The Silent Children

by Amna K. Boheim

  ‘I’m sorry, Eva. I’m so very sorry.’

  She tilted her head to one side, then kneeled beside him. He took her in his arms and held her, rocking back and forth. They remained that way, lost in the past, holding one another as though afraid to let go, and making me feel as though I were intruding on a private reunion. But when I tried to move, I found I was pinned to the wall. Fear, terror, claustrophobia smothered me. I couldn’t breathe; I could barely call out. Only my mind whirred on, knowing that somehow I needed to wrench Oskar away from Eva.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

  Just then, his body seemed to spasm and he let out a gasp. Eva scurried to the corner of the room from where she watched Oskar crumple to the ground as he fought for breath. I tried to go to him, but I still couldn’t move. I looked at Eva. She was hunched up against the wall, hugging her knees, staring all the while at Oskar.

  I shouted out his name. He tried to turn his head to me. I could see the pain creasing his face. I needed to go to him. But the moment I tried to push myself away from the wall, Eva turned to me, her head tilted in my direction. Her childlike innocence was gone. The twisted smile had reappeared on her face. I tried to move again but couldn’t. Surely this was nothing but a bad dream. I felt my eyes close, my head lolled forward …

  When I opened my eyes again it was dark once more. My paralysis had gone. I edged towards Oskar and crouched down beside him. I groped around for his hand. It lay limp in mine. I felt for a pulse, first on his wrist, and then on his neck, detecting a faint beat, but I wasn’t sure. The stillness of his body contrasted with the shivers that wracked mine. I bit down on my fist, hoping to jolt myself into action. It seemed to work. As I picked Oskar up, an ice-cold hand upon my wrist stopped me.

  The torch’s beam came back on, but it was no more than a faint glow. Eva stood on the other side of Oskar. She was still smiling her crooked smile. She raised her arm, her finger pointing at my chest.

  ‘Albrecht,’ she said. It was only a whisper, but my grandfather’s name rang clear.

  It was as if someone yanked me up to standing. I was turned around, then shoved towards the workbench, my feet dragging on the floor as I tried to resist. My hips slammed into the workbench. My right arm reached out for the cigarette lighter. I could only stare, powerless to stop my hand as it picked up the lighter. Then my body spun around and lunged forward. Eva was dictating my moves. Nothing withstood her hold over me. Chilled fear coursed through me, sending the sour taste of bile up my throat. I looked down at the lighter lying in my palm.

  I turned to the girl.

  She nodded.

  I moved as though I were learning how to walk again, to the corner of the room where the wood and petrol cans lay. My left foot took a swing at the cans, sending them toppling to the floor. Clear dark liquid pooled at my feet. I was made to crouch down, to flick the lighter, to lower it to the petrol. A large blue flame leapt up towards my face. I managed to jerk my head away. This sudden ability to control my own movements made me lose my balance and I fell, hitting my head on the concrete floor.

  So this is it. This is how it will end.

  OBER ST. VEIT, VIENNA, 1968

  Annabel comes out of the study and helps Maria with her coat and umbrella. Her former nanny has just returned from her afternoon off – doing what, Annabel has no idea, for Maria has swatted away her enquiries as if they were nothing more than pesky flies.

  These days their roles are much reversed. Maria’s age and her arthritic knees stop her from doing most things. Really, she’s more like a beloved elderly relative than anything else. Even though Christopher has suggested that they let her go, Annabel can’t bear to part with her. Shared memories entwine the two of them like the branches of the honeysuckle covering the front of the house.

  Even though it’s not that cold, Maria shivers, pulling her grey shawl tightly around her. Annabel leads her to the drawing room and Maria sits down on the small sky-blue armchair in the corner, her favourite spot in the house. Age has curved her back and shoulders. It’s slowed her down too, and sometimes it’s too much to watch her when she walks from room to room. As her duties have diminished, her chatter, her anecdotes of the everyday have grown. Her voice, her sharply accented German, has since filled the house. It’s music to Annabel’s ears, and anything but to Christopher’s, though he’d never admit it. Today, however, Maria is mute.

