The Nero Decree

by Greg Williams

  She had gone through the woman’s clothes and found items that might fit Nadine as well. She was thankful that it would soon be spring and after that summer. There was less need to pack bulky winter clothes. Otto had also donated a water canteen that she had filled to the brim from a standpipe at the end of the street. They would drink from the same faucet on their way west to make sure the supply lasted as long as possible. They had spent the night in comparative ease—there had been an early raid, which had finished by 8 p.m., so both of them had managed to get a solid night’s rest. It seemed like a luxury—even sleep felt like it had been rationed over the past few years.

  Anja placed the bag near the front door and ran through her mental plan. They would try the train stations. Perhaps there were trains still running west. If not, they could flee to the south, down to Bavaria. Failing that they would start to walk west. She had heard that the authorities were preventing people leaving the city for fear of causing mass panic, but she believed that she would somehow be able to smuggle herself and her niece out. There had to be a way.

  “Nadine!” she called up the stairs. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “Yes, Tante,” Nadine called down. “I’m just tidying the room.”

  “Good,” Anja said. “Let’s be gone in five minutes, shall we?”

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” Nadine promised.

  Anja was anxious and at a loose end. She had already checked the contents of the bags and ensured that the paperwork was in her pocket several times, but she did it again before surveying the apartment for anything that was out of place.

  “Nadine,” she called. “Let’s go.”

  She was ready now. It was time to leave.

  The girl appeared at the top of the stairs, and Anja was suddenly and unexpectedly almost overwhelmed with love for her, this girl who had had her world turned upside down, had had so much taken from her. As Nadine walked down the stairs there was a straightness to her back and a firmness to her jaw that Anja prayed she could emulate. The girl refused to be beaten. Anja would hold a mirror to her and live the same way. It made Anja stronger knowing that she had a companion like this. Together they would face as one whatever it was that they had to confront.

  Nadine arrived at the bottom of the stairs and they stood opposite each other across the hallway.

  “Are you ready?” Anja said, brushing some lint from the collar of the girl’s coat.

  “Yes,” Nadine replied firmly. “Are you ready, Tante Anja?”

  “I am,” Anja said, busying herself with smoothing the girl’s hair back as if they were on their way to church. She didn’t want Nadine to see the doubts crowding her mind.

  “Let’s be on our way then,” Nadine said. “Oh, wait…” She ran to the rear of the house and started to open the back door.

  “What are you doing?” Anja asked the girl.

  “I saw a cornflower growing yesterday,” Nadine said. “I found a vase and wanted to leave it for Otto.”

  The girl opened the door and left the back of the house. Anja stood at the door uneasily, switching her weight from foot to foot. This delay was playing on her nerves. She wanted to go now, and hanging around was causing her to consider what was ahead. She felt relief when Nadine reappeared.

  “Got it,” she said, locking the back door. She walked over to a vase on the kitchen table and carefully placed the stem of the flower in the water.

  “There,” she said, considering her work.

  At that moment a roar of engines and screech of brakes broke the quiet of the house. It was a noise that seemed alien to Berlin streets now, such was the shortage of fuel.

  “What’s that?” Nadine asked. Her face had clouded.

  Anja raised her hand, as if asking for silence. Had they come for them?

  “Quick,” Anja said. The two of them ran to the kitchen, abandoning their suitcases. They could hear the shouts of men outside in the street.

  There was a loud banging and cries of “Open up! Open up!” Anja froze before realizing that it wasn’t coming from Otto’s front door. The noise was so loud that it must have been close. The pair of them edged out of the kitchen and up the corridor to the front of the apartment. The shouting continued. The blows to the door became more staccato—the door was being broken down. With a crunching noise the door gave way. Nadine and Anja could hear the sound of boots clattering on a wooden floor. The shouting continued and was broken only by the shrieks of a woman.

  Anja felt a sickness in her heart as she recognized the voice of the woman next door.

  “Let him go!” she screamed. “Let him go!”

  The footsteps and screaming continued through the house. There was the occasional thud. One of Otto’s family photographs jumped. Nadine looked at Anja, who put her finger to her lips. Anja wondered whether they should flee through the back door as a precaution. Then she heard the voice of the woman next door.

  “Let him go, you bastards! Let him go! He’s just a boy.”

  Anja and Nadine stood frozen behind the door, just feet from the drama.

  “Help me!” It was the woman’s voice.

  “Mother!” came the voice of a boy.

  Anja’s hand hovered over the door handle before she pulled it back.

  “Let him go!” came the woman’s voice again.

  Anja opened the door, and from the hallway she saw the woman from next door, who was mostly hidden behind a large man in a uniform. A truck idled at the curb outside the building. The flap at the back of the vehicle was down. There were four soldiers: Two of them were wrestling with the young boy Nadine had met, one was searching in the cab of the truck for something, and the other, an officer, was holding the woman from next door by her shoulders.

  “There are no exceptions,” he said to her calmly as she wriggled to escape his grasp. “The order from Gauleiter Goebbels was clear on this—all males aged fourteen and above are to defend the Reich.”

