by William Ryan
‘Eat this.’
Brandt placed bread and cheese on the counter beside her. She looked down at it, but not up at him. More food – this had been going on since he’d arrived. She couldn’t risk it now.
‘It’s bread. And cheese.’
‘I see that, Herr Brandt. Thank you – but I can’t.’
‘You’ve eaten before. I take the blame if you’re caught. That’s all there is to it.’
‘I’d be punished, no matter how much blame you took.’
She was pleased with her tone – calm, patient. Not a reflection of how she felt at all. She could feel his eyes on her, willing her to look round at him. She wouldn’t. She would carry on scrubbing this damned napkin till it came apart in her hands. Why couldn’t he leave her alone?
‘You need strength, you all do. In order to survive. Till the end.’
Despite herself, she looked round at him. He was as nervous and frightened as the others.
‘You don’t trust me,’ he said. ‘But it’s important that you do. I want to help you.’
She found herself wanting to smile, to laugh at him. For this moment at least, she sensed she had some power over him. As if they’d already been liberated and she was sitting in judgement. As if she were the one with the power to say ‘Eat’ or ‘Starve’, ‘Live’ or ‘Die’.
‘Judith,’ he whispered, pushing himself forward as he did so, so that his mouth was close to her ear.
She took a step backwards, her hip sliding along the sink’s wet edge. She leant down to grasp it, needing its support. She stared at him.
‘You don’t remember me, do you? Oskar? Do you remember me now?’
He raised his hand to his face, pulling it across the damaged skin, as if to reveal his old face. A magic trick that didn’t work. And yet, it was as if she was seeing him for the first time. Each scrubbed scar, each melted edge, each burst and crooked vein in his skin was fresh to her. She wanted to reach out and touch his cheek – to draw her own hand across his face, just as he had. To try and recreate him as he’d been. Because she did remember him.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She heard the lie, even if he didn’t seem to.
He returned her gaze, his mouth hanging open like a fresh-caught fish. She felt the urge to laugh at him, but she knew it was a false emotion, this hilarity, born from fear – because at the same time she wanted to embrace him.
‘I know about your mother. You told me about her.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I know you’re Jewish, as far as these people are concerned at least.’
She should turn away but she couldn’t break his gaze. She did her best to keep her face blank.
‘I’ve never spoken to you in my life before this place.’
She felt sharp pain as her nails tried to dig their way into the porcelain sink. It was good, this pain. She needed it. All he did was nod, as if in agreement.
‘My mistake,’ he said, his voice softer than it had been, his mouth developing an awkward twist. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to get you out of here. All of you. And soon.’
Was he joking with her? Was it some kind of a trap? She couldn’t find any words.
‘There’s nothing to be discussed. You have no choice,’ he said. ‘This place will be closed also, and very soon. Think about what that means.’
She said nothing. She held his gaze, searching into his eyes for the trap, the joke, the threat. He seemed sincere. But so did men like the Commandant.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The Russians are coming – they’ll be here soon and the SS won’t want to leave any evidence behind for them. The camp will cease to exist and the prisoners will be moved or murdered. Do you want to take your chances on which it will be? You need to get out of here, hide and wait for the Russians. It’s your best chance. By far.’
She swallowed. The shock she felt at seeing a man she’d thought was dead was one thing. That he should turn out to be Brandt was another thing again. And then there was the news about the camp – his proposal for an escape.
‘Where?’ It was the only word she could manage.
‘Close by. Hopefully tonight or tomorrow night. There’s no time to lose. Well?’
She nodded her agreement. She needed to think, and if she agreed then maybe he’d leave her alone.
‘Good. Don’t tell the others yet. If we have to delay it, then I don’t want any of them walking around with my name in their pocket. One of you is enough. Do you understand?’
She felt panic rising in her, but something else as well. She nodded again.
‘I’ll let you know more this afternoon. Now eat the damned cheese and bread. I’ll keep watch. Tell me when you’ve finished.’
She heard him walk towards the staircase that led to the floor above. She reached for the bread and began to tear at it, stuffing it in her face – as if the food might force out the fear as well as her hunger. When she had finished she ran her hand over the counter, scooping up the few crumbs that were left and putting those in her mouth as well.
‘I’m finished,’ she said.
Brandt didn’t respond but she heard him make his way to the upper floor, leaving her alone.
She turned back to her laundry, picking up another napkin, pushing it down into the soapy water. She needed to calm down, she told herself. She needed to stop the tears that were falling into the sink beneath her.
53
BRANDT STUMBLED as he climbed the stairs, reaching out for the wall to hold himself straight. He was struggling to think clearly and each movement he made seemed somehow distant from his intention. He paused, his breathing erratic. It was cold inside the hut but here he was, sweating. His body and mind were not quite connecting – either with each other or with the world around them. He needed to calm himself.
