by Rebecca Bryn
‘And square on the other.’
‘Yes, Charlotte.’
‘And one tower was very tall.’
‘The castle had round and square towers where the king and his family lived. It had had rows of narrow arched windows above two gateways. The gateways had thick oak gates to keep out the wolves that roamed wild across the land. From the top of the highest tower they could see for miles and miles across the kingdom. The king loved his daughters and kept them locked away in the highest room…’
‘Four storeys high.’
‘… where they’d be safe from the wolf.’
‘Are there really wolves, Grandpa?’
‘Not wild in this country, Charlotte, but in other places they still roam free. The woodcutter walked for many days before he reached the castle. The king granted him an audience, and the woodcutter knelt before him and swept off his large green hat.
‘Your majesty, he said. I beg you, rid the kingdom of the wolf, Wselfwulf. The king offered a reward to anyone who could slay the wolf. One day a prince rode up to the castle on a huge chestnut horse and demanded to see the king. He drew his sword and laid it at the king’s feet. I will kill the wolf if you grant me the hand of one of your daughters in marriage. The king thought about this. The prince was rich and handsome and brave. He’d be a worthy husband when his oldest daughter was of marriageable age, and it would mean the kingdom would be free of Wselfwulf forever. I agree, said the king. But you must bring me a token of his death.
‘The prince searched for Wselfwulf for many days and eventually found him. The wolf stood as tall as the prince and bared huge fangs at him. What do you want, man-thing? The prince was very afraid. I’ve come to kill you so you don’t eat the princesses and the other daughters of the kingdom.’
‘It’s a wonder these two ever dare go to sleep, Walt.’ Jane placed a cup of tea on the small table beside Charlotte’s bed.
‘It’s only a story, Granny.’
He paused to sip the tea. The girls sat patiently while he swallowed. Their eyes saw wolves and kings and castles, where he saw betrayal and the frozen dead. He put down the cup.
‘What is to be your reward? Wselfwulf asked, fixing his pale cold eyes on the prince. The hand of a princess in marriage, answered the prince. The wolf backed into his cave, revealing a huge treasury of gold and silver paid in ransom over the years for the safety of the daughters of the realm. I will give you a tooth to take back to the king as proof you have killed me and, if you bring me the princess, you can take all the treasure you can carry in return. The prince took the tooth back to the king, and the prince and princess were betrothed amid huge celebration because Wselfwulf was dead.’
‘But weasel-wolf wasn’t dead.’
‘Wselfwulf. No, sweetheart, he wasn’t.’
‘What happened?’
‘The wolf didn’t eat the princess?’
‘No. The prince had fallen in love with the princess and couldn’t bear to lose her, so he begged the wolf to let her live.
‘Bring me the woodcutter’s daughters, to avenge my father, and you may take your treasure and your princess, said the wolf. So the prince went in search of the woodcutter. That night, when the woodcutter and his wife were asleep, he crept into the house, carried off both the woodcutter’s daughters and gave them to the wolf in return for the princess and gold.’
‘We-self-wolf ate them.’
‘Yes, Lucy, he ate them and then, satisfied that the debt had been paid, he curled up on the spot where his father had died for a long, long sleep. You see, the woodcutter tried everything he knew to protect his daughters but he failed, tricked by a greedy man and a crafty wolf.’
‘It’s a sad story, Grandpa,’ Lucy said.
Charlotte puckered her lips. ‘Serves him right.’
He patted Charlotte’s hand. He’d failed once to protect those he’d loved. He would die rather than fail again. ‘I expect you’re right, sweetheart.’
***
Walt unlocked the door to his workshop hoping for five minutes peace. What did he know about school uniforms? Charlotte and Lucy insisted skirt hems far above the knees were not only acceptable but essential. Jane and Jennie had other ideas. He wouldn’t be the judge with the casting vote.
He unwrapped the diary he kept hidden beneath his workshop bench. Its fifty pages bore witness to the courage and endurance of thousands of camp internees. He opened it carefully, his copperplate English a counterpoint to Miriam’s rounded, backward-leaning Hungarian. Tegnap Anya kénytelen volt folytatni nehéz sziklák, hogy a domb tetején. Meleg volt a munka. Néhány elájult és verték.
