Tomas walks back from the road into the river. He is carrying the raft but doesn’t have the bag with him, or his jacket. His chest is bright white against the brown river bank. He waves and starts swimming again, stopping only at the middle pillar on the way back. He pushes the raft ahead of him in the water and speaks to them as he swims, even before he is in earshot. Skin glowing through the murky water, shoulder blades working like sharp wings.
—There’s a good spot for a fire not far off. I’ve spread the blankets and things on bushes to dry, anyway. It won’t take long in the sun. They didn’t get too wet. And there’s plenty of firewood, too.
He is out of breath, greenish. He crouches down on the bank, breathing hard, while Lore and Liesel tie the bundle tight with oilskins. The twins take off their shirts and stuff them into their shorts, boots dangling already around their necks. Lore takes the thinnest blanket and tears it in two. She holds Peter’s back against her chest and Liesel ties the blanket round both of them. Tomas stands up.
—You should tie him to your back, then he’ll be out of the water when you swim.
—I’ll swim on my back.
Lore ties the other half of the blanket around herself, knotting it firmly around Peter’s waist. His arms are tied under the blanket and he kicks his legs out and complains as they walk down to the bank. The twins set the bundle in the middle of the raft. Tomas checks the knots and tells the boys to pull it between them. He says he will help Lore with Peter, but Lore tells him to help Liesel.
The twins go first, wading into the water, holding the bundle waist high, then swimming steady and serious to the first pillar. When they get there, Jüri climbs up onto the shelf and waves. Jochen treads water and laughs. Lore waves back and Tomas applauds. They set off for the next pillar.
Liesel allows Tomas to take her hand, and he leads her into the water. She looks round at Lore, but carries on walking until she is waist deep.
—It’s cold, Lore!
—You’ll be fine.
She slides into the water and swims, shouting and splashing. Tomas swims beside her and her strokes calm down. She waves when she gets to the pillar; Lore can see she is smiling.
The twins are still swimming on, over halfway there, stopping at each pillar. Their shoulders are hunched round their ears with the cold, but they keep going, jumping back into the water, pulling the bundle between them. Lore ties her boots around her waist and wades into the water. Tomas helps Liesel up onto the shelf by the second pillar and treads water.
—Go back! Wait. I’ll come for you when I’ve got the others across.
Lore ignores him and carries on wading. Peter shifts against her stomach, uncomfortable in his blanket binding. He tries to look up at her face, his soft head pressing against her chin. He is breathing very fast. Lore has her arms around him, scared to let go, although he is bound tightly to her by the blankets. The riverbed changes from sharp pebbles to soft mud, silky against her feet and warm compared to the water. Lore sinks up to her ankles in the slime. The water is heavy around her thighs and she steps out farther and faster.
It is much colder now that she is out of the shallows. Her ankle bones ache and her stomach contracts, shrinking back from the water. The slow pull of current bends her knees. Peter’s feet skim the water and he shouts and kicks. Bright splashes of cold in the sun. Lore can see Tomas swimming toward them. He has left Liesel at the pillar and is shouting at Lore to go back to the shore. She turns her back to him and lies down into the water, keeping her arms wrapped around Peter, kicking her legs.
The cold knocks the air out of her lungs. Her boots, heavy with water, drag down at her waist. She flings her arms out to keep her torso afloat, but too late, and she pulls Peter down into the river with her.
When they surface, he is screaming, rigid against her chest, arms straining to get free of the blankets. Lore has the grit river taste in her mouth. She can’t reach the bottom. Peter’s head is under the water again. She kicks, pushes her arms out to steady herself, coughing, and lies back into the river. She hears Peter’s screams through a wall of water, like ice around her neck. Her boots kick heavy and lazy at her thighs as she pushes against the current with her legs. Peter’s head is out of the water, but his body is in the cold river with hers. Water floods into her mouth. She sinks again.
