The Constant Soldier

by William Ryan

  ‘Herr Brandt?’

  The boy’s voice startled him. For a moment he looked around, confused as to where the voice had come from.

  ‘Herr Brandt?’

  ‘Wessel.’ Brandt could see him now, standing in the shadow of a barn alongside another of the Hitler Youth – Müller. He pulled the horses to a halt.

  ‘What are you two up to?’

  ‘Keeping the road clear for military traffic, Herr Brandt. This side of it, anyway. Mayor Weber has ordered it. The Zugführer, I mean.’

  Scraps of Wessel’s black fringe snuck out from underneath his helmet.

  ‘Has there been any military traffic?’ Brandt asked, looking at the empty half of the road – a contrast to the other side and its sad cavalcade.

  ‘There was a car,’ Müller said. ‘It went up to the hut.’

  ‘The hut?’

  ‘Yes, SS. An officer and a driver.’

  Brandt tightened his grip around the reins. He had been a fool.

  ‘Where are your families?’

  ‘They’ve gone. Our mothers wanted us to go with them, but the mayor sent them packing.’

  Wessel seemed, on balance, pleased with this development, but Müller looked away and Brandt saw his lower lip swell downwards. How old was he? Twelve?

  ‘You know where they’ve gone to, though. You’ll see them soon.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wessel said. ‘My mother’s sister lives near Munich.’

  Müller said nothing.

  ‘Most of the older men have run for it,’ Wessel went on cheerfully. ‘The mayor’s not happy about that. You stayed though, Herr Brandt.’

  ‘Of course. Keep warm and stay alert. Everything will be all right, I’m sure of it. Understood, Müller?’

  Müller attempted a smile. Brandt flicked the horse into a trot and pointed the cart up one of the side streets that led, indirectly, into the village’s square, the cart’s wheels rumbling over the icy cobbles. Brandt was pleased to be away from the refugees.

  When he came out just in front of the church, he had to pull to a sharp halt when a car, travelling at speed, turned the corner into the square. Brandt recognized it from the hut. A long-bonneted, low-slung, military grey Mercedes, its chromed furnishings covered with dull paint and its fat, frog’s eye headlamps lidded with blackout covers that left only the narrowest of slits. As it drove quickly past him he caught a glimpse of Schlosser, one of the Commandant’s staff, in the front passenger seat – a sub-machine gun held across his chest, while in the back the two female auxiliaries sat. Anna Beck’s unnaturally round eyes meeting his for a second as the car sped past, her face pinched down to the bones beneath her skin. Then the car was gone.

  Brandt forced himself to sit still for a moment. He shouldn’t rush. He should allow the horse to trot, but no faster than that. That would be the sensible approach – to keep a consistent pace. But up ahead, from the direction of the hut, a thin column of smoke rose up into the sky.

  Perhaps the time for caution was past.

  71

  NEUMANN watched the car disappear around a bend in the road. After a few moments, even the sound of its engine receded to nothing. Neumann pushed at the papers in the brazier with the brass poker he’d brought out from the dining room – they curled and crackled as the flames consumed them. The heat was melting the snow, revealing dead wet grass. It was a depressing task, burning the papers, and futile, surely. It was impossible to cover up what had been done. What other explanation could there be for the missing people, the empty houses and deserted ghettoes than that they had been murdered by men like him?

  At least the auxiliaries were off his hands. He was glad he no longer had any responsibility for them. Let the Commandant worry about them.

  He poked at the fire once again and, satisfied, left the flames to do their work. He climbed the steps to the hut with heavy feet. Fear was tiring. Burying bodies was tiring. Burning papers, it turned out, was tiring as well.

  Inside the hut, the only sound was the slow tick of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall – that and the creak of the floorboards underneath his weight. The emptiness was profound. He parted still air when he moved.

