Europe After the Rain

by Alan Burns

  Chapter 6

  We drove through the sunset, over miles of new roads, towards a chain of hills in red stone, through stone quarries which provided the stone for the great stadium, the modern hospital, for constructing the aerodrome. Ruins, alternately red and grey, were splashed with red – the red grew from inside the ruins. Without moving, the earth shaped; the red persisted as we drove: at dusk a crown of domed red blown away into water; red arches opened straight onto water on either side.

  All morning we drove slowly; I was thirsty – there was no water. We stopped; we had an excellent meal, seven or eight courses – I should have liked to stay, but the car was waiting.

  A coat was thrown over her. She stared stupidly. No one spoke. No one told her where she was being taken. I leant forwards to ask the driver. He nodded. “We’re almost there.” With a quick movement he inserted a rod between her legs; her strength drained away.

  Surrounded by wide grounds, by a high wall, I stayed silent. I heard a faint jangling from the bracelets she wore on her wrists. Doors were unlocked and locked; she walked forwards, dragging the rings with her down the corridor, through doors which were unlocked and locked, down the continuing corridor, each door noisily slammed behind her. She touched the rings. Then she forgot them. They were no longer important. If there had been others willing to take her, none of this would have happened.

  From the outside the main building had the appearance of a mansion: marble pillars, ornate gilt, complex decorations. The building, though dilapidated, was not in ruins; the upper floors were kept from crushing the lower by steel struts placed upright and threaded into the walls of the corridors and rooms. A wooden barrier, topped by a low steel rail, extended the length of the entrance hall, separating a crowd of women and children from the administration. Here parents searched for their children, children for their parents. I enquired about her and was told that she had been asking for news of me. Her block number indicated that she was in the central block.

  In the courtyard through which I walked to reach the central block, two girls in protective clothing, wearing masks, were examining the contents extracted from the pockets of the dead. If positive identification resulted, the news was passed to those waiting, and the contents of the pockets given to the nearest relative.

  The central block composed forty rooms, each with a grated hole as a window. It was the store that interested me – a cupboard crammed with clothes, medicines, soap and food. The heavy sliding doors to each room had been pushed back, and I had the impression that the occupants had retreated to the wall farthest from the door and in each case were crouched under the window round a small iron stove. One room was empty except for a table covered with a brown sheet; a stretcher blocked the corridor outside – we stepped over it, and walked on down the wide corridor with rooms opening on either side, the commander first, then myself, the driver trotting behind. In spite of the open doors, there was not enough air. The commander said that normally the double doors were kept closed.

  I wanted to see the girl at once, but the commander insisted that I talk to the people in the rooms, implying that they would be disappointed if I walked by without greeting them. He stood back, and allowed the driver to assume the part of a guide: “Each room contains two families.” In five rooms I counted maybe thirty women and children, with perhaps two or three men. I asked where the people slept. “They have bundles of clothes. They sleep on them. Those who have nothing sleep on boards.”

  They squatted silently, keeping back from the heavy doors; only the children crept closer, peering curiously at us. I spoke to one of the women crouched at the other end of the room. She shouted back in a harsh, unpleasant voice: “They took them. They sent them back.” “What do you mean?” “My husband and my two children.” “Where are they now?” “They sent them back.” She would not come nearer. I asked one of the children who had poked her head round the door and was looking down the corridor whether she went to school. “We work in the factory, making bricks.” “Do you get paid?” She shook her head. The commander said curtly: “They had time to find normal work.” A boy pushed through the crowd of women and came up to me. I thought I remembered him – he resembled the boy with the sub-machine gun. He made me feel his ragged grey jacket. “I cannot get more because it is written on my identity card – one jacket, one pullover, one pair of shoes – and nothing is said about them being old clothes.” I was wearing a new suit of greenish-yellow tweed and my heavy overcoat. The commander had on his fur-lined waterproof and military boots. There was nothing I could say. I was wasting my time, I knew that. I was not thinking clearly – I was not asking the right questions, nor taking proper note of the answers. The commander had given me a bar of chocolate; I broke off two squares and offered them to the boy. “Why don’t we get new things?” the boy asked. The driver interrupted him: “I work. Why don’t you work? No work, no clothes.” The women came forwards and pressed round us: “They won’t give us food. If we can’t eat, we can’t work.” My guide repeated: “Those who won’t work shall not eat.” “They won’t let us work.” “That’s a lie. I’ll get you work,” the commander shouted back at them, and, bending his head close to mine, said quietly: “If you wish to see her tonight, we should leave now.”