Tomas swims underneath them; his arms under Lore’s shoulders; pulling her chest up out of the water, and Peter with it. Lore retches, wants to cry. Tomas pushes her up onto the ledge, jarring her cold bones against the stones. She stands up out of the water and Tomas unties the blankets. He is not angry as Lore expected. Peter still screams, but with tears now, and not so stiff. Once his arms are free he pulls himself up against Lore and presses his face into her neck. Liesel is standing and watching at the next pillar, arms wrapped around the stone, and the boys are watching from the opposite shore. Tomas shouts to them to build a fire, and tells Liesel to wait until they get to her. She nods, silent and shivering.
Tomas pulls Peter away from Lore’s chest and he screams again, fists and feet attacking the air in fury. But Tomas puts him back down against Lore’s shoulders, high up, so he can wrap his arms around her neck again. Tomas wrings out the dripping blankets into the river, and ties them back around Peter and around Lore’s chest. He pulls them tight and Peter screams, but Lore makes no protest. After he has checked the knots, Tomas hangs Lore’s boots around his own neck and slides back down into the water. He holds out his hands.
—Ready?
Lore hesitates; eyes fixed on the reaching arm; on the blue smudge below the greenish skin; the tattoo halfway between wrist and elbow. Numbers. Blurred. As if the river water has seeped under the skin and smeared the ink. Tomas takes her hand and Lore sits obediently down on the ledge into the water. Peter grips her neck, but he is quiet now. Tomas lets go as Lore slides down into the river, swimming with her to the next pillar. Peter breathes in gasps in her ear. Tomas smiles encouragement. Liesel pulls her up onto the ledge and they rest in silence for a few minutes, Tomas treading water in the river next to them. They swim on together. When they get to the last pillar, they wave to Jüri, who is waiting for them on the shore.
—We’ve built a fire!
He gestures over the rise. Peter starts to cry again before they reach the riverbank, but he is not upset anymore, just cold. They wade out of the water. Liesel’s lips are ringed blue and Lore can’t feel the stones under her feet. None of them can undo the knots in Peter’s blankets; even Jüri’s hands are still weak with the cold. They walk over the rise of the road together. In a dip on the other side, their clothes and blankets are spread out over the bushes to dry, and Jochen is stoking the fire in the middle. He has hammered open the last of the tins with a sharp stone and has cut the loaf into slices, laying them out on the flat rocks around the fire.
—The bread got wet in the bag.
Lore is woken by the twins murmuring on the other side of the fire. Liesel and Peter are asleep next to her and the embers glow warm against her cheeks. She lies still and listens to her brothers, separating out their voices. Jüri’s whispers are squeaky, small; Jochen’s are bolder; and the third voice, low and even, belongs to Tomas.
—I was in the east before. While they were still fighting.
—Who? The Amis or the Russians?
—The Russians. I was in a forest east of here that was full of Russian soldiers.
Tomas points to the dark horizon, his arm a jagged shadow against the blue night.
—Did you shoot at them?
—No, I didn’t have a gun.
—I will have a gun when I’m a soldier.
—Did you fight with them?
—They had guns, so I had to hide from them.
—Did they find you?
—No. They stole lots of things, the Russians. From the villages. And then they threw most of the things away again. I got this suit in that forest.
—And after that?
—At night, when they stopped
shooting, I ran away, back into the American zone.
—Why did you run away? I would have stolen a gun from them while they were asleep.
—Best to keep away from the Russians. Anyway, when I got to the American zone again, people told me the war was over. I already knew it would be. Weeks before. When the Russians arrived, that was it.
Lore tells the twins to go to sleep. They lie still and Tomas pulls the blanket over himself, shifting. Lore closes her eyes and listens for Tomas’s movements. After a few minutes he sits up and puts more wood on the embers, blowing to encourage flames. He shifts away from the twins and leans back against the tree trunk a meter or two from where Lore lies.
Lore wakes up when the birds start to sing. The sky is still dark but the fire has gone out. Tomas is awake by the tree.
