by William Ryan
‘Can you see it?’
A guard’s voice – anxious.
‘Behind the chapel, he said. It’s quiet here, he chose well.’
Agneta felt as if someone else walked the short distance towards the clearing. As though she watched the women from a distance, like they were actors in a play – their movements delicate, considered, full of meaning. The sensation was so real that she began to doubt herself. Perhaps this was all a dream. Perhaps she could wake up from it.
They turned the chapel’s corner. There was no graveyard. No half-dug trench. There was only a wagon and a horse, its head bowed. It snorted.
A cough, from the darkness. ‘You’re late.’
There was the flash of a match that illuminated a man’s face and the cigarette that hung from his thin, twisted mouth.
Brandt.
83
BRANDT LIT one of the storm lanterns he’d brought with him – then the other. The yellow glow it produced was just enough to light the gaunt, terrified faces of the women. Behind them the guards stood, fingers on the triggers of their rifles, their wary eyes hooded by darkness. Adamik stepped forward, allowing the muzzle of the rifle to drop away as he did so. Brandt was pleased it was no longer pointing at his stomach.
‘Neumann kept us waiting,’ Adamik said.
‘Well, you’re here now.’
‘Have you got everything?’
‘The clothing is in the chapel. You can change in there. Here are your papers. I’ve lifted some floorboards – put the uniforms under and I’ll nail them down later. Best not to leave them lying around. The army are digging in further up the valley but the ice on the reservoir will bear your weight.’
One of the Ukrainians laughed quietly. A sound of delight – joy, almost. As if he thought he could just take off the green-grey tunic, put on some old clothes and all would be well with the world – as if the past were something a man could choose to forget or to invent as it suited him.
‘And?’
‘Here.’
Brandt handed the envelopes over. The SS man made a show of counting the money. Then weighing the teeth in his hand. He smiled.
‘What about our rifles?’
‘They can go with the uniforms. Leave them against the wall.’
The women were staring at him as though they didn’t believe he existed.
‘Didn’t I tell you things would take a turn for the better?’ Brandt said.
The women said nothing and he didn’t expect them to, not in front of the guards. But when he led them into the trees, using the lantern to show the way, they were still silent, and it bothered him. He wasn’t sure what he expected from them – there wasn’t time for conversation – but still.
‘Here it is,’ he said, and showed them the low wooden building, not much taller than he was. It was hidden in the trees. Even now, the roof was sound and it was as good a place as any to hide five women. He had made sure of it over the summer, fixing the windows and replacing rotten planks. He pushed open the door.
‘It’s not warm, but it’s dry – more or less – and we have plenty of blankets for you. Some mattresses to lie on as well. You can’t start a fire, of course, or have light – but, well, it’s safe enough, I should think. There’s no one left to come looking for you, after all.’
As if to give the lie to this, a branch cracked outside and they all turned at once. A figure appeared in the doorway, too small to be a soldier.
‘Paul?’
Monika. She must have been waiting in the trees, ready to make a quick escape if his plans had gone awry.
‘This is my sister, Monika. She’ll do what she can for you.’
The women still hadn’t spoken. They seemed incapable of speech.
‘Paul,’ Monika said again, her voice sounding distorted, as if something were holding her mouth in a strange shape. He turned to examine her. She appeared frightened, more so than she should be.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Hubert. He’s been detained by Weber.’
He took hold of her arm, reassuring her, he hoped.
‘Where?’
‘Near home. We were on our way here.’
‘Did Weber see you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But he knew who Hubert was.’
‘He must do.’
Brandt handed her the lantern, then turned to the women.
‘I have to go. One of us will check on you as soon as we can. Monika, if you see Pavel, tell him to stay away from the roads until this is over.’
He caught Agneta’s eye and did his best to smile.
‘I have to go, but I hope we’ll have a cup of real coffee again one day. Perhaps in Austria? In front of the Hotel Imperial.’