  He remembered the times when the hut had been busy and the officers – the overseers and specialists necessary to their enterprise – had sat in these chairs and stood in these rooms. They’d all had different roles. The architects and engineers who’d overseen the construction of the buildings, the accountants who’d collected the loot and balanced the budgets, the medical men who had chosen who could work and who should die, the transport officers who’d scheduled the trains and trucks that had brought people and materials to that small town further down the river where they’d built the camp. And then arranged to have the clothes, shoes, money, suitcases, spectacles and even the very hair from the heads of the murdered taken away in their turn.

  It had been a production line. Perhaps the technical nature of many of their tasks had allowed those overseeing its smooth running to ignore the horror of it. Each role was insignificant in itself yet each was vital to the whole. The men who counted the foreign currency were just as guilty as the men who operated the gas chambers. And so, for that matter, was he.

  He could argue, perhaps, that he was not as guilty as others. But, when it came to the crimes that had been committed, did being less guilty make a difference? He didn’t think it would matter to the Russians. It didn’t matter to him. And anyway, all he had to do was remember the way his bayonet had scraped against the spine of the old man. For that alone, he deserved his fate.

  Neumann crossed to the window, looking out at the snow-crusted buildings, the humped back of the bunker, the guard tower, the fence. He was close enough to mist the glass, obscuring some of his reflection. Dark, tired eyes returned his gaze. He looked older than he remembered.

  72

  BRANDT DIDN’T have to pull on the reins to halt the horse. It stopped of its own accord, wheezing great plumes of steamy breath. He pulled the wooden brake and swung himself down from the seat. The five women were throwing the last of the earth onto the burial pit and they were alive. That was good. He walked over to Fischer, the boy who was guarding them. The boy looked cold but proud of the responsibility he’d been given.

  ‘Show me your rifle, Fischer.’

  The boy held it towards him. The safety was off and Brandt pushed it back on. He let loose some of the tension and anger he felt when he spoke. Enough to frighten the boy, he hoped.

  ‘Your task is to guard these prisoners, Fischer. Nothing more. If you shoot one by accident, I shoot you. On purpose. Is that understood?’

  The boy nodded – his face pale, his mouth open.

  ‘Brandt?’

  Neumann stood on the hut’s steps, his hands deep in the pockets of a greatcoat. He looked at Fischer then back to Brandt. Had he overheard him? Brandt raised his hand to salute him.

  ‘Herr Obersturmführer.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  Neumann turned to re-enter the hut and Brandt took the opportunity to look properly at the women. Their hands were skin-covered bones, blue against the worn wooden handles. Their fear was apparent in the stiffness of their postures, their tight-skinned faces.

  ‘I promise it, Fischer,’ he said to the boy as he passed.

  It was cold inside the hut. Brandt was surprised to find it annoyed him.

  ‘I’ll see to the fires, Herr Obersturmführer. I should have done it before I left.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Neumann said, making for the dining room. The long oak table glistened as Neumann walked its length – trailing a finger along its surface. At the far end, he turned.

  ‘The mayor has asked to use the hut as a base for the Volkssturm. His . . .’ Neumann hesitated, perhaps unsure how to describe the youths that made up the unit, ‘. . . men can sleep in the guards’ dormitory. Weber can sleep in one of the officers’ rooms. You too. The Volkssturm can eat in the kitchen with the guards. The mayor and I will eat here. You will j
oin us.’

  ‘I—’ Brandt began, searching for an excuse.

  ‘Would be honoured, surely?’

  Brandt found himself shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He stopped – forcing himself to stand still and meet the SS man’s gaze. He wondered if Neumann was mocking him.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’ll eat what the men eat, but search the cellar – let’s drink something good. The Ukrainians as well.’ Neumann paused before continuing. ‘But not the mayor’s men, I don’t think. Certainly not the very young ones.’

  ‘As you wish, Herr Obersturmführer.’

  ‘And Brandt?’

  Neumann paused once again and, unless Brandt was much mistaken, observed him closely.

  ‘Be sure to prepare provisions for the women. For their journey. It is likely to be chaotic. Who knows what arrangements have been made for feeding the prisoners on the march? Perhaps none.’