  “He’s not fourteen!” the mother said, her eyes darting about frantically, searching for her son, who had been brought beside the truck. Anja could see faces peering out from behind blackout, and there were others in the street who had heard the commotion, but no one wanted to be a witness. Anja walked down the steps of the building.

  “What are you doing?” she asked one of the soldiers, who was holding the boy’s arm firmly. The boy’s face was puffy and red, his cheeks streaked with tears; he looked hopelessly feeble next to the soldiers. The private ignored her, choosing instead to look up at the officer who continued to talk to the boy’s mother.

  “You should have thought about your mother’s duty…,” he was saying. “While our patriotic sons are fighting the Soviets, your offspring cowers in a basement afraid to shed his blood for the Führer and the country.”

  “He’s just a boy,” the mother said. “Please, please, let him go. He’s all I have left. My husband and brother both died in the east. Just leave my son. Is that too much to ask?”

  The officer raised his hand dismissively.

  “What possible relevance has any of this to your crimes and the crimes of this malingering boy?” he asked, his voice incredulous.

  Just then Anja saw what the man in the cab of the truck had been looking for. He jumped down onto the street holding a thick piece of rope with a noose tied in it. The woman flew at the officer, scratching and biting, her face a blur of anger. The soldier with the rope ran to help the officer restrain her.

  “No!” the woman screamed, over and over. “No!”

  That was when Anja felt herself moving toward the soldiers. She pushed at one of the men holding the boy. His shoulder was firm beneath her shove. He looked at her with astonishment, his cloudy eyes framed within a dark circle of ragged tiredness. The boy saw it as his cue to thrash against the men holding him captive. He wrestled one of his arms free and kicked the soldier who held him. The soldier reached and grabbed the boy by the neck before delivering a powerful punch to his solar plexus. The boy immediately dropped
to the ground, doubled up and groaning. One of the soldiers made to kick him. Anja stepped forward and grasped at the private. She wasn’t really sure whether she was pushing him or hitting him. What she knew was that she had to intervene before he could hurt the boy again.

  The soldier lost his balance and stumbled to his right before regaining his poise. That was when she felt the force of a shove so powerful that her neck snapped back and her legs went weak. She hit the pavement next to the boy and lay there trying to gain her bearings.

  “Stupid bitch,” she heard one of them say. “That will teach her.”

  As the world gradually came back into focus she saw Nadine’s face appear before her.

  “Aunt! Aunt! Are you okay?” she said urgently. “Can you hear me, Aunt?”

  Anja could just about hear her niece’s voice above a ringing in her ears. She needed to get up, to look after Nadine. They had to get away from here. They had to escape. The bags were in the hallway. They were leaving Berlin.

  “You bastards…” It was Nadine’s voice. A fourteen-year-old girl talking to soldiers like that! Part of Anja was terrified; part of her was thrilled. The girl had spirit. She was proud. Anja tried to move, but her body wasn’t doing what her mind was asking it to. She could hear scuffling and shouting around her. Loud voices and boots crunching on the pavement. There was movement all around her. She felt someone stumble over one of her legs.

  Then she was up, her body now able to function again as she required it. There was still the piercing ringing in her ears, but she was able to see what was going on. One of the soldiers was holding Nadine, another the woman next door. A few feet away a third soldier had put a ladder against a lamppost and was securing the rope to it with practiced knots. The boy was now held by the fourth soldier.

  It took a moment for Anja to realize what they were doing. She put one foot in front of the other and stumbled toward the soldier, who eyed her coolly, aware of what she hoped to do. He thrust the boy at her, shouting something about loyalty and using the teenager as a human battering ram, shoving him at Anja as if the lad were nothing. Anja could see that his body had gone limp, his head jerking around like a marionette. She wondered what had happened to his arms; he no longer appeared to have any. Anja focused and realized that the soldier had tied the boy’s hands behind his back—he was now powerless to claw, rip, or punch.

  And it wasn’t just his head that was moving; there was something else, something oblong, moving around in front of him. Anja realized that it was a sign. It was attached to a piece of cord that had been placed over the boy’s neck. The thing was swinging so fast that she couldn’t read the black letters that had been painted by hand about half an inch thick.

  She glanced over and saw Nadine shouting at the soldier gripping her arm, her face undaunted. The man looked away from her, his jaw set awkwardly as if he were tasting something he didn’t like. There was a deep razor cut in the middle of his cheek, the result of pressing too hard with an ancient blade.

  The mother of the child was now on her knees in the street, pleading with the officer. He appeared unconcerned by whatever it was that the boy’s mother was telling him. His coat flapped violently about him as he moved between the soldiers, giving orders.

  Suddenly the boy appeared to take flight. His mother uttered as loud and desperate a scream as Anja had ever heard. Nothing had ever sounded so desolate. The boy was traveling vertically, hoisted up onto the lamppost by a rope around his neck. He swung from side to side, his legs kicking wildly, trying to gain purchase to take the pressure from his throat. He made a low gurgling sound as he moved back and forth. Flecks of spittle sprayed from his mouth. Anja ran toward him, trying to support his feet. She felt a tug on her shoulder and turned to see the officer, who was shouting at her.

  “Leave him alone! Leave him alone!”

  Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone. The truck roared away.

  Anja went over to the woman, who was on her knees beneath the swinging feet of her son. He had stopped his deathly shuddering. She embraced the woman, who was emitting low, primal groans. Nadine joined them, wrapping her arms around Anja. The three of them remained like that for some minutes, until they heard the sound of another vehicle pulling up.

  Anja looked up to see a Mercedes at the curb. An SS officer, his scarred face a livid red, heaved himself from the rear seat followed by another man, who coughed raggedly.

  The two men looked at the boy hanging from the lamppost with little interest, and headed toward the women.

  Anja regarded the officer—his eyes burned intensely as their gaze met. She knew that he had come for her.

  “Anja Schultz?” he asked.

  She nodded slowly.

  “I am arresting you for crimes against the state,” the officer said.

  He kept talking, but Anja was no longer listening. She had long dreaded this moment. Now that it was happening she wondered why it had taken them so long to find her.

  22

  Lukas led Johann through the unlit streets. Johann struggled to keep up with the boy, who moved nimbly through the debris. Eventually Lukas clambered through a small gap in what was once an entrance to a courtyard. He picked his way over a ten-foot-high mound of rubble, with Johann following behind. The two of them stood momentarily in the darkness at the top of the heap. Johann realized that the courtyard on the other side remained relatively intact.

  “People don’t come in here,” Lukas said, standing in the small cobbled courtyard. “They think that the entire place is a ruin.”

  The boy pulled open a wooden door twice the size of him, which made a piercing creaking noise.

  “If anyone tried to get in here at night I’d know about it,” he said. Large panels of moonlight came through rectangular windows that ran the length of the room. Strangely, many of them were still glazed. Johann smelled sawdust.

  “It used to be a carpentry workshop,” the boy explained proprietarily. “It was closed down a couple years ago. The men went to fight or to the munitions factory. I suppose nobody wanted doors and cornicing any longer either.”

  “You live here?” Johann asked. He had known the boy from the neighborhood. His parents had had a successful bakery, and Lukas had delivered its products around the locality on a black bicycle that was too big for him. The bread was always piled high on a basket on the front, but it never seemed to topple out.

  “Yes,” the boy replied. He walked up a metal staircase onto a gallery. “Up here,” he said, encouraging Johann to follow him. Johann walked up the stairs. His legs felt heavy. The briefcase, key, and gun, which he had retrieved from the roof, was feeling heavier. The boy lit a candle. Johann could see that he had arranged salvaged household items—some blankets, plates, a chair, a desk. There were even some books.

  “How long?” Johann asked.

  “About six months,” the boy said. He pointed to a chair. “Sit down, please.”

  Johann accepted the offer unwillingly; he knew that he should be trying to get across the city to Anja and Nadine, but he didn’t have the strength.

  “There’s a toilet in the back that still works,” the boy said proudly. “And a water pump too.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?” Johann asked.

  The boy considered this for a moment. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “Sometimes at night. But it’s no worse than the air raids. What is someone going to do to me that the British aren’t trying to do already?”

  Johann closed his eyes. Now that he had stopped, the full extent of his tiredness had crashed upon him like a wave. He felt physically crushed.

  “Why are you back in Berlin dressed like this?” Lukas asked the question slowly, unfolding it like it might be explosive. Johann didn’t say anything.

  “I didn’t recognize you at first,” Lukas said. “But then I saw the Gestapo trailing you, so I figured that maybe you had done something wrong and maybe that might have to do with the uniform. You never seemed like the type.”

 
; Johann smiled at the small affirmation and opened his eyes to see that the boy was offering him a hunk of black bread. Johann didn’t feel hungry, but he knew that he had to eat.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the bread. He bit down on a small part of it. It was tough, but not stale. A treat. “Ignore the uniform,” Johann said. “Just enjoy the food.”

  “I got it this morning,” the boy said triumphantly. “The women at the NSV, I tell them that I’m getting it for my grandmother. There are so many bodies after the raids that it’s easy enough to pick up ration cards.”

  The two of them chewed on their bread.

  “I need to move on,” Johann said quietly after swallowing. It felt as if his body was now one with the armchair. Would he ever be able to rise again?

  The flame from the candle crackled.

  “Where?” the boy asked. Johann noted a tone of disappointment.

  “You remember my wife, Anja?” Johann asked.

  “Of course,” Lukas said. “She liked our doughnuts.”

  Johann smiled, his memory stirred. He remembered Anja going into the bakery and getting one after they had been to watch a movie on Kurfürstendamm at the beginning of the war. It felt like so long ago. Another lifetime.

  “And you had a daughter too…,” Lukas said, settling on the rugs and blankets that formed his bed.

  “A niece,” Johann corrected him.

  “Ah, yes,” the boy said. “I remember now.”

  Both of them remained silent for a while. They had conjured other lives and neither of them wanted to return to the present. Being able to live in a delightful past was a skill that passed as entertainment.

  “What happened to your parents?” Johann asked, breaking his reverie.

  “Oh, dead,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “In a raid. I was out on a delivery and went to the bunker on Reinhardstraße—you know the one the railway company built?”