There was no turning back now, and that was just as well. He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he had expected from Agneta or, rather, sought – but it hadn’t been that she would deny his existence. It didn’t matter – he was committed to his course. His fate, however, was in the hands of others, and perhaps it was this realization that had left him suddenly drained and distraught. Monika and Agneta wouldn’t betray him voluntarily, he didn’t think, but Jäger was uncertain. Then there was Bobrik, Neumann, Peichl and even the mayor. It only needed one indiscretion or suspicion and his plan would collapse. And if the Commandant gave an order before he’d managed to get them out, then all of this would end in failure anyway.
And even if he were successful, outside the perimeter fence there were a hundred things that could go wrong in the short distance to the small barn. Perhaps he would have more courage and belief if Agneta had acknowledged him. Or perhaps this whole scheme was a self-indulgent attempt to wash away his own guilt about acts that could never be, and never should be, forgiven.
Perhaps he thought too much. But time moved slowly when each second had the potential for disaster – and what else was he to do?
He found himself standing in the men’s washroom, in front of the toilet Jäger had mentioned. He took off the porcelain cover and found a small oilskin package. He unwrapped it. The pistol was small and silver. He discharged the magazine. Fully loaded.
He replaced it, uncertain whether its presence was good news or bad news.
54
NEUMANN LOOKED across the dining room. The windows were scatter-crusted with wind-driven snow while outside the trees bowed under their white winter weight. Wolf padded around the room, his nose grazing the floor. Every now and then he would look up to check on Neumann’s well-being and Neumann would see the hound’s tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, his eyes jolly with anticipation. Wolf didn’t care about the future, or the past. He looked no further ahead than the prospect of scraps from the table.
Neumann heard the footsteps of the auxiliaries approaching and straightened in his seat. He would exude confidence.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said, standi
ng.
Werth, the plain one, had oiled her mousy hair so that it hung over her pasty face like something dead. Beck, at least, looked pretty this morning.
‘Good morning, Herr Obersturmführer.’
They spoke in unison.
‘Well?’ he asked, when they had sat down.
His question came out like one of Wolf’s barks. He should have let them speak first – relax a little. The two auxiliaries looked at each other and he was certain something passed between them. He wondered what they’d been discussing before they came into the room. As if he didn’t know.
Wolf, meanwhile, having completed his examination of the room, came over to Anna Beck and, to her embarrassment, buried his long nose in her lap, ferreting around as if he thought something might be buried there. Beck pushed at the dog’s head but she was too nervous, not forceful enough. Neumann spoke sharply to the dog: ‘Wolf, get over here.’
Wolf left the poor woman alone and circled the table to take his position alongside Neumann’s chair, his head angled towards him and his eyes alert. Neumann could see how frightened the SS woman had been. He felt some sympathy for her.
‘He’s a pet, Fräulein Beck. He’s not one of the other dogs. The ones at the camp. There’s no need to be nervous of him. He’s affectionate.’
Beck said nothing. Neumann pulled the napkin out of its holder and examined it – he would have demanded explanations for its condition not that long ago, but what would be the point now? He’d only get the same old excuses – the soap was shit, the napkins were old. There was a war on.
‘Say something, for God’s sake,’ Neumann said.
The auxiliaries looked at him with wide eyes. If he was honest, his outburst had come as a surprise to him as well.
‘We were talking about the weather, Herr Obersturmführer,’ Werth said, her gaze avoiding his. ‘It snowed last night.’
‘I can see it has snowed – I’ve just walked the length of the building, past window after window – all I’ve seen is snow. You can barely see out the windows for snow.’
‘Fräulein Werth didn’t mean to be disrespectful, Herr Obersturmführer.’
Was Beck whimpering now? He found his irritation was increasing. He should have left Wolf to carry on.
‘I didn’t think she was being disrespectful. If I did think such a thing’ – he looked hard at Werth – ‘there would be consequences.’
He paused, even more irritated with them – and also himself.
‘I’m only surprised you didn’t hear the guns last night. I would have thought any sane person would have been taking about them. About the Russian offensive which has just begun.’
Beck’s eyes were red now and she began to sniff. He found himself scowling. Why should she be crying? All Beck would have to do was pack her clothes and move to a new posting. All she had to do was as she was told.
‘Have you spoken to the camp?’ he asked, knowing that they would have been on to their fellow telephonists there. ‘Do you have any news from the Front? Something useful to tell me?’
Werth nodded.
‘The radio says that our men are repelling the invader, Herr Obersturmführer – the girls at the camp know nothing more than that. Not yet, at least.’
‘I see.’ A muscle was twitching in his cheek – he lifted a finger to hold it steady. Outside, four of the women prisoners were clearing the snow. He wondered what had happened to the fifth. If Peichl had murdered her, he would give him to Jäger and have done with it.
‘Herr Obersturmführer, the girls at the camp . . .’ Werth paused. ‘They say that the prisoners are to be marched to the west. That the first columns will be leaving tomorrow.’
He must instil confidence in them – that was his duty as their superior officer.
‘They are needed elsewhere.’
‘They say some of the officers have left without permission,’ Beck said.
Werth spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
‘They told the girls they don’t want to end up with a hangman’s noose around their necks, or worse.’
Neumann wondered if she was aware how her hands were twisting around her throat – as if she were making a noose for herself with her fingers.
