt. He was an enigma to her, almost as much as she suspected he was to Peichl. Behind his frozen face he could be anyone. But the question that bothered her most was why he was here in the hut. It didn’t make sense.
‘Agneta, do you have a moment?’
She turned to find him standing beside her. His lack of eyebrows making his gaze seem unnaturally intense. She nodded. He shut the door to the kitchen behind him. They were alone. No one could overhear them if they spoke quietly.
‘I need to speak to you,’ he began. ‘If you’ll permit me?’
His politeness annoyed her – as if she had a choice in the matter. Aside from which she knew how seductive it could be, this apparent kindness. Already she could feel it soften her. She needed all the strength she could gather and yet this man was weakening her. And this only moments after he’d put all their lives at risk.
‘Of course, Herr Brandt – as you wish.’
She would talk to him, if she must.
‘The Obersturmführer is anxious. All of them are anxious – it’s because of the Russians, because of the way things are going. You saw
how Peichl was just then – they must be given no excuses, do you understand? You must all take special care.’
Of course she knew. Was the man an idiot? She took special care with every breath and every movement she made. It was Brandt who needed to take more care, not her.
‘I always take special care, Herr Brandt.’
‘I know. I’m reminding you, that is all. I want you to remind the others as well. They look up to you. The cutlery must glow, the linen must dazzle, the glass must shimmer. Do you understand me? I’m not saying this for my sake, I’d break every last glass in this place if it were left to me.’
His eyes squinted slightly – he wanted her to take him seriously. He needn’t worry about that. She took everything seriously. She took his stupidity most seriously of all.
‘Of course, Herr Brandt.’
He looked around him, checking whether the walls might be listening. He reached for her hand. Instinctively she pulled it out of his grasp and took a step back. She couldn’t help the horror she felt. It must have shown in her face because his thin lips curled into what he presented to the world as a smile.
‘That was clumsy. I meant to say, I am not like them. Even if I turned the key last night. Please understand that.’
She said nothing. His smile remained constant and patient. Eventually he shrugged, as if agreeing with something she’d said.
‘What I wanted to say,’ he began and then stopped. He coughed. ‘I wanted to tell you – and the others – not to be afraid. Do you understand? If you are careful, if you are patient, if we all work together – there will come a happier time.’
She was speechless. What did he mean? That there would come a happier time? And what did he mean by saying ‘we’?
‘Just be careful,’ Brandt said. ‘And patient.’
Despite herself she responded with a nod. She immediately regretted it.
She should give no encouragement to his madness.