  ‘What’s wrong, Maria?’ asks Annabel. She watches her old nanny rubbing her fingers, clearly agitated about something. Her silence draws out, and as it does, Annabel feels the worry tick inside her, keeping time with the staid cadence of the ancient grandfather clock in the drawing room.

  ‘It’s time,’ Maria says.

  Maria’s words squeeze Annabel’s heart and make her want to cry out in pain. ‘But where will you go?’

  ‘I have family – I told you that.’ Maria looks up at Annabel, her cataracted eyes appearing even more glazed with the tears welling in them.

  ‘So you’ll leave for Warsaw?’ says Annabel, hardly able to control her shaking voice. She goes to Maria and kneels beside her, resting her head on her lap. Maria strokes her hair: slow, smooth motions over her head. A single tear leaks from Annabel’s eye, taking her by surprise; she hasn’t wept in so long.

  ‘Too many years have gone by. I made a promise to watch over you. But you’re happy now.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Maria kisses Annabel’s head and sings her favourite song:

  Sleep now, my hungry little girl,

  Close tight your dear little eyes,

  Your mother also is hungry,

  But she doesn’t cry or make noise.

  Learn something, child, from your mother dear,

  Try to look on the bright side —

  When you awake in the morning,

  The house will be full of fresh bread.

  Ay lyu lyu, ay lyu lyu lyu,

  So, sleep now, my precious, my crown.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I came to. My head throbbed and my eyes stung. Heat flooded the room, the walls danced orange and yellow. The smell of burning filled my nose and I coughed, struggling for air. Then I remembered – the room, Eva, Oskar.

  I crawled on my hands and knees to reach him. His body still lay in the middle of the floor. I hoisted him up. For all his frailty, I staggered with the weight of him. I looked at the doorway back to the cellar – flames barricaded our exit. I turned to the door to the tunnel – it was shut. Fighting for breath in the smoke-filled room, I dragged Oskar’s body over to the tunnel entrance and pulled at the door. It didn’t budge. I glanced over my shoulder. Eva was standing in the far corner, her skeletal body surrounded by the blaze. Her face was expressionless, yet the hollows of her eyes bored their way into me. I tried the handle again and yanked at the door as hard as I could. For the first time, I prayed.

  Please God …

  The door swung open. The fire surged forward. With Oskar’s arm draped over my shoulder, I hauled his body into the tunnel, pulling the door shut on the furnace and its raging flames.

  I gulped down the cool smokeless air, feeling it soothe my throat and lungs. A draught streamed down the tunnel, circulating the smell of mould, damp and dead leaves, lending me some hope. I dug in my pocket for my mobile phone and checked for a signal. There was none. Worse, the battery was low and its screen light had faded, making it little use as a torch. I tried not to think about it and shuffled Oskar into a more comfortable position, but as I attempted to stand tall, my head hit rock, forcing me to stoop. I stretched out my arm, grazing my elbow against more rock. My muscles stiffened, refusing to play. For a moment I thought Eva had taken my body captive again. My panic resurfaced.

  We had escaped the fire in the room; I just needed to navigate the tunnel, that was all … That was all? I had no idea how long it was, whether it was blocked, how safe it was …

  A muffled explosion from behind the door jolted me into action, sending me stumbling forward over small rock
s and what felt like clumps of mud and wood. Fear spurred me on, yet the threat of claustrophobia, of the way it could hold siege over my body was never far away. I didn’t want to die in here. I didn’t want Oskar to die in here. I didn’t want him to die full stop. And though the awkwardness of his frame slowed me down, I couldn’t just leave him while I explored the length of the tunnel, for time was on the side of the fire that hunted us down. I clung to the hope that Oskar was still alive, fighting for his life, just as I was struggling through this tunnel to get us out, determined we wouldn’t succumb to the fire, hissing and rattling behind us. Sweat beaded my face as I tried to quicken the pace, my legs straining against the incline.

  We’re close, so close.

  I repeated it over and over with each step, trying to disregard the faint smell of smoke now snaking through the passage. I wished I had thought to ask Matthias about its length, whether they’d kept the tunnel’s exit open or sealed.

