My Brother the Enemy
Page 10
‘Yeah. So what?’
‘I can’t leave Peter.’
Martin sat down next to Monika, both next to Peter’s bed. They didn’t dare look at each other. Monika’s mind spun and yet no thoughts formed, only the booming of her heart. After a while, she got up. ‘You need a wash, Peter; I’ll boil up some water,’ she said, trying not to let her voice betray the shame simmering inside her.
‘He thought I was you.’ The softly spoken words hung accusingly in the air.
‘Albert? No, he got you confused,’ said Monika, standing next to the stove.
‘Like when we were kids,’ said Martin. ‘We’re used to that, aren’t we, Brother?’ Martin tried to add a chortle but it came across contrived.
‘We need to get you cleaned up,’ said Monika.
‘He got confused,’ repeated Martin.
‘We’re not so easy to confuse nowadays.’ He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘So, you’re escaping. Both of you. Using my name as an invalid. I remember Oskar saying to me that I had to get Monika away before the Russians arrive. But what about me?’
‘He couldn’t get us another. I tried, honestly, Peter, I tried.’
Peter reached out towards the upturned crate.
‘Want a hand?’ said Martin, still sitting next to the bed.
‘No, I only need some water.’ With that, he leant over, and in one movement pushed the crate over – the plate, mug and ashtray falling noisily to the floor – and scooped up the revolver.
‘Peter?’
Monika came over from the stove. ‘Peter, you don’t need that, love.’
He held the gun lightly in his hand. ‘No?’ Then, with tears clouding his eyes, he spoke quickly, painfully. ‘You didn’t try – I heard him. You’re just going to leave me here. Funny thing is, I don’t blame you. But don’t worry; I’m not going to let the Russians get me. What upsets me is that you’re using me, my name, my disability as your ticket out of here. I’ve always played second fiddle to you, haven’t I, Martin? You remember, as kids? We always did what you said, went where you wanted to go; you never thought to ask me because my opinion didn’t count. You know, I’ve often wondered about your conscience and over the years and I’ve come to the conclusion you don’t have one.
‘Do you remember Miss Hoffman? It was you all the time, wasn’t it? She liked me more than you and you couldn’t bear that. So, you got your little revenge, shopped her for daring to utter an anti-Nazi thought. I only hope she survived, that she’s out there now, living and surviving.
‘And the play. You remember that, of course. You resented it because I got the better part – even if was just the one line. I hated you for not admitting your sabotage. I got caned but you could have saved me – but no, why would you want to?’
His tears had made rills through the dirt on his face. ‘Monika was my one victory over you, and all because I had the better balance. And how you must’ve hated that. But even I didn’t know quite how much it rankled. How long was it? Five, five and a half years? And then she succumbed. How did you do it, Martin? Showed her your softer side, tried to merge the two of us into one, so she’d fall for the Peter in you? I hate you, Martin; I never knew how much I hated you until now. Funny, isn’t it, how people assume we’re the same just because we are on the outside. But in the inside, we couldn’t be less alike. I reckon we’ve always hated each other without really realising it. But it’s over now; we don’t have to face it any more. Either I shoot you now or you walk out that door for Switzerland and never come back. Which is it? Tell me, Martin, tell me what to do, one last time.’
‘I will. Let me go, let me take Monika with me. You know what will happen to her if I don’t.’
‘Martin, stop,’ cried Monika. ‘Stop, just stop.’ She thought she was yelling but the words emerged as barely a whisper. ‘I won’t leave Peter.’
‘He’s right though,’ said Peter. ‘I... want...’ A fit of coughing took hold. Clutching his chest with one hand and the revolver in the other, he coughed and wheezed.
Monika stroked his hair. ‘You OK, Peter? I’m staying right here; I won’t leave you.’
‘No. I’d rather you fell into Martin’s clutches than a Russian’s.’
Martin rose carefully to his feet, aware of the revolver in his brother’s shaking hands. ‘Maybe you’re right, Peter, maybe everything you say is right. I admit, I am a selfish sod; I can’t help it. I admit it, I did denounce Miss Hoffman; I did plan to steal Monika away from you, exactly as you said. But there’s something you’ve got wrong. I don’t hate you; I love you, you stupid bastard, you’re my brother, I shall always love you...’
‘Do I believe you, Martin?’
‘Yes, Peter, you do.’
‘Perhaps I do. Save her, then. Take her with you; get her out of here.’
Martin nodded. He leant down and kissed his brother on his brow.
‘Be brave,’ he whispered in his brother’s ear. ‘You can do it.’
‘Peter... please.’ Monika paced up and down, scrunching her hair.
‘I can’t help you, Monika. Only Martin can help you now. But please, go now. Don’t make it worse.’
Martin disappeared to the bedroom, returning moments later with his army rucksack. ‘I took the liberty to pack a few things. Bit of food, a few clothes, underwear. Not much, mind you. We don’t want to give the impression we’re not coming back.’ He scooped up the passes from the table, picked up his coat and took Monika’s. ‘I’m going to go now. It could take the whole day to get on a train. Monika, please, let’s do this now.’
With tears in her eyes, biting her hand, she looked down at Peter.