Agneta nodded, but said nothing. And, anyway, there wasn’t time for talk.
§
The Ukrainians were waiting for Brandt when he reached the wagon – dressed, he could see by the weak lantern light, in the clothing of various members of the Brandt family. He put his hand in his pocket, Jäger’s automatic warm in his hand.
‘Well?’ he said as he neared them. ‘Shouldn’t you be off?’
‘We’re going. We just wanted to thank you.’
Brandt stopped in his tracks, considering Adamik’s outstretched hand. If he took it, and it was held, he’d be defenceless. He hesitated.
‘Don’t worry, Brandt. We mean you no harm.’
‘I’m not worried,’ Brandt lied.
Adamik’s grip was firm, and Brandt got his hand back. The others offered theirs in turn. Afterwards they stood in an awkward semicircle, facing him.
‘Well, then,’ Adamik said. ‘We have plenty of distance to cover by morning.’
He watched them until they were out of sight. He was glad they carried with them the small clots of gold mined from the teeth of the dead and the money that hadn’t belonged to him. They had left their rifles leaning against the wall of the chapel and he took them inside, pushing them in with the uniforms and then hammering the floorboards back into place. When he was finished, he pressed his foot down – no creak, no movement. They might never be found.
Outside, he pulled himself up to the wagon’s seat and with a click of his tongue and a flick of the traces, he pointed the horse in the direction of the hut. More than once he expected to see armed men coming out of the trees, so strong was the impression that he was being watched. But there was no one.
He had done it.
84
IT WAS COLD – but they were warm. They’d placed one mattress against the wall and the other on the floor. They sat in a row, hip to bony hip, elbow to elbow, clean soft blankets that had belonged to free, living people covering them – their noses poking over the top. They had warm soup in their stomachs and the smell of it lingered. Chicken soup. It smelled like somewhere safe and far away.
It was dark in the shed. She could see nothing. She could hear the others, their breathing, the rustle of clothing when one of them moved. Sometimes there were sounds from outside. Planes occasionally flew overhead – she followed their trajectory in her mind’s eye. She imagined the pilots sitting in their glass bubbles. Perhaps this one was looking for Germans to bomb – she wished him well. She imagined him looking down on the fighting far below. Orange explosions lighting up snowfields, yellow fire where whole towns burned. She imagined the long line of these signs of war, stretching from north to south – advancing, kilometre by kilometre, towards the west. Towards them. ‘He must have planned it for months,’ Katerina said.
‘He did,’ Agneta agreed, her fondness for Brandt colouring her voice. ‘But when we were walking up that lane. In the dark . . .’
‘I thought the same,’ Joanna said.
‘We should thank God.’
Gertrud’s voice strained for breath. It must be tiring, believing in God in the middle of all this. Agneta wanted to ask how she could still do it, after all she’d seen in the camp. How could a God, a supreme being, have allowe
d such things to happen? But let her thank her God if she wanted to.
‘He was right not to warn us,’ Agneta said. ‘Brandt, that is.’
‘Do you really think we’re safe?’ Rachel asked. ‘Really?’
‘Safer than we were, that’s certain.’
‘We should get some sleep,’ Joanna said.
‘I don’t want to sleep,’ Agneta said. ‘I want to stay awake.’
And she did. When the dawn came, she wanted to watch the sky above them through the small window. Perhaps the sun might even shine.
But, even as she began to imagine the light changing, she could feel her eyes closing.
85
THE ROAD WAS emptier now. Most of the refugees had stopped for the night and, in a field down by the frozen reservoir, he could see a circle of wagons and carts that had gathered around a bonfire. Shadow figures moving in its light seemed to be engaged in some kind of dance at first, but when he came closer he realized they were throwing their belongings into the flames rather than leave them for the Russians.
‘Halt.’