  If it was closed … Oh God, if it was closed, it would be the end of us. I wished my mother had never willed the house to me. What kind of gift was this to give your son! The bitterness of the thought came out as laughter, which turned into a shout coming from deep within my lungs. I held on to Oskar’s body more tightly, feeling the bow of his ribs under my fingers. Ignoring the exhaustion dragging at my legs, I ploughed on, refusing to stop.

  But the dark, the confines of the passage, handicapped any sense of distance covered. Every step forward brought with it a vicious circle of faith, relief and despair that we’d never reach the end of the tunnel. Doubts came at me – the tunnel was too long, we’d never make it, over and over until my shoe stubbed against rock. I’d no idea how far I had walked. Only my ragged breath, the sweat, ice cold and damp, soaking through my shirt, spoke of the effort to get this far. I reached out in front of me, groping around in the dark, searching for the telltale signs of a door, but there were none. Nor was there anything to my left. Panic scraped through me. I reached over to the right: my fingers brushed against a vertical metal rod. I slid my hands up and down it and across, feeling metal rod after metal rod above and below, forming the rungs of a makeshift ladder. I stretched one arm above my head, expecting to touch the tunnel’s roof, but there was nothing but air. I could stand to my full height without fear of knocking my head.

  I lowered Oskar to the ground, flailing in the darkness to find my scarf to put under his head. A boom echoed from the depths of the tunnel behind us. I leapt on to the ladder and counted each rung as I scaled it, hoping the rods wouldn’t give. Without the weight of Oskar, I moved quickly, almost effortlessly, and soon I felt fresh air brush against my face. At the count of twenty, I became aware of the faint smell of pine, and running just above my head was a thin line of light. I made out the form of a square metal plate encased in the ceiling. I traced its perimeter, feeling the rounded bumps of hinges and the curved dip in the metal’s edge where my fingers caught against a jagged lever. I pulled it down, then tried to push the trapdoor up, but it didn’t give. I tried again without any luck. I paused. The air below blew warmer and reeked of smoke. Panic taunted me again. We were not going to perish in the belly of a hill. I wedged my knees between the ladder and the wall and pounded on the trapdoor, willing, forcing it to open, knowing that Oskar’s life, my life, depended on it.

  All at once daylight flooded the shaft, and sweet woodland air filled my lungs. I ducked back inside and raced down the ladder. The stream of light revealed a swirl of smoke, and no more than twenty metres away, the fire was inching forward, feeding on the oxygen and debris that lay scattered in its path. I slung Oskar over my shoulder and began to climb.

  Each rung brought us closer to escape.

  I counted them off – one, two, three. My back, arms and legs screamed, but that square of heavenly light kept me going. I didn’t look down.

  Eleven, twelve … when would this end? Smoke billowed up the ladder, reaching the top before me. I could feel the heat from the fire tonguing my heels.

  Eighteen, nineteen, twenty … I summoned up the last bit of strength left in me to haul us out into the woodland.

  Slipping and sliding through the snow, I made my way to a tree trunk a few metres away and set Oskar down as gently as I could. I collapsed next to him and cradled his head in my lap. He lay quite still, his face curiously bare without his glasses. His eyes were closed, and although his lips were a faded pink, it looked as though death lay beneath his skin. I put my cheek close to his mouth and nose, wishing for a sign of life, a sigh, anything.

  I reached into my coat pocket and tugged out my phone to call the emergency services. Snowflakes flitted about us. I looked over at the tunnel exit: black smoke and flames spouted up through the trap door. I smoothed back the tangle of Oskar’s hair, unable to stop the tears tracing their way down my face.

  OBER ST. VEIT, VIENNA, 1974

  ‘We’ll see you for dinner next week, Frederik,’ says Annabel, closing the door on her friend.

  Right from the beginning she had warmed to him. She tries to describe it to Christopher, but can’t find the right words. It’s something like déjà vu, she tells him, something she can’t explain without it sounding sentimental and unhinged.

  ‘If he didn’t bat for the other side I’d be worried,’ Christopher says.

