The Survivors

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘Who needs a husband when we have passports?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ALICJA

  ‘Herr Blach?’

  Alicja had startled him. That was good. He would be off balance. She had a sense that she could knock him to the ground despite his height. He was coming out of the canteen after breakfast, his eyes foggy, as if he hadn’t slept well. It took several heartbeats for Scholz to remember that Blach was his name in the camp, Jan Blach. He glanced at her and raised a hostile eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve had enough of your family,’ he said sharply.

  He tried to brush past her but she stepped into his path. He did not disguise his irritation when she stood her ground.

  ‘What is it this time?’ he demanded.

  She had the words ready. ‘I forgot to say something to you. When we talked on the football field.’

  ‘If you forgot it, it can’t be important, can it?’

  ‘I think it is.’

  She could feel his annoyance crawling over her. The snake tossed on his bed was something he had no intention of forgiving.

  ‘So spit it out,’ he snapped.

  ‘I want you to know, Herr Blach.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That what my mother did in the past in Warsaw. Or didn’t do. It doesn’t matter. Not now.’

  He burst out laughing. Except it didn’t sound like laughter. It sounded like hot oil spitting when you splash water into it. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, little girl, you are mistaken. Everything that we do in the past matters. You will learn that. The past is like your shadow, it never leaves you.’

  ‘When there is no sun, there is no shadow.’

  His gaze didn’t leave her face. ‘Do you know, Alicja, that a British soldier from this camp was suffering from toothache and went to a highly qualified German dentist in Hanover for an extraction. The dentist injected him with something that almost killed him. A deliberate murder attempt. The soldier is now seriously ill in hospital and the dentist is locked up in prison.’

  Alicja said nothing. Why was he telling her about a dentist?

  ‘You see,’ he pushed his face towards hers, ‘hatred is allconsuming. Do you know what that means? It means it eats you up inside. That dentist threw away everything he had achieved in life for one moment of hatred. The war is still going on. Hatred doesn’t listen to reason. I advise you to tell your mother to make certain she listens to reason. Otherwise . . .’ He shrugged.

  Alicja stepped so close she could smell fried bacon on his breath. ‘What I came to tell you this morning is this,’ she said. ‘Stay away from my mother.’

  ‘So fierce!’

  She reached out with sudden fury and gripped the front of his shirt tight in her fist. Twisted it hard. ‘I am telling you that if you hurt my mother, I will defend her.’

  For the first time, he smiled. ‘Ah, so the lion cub has claws. You think love is a match for hatred?’ He detached her fingers from his shirt one at a time.

  ‘I mean it. If you hurt her, I will . . .’ The words jammed in her throat.

  ‘You will what?’

  ‘I will . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I will kill you.’

  Muscle by muscle the smile slid off his face. The silence between them was raw. After a long moment Scholz nodded.

  ‘I believe you, Alicja Janowska.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  DAVIDE BOUVIER

  ‘You’re not listening.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘No you’re not, Klara.’

  ‘I’m listening to every word you say. Really I am.’

  Davide placed a hand on her arm to slow down her pace. He had come to fetch her immediately after breakfast to escort her to the Administration block and wanted to make certain she understood the seriousness of her situation before she entered the lion’s den.

  ‘You must be penitent,’ he told her.

  She lowered her eyes. She was oddly subdued today. That surprised him. He had expected her to be bristling with anger.

  ‘Be careful with your tongue, Klara. That’s what I’m saying.’

  She looked up at him and the tension in her face softened. Her fingers brushed over the back of his hand. ‘Thank you, Davide. I am grateful.’

  ‘Don’t, for heaven’s sake, go around accusing Scholz when you have no proof he was responsible for the snake. Promise me. No one saw him enter your hut.’

  His words seemed to stun her. She answered with sudden passion. ‘One day, Davide, when my head is turned the other way, that man will come up behind my daughter and slit her throat.’

