The Survivors

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘Me personally? Or Germany?’

  ‘You.’

  A slow satisfied smile spread across his face. ‘Tens of thousands.’

  ‘I am one of those ignorant Polish peasants, Axel. You forget that.’

  His arm encircled my neck and pulled me on top of him, our naked skin clinging together, slick with his sweat.

  ‘No, my Klara, you aren’t a Pole anymore.’

  ‘So what am I?’

  ‘You’re mine. My Klara. When I go, you go with me.’

  He kissed my throat so hard I thought I would choke. Sometimes I feared he would bite right through it.

  ‘Your wife?’ I murmured.

  ‘She will stay in Berlin. The Russians can have her.’ He laughed, a strange complicated sound.

  ‘Your son, Rudi?’

  ‘Ach, don’t mention the boy. He is as weak-minded as his mother.’

  ‘Where will we go?’

  ‘To Hanover first, of course. Then wherever you want. London? New York? Rio de Janeiro?’

  I breathed very softly, my lips brushing his. My throat tight. The words would scarcely come.

  ‘In Hanover,’ I whispered, ‘is everything safe?’

  ‘Ja, all is safe.’

  ‘Does your sister know where you’ve put it? She might be tempted.’

  ‘I am not foolish, Schatzi. I trust no one. Not even my sister.’

  ‘Not even me?’

  He slapped my bare bottom. Hard enough to leave a bruise. He chuckled happily. The white powder always made him happy.

  ‘Especially not you, my Klara.’

  ‘Good. It means it is safe. As long as your sister doesn’t suspect anything.’

  ‘No, don’t fret your pretty head about that. I’ve hidden it well. In the forest where she and I used to play when we were young. She would never go there now.’ His pupils were huge black cocaine caverns and his heart was racing against mine. I could see white frosting on his nasal hairs. ‘Irmgard was always frightened of it.’

  He burst out laughing at the memory of his sister’s fear. I rolled away from him. I could take no more.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  I woke. I’d heard a sound. The night was dense black, no moonlight. I listened hard but could only catch the snores from those sleeping around me and the crackle of the fire. The soup woman’s head had slumped on to her chest as she dozed. My pulse was thumping.

  I rolled over and nudged Hanna awake. ‘Hanna, I think we should move.’

  ‘Later,’ she groaned. ‘Go away.’

  ‘No, Hanna,’ I whispered. ‘Now.’

  She sat up, alert. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  I brushed the leaves off her and pulled her to her feet. We crept deeper into the trees where, without the fire, a solid darkness descended like a blanket thrown over us. We could only find each other by feel.

  ‘We can’t travel through the woods until it’s light,’ I murmured. ‘Dawn can’t be far off.’

  We found a fallen tree and sat down, nestled close together, trying to keep warm. The breeze was icy at this hour laden with the scent of earth and the musk of deer. Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted, startling us both, and I wondered if it was really an owl.

  ‘You rest,’ I said. ‘I’ll watch.’

  ‘You don’t want to leave them, do you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The soup people.’

  ‘It’s too dark to move on yet.’

  ‘I know you, Klara. You’d keep going day or night to get back to that daughter of yours.’

  ‘What about Rafal?’ I asked to change the subject. ‘You haven’t mentioned him once. Aren’t you worried about your son too?’

  I felt her weight grow heavier on my shoulder. ‘He’s not my son, Klara. We met on the road out of Poland and thought we’d do better together.’ She sighed uneasily. ‘But don’t tell anyone in the camp. A mother with a tall son stands more chance of not being molested.’

  Of course. It explained the distance between them. Everyone had their past tucked away from view.

  ‘He is very fond of you,’ I said.

  ‘Rafal is a good boy. He’ll be watching over your Alicja.’

  ‘Rest,’ I whispered again. ‘I’ll watch.’

  Out there hidden in a fold of darkness among the looming beech trees there was someone else watching, I was certain. Someone else waiting for dawn.

  It happened fast.