Ma ő kénytelen volt folytatni a kövek le újra. The words fell better from Miriam’s tongue. His grasp of it, picked up from her and a pocket language-primer, suggested it read Yesterday, Mother had to carry many rocks from the bottom of the hill to the top. It was hot work. Some were beaten because they fainted. Today she was forced to carry them back again.
He turned a page to his own handwriting. The Greek Sonderkommando refused to gas the Hungarians. They staged a brave revolt. Another entry. August 2nd 1944. They have liquidated the gypsy camp. Bodies burn in pits next to the crematorium.
More of Miriam’s words: his finger traced them gently, as if caressing her cheek. Was he being disloyal to Jane? Láttuk atya át a kerítésen. Mi alig ismert rá. Nem vagyok biztos benne, hogy tudta, hogy minket. Miriam had cried when she wrote this. We saw Father through the fence. We barely recognised him. I'm not sure that he knew us. He closed the book and rewrapped it. Miriam had risked her life to trust in him.
He locked the workshop door and walked back into the house. He sank into his chair, trying to block out the horror of that day, and failing.
An hour before dawn and they were all exhausted; an outbreak of scarlet fever had kept them working most of the night. His nurses were dead on their feet: patients lay dead on their bunks. He wrinkled his nose: the night-soil buckets were full to overflowing but the ‘pot girl’ was not permitted to go to the latrines to empty them until morning.
‘Chuck, have we any charcoal left? There are four more diarrhoea cases.’
He tipped the contents of a bag onto the table. ‘This is all… if only we had something else to treat them… kaolin… If only we had more water…’ They dreaded rain for the quagmire that dragged every last ounce of strength from exhausted limbs, yet prayed for it to fill what bowls they could spare with precious drops.
She wiped a hand across her brow. He felt her forehead quickly and searched for evidence of a rash. ‘You are hot. You have a sore throat?’
‘No… It’s warm in here tonight. I don’t think I have a temperature.’
‘Tongue?’
She stuck it out.
‘It’s not red.’ He let out the breath he’d been holding. ‘It’s a miracle we avoid infection.’
She managed a tired smile. ‘I worry about the boys, but I think we’re immune to everything, now.’
Those patients who could swallow were given a few sips of water, the last of the charcoal was dispensed, and the moans gradually subsided as exhaustion pulled the sick into sleep or death.
‘Miriam, rest while you can. If we have more cases, today will be even harder.’ He passed the bunk Arturas and Peti shared with three women and reached to feel their foreheads. Despite his best efforts at scrimping extra food they were painfully thin. ‘They shouldn’t be in here with all this sickness.’
‘Where else can they go? At least here they are loved and fed.’
The door slammed back on its hinges. Guards stormed in. He moved to block their path.
‘Alle raus! Jetzt raus! Schnell… schnell… Suche überall.’ Everyone out.
His heart hammered in his chest. He motioned to Miriam while blocking the SS officer’s view. ‘What is the meaning of this? What are you looking for?’
‘Explosives have been found in the camp. A boy is being interrogated.’
‘A boy?’ A movement caught his att
ention: he ignored it. ‘You’ll find no explosives here.’
‘We’ll search every inch. Stand aside, doctor.’
Patients too ill to move were dragged from their beds: the sick and dying thrown to the ground. Guards tore aside blankets, and poked beneath bunks and in the cracks between them.
The officer marched into the surgery and overturned the table, scattering clean instruments onto the floor, sweeping aside medicines, and ripping open packets of sterile dressings and bandages smuggled from Kanada. He was looking for explosives, not contraband medical equipment or five-year-olds missing from the gypsy records.
The officer called to two guards. ‘Search everywhere. Search everyone.’ He waved his Luger and stalked out.
Patients hobbled through the doors, keeping together in a tight bunch, holding one another upright. He couldn’t see Peti or Arturas. He leaned closer and whispered. ‘Miriam, where are the boys?’
‘They’ll get them out. We’ve practiced for this.’