  ‘What makes you think that, Klara? That he would be so violent.’

  ‘Because I know him.’

  ‘Have you ever seen him do such a monstrous act?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how can you be sure?’

  ‘There were always others to do it for him before. He didn’t need to get his own hands dirty.’

  ‘Listen to me, Klara. You could be mistaken. He might have changed. You know, people do change when their life is torn apart. We both know that.’

  Klara removed her hand from Davide’s.

  It felt as if she’d peeled the skin off it. Of course he understood that she would struggle with the idea of Scholz experiencing a change of heart, but Davide’s own heart sank when he saw her look at him as though he’d grown two heads. Without a word she entered the Administration block.

  When they had settled in the stiff army-issue chairs inside the office, Colonel Whitmore gathered together the papers on his desk, shifting them from place to place. Building a fortress for himself.

  Davide was aware of how acutely embarrassed the colonel was to find himself in this situation. It baffled Davide why Englishmen were so bad at dealing with women. As if they might explode at any moment like a hand grenade. The fear of an emotional outburst was tangible in the room and even worse, God forbid, the ever-present terror of tears. Davide had requested permission to be present at the questioning of Klara and Colonel Whitmore had more than readily agreed.

  ‘Mrs Janowska,’ the colonel said solemnly, ‘I have summoned you here this morning because it has been brought to my attention that you have committed an extremely serious offence.’

  Klara sat quietly. It gave Davide hope. The quickest way to an Englishman’s heart was docility in a woman. She sat there, watching the colonel closely, her wide blue eyes unblinking. The only indication of her stress was one hand straying to the scarf over the bandage on her neck. Her fingers kept picking at it as if there was something inside her she wanted to pluck out.

  ‘Mrs Janowska, you released a poisonous snake on Mr Blach’s bed in Hut W. There were more than twenty witnesses, so please do not waste our time by trying to deny it. Do you have anything to say about the incident?’

  Incident. A word that reduced an act of passion to manageable military terms.

  Just apologise, Klara. Please. Just give him an easy way out and we can all get on with our jobs.

  But even as the thought rose in Davide’s mind, he knew it was not possible. Klara would no more apologise for causing Oskar Scholz distress than she would wash his bed sheets.

  ‘I apologise,’ Klara said.

  Davide blinked.

  Klara cast him a look. See, it said. I listened to you. I can do penitence. If that’s what it takes.

  Davide gave a snort of surprise and turned it into a cough. She never failed to surprise him. Clearly she had surprised Colonel Whitmore too because he visibly relaxed, confident the worst danger had passed.

  Klara took her hands from her neck scarf and placed them folded demurely on her lap. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel. It was foolish of me. It was just that a snake in my bed was too much.’

  Whitmore leaned forward on his desk. ‘In your bed?’

  ‘Yes. I thought one of the men had somehow put it there. You know, to make a point. Like the serpent
with Adam and Eve in Eden. I regarded it as a sexual threat and something in me snapped.’ She laid a hand on her heart as though to still its fluttering. ‘Some of the men in Graufeld can be very intimidating, Colonel.’

  He frowned. ‘I am aware of the problem, Mrs Janowska. Which is why we have strict rules of behaviour in place.’

  ‘Which we are grateful for.’

  ‘Has Jan Blach caused you problems?’

  ‘Jan Blach?’

  ‘The man on whose bed you threw the snake.’

  ‘I was upset. And angry. I marched on down to the single men’s huts and chucked the snake on whichever bed came to hand. It was not intended for a particular man, I assure you.’

  The colonel sat back and tapped his teeth uneasily. ‘It was probably one of the children trying to scare you for a prank.’

  Even Davide had difficulty swallowing that one.

  ‘But for you to throw a venomous snake at someone is a serious matter, as I’m sure you understand. It should be a matter for the German police.’

  Her gasp caught them both by surprise. Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Venomous?’

  ‘Yes, the snake was an adder. A damn large one, I gather.’

