My Brother the Enemy

by Rupert Colley

  After only a few minutes, Tomi returned; swinging open the classroom door, his shoulders swaggering with arrogance, because he’d been through it and come back unscathed – whatever ‘it’ was. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction of knowing that he was in on the secret and no one else in the class so far, possibly including Mr Rich, knew what it was.

  ‘It’s Peter’s turn,’ he said, without addressing Mr Rich.

  ‘OK, Peter – off you go.’

  Peter went to tidy his books and papers.

  ‘Go on then, boy, don’t dilly-dally.’

  *

  The Headmaster began. ‘A situation has arisen, young Fischbacher, that needs the utmost integrity and honesty. I expect you to be frank with me and not to hide away any facts that may be of assistance. I expect you, also, to put aside any feelings of personal loyalty and to remember the country is, and must always remain, your first priority. Any other loyalties are irrelevant. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It has come to my attention, Martin, that a serious allegation has been made against one of the teachers in the school.’

  Peter squirmed, reluctant to interrupt. He coughed, lightly, ‘Headmaster, sir–’

  ‘Yes, yes, what is it?’

  ‘I’m Peter, not Martin.’

  The Head glanced down at his notes and then peered at Peter, as if trying to spot the difference between the twins. ‘Yes, of course – Peter.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The teacher concerned is Miss Hoffman. The allegation against her is that of anti-Party agitation.’ The Head paused for effect and Peter accordingly absorbed the revelation, his face reddening. ‘Miss Hoffman is, without doubt, a popular teacher but I must reiterate that her crime is as such that any misguided loyalty must be put to one side.’ Peter noticed the subtle switch from allegation to presumed guilt. ‘Our political system and our survival as a nation state under the glorious National Socialist system is still very much in its infancy. Like a flower, we need to nurture and protect it against the slightest digression from the rightful path. So, Peter, with this in mind, I have to ask you, what evidence can you provide me of Miss Hoffman’s political deviation?’

  We’re safe now with our so-called saviour. His heart had skipped at her use of the phrase, uttered so casually, as if these dangerous words were but random, innocent words. Who had heard her say them? Martin, Monika and himself. Could someone else have overheard? Had she repeated them, or something similar, elsewhere? Was she in the habit of saying such dangerous things?

  ‘Well?’

  Peter liked her, always had done; she had a heart, a personality, she stuck out from the other teachers for her individuality; and now she was being made to pay for it, for her lack of conformity. He didn’t care what Mr Manstein had said, she’d saved him from a beating and for that he’d always appreciate her. But what if Martin or Monika told Mr Manstein the truth? Then the Head would know of Peter’s concealment. The humiliation of taking the blame and the beating following his brother’s prank at the play still rankled.

  ‘For pity’s sake, boy, do you think I have all day? You know something; what is it?’

  ‘No, Headmaster, I don’t; I was just trying to remember.’

  The Head leant forward, as if trying to see into his eyes. ‘Are you absolutely sure? I warn you, Fischbacher, you cannot afford to lie.’

  ‘I know, Headmaster, but it’s true.’

  ‘So, you have never heard Miss Hoffman utter or pronounce anything that could be construed as anti-Party?’

  ‘No, Headmaster.’

  ‘OK.’ Satisfied, the Head leant back in his chair and picked-up a sheet of paper from a pile on his desk. ‘Sign this and then you may go back to class.’ He pushed the paper across the desk, and pointed at a fountain pen.

  Peter read the short typewritten document:

  I, the undersigned, petition that Miss Hoffman should be tried and punished with the strongest possible sentence for anti-National Socialist agitation. No leniency should be afforded to the above named.

  Long live Germany.

  Long live our Führer.,

  Signed .........................................................

  Peter’s hand shook as he scanned the words. Her fate was already as good as sealed. He looked up and was confronted by the Head’s face leering down at him. ‘Well, aren’t you going to sign it?’

  He couldn’t possibly sign it, and equally he knew he couldn’t possibly not sign it. His hand reached out for the fountain pen.