He must be tired – the checkpoint was signalled by three lanterns and a fire and he had almost crashed into it. The young voice that called out was confident, accustomed to being obeyed. He looked to see who it was. Wessel – the crow-haired boy from the other side of the valley, his rifle now pointed squarely at Brandt’s head. Again. Brandt lifted his hand slowly, as if to shield his eyes from the lantern light.
‘It’s me, Wessel. Brandt.’
Müller stood beside Wessel, carrying his rifle under his arm. Three men, all far older than the boys, sat on the snow at the side of the road, their hands on their heads, their sideways gaze fixed on Brandt. Further along from them, illuminated by the fire, a body slumped against a low wall, a placard fixed to his front.
‘Herr Brandt,’ Wessel said. ‘I thought you might be another deserter.’
He lowered his rifle slowly, as if reluctant to believe he wasn’t, even now.
‘What deserters?’
‘That one for a start.’ Wessel pointed to the dead man. ‘And these three are French workers.’
‘What does the sign on the dead man say?’
‘A traitor to his people and his Führer.’
The dead man looked to be about the same age as Brandt’s father. There was an iron cross on his chest and a dark red crust had formed around the collar of his shirt, underneath his silver hair. Without the blood, and the scrawled message, you might believe the dead man had simply sat down for a rest.
‘The mayor did this?’ Brandt asked, knowing the answer.
‘This one kicked up. The others have been taken up to the hut. These three just arrived. I thought we’d better hold them and wait and see what the mayor said.’
Müller spoke up, looking uncertainly at the dead man.
‘He said he was too old for the Volkssturm. The mayor didn’t believe him.’
Brandt wondered how many men like the mayor were between his father and safety. He wondered also how he was going to put a stop to this madness.
‘I don’t think these men are dangerous,’ Brandt said. ‘Do you?’
They returned his gaze, their faces grave – coming to a decision. Wessel exchanged a glance with Müller.
‘No,’ Müller said in a firm voice.
Wessel nodded reluctantly. Brandt nodded to the prisoners.
‘You can go.’
The men looked at him in surprise before backing slowly away. Once they were away from the circle of light around the bonfire he heard them break into a run. ‘Jump up. There’s no need for this checkpoint this late. We’ll need you fresh tomorrow. Come on.’
Müller smiled as he climbed up beside him, but Wessel looked more reserved. Brandt looked down at the dead man and wished he could have seen him buried, but they had no spades and the ground was still frozen hard.
And there wasn’t any time.
86
ONE OF THE BOYS, Jünger, was on duty at the gatehouse. He waved as they approached.
‘Herr Brandt,’ he said – Brandt could hear a breathless relief. ‘We were worried something had happened to you.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen to me anytime soon.’ Brandt spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel. ‘I hear we have taken some more prisoners.’
‘They’re in the bunker.’
‘How many?’
‘Seven.’
‘Seven traitors.’ Wessel’s voice reminded Brandt of an angry wasp. ‘And it should be ten.’
Brandt turned to look at the boy, holding his gaze until Wessel had the good sense to look away.
‘You think I’m a traitor too, Wessel?’
Wessel said nothing.
‘Take over from Jünger. Maybe you need a few hours out here to clear your head.’
‘I wish to speak to the Zugführer,’ Wessel said. Brandt reached out and grabbed the back of the boy’s helmet, pushing him forwards until his head was between his legs. He rapped the helmet twice to make his point.
‘Wessel. You are a soldier now. Not a child. Behave like one. Any more disrespect to your superiors and you will also be seeing the inside of the bunker. Understood?’
The boy looked up at him, his eyes wet. Brandt could see anger in the thin mouth but he could live with that.
‘Understood?’
‘Of course, Herr Brandt.’
‘Good. You others, see to the horse and then go inside for food. There is stew in the oven. Jünger, once you’ve had yours come out here and send Wessel in.’
Wessel couldn’t help but look relieved.
‘Everyone needs hot food, Wessel. You as well.’
Seven men in the bunker. One of them Hubert. And the bunker’s key sitting in his pocket.