  Brandt was certain now that there was an edge to Neumann’s instruction. As if he was looking for some kind of reaction. He did his best to give him none.

  73

  THE BOY STOOD to attention when Brandt came down the steps. Agneta looked up and felt hope inside her once again, warming her.

  ‘I need some of you inside – there’s work to be done. You, you and you.’

  Brandt pointed to the two Bible students, Katerina and Gertrud – then at her. His tone was brusque. Exactly as it should be.

  ‘You two,’ he said to the others. ‘Finish as soon as you can. It’s warmer inside. Fischer, send them straight in when it’s done.’

  Brandt led the way to the kitchen, giving instructions as he walked.

  ‘I need some bedrooms made up – that will be your job, Gruber. As for you two,’ Brandt turned his attention to the two Bible students. ‘You have cooking to do – but, first let’s light the fires and put some heat back into this place. Quickly now. Gruber, follow me.’

  Agneta followed him into the dining room, where Brandt turned the key in a heavy oak cabinet. The inside sparkled with silver.

  ‘I need you to set the table for three. Get to work,’ he said, perhaps a little too loudly. Neumann must be in his office.

  She watched him leave before walking over to the cabinet. As she reached towards the pile of linen tablecloths, she saw he had left the cutlery canteen open and there, twinkling up at her, lay a small, sharp kitchen knife. She picked it up and then placed it back down immediately – Brandt had come back into the room. She turned, and saw his gaze fall from hers to the knife.

  ‘The plan is that the guards will leave tomorrow evening – to go to the mine camp,’ he said in a low voice. ‘They are to take you with them. All of you. From there, they are to march to another camp to the west – I don’t know where. I’m not sure Neumann does either.’

  She felt her hope sink slowly down through her body, down her thighs, her calves, until it reached her feet.

  ‘I have a plan of my own,’ he said. His gaze pointed to the knife. ‘But if things change suddenly, you might need that. The situation is chaotic, as you know.’

  She picked up the knife. She knew she wouldn’t last more than a day or two on a march in this weather. Maybe she should use the knife on herself.

  74

  ‘WELL?’ ADAMIK, the blonde Ukrainian, turned when Brandt entered the dormitory. Sixteen beds – eight facing eight. A muddle of blankets on some of the beds, clothing and equipment strewn on the floor.

  ‘This place is a mess,’ Brandt said.

  ‘It’s not as if Peichl is around to tell us what to do, and Neumann doesn’t come down here. Anyway, what concern is it of yours?’

  ‘The boy soldiers are sleeping here tonight.’

  ‘More fool them.’

  He spoke quietly now, his gaze having shifted to the ceiling. Brandt could hear footsteps in the room above. Neumann’s bedroom. And if Brandt could hear the creak of his leather boots each time Neumann turned, then Neumann could probably hear their conversation down here just as easily.

  ‘The prisoners will prepare food for your journey. How much can you carry, do you think?’ Brandt asked. He spoke carefully, measuring each word.

  ‘As much as we can get in our rucksacks,’ Adamik said. Neumann walked back and forth, stopping always at a point about two metres from the window. Where his bed was. Perhaps he was also packing.

  ‘It will be a cold march – to the west.’

  ‘And a long one. But we’ll manage, I think.’

  Brandt held Adamik’s gaze.

  ‘I think I have everything you’ll need for your journey. In terms of rations, certainly.’

  He wanted to be certain he understood and, after a moment, the Ukrainian gave the smallest of nods.

  ‘That’s kind of you. Good luck for the future, Brandt. Don’t get caught by the Bolsheviks – or anyone else.’

  Adamik closed the small bag he had been filling with possessions, nodded once again and left the room.

  Brandt stood for a moment, thinking – then began stripping the dead guards’ beds, as quickly as he could.

  §

  Upstairs, Neumann changed his mind. He picked up the pack and emptied its contents back onto the bed. He placed the photograph of his wife and children on the bedside table, angling it so that it caught the light. Then he began to return the clothes to the wardrobe.

