by William Ryan
The women hurried to remedy the failings Peichl spotted – even when they couldn’t see what it was he’d found fault with. They swept at the snow with their brushes and chipped at the ice with their spades. But they were nervous and their movements were imprecise. Their wooden clogs slipped and slid, giving them no purchase. Their terror became self-fulfilling in some way. Whatever caused it, his rage, when it began, was like an engine that progressed from a sputtering start – a series of irregular barks – then wound itself up to a snarling, constant scream.
He kicked them, he pushed them, he punched them. Then his belt was off. Agneta felt the first blow on her shoulder, the next on her cheek. She hurried to do what he asked of her, startled by the red drops that scattered on the snow beneath her.
‘Don’t bleed there, Prisoner. Did I tell you to bleed there?’
Peichl kicked her thigh – all of his weight behind it. In a moment of clarity Agneta saw one of the Ukrainian guards – the blonde youth with the angel’s face – gazing at her. She was trying not to fall – her leg was buckling – and Peichl was kicking at her again, holding her by her hair. The Ukrainian stood beside the path, his rifle slung over his shoulder. His expression didn’t change when Peichl began to punch her. He showed no reaction when Peichl’s knuckles cracked against her skull, the pain so sharp she couldn’t see for an instant.
The Ukrainian could have been watching someone swinging their legs on a fence for all the interest he showed.
If she fell, she would die – she was certain of it. Peichl would kick her with his heavy boots until she was dead. She wouldn’t fall. She felt her own anger warming her chest. She wouldn’t end like this. Peichl took a fistful of her hair in his hand once again, twisting her so he could shout in her face, pulling her back from the abyss.
‘What have you got to say, Prisoner?’
She had to focus, move past the pain.
‘I apologize, Herr Scharführer. I will fix it. I will fix it immediately.’
He shoved her away from him and she staggered, pushing her brush down hard at the ground for balance. She stopped, then ran past him, swerving out of his reach, and began sweeping. It didn’t matter what she swept, she just had to be busy, keep her head down, keep out of his way. Joanna was beside her. Long, hard, quick strokes. Harder than they could manage for more than a few seconds. She concentrated on the ground in front of her, ignoring her pain, leaning her cheek against her jacket so that the blood would be soaked up by it and not fall to the ground.
Now it was Rachel who was taking the worst of Peichl’s fury. ‘Do you think I’m stupid, Jew? You think you can pull the wool over my eyes, do you? You think you can leave this lane in a disgusting mess? You think I will stand for it? You foolish Jew. You idiot Jew.’
Peichl pushed the girl and she slipped, spilling down to the ground. He kicked her, lifting her with the force of it – sending her rolling away. Her head flopped as she came to a halt and Agneta thought she might be dead. Peichl threw his belt down at Rachel, then picked up her broom and, turning towards them, he swung it back and – the sharp sound of wood hitting bone – he’d hit her arm. Agneta gasped. But she must not cry, she must not fall.
‘Well?’ Peichl hit out at Joanna, then turned towards the Bible students. ‘Well?’
Agneta saw Rachel move, her body twisting on the snow. She was trying to stand. Good girl. Don’t give in.
‘Where is your God now?’
Crack – he’d hit someone else.
‘Where is he? Tell me. Where is he?’
Agneta risked a look – Katerina and Gertrud had fallen to their knees and held their clasped hands to their chests. Rivulets of blood ran down Katerina’s face. They were praying.
‘Do you think your God is listening?’
Crack.
‘Do you think he’s going to save you from me? I’m going to see what kind of mush is inside your skulls that you believe in such nonsense.’
Footsteps were approaching from the hut. Whoever it was walked purposefully. Peichl stopped talking, turning, standing to attention.
‘Herr – Haupt – sturm – führer.’
Peichl spoke in bursts. Out of breath.
‘Scharführer Peichl. Your morning exercise?’
‘Disciplining prisoners. Herr Hauptsturmführer. They’ve become. Lazy. They think we’ve become. Soft.’
‘Well, carry on, then. But when you’ve finished, come and talk to me. I need to explain how things work in a tank battalion. It will be different from what you’re used to – you’ll have to be prepared for that. But a man of your abilities and toughness – I think you’ll manage.’
Rachel got to her feet, nearly unbalancing, then came over beside them, picking up the broom Peichl had now discarded – joining in the work. More red droplets scattering on the snow-encrusted gravel, her brushstrokes mixing them in until the ground turned a pale pink.
Peichl was silent. Sensing his attention was elsewhere, Agneta slowed her pace. They all did. They had to keep their strength.
‘I’m sorry, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Peichl said. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘We’re leaving tomorrow, Peichl. The battalion needs machine gunners. It’s an easy job – you just keep the gun loaded and fire it. Plenty of targets, believe me. It’s not the best seat in the tank, of course – hard to get out if we burn – but we all must do our duty.’
‘I still don’t understand, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Machine gunners?’
‘Did Obersturmführer Neumann not speak to you? No? He’s told you nothing? But it’s all arranged – your transfer has come through. And my health has been spoken for. We leave the day after tomorrow.’
‘Transfer? Tomorrow?’