  It started with a gunshot. It wasn’t quite dawn. It was that finely balanced moment pre-dawn when it feels as if a coin has been flipped. The blackness switches to a cold tombstone grey, opaque and tight-lipped. A time of secrets.

  A thick heavy stick was lying across my knees.

  Shouts and screams rose from the group around the fire and a man’s loud voice bellowing orders. The sounds ricocheted off the tall black trunks. Spinning into the darkness. Sending confusion through the camp. Panic burned through the chill air.

  ‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll shoot her,’ a man yelled.

  The screaming ceased abruptly. But the silence was worse. I moved fast to the other side of the small clearing where I took cover behind a cluster of birches. But I could see him. A shadowy figure wreathed in the grey mist that had slunk in on its belly. I edged forward. Still hidden. Darting between trees.

  I worked my way to a spot behind him. I saw the back of a bald head and a tattered greatcoat. He seemed to be alone. But it came as a shock when I realised he was gripping the old woman’s grey plait and that she was down on her knees on the ground. The barrel of a gun was pointed at her head. There was something so humiliating about her position. It angered me even more than the danger. I couldn’t see her face but her body was quiet, her limbs calm. She was not one to panic.

  In front of them stood the huddle of refugees, clustered together, women, men and children. Some in tears. Others clinging to each other. The man was shouting orders to fill a sack with their food and belongings. He was jittery, his finger twitching on the trigger.

  I fought to slow the racing of my pulse, then stepped out from behind my tree. The stick weighed heavy in my hand. I strode forward into the gloom and one of the refugees saw me. He had sense enough to give no sign but started begging loudly for mercy to overlay any sound of my approach.

  I was quick. I picked my spot and swung the stick on to the brigand’s naked scalp with a force that dropped him to the ground. He folded up as neatly as if asleep. I scooped up the gun and snapped it open. There were no bullets inside.

  I knelt at his side in the morning mist and did not wish him dead. I felt for a pulse. His head was bleeding profusely but he would live. One of the men was already roping his wrists and ankles together. Other people raised the old woman to her feet and she came to me. She wrapped her hands around mine, giving me her warmth.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

  ‘Thank you,’ I responded and retreated back among the birches.

  Hanna was waiting there. We sat off westward, our backs to the sunrise.

  ‘Remind me,’ Hanna said with a booming laugh, ‘never to point a gun at you.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Graufeld Camp

  ALICJA

  ‘You have to eat, Alicja.’

  Alicja shook her head. ‘I can’t eat, Davide.’

  Even a mouthful would make her sick. She was cold deep in her bones. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t see straight. But there was a firestorm inside her head, like the one she’d seen in the convent when someone threw a burning oil lamp inside the storage shed. Flames so high they seemed to lick the stars out of the night sky. They never did find out who that wicked someone was. But for nights Alicja had lain awake warming her hands on that firestorm. Hearing again the whoosh when the flame took. They should have let her write to her mother.

  ‘You haven’t eaten since . . .’

  Davide stopped. They all knew what came after since, but no one wanted the words in their m
outh. Since the Russians took her. Davide had not left Alicja’s side for even a heartbeat today. She’d found him waiting outside her hut at first light this morning, his jacket collar up round his ears. She had felt a rush of gratitude but at the same time she wanted him to go away.

  ‘Don’t you have to work?’ she’d asked after a couple of hours of his company.

  ‘No. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not till she comes home.’ He’d smiled that warm smile of his. ‘Get used to it.’

  ‘This isn’t home.’

  He didn’t argue.

  This afternoon he had walked her with Rafal to the Recreation block, sat them down at a chessboard and watched them play. Alicja let Rafal win every game. Halfway through the third one she turned away from the board and stared hard out of the window. There was nothing out there but she continued to gaze out, letting herself picture the images she had fought off till now. She pictured how Mama would look in chains in a Soviet dungeon. Fury came blowing down her nostrils.

  ‘You all right, Alicja?’

  How could he ask that?

  How could she be all right when her mother was having hot pokers pushed in her face?