  Chapter 8: The Announcement

  Dear Führer, how we love you; o, so merciful and wise. Our Führer, how we adore you; o, so gracious and kind. Martin and Peter were singing heartily, as was the whole school, some one hundred pupils and their teachers standing to attention in the school’s walled courtyard, basked in sun. It was one of the few times the children could yell at the top of their lungs without fear of a clip or a whack. Following the ode to the merciful and wise Führer, the children sung the Horst Wessel song and various odes to the party. If he leant forward and peered to his left, Peter could just about see Monika, her hair tied back with a red ribbon that matched her kerchief.

  ‘Thank you, children,’ said Mr Manstein. He waited for the children to settle, casting his paternal, owl-like eyes over the gathering, their white shirts reflecting under the bright sunshine. ‘We shall take our pledges.’ Peter could feel the silent, collective groan. ‘Put your right hand over your heart and repeat after me... Dear Beloved Führer, please listen to my pledge to you, devoted and true.’

  Dear Beloved Führer, please listen to my pledge to you, devoted and true...

  ‘I vow to you, beloved and wise leader, to the great Reich that we proudly call our own... that I dedicate my life, my learning and my future... and for the sake of National Socialism and freedom I shall not stray from the rightful path ...’

  I shall not stray from the rightful path ...

  Peter leant forward again, his hand against his chest. This time, he caught Monika’s eye and the flicker of her smile.

  More pledges followed, Mr Manstein’s diction clear and upright, echoing across the courtyard; the children’s response, one hundred dulled voices, sweltering under the heat. Relieved to sit down, Peter hoped for the chance to sing again, simply to help him shake off his heavy head and clear his foggy mind.

  ‘OK,’ said the Head'. ‘You may sit.’

  ‘We already are,’ muttered Martin under his breath.

  ‘Today, I have a grave and unpleasant announcement to make,’ bellowed Mr Manstein. The one sentence was enough to re-focus the children’s attention.

  ‘Here goes,’ whispered Martin.

  ‘As you will be aware by now, we have discovered a malicious critic of our national leadership in our midst. Fortunately, the keen ears of one of our most devoted students has put paid to her scandalous gossip. It upsets me personally that this person is a member of my staff. As adults in charge of children, we are beholden with a responsibility to your education, to your welfare and your future. Equally, I am relieved and indeed grateful that without exception every child in this school voluntarily signed the petition demanding the application of the severest punishment suitable for a case of this kind. Miss Hoffman has been relieved of her duties and will soon be placed at the mercy of the authorities who shall decide on her fate. Let us hope they take into consideration our signatures. And let us hope she serves her sentence with dignity, reflecting on the error of her ways and that she relishes the opportunity to repent. Miss Hoffman, you may be surprised to learn, is still with us. On her behalf, I have asked the authorities to allow Miss Hoffman the opportunity to speak to you today. You may remain seated and I expect total silence.’ He paused for a few moments. Rarely, thought Peter, had Mr Manstein gained the children’s unswerving attention. ‘Miss Hoffman, if you please...’

  Her appearance shocked Peter and the pupils. The once immaculate and attractive Miss Hoffman now looked dishevelled, her face stripped
of make-up, her eyes puffed-up. She stood in front of the children, some of whom hissed at her, her eyes desperate, gazing heavenward, wringing her hands. How small she seemed now, the fallen idol, naked without her authority, drowning in a rising crescendo of hissing. Peter hoped Mr Manstein would step in and reclaim the silence he’d demanded. But the Head seemed content to stand to the side, allowing his former teacher to experience the school’s derision.

  ‘Children... my, my dear children.’ Her voice, quiet and hesitant, shook, its very vulnerability shocking the children into silence. ‘I have been very foolish and I have rightly earned the disrespect of my colleagues – my former colleagues – and, more sadly for me, of you, my wonderful pupils.’ Now, she looked directly at her silent audience, carefully scanning their faces as she spoke, her words slow and deliberate. ‘I am guilty of everything you’ve heard today. I am no better than a common traitor or a spy. I will stand later today in front of the Gestapo and I shall accept whatever charges they place before me and I shall accept whatever punishment comes my way. You were right to sign those petitions, each and every one of you.’

