He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether it would be unseemly to follow them.
‘You know what,’ said Tomi, ‘Monika promised me a dance tonight.’
To think, thought Peter, I used to fear you, even respect you. But the thought of him pressing his corpulent self against Monika was too much. ‘Excuse me, I’ve got to go.’
‘Hey, Peter...’
But Peter was gone.
He ran soft-foot towards the café, round the back and almost ran straight into a gathering of Hitler Youth uniforms. Martin and Monika and Albert and another youth Peter didn’t recognise were all standing in silence, looking at each other.
‘Peter,’ said Monika.
‘Oh, hi.’
‘Well,’ said Albert, shuffling from one foot to another. ‘We’d better be off.’
‘Yeah,’ said Martin. ‘You do that.’
They watched Albert and his friend saunter off. Albert threw them a glance over his shoulder.
‘What was that about?’ asked Peter.
Monika giggled, her hand over her mouth. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, we found them–’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ barked Martin.
‘What you doing here?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ repeated Martin.
‘Go on,’ said Monika. ‘Let him have some.’
Martin sighed; whatever it was, he was obviously reluctant to share it. ‘If I must. Here we are,’ he said, passing a bottle to his brother.
‘What is it?’ The bottle had a long thin neck and a red label with foreign writing; the liquid inside was jet black.
‘Try it.’
He took a gulp, the black liquid, slightly warm, trickled down his throat, the bubbles bursting on his tongue – it was fantastic; he’d never tasted anything like it. ‘Wow,’ was all he could say.
‘Good, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ He took another mouthful.
‘That’s enough, that’s the only bottle I’ve got.’
‘What is it?’ he asked again, passing it back.
‘It’s Coca-Cola,’ said Martin, triumphantly.
Coca-Cola. Even the name was tinged with danger. He wanted to ask Martin how he’d got hold of it but decided against it. Nazi propaganda had denounced the stuff as America’s opium for the masses. Being caught with it could bring no end of trouble. So this, he thought, was what the American youth drank. Lucky them; it tasted like freedom.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ said Monika.
‘Quick! Someone’s coming,’ said Peter.
The sound of shuffling boots became louder as they approached. It was Otto, his face red and puffed, his blind eye closed.
‘What happened to your glass eye?’ asked Martin, straight to the point.
‘Bastards nicked it.’
‘Why would they want to do that?’
‘Because that stupid beggar, Zeiss, put his foot through my scaffold and I get the blame. They’ve taken my eye and won’t give it back until I’ve fixed it.’ He dabbed a stained handkerchief to his lip. ‘Bloody Gestapo,’ he added, as he traipsed off.
*
The dance began as the evening drew in, the final attraction on Hitler’s birthday celebrations. Lanterns tottered on the end of long poles, a large tarpaulin had been draped on the ground for the dancers, a few children sat on bales of straw round the edge and, to one side, sat the band – four elderly men with banjo, violin, guitar and penny whistle. While the band played popular country songs and traditional folk tunes, the villagers gathered round the dancing area, with glasses of vodka or jugs of beer in their hands, and urged each other to dance before being forced into it by the men in uniform. At least, tonight, they’d be spared the Nazi anthems. Children scrambled between the grown-ups, sliding through legs, darting across the tarpaulin. A stall had been set up, providing refreshments and, nearby, a bonfire blazed, the matriarchs of the three villages sitting round the flames, sizzling sausages on toasting forks and handing them out.
Further afield, a number of entertainments had been set up for the villagers to try their hands at – pillow fighting on a raised log, tightrope walking, juggling and knife throwing. Not surprisingly, no woman would ever volunteer to stand against the board while drunken villagers threw knives at her; instead, the men had to make do with sacks stuffed with straw, made to look vaguely human-shaped. Some bright spark had stuck two semi-inflated balloons to the middle sack to represent breasts.
Martin, Monika and Peter were sprawled on the ground, propped up against a couple of straw bales, drinking beer and watching two sturdy young peasants wearing checked shirts hit each other with pillows on the log. ‘I promised Tomi a dance tonight,’ said Monika, casually, a twin either side of her.