  But Davide wouldn’t let it go. ‘Have you ever spoken with Scholz yourself?’

  She felt Rafal’s gaze leap to her face. Should she tell? Or keep her mouth shut? But there was something in Davide’s eyes, in the way they held on to you, that made it hard to lie to him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Did you believe what he said?’

  She tried to form the word ‘No’. But it froze on her lips without emerging as a sound. Instead she shook her head. It was easier.

  ‘Of course not,’ she whispered. ‘He lies.’

  ‘If that is the case, he lies well.’

  Did Davide know about the Nazi lover? She stared hard at his face. Did he? She couldn’t tell. But suddenly she didn’t want him to.

  ‘Davide, do you love my mother?’ She blurted out the question before she could stop herself.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  No hesitation. Yes, I do. And the tight edges of his jaw softened.

  ‘But,’ he added, letting the word slide out quickly as if it tasted sour, ‘do I trust her? That is a different matter. Tell me, Alicja, do you trust her?’

  Alicja kept quiet. She wanted to shout a loud ‘Yes’, but it wouldn’t come. Instead she asked, ‘Can you love someone if you don’t trust them?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ It was Rafal who answered, his dark gaze hooked on the chessboard. ‘Everyone did bad things in the war. I bet you did too, Alicja.’

  She made no answer.

  ‘What do you know,’ Davide asked gently, ‘about what your mother did after you went to the convent?’

  ‘Only what Oskar Scholz has told me.’

  ‘Bad things?’

  She nodded. Teeth clenched.

  ‘Even if they are true, do they matter?’ Davide said. But Alicja knew he was asking himself, not her. ‘If we love your mother, surely we can trust her.’

  ‘You are both wrong.’ Rafal spoke up again. His voice was low and harsh, almost a man’s voice. He was holding on to the white queen, nudging the other pieces off the chessboard with her. ‘Of course we don’t know who your mother was during the war.’ He lifted his black eyes and scowled at them. ‘But we know who she is now.’ His gaze challenged them. ‘Don’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alicja answered with sudden conviction. ‘Yes, you are right, Rafal. We do know who she is. She has shown us every day. She fights for us all.’

  She stood up abruptly, aware now of what she must do. But first she had to shake off her French shadow.

  ‘I think I might eat something now, Davide,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll fetch you something from the canteen.’ He took two steps away, then halted. ‘Try not to worry, Alicja. Your mother’s grip on life is strong.’

  Alicja nodded.

  ‘Make sure you stay right here while I’m gone,’ Davide told her. ‘And you,’ he addressed Rafal sternly, ‘you watch her like a hawk.’

  ‘Just a minute, young lady. Where do you think you’re going?’

  Alicja’s hand snatched away from the door to the men’s ward. ‘I came to see the man who is ill.’

  The hospital ward sister looked to Alicja like the kind of person who would roll right over a child. She was solid and thickset with a big chest and large round bossy eyes.

  ‘All the men in that ward are ill. Which one do you mean?’

  ‘The poisoned one.’

  The sister, in her clean white starch, came closer. She smelled of camphor. ‘What do you know about the poisoning?’

  Had she made a mistake? Alicja edged away from the door. ‘I just want to know how he is?’ she said. ‘To wish him better.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, child. He’s doing as well as can be expected.’

  Alicja looked at her blankly. What did that mean? Expected by who?

  ‘Now, run along, girl. Children are not allowed on the men’s wards.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Oh yes. That’s our job.’

  ‘Will he stay alive?’

  The sister cracked a token smile. ‘You’ll have to ask God that one.’

  Rafal trailed along beside Alicja, dragging his heels in the dust. Watching her like a hawk. It drove her mad, but at the same time made her feel safe. He carried his slingshot openly in his hand as a warning.

  Alicja hadn’t been to church since her mother stormed into the nun’s chapel breathing fire, to rescue her from the convent. Graufeld Camp’s chapel was a plain-faced building with an iron cross above the door, which Alicja had studiously ignored till now. She wasn’t sure whether she would be chased out, so entered cautiously.

