They don’t wait for morning, walk on before it gets light.
They make their way into the town together, but the children are tired and slow, so Lore leaves them by the empty railway station, promises to be back soon with food. Her shoulders ache from pushing the baby carriage and her stomach hurts. Peter has been crying for hours, and she is relieved to get away from the noise. The morning is hot, and by the time she gets to the town center, her throat is dry.
She drinks from the fountain on the main square; stands under the shade of a tree and looks for a place to buy food. None of the shops are open, but a group has gathered by another tree about twenty meters away. Lore watches them across the glare of the flagstones. They stand quietly for a while and then drift away as other people arrive and take their place. A hush hangs over the group, heavy as the hot air, pulling Lore across the bright square. Two elderly ladies in mourning stand on the left, nearest the tree, and Lore slips into the space between them.
Large, blurry photos have been stuck onto a long plank, which is nailed to the trunk. The group stands a pace back in silence, an orderly distance. In front of Lore is a picture of a trash dump, or it might be a heap of ashes. She leans in closer, thinks it could be shoes. Below each of the photos is a place name. One of them sounds German, but the other two don’t. All unfamiliar. The glue under the photos is still wet, the paper is wrinkled and the images confusing. Lore squints, frustrated, hot in the silent crush. She steps forward out of the group, smoothes out the damp creases with her palms. A whisper sets off behind her and makes its way around the group.
The pictures are of skeletons. Lore can see that now, pulling her hands back, tugging her sleeves down over her glue-damp palms. Hundreds of skeletons: hips and arms and skulls in tangles. Some lying in an open railroad car, others in a shallow depression in the ground. Lore holds her breath, looks away, sees the next picture: hair and skin and breasts. She takes a step back, trapped by the wall of the crowd.
People. Lying naked in rows. Skin thin as paper over bone. Dead people in piles with no clothes on.
An old man next to Lore clears his throat. The group shifts, and Lore is pulled back and moved along as the people gather round. Enclosed by hot backs and sleeves and shoulders, the smell of cigarettes on wool.
The two old ladies are back alongside Lore. A gentle pressure under her arms, pushing her down the line of photos to the edge of the crowd. The last picture is clearer: a man lying against a wire fence. He is wearing pyjamas with the jacket open, and Lore can see his ribs. The trousers are knotted in folds around his narrow waist, and his ankles are huge fists of bone at the ends of his fleshless legs. The man’s eyes are black shadows. His mouth is open and his cheeks are hollow because he has no teeth.
The old women are still moving, gently pushing Lore away from the photos, away from the tree. One on either side, they take hold of her arms and propel her forward, off the main square, back to the road. Behind them, the group settles back into silence, closing over the gap they have left. Lore looks round. No one is watching them. The people have turned their wordless attention back to the photos on the board.
The old woman on Lore’s right has her handkerchief pressed over her mouth, and she doesn’t speak. The other is urging Lore along the road. She is thin, too. Her bony hand lets go of Lore’s elbow and pats her softly on the arm.
—Go home, child. Quickly now. There is nothing here for you to see.
Lore walks, doesn’t look round. She feels hot, faint, hasn’t eaten since yesterday and it is already afternoon. She sits down at the side of the road, thinks she must have some bread, find the children, walk on again. Something to eat. She rests her forehead on her knees, squeezes her eyes closed. Behind her eyelids, she sees the photos on the tree. Perhaps the people had no food and they starved to death. She can’t remember the place names under the pictures, doesn’t even know the name of the town she is in now. Lore goes over their route north again, eyes closed, face tilted up to the sky. The sun burns at her cheeks and she tries to remember if the man in the last photo had his eyes open or closed. She wonders if he was dead, and if it is possible to die with your eyes open. She recites to herself, from Ingolstadt, to Nuremberg, then past Frankfurt to Kassel, Göttingen, and then Hannover and up to Hamburg. His photo was taken somewhere in Germany.
—Drink this.
There is a young woman standing over her with a small cup of milk.
—When was the last time you ate? Drink it, child.