  She continued, her voice quivering on each syllable. ‘I want to... to apologise. I have shown you a bad example. You must forget me, forget I ever existed. But I, I shall never forget you, my dear, dear children. I shall remember you all – your happy faces and your happy smiles. I will never...’ She tried to speak again, but her words were smothered in tears. ‘I will never forget you, children.’

  She turned and fled, her hand at her mouth, and ran into the darkness of the school. The children watched her disappear before realising Mr Manstein was ready to address them again.

  Peter had tears in his eyes and, as he looked at his fellow students, he realised he wasn’t alone; they were all united in weeping. The hissing had been part of the game, the pantomime of booing the bad guy. But when faced with the real thing, they knew the meaning of victimisation and scapegoating, even if the words were still alien to them. They were crying for all the Miss Hoffmans of Germany, the missing relatives, the disappeared parents, the forgotten friends; they cried for the uncertainty of her future and the uncertainty of their own. They may have all signed the petition with their hands but none had signed with their hearts.

  Sensing their mood, Mr Manstein seemed momentarily uncertain, faced with a sea of unspoken sympathy for the so-called traitor who had dared to speak of the so-called saviour, who had dared to put into words what many believed, students and staff alike. ‘We, er... We trust that our collective petition has the desired effect. We shall now have our community lecture of the day – no, perhaps not yet. I think, instead, we’ll have some more singing.’

  And Peter knew why – the Head knew that any lecture now would only give the children chance to ponder on Miss Hoffman’s speech and cause resentment to stir within their young hearts; better to break the spell with some active participation.

  *

  The three of them walked home together – Martin, Peter and Monika. Peter wondered how and at what point Monika had so subtly ingratiated herself into their routine; a shift of status that neither he nor Martin had noticed until her everyday presence was already accepted without question.

  They ambled home for the most part in sullen silence, each still coming to terms with their pity for Miss Hoffman’s plight. The wheat fields shone in the white heat, a crow squawked, the countryside droned with the hectic sound of insects.

  As they approached the edge of the forest, Martin broke the silence. ‘OK, who sneaked on her?’

  Monika and Peter looked at each other, surprised by Martin’s assumption. ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Peter.

  Martin stopped walking. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Only us three heard her say so-called saviour, no one else. So, one of us three went running to Manstein and sneaked on her. And it bloody well wasn’t me.’

  ‘And it wasn’t me either,’ said Monika.

  Martin and Monika looked at Peter, ‘Well?’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘So, that makes one of us a liar as well as a sneak.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Monika. ‘She could have said it, and worse, dozens of times to lots of different people.’

  ‘Funny then that she’s exposed the very day after she said it to us.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘You’re very quiet, Brother.’

  ‘So what – that makes me guilty, does it?’

  ‘Well, you speak like one who has something to hide.’

  ‘Hello, boys!’ Their father’s greeting came from behind them. They turned to see him emerging from the forest, about thirty metres away, carrying a bulging leather bag. The boys waved. Following their father out from the trees came a plump man with a rifle. This, thought Peter, was probably Papa’s new companion.

  Their father caught them up, his cheeks flushed, a smile on his face. ‘Coming home from school?’ he asked cheerfully, dropping the leather bag on the path. ‘Hello, Monika.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Fischbacher.’

  ‘Otto, come meet my boys.’

  Otto, with his rifle cocked and slung over his shoulder, strolled bow-legged up the path. He wore a large cap and gumboots that reached over his knees. One of his eyes, his left, reflected the sun and looked odd, thought Peter. ‘Hello there, your father’s told me all about you,’ he said, the movement of his lips lost beneath a huge thickness of beard.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Oi, Martin, more respect for my friend.’

  ‘Ah, I have a boy just like him.’

  Yes, thought Peter, but do you beat him every time you come home drunk. Instead, he asked politely, ‘Shoot anything, Papa?’