  But no, no one chased her. The place was empty, and to her surprise it was light and airy with pale pine pews and no stink of incense lingering like bad breath. She’d had her fill of incense and rosaries in the convent. But she bobbed her knees. Crossed herself and scurried down to the front pew so God could hear her better. She bowed her head, pressed her hands together in prayer and whispered into the empty space.

  ‘Please look after Mama.’

  Was it the words? Was it the place? Was it the silence?

  Whatever the cause, something cracked open inside her. Tears started to flood down her cheeks, dripping to the wooden floor. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably and far away in the back of her head she could hear her mother’s voice, but she couldn’t make out the words, however hard she tried. She began to rock back and forth.

  ‘Can I help you, my dear?’

  Alicja jumped to her feet. ‘No. No. Thank you.’ But her words were drowning in tears.

  She looked up. A priest’s white collar stared back at her. She didn’t lift her eyes to the face above it.

  ‘Shall we pray for your mother?’ he asked in a gentle tone.

  He knew. Of course. Everyone knew. News of an inmate being transferred to the Soviets went through the camp like a bushfire.

  Alicja edged around the priest. In a black suit, not a black dress. That was better in her mind. ‘No. Thank you. God won’t listen to me. I asked Him every day for three years to let me be with Mama again but He didn’t lift a finger to help me. But He will listen to you, won’t He?’

  A strong hand rested on her head. ‘But He did listen to you, child. Your mother was here with you.’

  ‘So why did He take her away again?’ It came out fierce. Loud. But she wouldn’t cover up her mouth.

  ‘My child, our Holy Father knows all . . .’

  But she was running. Back up the aisle. At the door she remembered what she’d come for and called out to the priest.

  ‘And ask Him to make the poisoned man better. Please.’

  God might be too busy. He had a lot to look after. But Colonel Whitmore only had Graufeld Camp.

  Alicja knew Davide would not be at his desk. It would make it easier. He wa
s probably in the Recreation building with a nice slice of toast waiting for her and she felt bad about disobeying him. But she had to keep trying.

  Had to.

  Colonel Whitmore had said ‘No’ once already. But he was an Englishman and Mama said that Englishmen were always too polite for their own good. Alicja would beg. She’d cry. She’d stand on her head, if that’s what it took to make him cave in politely and issue a new transference order to the Soviets. She entered the Administration building and Captain Jeavons tried to stop her, but she was too quick for him. She had the door to Whitmore’s office open before he could grab her.

  ‘What is it, Jeavons?’ The colonel looked up from his desk, forehead creased in annoyance.

  ‘Sorry, sir. This little monkey managed to—’

  ‘Outsmart you?’ Whitmore gave a thin smile. His gaze settled on Alicja and he uttered a sigh, but didn’t put down his pen.

  ‘Two minutes, Jeavons. Then come and get her. Two minutes, no more.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  The Colonel rose to his feet. He was so tall he blotted out the window. There was something very straight about him. Not just his body, but his face too. All made up of straight lines. When he strode from behind his desk towards Alicja, she backed up fast and kept the chair between them. But he did no more than pull a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and hold it out to her.

  ‘Wipe your face, girl. You can’t go round looking like that.’

  She took the handkerchief. Dried her face. She offered it back to him.

  ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘I dare say there will be more tears to come.’

  She didn’t like the sound of that. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She licked her dry lips.

  ‘Yessir,’ she said. Like Jeavons.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Alicja Janowska.’

  ‘And what is it you want, Alicja?’

  ‘I want you to bring my Mama back to Graufeld Camp, sir.’

  The colonel sat down heavily on the front edge of his desk, put his hands on his knees and jutted his head towards her.

  ‘I understand that you are upset, Alicja, but—’

  ‘I am not upset. I am . . .’ She hunted for a word that would make him understand. But while she hunted, the tears came again and she couldn’t make them stop. She scrubbed at them with his handkerchief and wanted to shout a stream of cuss words the way Hanna did, but she didn’t dare. Not in front of Colonel Whitmore.