Lore reaches for the cup and drinks. The woman presses a heel of bread into her hand, takes the empty cup and goes back into her house. Lore eats, swallowing the crust in painful chunks, sitting with her eyes closed until the ache in her stomach subsides. She thinks about the children, doesn’t know how long she has been away, knocks at the woman’s door.
—I need more food. For my brothers and sisters. One is a baby.
—I have no more.
—Please, we are hungry and we have nowhere to stay.
The woman looks afraid. Lore thinks she might close the door.
—We can pay.
Lore offers a coin, and the woman hesitates, flushing hot red when she finally speaks.
—Do you have anything else? Not money.
Lore tears a hole in the handkerchief pouch in her apron, holds out her handful of Mutti’s things. The woman stares, and then picks her way through the jewelry with bitten fingers. Pokes at Mutti’s brooch, her pearl earrings, finally selects her ring.
—I can buy you some food with this.
Lore winces.
—Not the earrings?
The woman shakes her head. She squints at Lore.
—If you share the food with me I will let you stay.
The woman is waiting for them when Lore arrives back with the children. She stands at the door and smiles at them all, her own young son hiding behind her skirts.
She gives them a bowl of steaming water from the stove and clean rags to wash with, apologizing that she hasn’t any soap. Lore scrubs the twins’ necks and combs out Liesel’s hair. The woman cuddles Peter and bathes him with her son. When it gets dark, she asks if she can take the baby carriage, says she will be back in about an hour.
—There’s a curfew here, you know that? You should all stay inside.
The twins are still angry that Lore left them alone for so long. They stare at her with hard eyes, and Liesel stands close, whispers, tugging at the ends of her braids.
—Why can’t we go and stay with Mutti in the camp?
The woman’s little boy watches them, quiet and shy. Lore is furious with Liesel, thinks he might have heard. She pulls her sister away to the window, hisses into her face.
—You don’t talk about that. You know that. Do it again and you’ll get it from me, understand?
Liesel’s face crumples and Peter screams when Lore lifts him.
The woman comes back with food hidden in the baby carriage. It doesn’t seem a lot to Lore, fitting easily under the mattress. Her stomach contracts.
—My mother’s ring was gold.
The woman shrugs. A little later she says she is sorry. The woman cooks and eats with them, and her son is quiet, watching Liesel and the twins as he chews. When he has finished, the woman pours him the remaining soup from her own bowl, and when he has eaten that, she pulls him into her lap. She hums quietly to herself, watching him settle his head against her arm.
Lore is tired. She closes her eyes and eats more slowly, holding the food on her tongue before she swallows. She wants to ask about the photos on the tree. If the woman knows where to get food, she might know what happened to those people, too. But when Lore speaks, the woman smiles, puts her finger to her lips, points down at her sleeping son.
Lore clears the table, and the woman lays blankets on the kitchen floor, picks up her son and leaves the room. When she doesn’t come back, Lore presumes she has gone to bed and tells the children to lie down, too.
Lore gathers the food together in
a too-small pile on the kitchen table. She leaves half a loaf aside for the morning, and chooses the bag of flour to leave behind. Lore thinks a moment, and then decides to leave a bit of the meat, too. The woman was gentle, asked no questions, gave her the milk she must have been saving for her son. Lore divides the remaining food between their bundles, sits down at the table while the children sleep, works out a ration. If she is strict, the food could last three days.
She blows out the candle and rests her forehead on the table. She dreams about the Americans again. The soldiers eat all the bread, throw the rest of the food into the jeep. They leave Peter with her this time, but nothing to feed him with. He is light and thin in her arms. She lays him down gently on the ground, next to the other children. They are all naked. Their bones brittle as bird wings.
• • •
The children are subdued, tired. Lore has to decide which direction to walk in every morning, which fork to take in the road, where they should stop at night, when they should eat. They stand silently waiting while Lore makes decisions. Move when she tells them, stop when she says so. Only Peter cries and laughs at will.