  She laughs, then shakes her head as they return to the drawing room. How she loves Christopher’s dry English humour.

  ‘He’s obsessed with that painting of yours too,’ he adds.

  Annabel glances over her shoulder at Egon Schiele’s Mother with Two Children. Sunlight pouring through the French windows lights up the mother’s face and Annabel shivers in spite of the warmth in the room. Until Frederik saw it, she had been the only one who had been drawn to it.

  Christopher had chided her for wasting her money on an artist whose work was akin to junk. ‘In a few years’ time you’ll have me selling it in a jumble sale back home.’

  ‘You can be terribly unreasonable at times,’ she says, throwing him a look that tells him not to argue with her. ‘I wager that I’ll never sell it.’

  ‘And I know better than to bet against you, my darling,’ he says, kissing her on the lips.

  Even though they’ve been married eight years, his caresses still make her heart skip. It can’t last, she keeps thinking. But it has lasted, for longer than she expected.

  Christopher looks at his watch. ‘I better collect the boys. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.’

  Ludmilla has the afternoon off so Annabel takes the tea tray to the kitchen and begins to wash up, all the while admiring the garden through the window. The roses are just beautiful, she thinks to herself, and she makes a note to go out and cut a few before Christopher and her sons return. She’s never felt happier – a husband she adores and two beautiful boys. Her hand goes to her stomach. She wonders whether this little one will be a girl, but it’s early days yet. Given her last two miscarriages, she’s promised Christopher she won’t tell anyone about this one – not even Vivienne.

  Annabel leaves the things to drain and shakes the water off her hands before drying them on the towel. Ludmilla’s prepared something for dinner so Annabel needn’t worry about that. She goes into the hallway and readies herself for the garden, but then she stops in her tracks, frowning at the sky through the glass-domed atrium. Despite the sunshine, the entrance hall seems dark. An ice-cold draught brushes against her arms and legs. Annabel turns around to face the statues of the saint and angel. They look strangely alert in the dim light, with their O-shaped mouths, their glimmering eyes staring at a point over her shoulder. Annabel follows their gaze.

  A shadow draws away from her own and slips towards the cellar door, which opens, then clicks shut. Annabel’s heart freezes. Cold despair roots her to the spot. Suddenly, all she wants is to see the faces of her loved ones.

  There’s a knock on the front door. Annabel doesn’t move, unaware of the rat-a-tat-tat. Then the doorbell chimes, louder and louder, insistent, until it
rouses Annabel from that other world.

  Thank God! They’re back.

  She hurries to the door and opens it to two policemen, their caps cradled in their arms.

  The pain sears through her, never allowing her to forget her loss.

  Friends come and go, but it’s Vivienne who stays close. She moves in temporarily to watch over Annabel. Frederik visits daily, and one afternoon, when she’s lying on the sofa in the drawing room, he whispers in Annabel’s ear that he’ll look after her, no matter what.

  From somewhere in the fog of her mind, a memory dislodges itself. She stares at Frederik in wonder. There’s something about him – is it the eyes, the voice? What is it?

  But then the sleeping pills take over and the memory vanishes. Annabel slips back into Neverland, dreaming of her family, and the crash, and the surviving son, Max, who lies in a hospital bed, fighting for his life.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Here’s what I remember: the rising wail of sirens; the dancing swirl of snow; the static of walkie-talkies; voices hollering through the woodland. What they said, I can’t recall, but I do recall my reluctance to let go of Oskar. Some man or a woman, their face a blur, prised him gently from me. I remember the cold surface of a stethoscope numbing my chest while my eyes followed the ambulance that carried Oskar away. I remember smoke curling through the air, and two fire engines – one of them wedged in my mother’s driveway – poised to fight the frenzied flames. And then there was a roar that must have come from me. I saw bystanders waved away by Detective Thomas Schmidt’s men as I remained dumb to his whats, whys and hows before breaking down in Vivienne’s arms, longing to forget. And I remember Frederik Müller pulling up in a vintage silver Mercedes R107 convertible, demanding to know why Schmidt wanted to take me away.