Peichl sounded confused – his words were slurred.
‘Have you been drinking, Peichl?’ Jäger’s voice was low, Agneta saw his boots take three steps forward until they were directly in front of Peichl’s, who took two small steps back before coming back to attention.
‘Last night, Herr Hauptsturmführer. In the village. Not this morning.’
‘You stink of it, Peichl. You know what would happen if you were under my command – if we were near the enemy and I found you like this?’
‘Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’
‘You do? You think you know my mind?’
‘I only meant to say—’ Peichl began.
‘I would have you shot, Peichl. Pop. Just like that.’
Footsteps approached.
‘Good morning, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’
‘Good morning, Neumann. I’ve just been telling Peichl here what I would do if I found him drunk and we were close to the enemy. I think it’s important he understands. Here at the hut, of course, some flexibility can be allowed. I understand that. There is no criticism of you involved. But at the Front . . .’
‘Peichl?’ Neumann said after a pause. He stepped closer now. ‘Have you been drinking? On duty?’
The women stopped sweeping – they leant on their tools, they watched the SS men’s feet as Neumann circled the Scharführer. They imagined him looking at Peichl closely – nodding to himself.
‘Go to your quarters, Peichl. I’ll deal with you later.’
Peichl hesitated.
‘I said go.’
Peichl turned to leave.
‘At the run, Scharführer.’
Peichl ran. His legs were too short for it – they seemed to move quicker than he did.
‘And you two – get these prisoners back to work.’
Agneta and the others needed no encouragement. They bent their back to it, thanking their gods. A miracle had come to pass.
47
‘I WISH YOU would send him with me.’
‘Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Neumann began, trying to control his anger.
‘I know. I apologize. I was bored – I thought I’d have a little fun.’
‘The Scharführer was carrying out duties assigned to him under the authority of the Command
ant,’ Neumann said, but Jäger merely shrugged his shoulders.
‘I shouldn’t have interfered – I accept it. But you saw how he ran. Like a fat waddling baby. You aren’t made of stone, Neumann. You must have been tempted to smile. I wanted to roar with laughter.’
Neumann couldn’t acknowledge the fact – but the image of Peichl running toward the hut was as clear to him now as when he’d seen it. He needed to be stern, however.
‘I ask you to remember that the doctor’s visit is still within the Commandant’s discretion,’ Neumann said, managing to keep his tone even.
‘I understand. And I’ll be gone before the hour is out when he signs me off, believe me.’
‘As for Peichl,’ Neumann said.
‘I’ll explain to him that you intervened on his behalf,’ Jäger said. ‘I’ll tell him he won’t be seeing the inside of a Tiger just yet.’
‘I was thinking of an apology, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’
Jäger’s eyes seemed to glitter with hidden amusement.
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, Neumann. If he knows I’ve made fun of him, he’ll be ashamed – but if he thinks you made representations on his behalf? Think how grateful he will be. How much easier to manage.’
Neumann considered his position. He couldn’t order Jäger to apologize – and, of course, Jäger had a point.
‘Look, Neumann,’ Jäger continued. ‘I was foolish and I’ve made life awkward for you. But look at the man – do you really want to have Peichl thinking you were involved in his public humiliation? In front of the prisoners?’
Jäger’s smile reminded Neumann of a gambler who had played a winning card. Neumann rose to his feet, resolving to put the unpleasant incident behind him. After a moment, Jäger did the same. He shook Neumann’s hand as gently as if it belonged to a woman.
‘If you reconsider?’ Jäger said, almost whispering. ‘About Peichl’s transfer? I’d see the Scharführer was well looked after.’
Neumann swallowed the scowl he felt pushing at his lips.
‘Thank you, Herr Hauptsturmführer. I’ll bear your offer in mind.’
‘Please do.’
When Jäger had left, Neumann let his scowl loose. He wanted to kick something. That comment Jäger had made outside – about how here there could be flexibility but ‘at the Front’ things were different – did he think Neumann was a coward? He’d fought at Verdun in the first war. He’d seen entire regiments ground into the mud. What had Jäger done that compared with that? Had he even been weaned when Neumann had been crawling through corpses? He kicked the desk. It felt good. He kicked it again.
He’d have that idiot Peichl’s hide for this, though. He’d make the Scharführer pay. It was that fool’s fault he’d been put in this intolerable position.
Outside, in the drawing room, he heard the sound of someone putting a record on the gramophone and, after a short pause, its music wound its serpentine way into his office.
The piece was familiar, although he couldn’t place it at first. It was calming. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He sat down. Of its own accord, his head began to sway from side to side to the music’s rhythm. There was something comforting about the half-memories it invoked. He needed to be calm. Jäger would be gone tomorrow. He would never see him again. He would just empty his mind and fill it with the music.
Almost immediately, Neumann felt better. The music brought memories with it. The hot stillness of his father’s house on a summer’s afternoon – the image as clear to him now as though it had taken place not ten minutes before. That must have been where he’d heard this piece, at home, all those years ago. He’d been reading a newspaper in his father’s drawing room, his knees bare. Before the last war, then – long before it. When was the last time he’d worn short trousers? He couldn’t remember – yet the image was so clear.