Maybe in the crush and half-light they could pass them around, hide them. ‘And the packages?’
She inclined her head in the direction of the door to the outside, but said nothing. He looked around wildly. She hadn’t been outside, and the only things near the door were… ‘You didn’t drop them in the night soil?’
She nodded, grinning.
‘I hope they explode as those bastards walk past.’
Her eyes opened wide. Her grin turned into a giggle: her mirth was infectious and they clung to each other shoulders heaving with helpless laughter.
He held a finger to his lips. ‘Shush… He’s coming back.’
‘There is nothing here. Your patients may return.’ The officer swept out of the hut, averting his nose from the night-soil buckets and driving his guards before him to their next dawn raid.
The women filed back inside. He still couldn’t see Arturas and Peti. Two women looked fatter than he remembered, and he didn’t think they had starvation oedema. They unclasped their hands and a sleepy child slid to the floor from beneath long dresses that had fitted months before, but were now several sizes too large. They’d won another precarious day of life for the Roma twins.
Zählappell came too soon and took the laughter from their hearts. They were marched in silence to the gibbet, where a boy of fifteen or sixteen stood on a chair, hands tied, with a rope around his neck. Miriam’s face turned pale. The boy’s eyes were wild, like a cornered animal, his gaunt features twisted in fear.
The crowd tensed as the SS officer spoke. ‘This boy will hang, and as a punishment and a warning, a barrack in each camp will be decimated.’ The word ran in a susurration from lip to terrified lip. All were considered guilty of sabotage.
Miriam fingered the leather lace she wore around her neck and took half a step forward. He put a hand on her arm and shook his head. Giving herself up would be pointless; it wouldn’t save the boy, or her friends or patients. And, if tortured, she might be forced to give away others.
The officer raised his arm. The boy’s eyes darted from face to face and stopped when he saw Miriam. No-one moved, no-one spoke, no-one breathed: his heart thumped wildly. The officer watched and waited, searching the assembled faces. A gloved hand fell and a guard kicked away the chair. Miriam closed her eyes and her lips moved soundlessly. The young body jerked and twisted, too light for a quick death: prayers for the dead bathed the air in a low moan.
‘Line up… here.’ The SS officer motioned impatiently and Miriam was forced to join a row of fifty women. The wall was pock-marked at chest height.
Dear God, no…
The officer began, pointing to each victim in turn. ‘Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben, acht, neun, zehn.’ A rifle cracked and the tenth woman in the line slumped to the ground. He began again from the next white-faced figure. ‘Eins, zwei, drei…’
Panic blurred his vision. Miriam was number nine, wasn’t she? The rifle cracked again, another body fell.
‘Eins, zwei, drei, vier…’
He was past Miriam: she was safe.
Death changed direction and began counting back. ‘Fünf, sechs, sieben…’
Miriam was eight… Blood pooled at her feet. She was shaking visibly but her eyes held his. The count began once more. ‘Eins, zwei, drei…’ The officer had begun in a different place… he kept changing direction, playing, like a cat with mice… it was impossible to know who would be next… The woman on Miriam’s other side collapsed to the ground. ‘Eins, zwei, drei…’ The count progressed along the line, a shot rang out. Five bodies: one in ten. The shoulders of the remaining forty-five relaxed visibly. ‘Eins, zwei, drei…’ No… no… he’d had his one in ten… Time slowed. ‘Fünf, sechs, sieben.’ If the count continued in a straight line Miriam was number ten.
He closed his eyes; he couldn’t bear to watch.
‘Acht.’
Coward. He forced them open.
‘Neun…’
Time stopped. His heart and lungs would burst.
‘Zehn.’ The rifle aimed at Miriam’s heart.
He forced himself to stand still. If he attacked the officer the whole barrack would be massacred. It wouldn’t save Miriam.
‘No…’ Two women held back Miriam’s mother. ‘Miriam…’
Please God, let it be a good shot. He mouthed the words that were etched on his heart. ‘I love you.’
She drew herself up and smiled. ‘Szeretlek.’
It was forbidden to speak. Forbidden to love.