‘What on earth did you do that for?’ asked Martin.
‘I couldn’t get rid of him. He’s changed while I’ve been away.’
Martin laughed. ‘Ever since his parents had to be re-educated in the meaning of being true National Socialists.’
‘Arrested?’
‘No, just duffed up a bit. Y’know, shown the error of their ways. Anyway, changed Tomi; turned overnight into a model Hitler Youth.’
Peter closed his eyes and breathed in the night air, the bonfire fumes and the smell of burning sausages. It was rare to feel so content; how happy he felt to be here, lying next to Monika, feeling her warmth. ‘Here’s to the Führer,’ he said, raising his jug. ‘May he rule wisely over us.’
‘Here’s to Otto, more like,’ said Martin. Otto had been their supplier of beer and for Monika, a vodka.
One of the check-shirted boys lost his balance. A few more blows from his rival and he was off. The winner raised his fists and the onlookers cheered.
‘Why don’t you two have a go,’ suggested Monika.
‘Don’t think so,’ said Peter.
‘Chicken.’
The check-shirted boys shook hands and, with arms round each other, staggered back towards the bonfire.
Monika peered at her empty glass. ‘Whoever wins may take my hand for a dance.’
‘You’re only saying that to save yourself from Tomi.’
‘Take it or leave it.’
‘I know,’ said Peter. ‘How about a tightrope contest, instead.’
‘With your leg? I’m game if you are,’ said Martin, rising to his feet. ‘Not so physical. I’m too drunk to do physical.’
‘The winner may–’
‘Yeah, yeah, we get the idea.’
Suspended about two feet from the ground, the rope stretched taut for about ten feet between two solid iron poles, each pole positioned next to wooden platforms. ‘Did Otto make this?’ asked Martin, stepping onto the fragile-looking contraption.
‘Of course,’ said the portly chap in charge of the rope, as he handed Martin a balancing baton made of three bamboo sticks tied together.
Martin stood on top of the ladder and removed his shoes, throwing them in Peter’s direction.
Peter could smell Monika’s presence next to him in the fading light. ‘What do you think?’ she said quietly.
‘He won’t stand a chance.’
‘I hope not.’
It took him a few seconds to register her meaning and when he had, the whole world suddenly seemed a better place.
Martin had barely gone three steps when he began to falter. Another step or two and then he came crashing off, falling with exaggerated drama. ‘It’s harder than it looks,’ he said, picking himself up and passing the baton to his brother.
Removing his shoes, Peter knew he couldn’t help but win. Monika wanted him to, what greater motivation could there be? Six steps to win, that was all, six small steps.
The rope may have been thick, but Martin was right – it was damn difficult. A haze of bonfire smoke drifted over him, the smell of burnt toast filled his nostrils. He tottered and jerked one way then the other, but with the fourth and then fifth step secure, he gained confidence, his body adjusting to the precariousness of the rope.
Six, seven steps, he could walk forever, Monika was his for the night. Eight, nine and finally ten steps before his left heel slipped and he found himself on the ground, his legs straddling the rope. ‘Champion,’ he called out, raising the baton into the air. A few steps on a rope had beaten Martin’s secret weapon, his bottle of Coca-Cola.
*
The dance, fifteen minutes later, proved to be awkward. Not enough people were dancing, too many watching, including Martin, Tomi, and Albert and his friend. Otto was there too, now sporting an eye-patch. Peter didn’t know where to put his hands, felt unsure when to move left or right, or forward or back, unsure of the rhythm, which seemed to change subtly every so often. He laughed heartily, trying to disguise his embarrassment; Monika laughed with him but he never felt such a fool and he began to regret winning her hand. The crowd clapped to the music, occasionally losing time. After what seemed an eternity, it finally finished. Mightily relieved, Peter took an exaggerated bow, while Monika responded in kind with a curtsy.
As he led her away by the hand, he caught sight of Tomi’s grinning face. ‘My turn next,’ said Tomi, his cheeks dimpling.
