The Years of the Wolf

by Cormick, Craig;

  “What are you doing out here?” Doctor Hertz demands.

  Arno has to swallow several times and shake his head a little until the doctor lowers his hand. But Arno doesn’t know how to answer him.

  “Why are you here?” the doctor hisses again.

  He is unable to tell him. “I’m just walking,” Arno says.

  The doctor stares at him as if looking for the real truth in Arno’s face. But he unable to see it in the dim light. Then the doctor says, “It is not allowed after dark.”

  “I thought I heard somebody behind me,” says Arno, and turns his head back the way he has come. Trying to shake the doctor’s stare from him.

  “Hmm,” says the doctor and lets him go. “You should be inside,” he hisses, then hurries off into the darkness. In the direction Arno had indicated.

  That night the orchestra plays Wagner. It is heroic and fills the men with pride. They sit tall in their chairs with their chests puffed out. They would have stood and sang but for the guards at the back of the hall. After the fracas of the last concert the Commander has sent three armed guards in to keep a lid on the internees’ excesses. The guards slouch against the walls and look disinterested. “Peasants,” Herr Herausgeber mumbles to those around him.

  The orchestra is playing excerpts from the opera Tannhäuser, the story of the heroic singer and poet who is torn between his love for a princess and the goddess Venus. After half an hour the players rise to a loud applause and take several ovations. Now the audience sits forward on their chairs, waiting for Scheherazade to appear.

  She enters the stage from the left, her arms floating around her like a bird in flight. Her veils are kept high and tight. The guards perk up a little and watch her delicate movements with wide-eyed appreciation. She announces to the audience that tonight there will be a short play based on the German hero Tannhäuser. She briefly outlines the plot, of the hero who left his home in Germany to make a pilgrimage to Rome, but ends up at the court of Venus, the Queen of Love, where he lives a life of earthly pleasure. But after many years, torn by remorse, he escapes her court to complete his pilgrimage.

  Scheherazade then slowly unfastens one dark veil and lets it drift to her feet, then she spins on the spot and lets her arms fly her from the stage.

  The men in the audience sit expectantly. The sound of a single flute is heard. And then Tannhäuser enters from the right of stage. He is a tall man, dressed in the clothes of a Prussian guardsman. He strides to the centre of the stage and he proclaims his good-heartedness and loyalty to his Emperor, and his need to make a pilgrimage to a distant land. Then he strides on, over tall mountains and across rivers and oceans and along long dry roads, until his destination is in sight. But then the flute music returns. This time more melodic. More inviting.

  He turns and follows it, looking for the source of the music, as if it might be a bird hiding in a high tree. But suddenly the music changes and it becomes a military march and Tannhäuser turns to see two soldiers in khaki appear and take his arms. They drag him to a distant castle, and fling him inside a cell. He looks around, then stares out the barred windows, lamenting that he has been captured and imprisoned for no reason.

  But then the flute music returns. High and melodic, dancing around him. And he turns to see Venus, goddess of Love. She is gorgeous. Long blonde hair and a loose-fitting harem costume. And she is surrounded by young maidens who rush to Tannhäuser’s side. They run their hands over his broad shoulders and feel the muscles in his arms. They bring him gently over to Venus and she walks around him slowly, her hips leading her steps. She admires him and asks him to lie down beside her on soft cushions. Tells him to enjoy the warm sunshine and food. Tells him to give himself over to decadence and to her care.

  At first he refuses. But she runs her hand across the side of his face. Places her fingers on his chest. Guides his hands towards her own face and chest. And then pulls him down on the cushions beside her. The flute music rises as Tannhäuser shuts his eyes as if falling into a deep sleep.