  ‘I thought it was a grass snake! I’d never have handled it if I’d realised it was poisonous.’ She slumped back in her chair with a mix of shock and relief. ‘I meant no harm.’

  She was good. Very good. Davide wanted to applaud.

  Instead he nodded sagely. ‘Well, Colonel, it looks like it was more an error of judgement rather than a malicious act.’

  Whitmore studied the piles of paperwork like the Atlas Mountains on his desk. Was it worth adding to it with even more paperwork about a trivial incident? Probably not. Davide watched him come to the decision and breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  ‘Very well,’ Whitmore announced, ‘we will take it no further, as no one was hurt.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The colonel rose to his feet. The discussion was at an end. Davide had the door open and Klara was about to exit, when Whitmore added, ‘You will of course apologise.’

  ‘Apologise?’

  ‘To Jan Blach.’

  Davide saw her swallow. So hard he thought she would choke.

  ‘Of course, Colonel.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  DAVIDE BOUVIER

  Clouds had blown in from the north. A dirty grey sky clamped down over the camp, trapping the homeless beneath it, while a cold wind searched out any naked ankles or threadbare shirts.

  After leaving the Administration block Davide walked Klara briskly to the Recreation hall. In silence. Neither spoke. At this time of the morning the hall was usually little used, just a few die-hards at the card tables and one old Slovak with milky eyes who sat all day at the window, gazing to the east because he feared that the bloody boots of the Soviet Army would come marching in any day now.

  At the door Davide halted. There was much he wanted to say to Klara, too many words, but he held them back. He gave her a warm smile instead. ‘You were very convincing in there. Remind me never to believe anything you say.’

  She laughed. Not much of a laugh, admittedly, but he was thankful for the effort she made.

  ‘You wait in the hall,’ he told her. ‘I’ll go and fetch Scholz.’

  ‘Do you have to?’

  ‘Yes, I do. You know I do. It’s the only way to keep you out of a German police cell. Let’s get it over with immediately.’

  He noticed the way she tightened. Elbows tucked in, shoulders narrowing. He had no wish to inflict this on her but the sooner it was done the better. He wouldn’t let her go through it alone. He moved off sharply to head down Churchill Way, but she didn’t let him. Her hand wrapped itself around his forearm and drew him through the doorway into a corridor that separated the main recreation hall from the smaller room reserved for mothers with children.

  She halted in the corridor, a dimly lit passage that still smelled of army distemper paint.

  ‘A moment of privacy,’ she said with relief.

  She’d chosen well. The camp was riddled with eyes everywhere, bored eyes, interested eyes, curious eyes, suspicious eyes. Everywhere you went. Observing everything you did. But not here. This gloomy little patch of corridor for a few minutes was theirs.

  Klara took both his hand in hers. ‘Thank you, Davide.’

  Only three small words, yet they carried such a depth of emotion. Everyone in Graufeld Camp got through each day by being always guarded and self-protective. It was the only way to survive in the hostile environment. But it made for a lonely and isolated existence, one that Davide had taught himself to adapt to. Now suddenly with the emotion of those simple words Klara was laying herself open. Though she was wearing her usual washed-out blue dress and her ragged scarf at her throat, she had always been clad in armour. And behind each sheet of iron lay another sheet of iron. Another suit of armour.

  But now he could sense the soft body beneath, the sweetness and the freshness of it. He felt a rush of love for this extraordinary, pig-headed and courageous young woman and he lifted one of her hands. Turned it over, kissed its palm and breathed in the intimate scent of her.

  Instantly Klara’s other hand buried itself in his hair. Gripping hard, trying to climb deep inside him. He could feel the force of it, the need in the damaged tips of her fingers. He raised his head and her slender arm curled around his neck, not soft and gentle, but lean and urgent. His skin seemed to catch fire at her touch and he drew her into his arms, her body taut against his.