The officer waved his rifle aside. ‘Next fifty. Quickly.’
He couldn’t breathe. The surviving women stumbled back to their places while the five bodies were thrown in a pile and fifty more innocents lined up. ‘Eins, zwei, drei…’
He couldn’t breathe.
***
Walt gagged, tried to get up from his chair and failed. Weight compressed his lungs; pain burned across his chest and throat, and into his arm.
‘Walt? Walt what’s the matter?’ Jane ran back out into the hall. ‘Jennie, call an ambulance.’
Feet thudded down the stairs.
‘I think your dad’s having a heart attack.’
‘I’m… all right. The girls…’
Jane’s voice, calming. ‘They’ve gone to school. They’ll be fine… You’ll be fine.’
Jenny’s voice, urgent. The slam of the receiver. ‘It’ll be here in five minutes. Dad?’
Pain consumed him. The world went dark: voices… voices… A mask smothered him. He had to get it off, had to breathe: his arms were made of lead. Faces bent over him, voices offering comfort and demanding answers… answers he couldn’t give. Cold air, an ambulance… He was going to the gas. More cold air and a white ceiling rushing overhead.
A white-gowned doctor leaned closer. ‘What was that?’
‘Miriam…’
‘Let’s get him to Cardiac.’
Lights shone hot on his face; he drifted in space. Two cherubs dressed in white, with long golden hair, bore him along. Charlotte? Lucy? Angels of Death or Angels of Mercy? He was lying on a cold slab, his arms pinned at his side. Faces crowded. Brown, blue and hazel eyes watched and worried. ‘Jane?’
Pale eyes blinked in forest shadow. Wselfwulf stirred: watchful, waiting, full of the promise of death. He beckoned and a group of children went with him, skipping along hand in hand, playing a game, On the Way to the Chimney: he led them, dancing along like the Pied Piper of Hamlyn. They called him the Good Uncle.
‘No, please.’ No sound escaped his stricken throat.
Charlotte and Lucy joined the growing band. His eyes filled with greed. No, you two can go to the zoo. He screamed until his throat was raw but no sound came. The eyes still stared: the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. He was in a room with white walls. It bore in on him, closing like a net. Eyes of every hue were pinned to the walls in pairs, like butterflies and moths on an entomologist’s display board.
‘BP’s dropping.’
Charlotte he
ld a scalpel in long talons, holding it poised above his chest. The knife tip followed her gaze down his body. It pierced the soft skin of his scrotum. He screamed as it sliced away his testicles. Dispassionate, she handed the scalpel to Lucy. The knife cut again, searing a path of hot pain from throat to navel. No anaesthetic: they wouldn’t use it… why should they? Lucy parted the flesh above his heart. Fear clenched his soul and the smell of blood and burning flesh choked him.
‘Shocking… Clear.’
Someone was screaming: it must be him. Lucy opened her mouth to show huge, yellowed fangs. She lifted out his heart. It beat rhythmically, pumping lifeblood around a body that longed only for death. She ripped out his liver and kidneys, staining her white robes with his blood.
Nemesis had sent her sisters, the Keres, released from Pandora’s Box to plague the world with death, and they were eager to exact her price and fulfil their purpose. Charlotte and Lucy were the Keres all along.
But merciful death was not yet his. His life paraded before him in a macabre dance: Miriam, the new-born innocents, the children… all those he’d failed. He deserved to suffer. He closed his eyes but the screaming continued. Small fingers prised open his eyelids and light blinded him. A syringe, its needle growing ever larger, pierced his eyeball while other needles pierced his arm.
‘Shocking again… Clear.’
He looked down at himself from above; he was one of identical twins and both were restrained on mortician’s slabs. Tubes connected them and blood flowed from one to the other. His twin had no legs, just stumps, pumping fountains of blood; he was drowning in it, drowning, choking, even as his twin drained his life away. When his twin died he would die too… but they’d already done his autopsy. Fingers forced open his eyelids again and the syringe pierced his other eyeball with indescribable pain. Mercy… he could not beg. The pulsing of his heart slowed. He watched it stop. The Angel of Death took him.