  The lights around Tannhäuser dim, to indicate the passing of many years. And when the lights rise again he is still asleep, Venus and her maidens draped around him like thick vines. The flute can no longer be heard, but in the distance is the sound of approaching footsteps. Marching boots. The sound gets closer and closer and then another tall Prussian soldier enters. He is dressed exactly like Tannhäuser, as if he is his doppelgänger. His other self. He enters the court of Venus and sees Tannhäuser asleep and bends down to touch him. So close he could almost be kissing him. Tannhäuser’s eyes open and he looks around him. And he is revolted by what he sees.

  He carefully peels himself free from the sleeping goddess, but she wakes as he tries to step away and she calls for her guards. The two khaki-clad soldiers return and Tannhäuser and his double dispatch them with one blow each. Then they make their escape from the castle and, arm in arm, together resume their pilgrimage. The flute music rises triumphantly filling the stage with Wagner’s theme, and the audience rise to their feet in applause.

  The three guards look at each other carefully. Certain there was something objectionable in the play, but not able to say just what it was.

  “What do you think?” one private asks, leaning towards the man next to him.

  “Bloody operas,” he says. “My dad saw one once.”

  “What’d you reckon of those sheilas though?”

  “I’d root her if she wasn’t a Hun.”

  “Bloody Huns,” the other replies.

  Arno lies on his bunk later that evening, jotting single words down in his diary. So many pages have only two or three words on them. Pelikan. Or Stihmboht—steamboat. To mark the only things different that had happened on those days. But now he is filling pages with words. Phrases and short sentences. All mixed and jumbled. Still the clipped language of internment, but there are so many new things to write about. So many things are disrupting his desire for the safety of sameness. And then he hears the shouts of two men in the corridor. There is a cry followed by the loud grunts and slaps of men locked in battle. Horst turns over on his bunk, listens to the sound and then lays his head on his pillow again, as if it is nothing new to him.

  Arno grabs his crutches and limps over to the cell door. He can see that men from all the cells are moving out into the corridor now. He can see them all looking in the same direction. Herr Schwarz, leader of the athletics club, and another man, Wilhelm Heinecke, are locked there in battle, hurling grunted curses at each other. They cling together as if they are trying to squeeze the life out of each other, and then break apart. Swaying wildly, Ernst Schwarz curls a fist and swings at his opponent. But the blow goes wide, flying through the air. Herr Heinecke blinks rapidly, trying to follow the fist, and he nearly stumbles right into it. Ernst Schwarz, overbalanced from his swing, then falls forward, landing on top of his opponent. They both fall to the ground, a sudden tangle of flailing limbs. And Arno realises they are both drunk.

  The internees watch the two assailants regain their feet and circle each other, looking for an opening. Trying to find some weak point in their enemy’s defence. Trying to determine just where to begin their assault anew. But both men appear evenly matched in fury and drunkenness, and it looks like they are going to trade ineffectual blows for a long time.

  Then suddenly they both charge at each other. They clash head on, fists flailing, and then grabbing, seizing each other tightly. They stand together like a pair of maddened dancers, cursing and panting and then suddenly break apart again, and fall to the floor once more. Herr von Krupp, standing like a Medieval Baron, steps between them. He slaps them both heavily on the face with an open palm, knocking the men back from the force of it. Ernst Schwarz jumps up and looks at him with hate and anger in his eyes, but von Krupp quickly slaps him again. The sound echoes down the corridor. Then Ernst Schwarz steps back and lowers his eyes.

  “Fools!” von
Krupp hisses at them both. “Why do you waste your energies fighting each other?”

  He is about to say something else when the sound of running boots is heard. The men in the corridor part and two guards run in, rifles levelled at their chests. “What’s going on?” one of them demands.

  Von Krupp steps forward and smiles. “Just two men letting off a bit of steam,” he says.

  The soldier quickly takes in the situation. “Fighting is forbidden.”

  “Yes,” says the von Krupp, “but we are organising a boxing tournament, which is permitted.”

  The soldier looks at him, then nods. Just a little.

  “These two just cannot wait,” von Krupp says, and waves his hand dismissively at the two men behind him. The soldier looks at the two men and then back at von Krupp. “I think it would make for interesting entertainment, don’t you think?” he asks the guard.