  “They treat us like bandits.” The crowd followed us down the corridor. “We fought. They disarmed us. We worked in the forests. Those who were ill were left to die. They deported us, then took us back and jailed us – now they call us bandits. They won’t give us work; they won’t give us food.” The driver took a whistle from his pocket and blew several sharp blasts. Guards came thundering down the corridor. The prisoners’ lives were spent in terror; they rushed back into their rooms, they tried to close the sliding doors, but the locks were electrically controlled; the children banged tins, they threw stones into the corridor. The guards forced their way into the rooms – four guards to a room – the doors slid shut behind them.

  We were in normal surroundings. We walked along grated steel floors to the dining hall. The commander had tickets which gave the number of our table. Small tables were set along three walls, leaving the centre clear for dancing. At the far end a jazz band played. The driver sat alone at the next table. There were few women – the place was full of thick-necked businessmen. “They made their money,” the commander explained, “and they like to spend it. They don’t have to tell me where they got their money from.” It was incongruous, in that room, where each piece of furniture spoke of former owners. We talked of difficulties, lack of this, lack of that. Food was scarce – food was a constant theme. He would not say much about his work. “Large packages – they send us the dead, discs, portraits, paper soaked in blood. We are obliged to sort them, handling each object with care, repacking and redirecting sealed boxes in thousands.”

  I asked him which room had been used for the children. He said: “This room.” He described the six hundred children packed into the darkened room; the marks of their fingers could be seen on the walls. “They must have known what was to happen.” “We told them it was to be a concert – we provided music, from a violin and a piano, until a woman stepped in front of the curtain and called for silence.”

  I was being diverted from my object. I asked him directly: “When may I speak to the girl?” “You may see her. A meeting has been arranged.” “Where is she now?” “In my room.” He paused and added pointedly: “She is resting.” I was holding a glass of wine to my mouth: I felt my hand tremble to the point of insanity; I dropped the glass onto the table – it smashed and sent the wine over the cloth. He said calmly: “I took you for a friend. I see I was mistaken.” I had begun to apologize, but before I could say more than a few words, he left the table and, after speaking to the driver for a moment, went out of the room. The driver came over to me with a supercilious smile: “I am asked to inform you that the question of the permit to visit a person charged with a crime against the state can only be dealt with thro
ugh official channels.” “What does that mean?” “You’ll have to apply through the office like everyone else.”

  After I had waited an hour in the outer office, the commander came in, but did not appear to notice me. He whispered something to a secretary, and they left the room together. Within a few moments she returned carrying a length of dress material. While she was handling the material and draping it about herself, she turned to me and said irritably: “There’s no point in you waiting here.” But she merely glanced at me in an impersonal way when I walked past her into the private office.

  The commander was alone in his office, with books – a man with a history, his head square and large in bone, his coat black or brown, his well-made boots climbing a steep slope of work. Steel blinds protected his head from the sun; he was aware of the threats which shadowed his life. He got up from his chair and shook hands formally. “You have come at an awkward time,” he said. “I received orders to bring you here and answer your questions. I obeyed. That is all.” He had an easy manner. I was an official guest. I was offered a seat, but declined it. “I regret I cannot receive you in our senate room, but it is undergoing repair after damage during the war. In what way can I be of service to you?” He looked beyond me at the charts on the walls. I was not deceived. I said: “I don’t wish to cause any trouble. I want things to go on as they are; I want to keep the wheels turning.” He made a sign, picked up his coat, which had lain neatly across the back of his chair, and walked towards the door. I respected him. I stood aside. He passed close to me. I felt his breath on my face. The light was terribly bright. I watched his face – his mouth moved: “A mistake may have been made.” I tried to touch his hand. I asked: “Why do you speak in this way?” His expression changed. “I will make further enquiries. Should I receive a favourable report, arrangements will be made for the transfer of population. In any event, I shall show you everything – the bad as well as the good. And afterwards perhaps you will not be so anxious to see her.” He waited for me to go. “I hope she will be released.” “She will get out, but only to some other place.”

  Chapter 7

  I changed my life. I went among the prisoners taken to the camp for labour purposes. I wanted to make certain; I wanted to get inside; I knew the language. I wanted to learn more, suddenly. Where I might not have understood two words, I got used to their slang and abbreviations. My work was in that place. I began to study murder. I made plans. A few feet between us, the open country beyond. Success depended on whether I could reach the open country afterwards. I studied maps. The plan was complicated: there were roads to be watched; speed was essential; there were two main roads leading to the town – they formed a junction a mile north of the camp.