They sleep in barns, haylofts, outhouses. Sometimes with permission, mostly without. Lore tries to keep the children clean, rubbing earth off their boots with handfuls of grass, scrubbing their clothes in cold streams without soap. She pops their blisters, pads their boots with leaves, walks off the pain with marching songs. Lore repacks the bags every time they stop. Redistributing weight, clothes, belongings. She checks her apron pocket as she walks, feeling for the smooth fold of notes, the hard coins, her mother’s brooch, and no ring.
Evening, and the twins have been asking all day about the war. Is it really over? Did we really lose? Why? Lore tries to explain, but her half-answers only lead to more questions, and Lore is exhausted now, and shouts at them to shut up. Liesel cries; Jochen frowns and Jüri yawns, both very tired.
—Is there anything to eat, Lore? We’re hungry.
—There’s bread, but that’s for the morning.
—Please?
—No.
Liesel asks where Vati is now, and Lore tells her he is on his way to Hamburg and will be with Oma by the time they arrive. The lie slips out before she has time to think, and she is shocked at herself. The boys crawl under the blankets to sleep, but Liesel is excited now. Her tears have gone, replaced by smiles, and more things to ask about Vati.
—Lie down, Liesel.
—Lore!
—I’m tired, Liesel. I mean it.
Lore ignores her sister’s tears. Liesel sleeps with her head under the blanket; Peter lies quiet in the baby carriage; the boys are curled together under their coats.
Lore is woken by dreams of Mutti. The wedding ring is at the bottom of the stream and her mother won’t look at her. Crying, buttoning her coat, closing the door as she leaves. Lore buries herself deep into the stiff oilskin folds, but her eyes won’t close, and sleep won’t come, and her stomach turns to ice. She can’t keep pace with the questions, can’t keep track of her lies.
Liesel throws up three or four times in the afternoon. They stop for a rest each time, find water for her to drink. Making slow progress, passing above a village, leaving it gradually behind, the church spire still visible over Lore’s shoulder. Liesel shivers and complains of the cold despite the afternoon sun. There is a forest up ahead. Lore decides to stop.
The twins find a spot not too far into the trees. They lay out the oilskins, try to light a fire, Lore wraps Liesel in blankets and she sleeps. The twins go to gather more kindling, but they still can’t get the wood to burn. Lore divides up the last of the apples from the morning and they rub the potatoes and eat them raw. Liesel wakes up as it gets dark and cries because she doesn’t want to spend the night in the forest. Peter cries, too, and refuses the chunks of potato which Lore has bitten off for him. Jochen watches her in the half-dark.
—We could go back to that village.
—And stay in a hotel?
—We could ask. We could knock on doors and ask for a room.
—You have money in your apron, Lore.
—We need to keep that for food.
—But you said Mutti left us money to go on the train. We must have saved money by walking all this way.
—It’s an hour down the road, more. It’s going backwards. It’s silly.
—Please, Lore.
They whisper in the bluish evening light. Peter cries. The trees are thick and silent around them. Lore folds up the oilskins with the twins, and they load up the baby carriage once again.
In the village the streets are empty. They are turned away at every house; too many faces, too many mouths. An old man gives them sour milk and swaps their potatoes for eggs. Liesel throws up again in the main square, by the church. Jüri fills the cups from the well, and Jochen finds the church door ajar.
Inside it is vast and dim, and smells of damp and dust. The twins scout for places to sleep while Lore unpacks the baby carriage.
—It’s all hard benches.
—And they’re too narrow.
Lore wheels the carriage along the rows of pews until she comes to an alcove. Two or three candles burn low on a shelf covered with dark stubs of wax. Above them stands a robed statue. The twins help Lore spread the oilskins on the floor and gather cushions from the pews for their heads. Liesel sits with Peter at the foot of the statue and yawns. They don’t speak, but every movement sets off hissing echoes under the high stone roof. Lore pours half the milk into a cup for Peter and gives Liesel the bottle. She and the twins eat an egg each, raw. The boys giggle, egg white glinting wet on their chins.
Peter won’t sleep in the baby carriage, so Lore lays him down on one of the cushions. Liesel sleeps and the twins whisper with each other while Lore sorts through their things again. Folding the clothes, tying the bundles neatly, lining them up next to her, ready for the morning. She blows out the candles and sleeps.