  “It would,” the man agrees. “I enjoy a good match.”

  “Then the next time these two fight you shall see one.”

  The guard stands there a moment, thinking, and then says, “Yes. Alright then. But no more outbursts or the Commandant will hear of it.”

  “You have my word,” says Herr von Krupp, as if he were the commanding officer of the internees. The two soldiers turn and slowly walk back down the cell corridor.

  “You disgrace the German nationality,” says von Krupp, turning to the two men, then he looks up to glare at all the men in the corridor until they all look away and go back into their cells. Arno too turns from his gaze and is surprised to see Horst standing behind him. Hears him mutter softly, “Pompous Prussian arsehole.”

  Private Simpson is tired and wishes Gunn would shut up. He’s just like the other boof-headed locals, he thinks. They don’t know nothin’ about the war but forever wishing they did. He turns on his bunk and digs his head deeper into his pillow. He’s going on again about the Hun and what Sergeant Gore has told him about them, how he’s going to be over there before the year’s end, keen to get to the fight before it’s all over.

  Simpson lifts his head off the pillow and says, “Give it a rest Gunn, you’re a bloody idiot!”

  Private Gunn stops in mid-sentence. His face reddens a little. He’s never sure what to make of Private Simpson. He respects him, like all the veterans, but he tends to make fun of him, as if his enthusiasm is something to be ashamed of.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks Simpson.

  Simpson sits up and looks at him. “For Chrissakes!” he says. He sees Gunn is cleaning and stripping his rifle. Again. He plays with it more than he plays with himself. “Just give it a rest!” he says. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  Gunn frowns a little, uncertain, and keeps working on the rifle. Snapping the metal pieces together. Taking them apart.

  “And put the bloody rifle away,” says Simpson. “It wants to go to bed too.”

  “Gotta be ready,” says Gunn. “The Sergeant says a good soldier’s always prepared.”

  Simpson stares at him. “So you reckon the enemy might walk in here one night?” he asks.

  Gunn gives a shrug. “Might do,” he says.

  “And you’ll be ready for them?” Simpson asks.

  “Yep,” says Gunn.

  “With your rifle in pieces?”

  Gunn turns a little redder. He isn’t sure why Simpson is making fun of him. “I’m just keen to get into the fight, I reckon,” he says. “Keen to shoot some Huns.”

  “Keen to get bloody killed,” says Simpson.

  “Not if I train properly. The Sergeant’s been giving some of us extra training. Getting us ready to face the enemy.”

  “Let me tell you something,” says Private Simpson. “The Sergeant is bloody mad and anybody who listens to what he says is bloody mad too!”

  And Private Gunn looks down at the rifle in his hands. He feels his face and neck burning, but keeps working on the weapon. And he wonders if it is not as easy as he had thought to tell who is the enemy.

  Arno is sharing a dream of an internee named Klaus Peter. His previous dreams have been about picnics with his family in German forests, when he was younger, and losing something important—money or keys or something—and searching everywhere for them but not being able to find them. And as the dream progresses, he finds he is alone and then has trouble even remembering what it was he had been so fervently searching for. And then he is struggling to even remember where he is, as if everything including his sense of understanding is being taken from him.

  But tonight the dream goes in a different direction. Herr Peter is not younger. He is as Arno knows him—a middle-aged man with a plump red face that looks like he is forever on the verge of shouting something obscene at everyone about him. But his face changes in this dream. It is pale and riven with fear. The forest he is in is dark and menacing, and all the trees are misshapen and sharp. And there is something else in the forest, stalking him. Some dark shape that moves through the shadows around him, and growls with a deep low and hungry sound.