‘Not tonight, Josephine,’ said Peter firmly, leading Monika away from Tomi, away from his brother, but exactly where to, he wasn’t entirely sure.
They carried on walking, giggling occasionally. By the time they stopped, they were behind a small cluster of isolated trees, about two hundred yards away from the western side of the village. With the light of the bonfire and the lanterns, Peter hadn’t realised how full the moon was.
‘Well,’ said Monika. ‘Now that you’ve brought me here, what are you going to do with me?’
Had he hesitated, even for a moment, he wouldn’t have done it. He pushed her gently against the tree trunk and kissed her solidly on the mouth. But something was wrong – he was trying too hard. Like the dance, it felt awkward but this wasn’t something he could brush aside with an embarrassed laugh. She shoved him away, causing him to feel ashamed. He forced himself to look at her, and he noticed the reflection of the moon in her eyes. Then, most gently, she took his hand and placed it delicately on her breast before pulling him forward and kissing him.
This time it felt perfect.
Part Three
Five years later: February 1945, Berlin
Chapter 12: The Cellar
There were so many people crammed together, perhaps a hundred, thought Peter. Packed in, no one could move. The sense of claustrophobia had been heightened by the low ceiling, the grey-painted walls and the sandbags covering every window. The murmur of voices remained constant, occasionally punctuated by a shout of complaint or plea. ‘That’s my foot, you fool.’ ‘Friedrich? Where’s my Friedrich?’ The cellar stunk of oil from the flickering lamps, stale air and sweat, squashed down, it seemed, by the ceiling. Peter tried turning his head but couldn’t escape the foul breath of onions coming from Mr Mann’s mouth, a grizzled and bearded gentleman that lived on the floor above, or the drenched armpits of his older friend and downstairs neighbour, Oskar, all six foot-something of him with his long face and sunken cheeks. The elderly folk were dotted round the sides, sitting on the few available chairs. One of them, an elderly man with half-moon glasses, read his book, the epitome of calmness. Peter could see Monika but, having been separated, couldn’t get to her. She smiled weakly at him. They’d been asleep when the siren sounded. Quickly but still in a sleepy haze, they’d donned their dressing gowns and joined the mass exodus of weary residents heading towards the basement, the stairway becoming more congested with each descending floor. Time had no meaning down here in the basement. Peter could overhear people complaining about the lack of sleep, about having to get up at five in order to catch the train to work. He knew the feeling but for once he and Monika were off the hook – tomorrow was Sunday. ‘Don’t worry,’ shouted Jünger, the block warden, from the far end near the door. ‘We’re safe as houses down here.’
‘Not the best analogy, you idiot,’ came an immediate response.
‘Who said that?’
Oskar guffawed to himself – ‘Safe as houses, ha, ha.’
They could hear the firing of the flak, the anti-aircraft guns. ‘Go get them!’ shouted Jünger.
People, many also in dressing gowns, tried not to shake their heads. To be seen openly disagreeing with Jünger could be interpreted as defeatism but the flak seemed so puny compared to the British bombs that everyone knew was coming next. Sure enough, moments later came the sound of massive explosions. ‘Still a long way off,’ mouthed Oskar.
But not for long, thought Peter.
He could feel the tension rising in the cellar as people braced themselves for the onslaught. A young girl, no more than sixteen was crying, trying not to, failing to stifle her tears; a woman with a headscarf, perhaps her mother, her face red with sweat, crossed herself; another, holding onto a baby wrapped in a blanket, tightened her hold on her infant. Her husband, behind her, his hands on her shoulders, leant down and whispered something in her ear. Words of encouragement, she forced her lips into a smile. The sound of bombs came closer; the young girl’s crying became louder. ‘Stop that,’ said the familiar voice of Mrs Rudel, the block’s most ardent Nazi, nauseatingly proud her husband, a major, no less, fighting on the Eastern Front for us and the Fatherland. Mrs Rudel – well over forty, never seen without a swastika pendant on her lapel, never seen without the brightest red lipstick, never known to have uttered a pleasant word unless it was about the Führer and the Party. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she continued. ‘It’ll be over before you know it.’