Another memory. A game of cards being played, he was sure of it, and a withered bouquet of sepia-toned roses forgotten on a sideboard, the corrupted scent of the dead flowers filling his nostrils even now. And what was that? Yes, his sister Clara’s laughter – coming from the garden, he was sure – in the old house – in happier times. He was wearing a light cotton shirt, crisp against his skin. It was hot. That summer before the war – the warmth of it. Not this war, the one before. Thirty years ago but it seemed as if it were only yesterday. Who could forget how perfect that summer had been? Back then, when all was well with the world.
He prayed that Clara was safe – he’d had no word from her. And the bombing was every night, every day now. The thought of his sister reminded him of his sons – and Marguerite. Familiar numb emptiness filled him but the music, at least, was something.
He stood up and walked to the door, opening it wide to hear the music better. He wanted to make sure the music was real. Not another trick of his mind. It was an old recording, the poor quality of the sound dating it. A violin solo swaggered above the orchestra’s accompaniment – a real virtuoso performance. It was uplifting, truly uplifting. He was certain he’d listened to every record in the hut’s collection a hundred times – but this was new to him. A mystery.
‘Herr Obersturmführer, someone is playing a record again, in the middle of the day.’
One of the auxiliaries had leaned out of their cubicle. The unattractive one. The switchboard was closer to the gramophone than his office – and it was something the telephone girls disliked. They said the music playing in the background made it sound like they worked in a hotel. Which, in a way, they did – even if for the last two weeks all they’d done was sit reading romantic novels and worrying about the Ivans. The good news was she could hear the record too. It wasn’t only in his mind.
‘I’ll turn it off. I don’t know who put it on.’
It must have been Jäger.
‘The tune,’ he continued, relieved that there was an earthly source for it, ‘I can’t put a name to it. It’s familiar, though. Do you know it?’
‘I’m afraid not, Herr Obersturmführer.’
His question irritated him for some reason. The music was no longer quite so pleasing. It was the same tune as before but something about it itched at him now. It was to do with that soaring violin, he was sure of it. Some moment in his past that it brought to mind – an unpleasant association this one, although he couldn’t quite think what. The memories from before, the ones recalled by the piece’s opening chords, they’d been more agreeable – the smell of tobacco smoke, the flowers and the stillness of the drawing room – Clara’s happy laughter. But whatever recollection the music was bringing back now was not so welcome – he’d the gnawing sense of having failed at something – of having performed an act unworthy of himself. A feeling of guilt.
More guilt? Could that even be possible?
He was in the dining room now. Brandt was counting the silver, writing notes as he did so. The room was magnificent.
‘Hauptsturmführer Jäger will be leaving the day after tomorrow, Brandt.’
He was surprised by the harsh tone in his voice, and attempted to soften it with a half-smile. Brandt turned towards him, his melted mouth slightly open – his marred face livid and twisted. Neumann couldn’t help but feel distaste. He hoped it didn’t show.
‘Shall I find something special in the cellar, Herr Obersturmführer?’
Neumann thought about holding the dusty neck of a bottle in his hand, raising it high – then bringing it down hard onto Jäger’s head. The thought cheered him.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll see to it.’
‘What is this music, Brandt?’ Neumann was surprised to hear how anxious and angry his voice sounded. He prided himself on his even nature with subordinates, despite everything, but today he knew he was more fractious than usual. Jäger’s fault. He must control himself. He forced a calm smile, and shrugged.
‘It was playing when I came up from the kitchen, Herr Obersturmführer.’
Neumann walked through to the sitting room where the gr
amophone stood. He lifted the needle from the record – causing a squeal as it cut into the surface.
‘I was listening to that, Neumann.’
Jäger’s voice came from the depths of an armchair.
‘The hut’s rules forbid it, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Until five, anyway. The rules are approved by the Commandant. You could call him, if you wanted to?’
Jäger said nothing and Neumann felt a flush of something like triumph. That had shut him up. He lifted the record from the turntable. He looked at the label. He couldn’t quite believe what he was reading.
‘Where did this record come from, Herr Hauptsturmführer?’
‘I don’t know, Herr Obersturmführer. Has it not always been here?’
Neumann considered Jäger for a moment, aware of a pulsing vein in his forehead. Was it possible? Was this another shift in his reality? Were his ghosts now capable of this? Or was this Jäger making fun of him.
‘Brandt,’ he called, his voice remaining calm, he was pleased to discover, even if his mind was screaming.
‘Read this label,’ Neumann said to Brandt when he came in. Brandt took the record from him, and the remains of his eyebrows raised in surprise. Thank God. It was happening in the real world, this scene of theirs. The record existed.
‘This is no record of ours, is it, Brandt?’
‘I’d be surprised, Herr Obersturmführer.’
Jäger stood to his feet and walked over, taking the record from Brandt.
‘I think you have some explaining to do here, Neumann,’ he said. ‘You can’t be permitting banned composers in a place like this. I doubt the Commandant would approve.’
Neumann reached out to snatch the record back from him, barely resisting the temptation to stamp it underfoot. Damn the man. Playing that Jew, Mendelssohn, in this place of all places.