  He wasn’t leaving just yet.

  75

  AT DINNER, Brandt drank sparingly. He was tired and he was angry and he didn’t want to show it inadvertently. The mayor had arrested six men during the course of the day as suspected deserters and locked them in the barn outside with a guard keeping watch over them. Now he was talking about holding a court martial. Then there was the anxiety. He thought of his father and Katerina, Monika and the women.

  ‘Brandt?’

  He turned to find Neumann examining him.

  ‘Are you all right? You seem quiet.’

  Brandt wondered how to respond. What did he expect from him? If the SS man wanted livelier company, he should dig up Peichl.

  ‘I apologize, Herr Obersturmführer. A long day and a long night before it.’

  ‘Of course. How is your wound?’

  ‘I find wine helps,’ he said, drinking from the glass he held in his hand. Perhaps it was his exhaustion but the SS runes on Neumann’s collar, shimmering in the candlelight, writhed like small silver snakes. Brandt reminded himself, again, to be careful.

  ‘You are an example to us all, Brandt,’ the mayor said, ‘I knew you wouldn’t desert the men. Not in their moment of destiny.’

  The mayor was delighted with his new uniform. Rachel, the Jewish prisoner, had made it up for him and it fitted snugly – too snugly. Weber’s neck bulged over his collar, so that he looked as if he were being throttled by a silver-piped noose. Brandt wondered if Rachel had made it too tight on purpose. The mayor hadn’t been happy when Brandt had asked him to call in all the checkpoints except for the four boys guarding the dam. He’d agreed with the decision when Brandt had explained they were down to fourteen, including Brandt and the mayor, and the remaining boys would need sleep. But still, it seemed, he felt his authority had been questioned. He had been truculent all evening.

  ‘What is their destiny, Herr Zugführer?’

  The irony in Neumann’s question wasn’t lost on Brandt.

  The mayor gave no immediate answer. He turned his attention to his plate, the sheen of sweat on his round forehead flickering in the firelight as he did so. He’d been drinking steadily since he’d sat down.

  ‘To do whatever our Führer demands of them,’ he said eventually. ‘They are soldiers now. They will defend the village and the dam until the last man.’

  ‘The last man?’ Neumann’s smiled appeared lopsided. The slight emphasis on ‘man’ wasn’t lost on Brandt.

  ‘If needs be,’ the mayor said. He leant forward, making a fist of his hand and placing it on the table. His expression was so grave as to be ridiculou
s. ‘We must be prepared for the ultimate sacrifice.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Neumann began to laugh. At first it sounded more like a strangled bark than a laugh. There was no joy in the sound but there was no doubt whatsoever that the SS man was amused at the mayor’s expense. Brandt kept his eyes fixed on the mayor, seeing his confusion turn to anger.

  ‘I don’t understand why you are behaving this way, Herr Obersturmführer,’ the mayor said when Neumann paused for breath.

  Neumann sat back, wiping his eyes with a napkin. His lopsided smile was back in place.

  ‘You’re correct. It wasn’t a very funny joke.’

  The brittle ringing of the phone broke the silence. Neumann waited for a few moments before pushing back his chair.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, I’d better see who it is. Who knows, Weber? Perhaps the Russians have heard about your men and surrendered.’

  The mayor waited until the SS man had left the room before he turned his attention to Brandt. His mouth was pursed.

  ‘I’m disappointed. It’s shocking to hear an SS man talk that way. I should call the Commandant and report him. It is precisely this kind of defeatism that has led us to this point. It was the same in the last war. People lost their will.’

  Brandt watched Weber wind himself into a stiff coil of righteous rage – and all he saw was the fear. He kept silent. He would wait his time.

  ‘Was the meal all right?’ he asked. Only for something to say.

  ‘Yes,’ Weber said, pleased to change the subject. ‘Very good. And the wine as well.’

  As if to underline the point, the mayor drank from his glass. A red drop rolled from the side of his mouth.