  He kissed her mouth. Instead of armour, her lips were soft and warm, opening to him, inviting him to be a part of her. For so long he had believed that these emotions had been flayed out of him by the war, that love was something that lay dead and cold in the past behind him. But there was a passion in Klara that brought the broken parts of him together with its heat. A furnace within her that created a new flame inside him.

  He wanted to lift her in his arms. To run. To carry her away from here to wide open spaces. To tear her out of the grip of whatever it was that Scholz had over her. To see her smile, to hear her laugh.

  To watch her live.

  He had imprinted in his mind every line of her face and each delicate contour of her cheek, but now his fingers touched them. Traced the strong bones under the pale skin. He kissed her short hair. Silk on his lips. He discovered that the heat in her flowed even through the sunshine curls. She laid her hand on his shoulder, brushed her hot cheek back and forth over his. They stood there together in the gloom, hearts pounding. Her breasts pressed tight to his chest. Both aware that time was running out.

  ‘Davide,’ she murmured, ‘what happened to your wife and child?’

  He waited. Till the shock had passed.

  ‘It’s all locked away, Klara. I threw away that key.’ He let his breathing steady. ‘I’ve never told anyone.’

  ‘I’m not anyone.’

  Her face, so close to his, was gentle in the shadows. It was time. She wasn’t anyone.

  ‘I used to live in a beautiful village called Oradour-sur-Glane near Limoges in France,’ he said in a toneless voice. ‘On the tenth of June 1944 the village was wiped out. My parents, my wife, my daughter, my friends. They all were happy there. I was held captive in Nordhausen, so I wasn’t present when the First Battalion of the Fourth SS Panzer Division rolled in under the command of SS-Sturmbannführer Diekemann.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The Nazi Battalion was there to make reprisals. To avenge actions taken by members of the French Resistance. The SS Battalion shot and burned the men of the village. They herded the women and children into the church and set fire to it. Any who managed to escape were shot.’

  ‘Dear God!’ Her arms circled him.

  He felt the warmth of her banishing the chill that was grinding its way through him. He could hear the sounds. Of flames. Roaring like a train. Of screams. Shrill shrieks of agony. They wouldn’t stop. />
  Lightly Klara brushed her thumbs under Davide’s eyes as if to brush aside tears, but there were no tears.

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Annette. In the church. Burned to death.’

  ‘Your daughter?’

  Silence.

  He stared down at the floor for a full minute.

  ‘Giselle was in the church. Burned to death. She was six years old. Long chestnut hair that she loved to wear in plaits.’

  Klara leaned her weight against him, dragging him back to the gloomy narrow corridor.

  ‘They were massacred,’ he continued, ‘along with all the rest of them. Six hundred and forty-two people died that day in my village. Oradour-sur-Glane was razed.’

  Over a year now. It felt like a lifetime.

  The stillness between them held them together.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she breathed.

  At that moment the outer door burst open and they stepped apart. Two women with five children in tow bustled past them to the smaller room, filling the space with noise and chatter. The stillness faded along with the screams in his head and the stench of burned flesh.

  Davide kissed Klara’s forehead. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I will be back.’ He gave a regretful shrug. ‘With Scholz.’

  ‘How can you even bear to speak to him after what the Nazis did to your family? How can you be so forgiving?’

  She asked the question quietly, wanting to understand.

  ‘It was a moral sickness, Klara, that infected the herd mentality. They are being made to pay for it now. But it does not mean that the individuals within the herd were all bad.’ He pushed open the outer door, letting in a shaft of light that sought out Klara and revealed a brightness in her blue eyes that had not been there before.

  ‘You are right about the herd, Davide. You and I both know that we all carry a shadow within us. So who knows what we are each capable of?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Davide, what have you done to me?

  What is this warmth flowing through my veins, this looseness in my limbs? The muscles in my neck have grown soft and pliant. There is a lightness inside me, as if you have removed the stones that have lived in my vital organs since the day my husband hurtled to the ground in flames.