Liesel throws up once more in the night and helps Lore mop up the mess with her blouse. She says she feels a lot better and Lore strokes her little sister’s hair, tells her she is brave. Liesel didn’t once ask for Mutti, and Lore is glad, knows that must have been hard. They sleep on into the morning. When they wake up, the baby carriage is gone, with their spare shoes still tied to the sides.
They walk on a few more days, sometimes with people, but Lore still prefers it alone. They don’t ask for lifts and rest frequently, avoiding towns. Lore pays for butter to smear on their cracked lips. They dig turnips out of the fields and buy bread in the houses and villages along the way. Their bag of coins grows light.
They can carry less now, without the baby carriage. Lore trades Liesel’s doll for an empty bottle with a lid. No one wants the twins’ chessmen, or her book, so she throws them away. They wear both sets of clothes although it is still very hot. Lore’s coat buys them a night in a bed, and Liesel’s second skirt a wash in warm water in the morning. She puts what remains of their things in one bag and one bundle, which they share between them.
They reach Nuremberg within a week.
The schoolhouse is already filling up when they arrive. The old man at the door gives Lore two straw mattresses, and they make themselves a bed near the middle of the room. Lore would rather be by the wall, or even better in a corner, but all the spaces at the edges of the room have already been filled. Mothers with children, elderly ladies. No men are allowed in, although some come to the door and ask. It is dark outside now and two lamps burn by the long window. Lore spreads their blankets over the thin mattresses, and the children lay their coats on top. She cuts them a slice of bread each, and the twins fill the cup with water from the barrel outside the door. Lore tells them to chew slowly and take small sips. They are all very quiet.
More people come in as they eat, and gradually the floor fills up. There are no more mattresses left, so people make the best of it with their coats and bags on the floor. Lore puts Peter in the middle of their nest with the twins on eith
er side, and she and Liesel take the two outer edges. Lore takes off the twins’ boots, but leaves their socks on. They shift and fidget under the blankets and coats while Lore packs away their shoes. She lies down with them, though she is not sleepy, with the bag by her head where she can keep an eye on it.
Even after the lamps are put out, more people arrive, black shapes shuffling in the dark. Lore keeps her eyes closed most of the time and hopes the children are asleep. The straw smells of cats, but she doesn’t feel the floor through it, and she is warm.
She is woken by Peter griping. Jüri passes him over to her and shifts closer to Jochen, into the warm center of the bed. Peter is hungry, so is Lore. She feels the people around them shifting, irritated at the noise. She searches through Liesel’s pockets for the last of a loaf, and tears a piece off for Peter to chew. He stops whimpering almost immediately, and Lore sits up with him while he eats his extra meal. The entire floor of the school hall is covered with sleeping shapes. Lore is thirsty, but she can’t see a path through the bodies in the dark, so she decides to wait until morning.
Peter has finished his bread and is whimpering again. He tugs at his raw cheeks and lips, balls his fists. Lore lays him down on the mattress and rubs his feet and his tummy to distract him. The woman lying next to them has her eyes open. Lore can see them, wet and blinking in the dark bundle of coats. She lies down and pulls Peter close under the blankets. He is sleeping again. The woman is still watching Lore. She whispers in the dark.
—My house is gone. Stones on the ground. I sleep every night next to strangers.
Lore nods and closes her eyes.
—He betrayed us. Like a coward. He sent our men to die and then abandoned us.
The people around them hiss in shocked whispers. Lore keeps her eyes shut tight, doesn’t respond. She hopes the woman won’t think she is rude, that she goes to sleep soon and stops looking at her. They lie still for a while. Lore can hear the woman breathing in sighs. It is warm under the coats and blankets and Lore pulls them up to cover her ears. She is tired, doesn’t want to think now. The woman wakes her again a bit later, muttering, but Lore is too drowsy to make out what she says. Another voice, from somewhere near Lore’s feet, threatens the woman into silence.
The Dark Room Page 8