  ‘I’d say he did,’ interrupted Otto. ‘For a beginner, he’s one hell of a shot. I reckon he’s done it before. Shot a few Yids in your time, eh, Adolphus?’ Peter couldn’t help but wonder if there was something wrong with his eye.

  ‘Look in here, boys,’ said his father. ‘A pheasant and two rabbits, we’ll eat like kings tonight!’

  Monika recoiled at the sight of the twisted mass of dead animals, but Peter was impressed. Even Martin raised an eyebrow. This was rare occurrence, thought Peter; his father had earned some degree of respect.

  ‘And then, Otto,’ continued Adolphus, ‘we’ll paint the town red, eh, what d’you say?’

  ‘By town, you mean our shithole of a village?’

  The two of them laughed; Adolphus’s arm round Otto’s shoulder.

  The twins looked knowingly at each other and imperceptibly shook their heads. The thought of their father returning home late, drunk and violent, filled them with dread.

  Chapter 9: The Hunt

  Adolphus felt hung-over but then he did most mornings. But he was damned if a thumping head and a queasy stomach was going to stop him from making the most of Otto’s rifle. Sunday was his friend’s day at the market in the neighbouring village, four kilometres away. The evening before, in a drunken show of friendship, he’d agreed to let Adolphus use the rifle for the day. And Adolphus felt honoured by Otto’s trust, for Otto said he’d never lent it out before.

  Adolphus enjoyed his evenings with his new friend. After months of despair in this godforfuckingsaken village in the land the Nazis forgot, it was a relief to have found a mate, for here, in this shithole, time dragged. Generally, things had slowly started improving – the villagers were gradually coming round to accepting the exiled commie and his family. His wife, Marta, and he were now on civil speaking terms with the neighbours, as were the twins with their daughter, Monika. And then Otto appeared. What a man with his glass eye, his rifle, and his capacity for drink that rivalled his own.

  Marta prepared his breakfast – porridge and coffee, standing at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, a fresh bruise on her face. The twins sat at the table with him, neither of them saying much, sullen as usual. He knew why, they didn’t like him hitting their mother; they resented it. Wimps. His own father used to dole out far worse t
o him and his mother, and did he complain? Did she? No, of course not, wouldn’t dare to, but it did him, and her, a lot of good, taught him to be tough, to be a man. It prepared him for life.

  ‘So then, boys, ready to come out later with your old man?’

  Silence.

  ‘Martin? Peter?’

  Still silence.

  ‘Well, what about it? I’ll teach you how to fire the rifle and who knows, you might bag your own supper.’

  ‘Do you really think that’s wise, Adolphus?’ said Marta from the stove.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, course it is.’

  ‘But a rifle? You forget sometimes, they’re only thirteen.’

  ‘If they’re going to become country boys they might as well start learning to live like ones.’

  ‘I’m not happy–’

  ‘I’m not asking whether you’re happy with it, they’re coming out with me and that’s it.’

  He caught a flicker of a smile on Martin’s face and felt vindicated. He reached out, placed his hand on the boy’s arm and winked at him.

  *

  The forest felt cool after the warmth and effort of trekking through the wheat fields. With Otto’s rifle cocked and slung over his shoulder, Adolphus felt rejuvenated – the hangover was gone, his stomach full, his lungs full of country air.

  ‘Come on, boys, keep up.’ They caught him up, panting. They were enjoying themselves; they wouldn’t admit it but he could tell, especially Martin. They shared half a bottle of water between them. ‘We’ve got a kilometre or two to walk first, and then we’ll see what’s around. OK?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ said one.

  ‘OK,’ said the other.

  ‘Good lads; let’s go then.’

  They should do this more often, he thought, it did him good to make time for his sons; did them good to spend time with their old man. They were good lads really. It couldn’t have been easy for them, used to city life, to be thrown out here. Strange to relate, he was beginning to enjoy the simple life, divorced from the worries over the welfare of the working classes, the suppressed and the exploited. When he looked back on it, he couldn’t have cared less for them.