  I watched the driver – his hair was white – he was my man. All the rest were prisoners – he was not. The others wrote to their families – he did not. I examined the identity of this man, I lived with him. He talked – he had no suspicions: he talked about his family, he discussed his girl, showed me her photograph; there was little I did not know about him. He was very particular about his food – he spent hours planning meals – he had trained to be a cook. “I got work which entitled me to a room with furniture, and then I sold the furniture. I bought these trousers and a fur-lined coat. That’s how I got this job. I looked the part.”

  I was no longer myself, but him. I wore his best black trousers; I squeezed into his coat. I could not bring my arms to my sides; my head was too large for the cap; it was hot; the sun hit my head; I was not good-looking enough. I met the commander walking along – I never showed my face; he did not know I had passed. I noted the shape of the commander’s thin fingers, felt the texture of his palm. His palm smelt of sweet gas. I knew the time for his death. He was to follow those who had disappeared at his word. I was the person in the crowded courtyard who knew the date of his death. I did not tell him anything. I often walked close to him with my gun; there would have been time – he was in easy range. This time he was larger, bolder, more conspicuous – I happened to catch sight of him crossing the road; I had a clear view of the small person, a fleeting glimpse – he was a tremendously fast walker: always in a hurry, he preferred the open roads to the densely crowded courtyard; he was most careful where he walked.

  I did not know that I was being watched. I was stopped by police; a bomb had been thrown. The police closed in. Their caps made them taller; guns on either side; their hands held sticks. I was knocked down by a sergeant of police, my arm crushed by his boots against the wall. He ordered me out of the camp within one hour. A lorry was leaving in forty minutes.

  I gave up my plan. I needed to know him better. I threw away my loaded gun – the barrel was hot; it was painful to touch the metal. Then came shots. The pain from my arm underlined the reality of what was happening. The sound of the clump of metal on the floor – a man without legs, false legs and metal feet, carried on a wooden board; I heard a clatter, the driver lit his pipe, he fell dead; I could not prevent the blunder – he was hit by five bullets. The driver, not the commander – a mistake had been made. I learnt the meaning of a gun. He stumbled, he didn’t move; figures came towards us, loudly calling his name; they wandered aimlessly – they didn’t expect to find him in the mist; they were a long way away – he was beyond reach. Not hearing anything, I thought of wild plans, the gun I had hidden; I wasn’t sure – I got up and brushed my clothes, tired, uncertain. In the shouting and panic I dragged the body through a doorway, carried the load up two flights of steps. Every door was locked.

  I was overtaken by medical officers. “You should not have touched the body.” “I could not find anyone to help. I’ve been wounded.” My arm was soaked with blood. The officer insisted that I cease work, led me away, ordered me to hospital. “This man has worked well.” He demanded my name, which I had to give; he promised me a decoration; I was to be taken to hospital for treatment for shock. I had been an idiot – I had not followed the agreed plan; now I was being taken to hospital.

  The doctor treated my arm. I had done useful work. I was put to bed. I slept for an hour. I woke, stared at the man standing over me: it was the sergeant of police. I had to think of some excuse. He wanted to know why I had not done as he had ordered. I told him I had lost my way; the lorry had left without me. There would have to be a fuller explanation – he was obviously suspicious. Maybe he was waiting for my brain to clear. He waited too long. The doctor returned; I showed him my letter of recommendation; he allowed me to go. There may have been suspicion, but the disaster had been an accident. At that moment a telegram was handed to me, inviting me to attend the funeral of a man cruelly assassinated by a fanatic. I was still wearing the uniform of the tall handsome man. The trousers were stained with blood – I had to wear my own trousers; they squeezed me into the coat, which gaped wide open in front; the hat would not stay on – I had to carry it under my arm.

  In the morning the lines formed in the streets leading to the ground; the approach to the lines of cars led past houses; we were watched from the gardens – the people watched in long lines behind the gates of their houses. He had been a young man, greatly liked. Protected by the neutral flag flying before it, my car drove with the others, surrounded by mourning crowds, to the desolate gardens. The commander was attended by men in magnificent uniform – they wore gorgeous dark blue and gold. I was introduced to the presence; he shook hands and talked with me. Encircled by death, walking the path between the stones, a long walk in a lovely forest, the daughter passed, walking slowly; at the sound of my voice she tipped the funeral flowers she carried to one side, using the leaves to screen her face, so that I saw the thick plaits but not her face. I went on as if I did not know she had passed. Opposite the wall the tall pine stood; the shooting had dealt a blow – he had fallen victim: the bullet had been wasted; the bullet had waited from the hour of his birth; he had been unable to protect himself.