‘Obersturmführer Neumann asked to see you when you came in,’ Jünger told him as they led the horse towards the barn. Brandt nodded his acknowledgement.
It was warm inside the entrance hall but the electricity was off. It came as no surprise. The only light came from the embers in the fireplace. He put on some kindling and more logs. There were voices coming from the dining room. Neumann. Brandt wondered why he hadn’t left and how that might affect whatever the situation might be with the mayor. He would soon find out.
‘Well, Brandt?’ the mayor said when he entered the dining room. ‘You have things to tell us, don’t you?’
The mayor’s cheeks were red in the candlelight. They appeared to have only recently finished eating. Three bottles – two empty and one half full – stood on the table between them and the mayor’s voice was slurred. Neumann, in contrast, appeared quite sober. He waved Brandt towards them.
‘Join us, Brandt.’
Neumann smiled a welcome then glanced toward the mayor before raising an eyebrow to Brandt. It felt like a warning.
‘Thank you, Herr Obersturmführer,’ Brandt said, sitting down. He took his time, settling himself in the chair.
‘You visited the positions at the top of the valley?’ the mayor asked.
He wasn’t quite drunk, Brandt decided, but he was close enough as made no difference.
‘Just now. They’re well dug in with artillery and some tanks. I explained our situation to an army Hauptmann. He gave me written orders for you, Herr Zugführer.’
‘Can he order me about, do you think? An army Hauptmann?’ Weber asked, his words slurring once again. ‘Where does a Hauptmann stand in relation to a Zugführer? What do you think, Brandt? You who know everything?’
The wine seemed to have given the mayor back some of his confidence. There was a belligerence to him that didn’t bode well.
‘Higher, Herr Zugführer. On top of which he’s Oberst Wenke’s adjutant.’
‘If you say so.’ Weber nodded. He began to read the note aloud. ‘I am instructed to keep the main road open and clear for military traffic until the enemy enters the valley. At which point I am to withdraw immediately to the established positions either at the pass or on the western
side of the valley, at my discretion. It seems we are now part of Fighting Group Wenke. Who is this Wenke?’
‘An army Oberst, he is gathering together whatever men and units are available as well as those which have been assigned to him. It’s standard in fluid situations like this.’
‘Fluid situations?’
‘When we are in retreat and there is chaos.’
Weber opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated. ‘I see,’ he said.
‘I brought back the two boys from the furthest checkpoint. Oberst Wenke’s men have another not much further along the road. I thought they’d be more use here.’
The Wenke checkpoint wasn’t true but the mayor couldn’t know that. A silence fell in which Neumann and the mayor exchanged a look. Brandt found his mouth was dry. Neumann lifted his glass and swirled the wine to catch the candlelight.
‘Did you see the Ukrainian guards on your travels this evening?’
Brandt paused before speaking, conscious that there was no breath left in his lungs. He shrugged.
‘Not since I left here.’
‘Strange, you must have been on the road at the same time. Weber here saw them at his checkpoint.’
‘Not that strange. They probably passed me while I was talking to Hauptmann Bohm.’
‘The Zugführer arrested some more men this evening, Brandt.’ Neumann didn’t look up from the glass of wine he held in his hand.
‘So I understand. Is it necessary at this stage, Herr Zugführer? Our priority has to be to keep the road open. We shouldn’t divert our efforts.’
The mayor shook his head slowly.
‘These weren’t ordinary prisoners, Brandt. One of them is known to me. And to you. Well known. And a partisan, I’m certain of it.’
The sweat that had gathered between Brandt’s shoulder blades turned cold. Hubert. Had he told them anything?
‘Who, Herr Zugführer?’
‘Hubert Lensky. You look surprised. He’s an old friend of Brandt’s, Neumann. The fellow nearly married Brandt’s sister before the war. A lucky escape for her. And Lensky’s father, as it happens, works on Brandt’s father’s farm. The families are close. Very close indeed.’