‘What about us? What will they do to us?’ Beck’s voice was shrill and her knuckles white around the spoon she held in her hand.
He wished he hadn’t come to breakfast – he wished he’d gone straight to his office.
‘The girls at the camp say they’ve begun to evacuate German civilians from Krakow and Katowitz. That the same will be happening here soon.’
Neumann slammed the table. The crockery and cutlery lifted as one, then crashed back down. Nothing broke. That was something.
‘That is enough.’
He felt ashamed of himself. Why shouldn’t they ask such questions? Except that if everyone was always asking questions, what kind of order could there be?
‘I will call the Commandant. Until we have orders we proceed as always. No doubt our men will counter-attack today or tomorrow. A battle goes back and forth before the final victory is achieved. Do you understand?’
The door opened behind him as he spoke and, without looking, Neumann knew it must be Jäger. He should have cut his throat at the sink.
‘Quite right, Neumann.’
They made to rise, to acknowledge his superior rank.
‘No need for that on my account. Stay seated, please.’
Jäger walked around the table to sit opposite him. Wolf went and placed his head against Jäger’s elbow. The SS man reached back, rubbing the dog between the ears. Wolf’s eyes hooded with pleasure – the treacherous beast.
Jäger’s complexion was nearly as pale as Beck’s.
‘Did you sleep well, Herr Hauptsturmführer?’
Jäger nodded absently before turning to face the table. ‘I would like to taste real coffee again,’ he said, sniffing at the coffee pot.
Anna Beck sniffed. Neumann hoped she wasn’t going to cry again.
‘What will happen, Herr Hauptsturmführer?’ Werth asked. ‘Now that the Russians have attacked?’
Neumann glared at her, but she was oblivious. She only had eyes for the tanker in his black uniform, the silver badges on his collar and shoulders and his calm, grey eyes. The Hauptsturmführer put his hands on the table and turned them palm-upwards, lifting one and then the other.
‘To you? I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I’m not certain it will matter much. Human beings are insignificant as individuals, don’t you agree?’
Fat tears rolled unwiped down Anna Beck’s pretty face. Outside, in the laneway, Peichl began to shout and swear at the women – threatening them with the foulest depravities.
Neumann looked over at Jäger, who returned his gaze and smiled.
55
ALL THE COLOUR had been sucked from the world. Everything was white. Except for the black river and the grey-green pontoon bridge.
Polya opened the driver’s hatch wide to have as good a view as possible. Her face was numbed by the wind-driven snow but inside her uniform she was sweating. It was hard physical work to steer the tank – harder still at low speed – and perhaps her nervousness wasn’t helping. They were only a few metres behind another of the battalion’s tanks – close enough to be half-poisoned by its diesel fumes. The other side of the river was far away – when she could even see it through the swirling snow. It was sluggish, the river, as if it were about to ice over. And evil – she’d seen it kill once already this morning.
Despite the roar of the engine she could hear her heart thudding in her ears. She could taste blood in her mouth from where she’d bitten her tongue. The thought of letting go of one of the steering levers to wipe the snow off her face made her sweat even more. She would have to put up with it until the other side. She pushed Galechka forward and asked the Virgin for her protection.
The pontoon bridge swayed as it took the tank’s weight and she felt her stomach sway with it. Behind them
was a never-ending line of tanks, trucks, carts, horses, self-propelled guns, jeeps, wagons and the Lord knew what else. They would have another bridge in operation within hours, they said – but for the moment half the Red Army was coming over this one narrow, bucking path.
If only there was a wall or something to work off – even on one side – that would be something, at least. Instead they advanced between two lines of soldiers who crossed the river at a run, weighed down with weapons and kit. Officers and NCOs yelled them on. If one of them stumbled, he’d be gone – either into the river or under a tank. The choice was his. The man she’d seen die had chosen the river – and the river had swallowed him whole.
Lapshin had his feet on her shoulders, pressing one then the other to tell her what he wanted from her. His touch was gentle, not like in a battle. His feet almost caressed her shoulders. If they were in a fight, he’d be kicking and pushing her as if she were the tank itself. Then, likely as not, she wouldn’t be able to see what was going on so she would just do what his feet told her. Now she could see as well as he could, and his guidance was unnecessary. She didn’t mind it, though. In fact, as she hauled and pushed on the steering levers, trying to keep the tracks straight while keeping their place behind the T34 in front, she found Lapshin’s feet comforting. They were a welcome distraction from the fear.
It was difficult to be accurate with a fifteen-tonne machine and a bridge that rolled under its weight. Not least because the most important thing was to keep moving, to be confident. Lapshin had been clear about that. She had to use her fear, not let it incapacitate her. Her sweat was pooling wherever it found a hollow or curve – she’d suffer when it cooled. A rotten cold, that’s what she’d have.
The tank in front slowed and she prayed it wouldn’t stop. Lapshin had told her the tank commanders had orders to push tanks out of the way if they got into difficulties – and good luck swimming to the crews inside. What if they had to do that to the fool in front? But then with a slight twitch of its tail, the forward tank picked up speed and Polya eased up behind it, breathing once again.