Reinforced, maybe, but the cellar still shook as the bombs fell above them, plaster fell, clouds of dust, lights flickered. Instinctively, everyone ducked while covering their ears.
‘God preserve us,’ came a voice nearby. People swore, shook their fists at the ceiling, some cried. The baby started howling. The mother, kissing its head, tried to calm it.
‘Can’t you shut that brat up?’
The father spun round, trying to find the owner of the voice.
More bombs fell.
‘How many more months will we have to suffer this?’ asked Mrs Busch quietly, the baker’s widow who lived across the hall from Peter and Monika.
Mrs Rudel heard her. Shouting to be heard above the continual rumble outside, she shouted, ‘The time will come, don’t you worry about that. We’ll get our own back. The Führer knows what he’s doing.’
Oskar nudged Peter in the ribs. ‘Just wish he’d hurry up and get on with it then.’
‘What was that, Oskar?’ said Mrs Rudel.
‘Eh? I was just saying to Peter here, we have absolute faith that the Führer will see us right.’
Peter wiped his brow of sweat, God it was hot. His leg began to throb as often it did when he’d been on his feet too long.
‘Stupid cow,’ said Oskar, lowering his voice. ‘They say the Russians are already passed the Oder.’
‘Really? That means they could here any week.’
‘Have you heard what they’ve doing in Prussia? They fuck any woman they see – the old, the young, the deformed. They don’t care – they’re raping our woman, Peter. You think this is bad, wait until the Ivans are here. Then we’ll pay for it, especially the women.’
The room shuddered, a cloud of plaster and dust fell from the ceiling. A couple of women screamed.
‘That was a big ’un,’ said Oskar.
‘Monika,’ cried Peter. ‘You OK?’
She nodded, her face streaked with dirt, glistening with sweat.
No one spoke, listening, waiting for the next bomb. The minutes ticked by.
‘I think I’m going to faint,’ said Mrs Busch.
‘Not much longer,’ said Mrs Rudel.
Sure enough, as if on cue, the bombs stopped. An uneasy silence fell, waiting for the all-clear. People began to speak in hushed tones, as if fearing anything louder would attract the planes back. ‘Are you sure?’ said Peter, pushing up to Oskar. ‘W
hat you said about the Russians.’
‘Your girlfriend over there – she’s a pretty one. Whatever you do, son, get her out of here. Go west; throw yourselves at the mercy of the Yanks, anything.’
‘They won’t let us travel without passes.’
‘I know that but people do, don’t they? Where there’s a will...’
‘I wouldn’t know who to ask.’
‘Find a way; do what you have to do. Just get her out of here before the Ivans arrive. I’m telling you now.’
The welcome sound of the all-clear was greeted by a cheer. Jünger pushed his way through, jangling his keys, the aura of self-importance following him, and opened the reinforced doors. The blast of cold air swept in. The relief. It was over – for at least another few hours or, if they were very lucky, another whole day or two.
Chapter 13: The Prodigal Return
Peter and his brother had returned to the city as seventeen-year olds in the spring of ’40, six months after the war had broken out. While German troops were asserting the nation’s right over the Poles, the twins settled down to enjoy the delights of city life. Their mother remained in the village, accustomed to rural life and her more subdued husband. The shooting accident may have tamed their father, as Martin had wanted, but the twins didn’t miss him, not for an instant. They had hugged each other as they re-entered the city of their birth. As brothers, they’d never been closer as they soaked up the thrill of urban life. Doomsayers predicted that bombs would fall on the city, but no, they’d be safe – Hermann Goring had given his assurance, and that was good enough for them. "If one enemy bomb falls on Germany,” the head of the Luftwaffe had said, “you can call me Meyer." Two months later, Monika joined them and started a course on dance, far more glamorous than their own engineering courses. Peter was elated to welcome her back into his arms while aware that at the same time, something disappeared in his new-found relationship with his brother.
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