  Herr Peter tries to run from the beast, but stumbles into branches that pluck at him. Roots and stones seem to rise up to trip him and brambles ensnare his legs and arms. He kicks and swipes at them, trying to clear a path, trying to fight his way free, but the more he struggles the more they entangle him. Then the dark shadow is so close he can feel its breath chilling the air about him. The beast turns the air to ice. Turns Herr Peter’s fear to terror.

  He spins this way and that to try and make out the creature, to see where it is. But all he can see is movement in the shadows. Then he sees it. The shape of a large wolf. On all fours. Then standing upright like a man. Then gone.

  Herr Peter’s legs have turned to jelly, unable to hold him upright, and he falls to the ground. He falls and falls and falls into darkness, where he is ensnared tightly in brambles. He cannot move. He is naked and the thorns cut into his flesh. Blood is all along his limbs and torso like tiny blooms.

  Then the wolf is beside him. Is upon him. Is devouring him. Its claws ripping at his flesh, stripping it away to uncover a small scared boy hiding within. The child stares up at the beast—in the sudden awareness that it was his fear of this thing that he had lost and now remembers fully. He knows this for only an instant as it opens its mouth, all teeth and maw, and pounces on him.

  5

  Another Day

  Arno watches the sky slowly turn blue overhead and fill the world with light once more. He leans up against the chill granite walls for some time, trying to find a trace of the violence of last night’s dream. But he cannot. As if it has not returned to the imprisoning stone. As if nothing is the same as it once was.

  He then makes his way slowly around the walls. He stops to listen to Herr Schröder singing Wagner in his cell. Listens to the soft mumbles of Herr Voigt reciting his rosary. Listens to the kitchen staff clinking pots and pans and smells the warm aroma of newly-baked bread. Just like any other day, he thinks. Hopes. But feels it will not be.

  On the way back into the hall he is stopped by the guard with the red scar on half his face who had tried to pick a fight with him. He puts his hand on Arno’s chest and then leans close to him and says, “You’ve been seen wandering the yard when you shouldn’t be.”

  Arno looks at him but says nothing, as if he still doesn’t understand him. The guard lifts his hand and places one finger against his nose. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give it up, okay?”

  Then he places his finger on Arno’s chest and pushes him until he stumbles back a little. “It could be very dangerous,” the guard says. “Very, very dangerous.”

  After breakfast the men are assembled for roll call. In the first months of internment roll call had been every morning. Then it was every second day. And now it has been reduced to once a week—or on any special occasion that prompts the Commandant to assert his authority—such
as today. Over 400 men are assembled in the yard, spread around the walls, waiting for Commandant Fort, followed closely by Sergeant Gore, and a pair or two of extra guards, to pace slowly along the path from the main gate to stand before them and address them. Like a celebrant at a mass.

  Arno looks at them and recalls that when they had first assembled they were dressed so well, in linen suits and hats, and now they are wearing faded and oft-mended clothes and similar white cloth hats. They are slowly becoming convicts, he thinks.

  The Commandant eventually appears and takes up his position, near the washrooms, and holds up several sheets of paper. Then he begins reading the names typed out on them. Arno, like many of the men around him, leans against the granite wall, feeling the sun warming the rock behind them. The Sergeant has often tried to get them to stand to attention for the duration of the roll call, but at times like this, as he marches up and down their line, barking orders at them to stand level and straight, they appear to have great trouble with the English language.

  Arno closes his eyes, waiting for his name to be called—knowing that there are about 50 or so men ahead of him alphabetically. Then the Commandant finally calls, “Friedrich, Arno.”

  He leans forward a little and calls, “Hier!” Then leans back against the warm rock wall again, waiting for the ritual to end. Listening to the Commandant make his way slowly down the list. Listening for one name in particular.

  “Müntzer, Fredrik?”

  “Hier.”

  “Neisser, Hermann?”

  “Hier.”

  It is a matter of pride and defiance for the internees to answer in German, knowing that the guards cannot tell the difference in the words.

  “Neumann, Johann?”

  “Hier.”

  “Opel, Fritz?”

  “Hier.”