Peter nodded at her. ‘Please go. Please.’
She stepped towards him, as if wanting to embrace him. But she stopped – she knew if she touched him, she’d never let go. ‘Goodbye, my love.’
‘Go, please. Go now.’
And so, with her heart aching with pain and shame, she followed Martin out of the apartment, closing the door behind her.
They passed Jünger, the block warden on the stairs. ‘You two going somewhere?’ he asked. Monika kept her head down, not wanting Jünger to see her crying.
‘Taking provisions to my aunt,’ said Martin. ‘She’s poorly.’
‘Right then; you’d better hurry.’
Outside, the sun shone upon the devastated street, the piles of rubble, blackened houses, the ruination of a city. Everywhere, people scurried around, dazed, fatigued faces. Buildings smouldered, smoke lingered. ‘City of the damned,’ muttered Martin. ‘Come.’ He offered Monika his hand. She took it. ‘It’ll take a good hour to get to the station.’ With a final glance up at their apartment window, he guided her away.
Carefully, stepping over debris and around holes, they left the block behind them.
They’d only walked half way down the street when Monika stopped abruptly. ‘Martin, I forgot my sister’s brooch. I can’t–’
‘No, you can’t go back for it.’
Flinging off his hand, she made to return. Martin called after her. She didn’t stop. Swearing under his breath, he made to catch her up. Encumbered by his rucksack, tripping over a couple of bricks, he lost ground. By the time he caught her up, they were back outside the apartment block.
‘Monika, no...’ They heard it – the sound of the single shot from inside. Monika, her hands on her cheeks, looked up at their window. She screamed. The world stopped, fell silent, then drew breath and started again. Losing balance, she fell against Martin, a booming voice in her head asking what that unfamiliar feeling was.
And then, burrowing her face into his shirt, she knew. It was the feeling of her heart breaking.
Chapter 22: The Border
It was eleven at night. In a cramped sitting room in a small house in the middle of endless fields, sat Martin and Monika, hoping to make good their escape over the border and into Switzerland. The old man of the house had gone off to fetch his nephew. The nephew’s name, th
e old man told them, was Hans. For all their Reichsmarks, he would guide Martin and Monika to freedom.
The room was dark but warm, a few hard chairs and a wooden table, everything small but solid. In the corner an old sunken armchair. They were too tired, too anxious to talk, conserving their energy for the last treacherous road that lay ahead of them. The old lady provided them each with beef soup and bread followed by a cup of black coffee, gut-wrenchingly strong. They thanked her and afterwards felt better. Martin smoked. They smiled a little at one another. Ahead of them lay the last leg of their journey that would determine their future. Their whole lives depended on the hours ahead and the last three or so kilometres that separated them from the prison that was their country and freedom in Switzerland, a foreign land. Two nations, side by side, but a world apart. Monika wondered whether Martin had given any thought to never seeing Peter again, to never seeing his parents again. She feared he hadn’t.
The old man returned, his face lost under whiskers and a huge, rimmed hat. With him a younger man, his nephew, Hans, with a sharp, pointed face and a long clean-shaven chin.
Martin gave Hans all he had – almost twenty Reichsmarks. Enough money to keep a family in Berlin going for two months or more. But it didn’t matter – they wouldn’t be able to change it and the money would be worthless in a new country. Hans thanked them and said it was time to go. Their hearts lurched.
Monika and Martin thanked him, they thanked the old man, and when the old lady came for their dishes, they thanked her too – again.
‘Now,’ said Hans, ‘as soon as we’re outside, no talking. Total silence. Keep close to me and when I crouch, you crouch; if I crawl, you crawl. When I wish you good luck, you’ll be on your own. You understand?’
‘How will we know where to go once you’ve gone?’ asked Monika.
‘You’ll know.’
Two heads nodded.
‘Martin, before we go,’ whispered Monika.
‘What?’
‘Did you really inform on Miss Hoffman?’
He nodded.
‘And the play?’
He nodded again, grimacing.
Together, with Hans, they left the warm house and stepped out into the cold and the rain, feeling like soldiers about to go into battle. The task that lay ahead was no less daunting.
Their eyes adjusted to the dark. It was now almost midnight. Tomorrow, they hoped, would truly see a new dawn.
THE END
Other works by Rupert Colley
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‘Two brothers. One woman. A nation at war.’
A compelling story of war, brotherly love, passion and betrayal during World War One.
I’m the author of several historical novels and works of non-fiction. I’m also the founder of the History In An Hour series.
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I was born one Christmas Day, which means, as a child, I lost out on presents. Nonetheless, looking back on it, I lived a childhood with a “silver spoon in my mouth” – brought up in a rambling manor house in the beautiful Devon countryside.
It’s been downhill ever since.
I was a librarian for a long time, a noble profession. Then I started a series called History In An Hour which I sold, along with my soul, to HarperCollins UK.
I now live in London with my wife, two children and dog (a fluffy cockapoo) and write historical fiction, mainly 20th century war and misery.
The photo is of a much younger me as a wannabe New Romantic. I look a bit older now.
Do feel free to email me: Rupert@historyinanhour.com
Thank you for purchasing this novel and taking the time to read it.
With kindest regards,
Rupert.
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