When Lore wakes again her hair is soaked in dew and Peter is shivering. There is light on the far horizon. She looks over to the tree and finds Tomas sleeping. Slumped, one arm lying in the wet grass next to him, stretching pale and thin from his sleeve. Lore can see the tattoo again, and the prominent veins leading from elbow to wrist. She rolls quietly off her oilskin onto the cool soil, toward the outstretched arm. She doesn’t get too close; she doesn’t want to wake him. Just close enough to examine the dark numbers scratched into the pale skin. Green-blue lines, some of them edged in tender pink. Tiny flakes of dead skin peeling off the new-healed scars. Lore watches Tomas, holding her breath, afraid that any small movement now might wake him. But he sleeps on, eyes dancing under his lids as the dawn creeps up.
Lore rolls onto her oilskin again, onto her back, holds Peter close. The sky is gold at the edges and blue above. Mist lies like milk on the fields.
In the village, people tell them. No one gets over without papers. They have jeeps going along the border, British and American. If you don’t have papers, you will be sent back. If you have the wrong papers, they will take you away, take you back to where you started, put you in prison. Tomas asks what they mean by wrong papers, but no one can tell him; they only say what they see.
Lore begs potatoes. Tomas builds a fire at the edge of the road and buries them in the embers. They wait in silence, staring into the flames. It is still early, gray dawn; the long day walking ahead. Lore scoops out hot potato with her fingers for Peter, burning herself, blowing on the food. Tomas eats the blackened skins of his share and the twins copy him, their faces smeared with hot ash. Liesel’s mouth is bleeding again and she doesn’t want any food. She rubs at her gums, holds her wet, red fingers out to Lore and cries. Lore throws a charred potato at her, tells her to eat, promises salt from the next village to rub into the sores. She has an ulcer in her lower lip, worries it with her tongue, irritated by Liesel’s complaints.
Inside the barge it is dark and the beating engine is smothered by the coals, thudding against their legs. The boat man gives them raggedy sacks to hide under in case he is searched at the border. He is nervous about taking Peter in case he cries. Lore can see he is changing his mind. Tomas talks to him, quietly, persistently, presses Mutti’s brooch into his hand. The boatman nods, avoids eye contact, squints upstream. He pushes them down into the hold, rough hands leaving black coal dust smudges on their shoulders.
The hold is full, the load sloping down at the sides and at the front. They crawl forward along the barge walls, to where they can no longer be seen from the hatch. Lore leads, coals sharp against her knees, Liesel holding on to her sleeve, afraid of the dark, noisy interior.
The twins crouch down at the bottom of the pile, Liesel squatting next to them. Lore lies next to Tomas, with Peter on her stomach. It is pitch black with the hatch closed. No light leaks in at all. Lore stares into the darkness, widens her eyes, but no sight comes. She concentrates instead on listening for the others in the din. The twins shifting their small boots on the coals, Liesel’s wheezing cough. Peter cries for a while and then lies still, a reassuring weight on Lore’s chest. She can feel Tomas’s arm against her own, the rough wool of his jacket sleeve brushing her skin with each breath. She turns her face to him, but can see only black. His breath is warm on her chin. Damp with a sour edge. Lore shifts her head gently closer. Tomas stops breathing. She lies still. He starts again.
The boatman insists he can’t take the risk, asks them to leave. He apologizes over and over, unwrapping Mutti’s brooch from his handkerchief. He says at least they are closer now, only half an hour from the border. He can’t stop talking, moving; gives them slices of his wife’s home-baked bread, coals to build a fire.
The children blink in the evening sun, sleepy from the hours spent in the dark, brushing the black dust from their hands and knees. Peter cries and coughs and they say their goodbyes. Lore carries him ahead of the group, furious, kicking the ground as she walks. The day has been wasted, the dark hours unsettling. Tomas is hunched and unwashed in the evening light: she avoids looking at him, doesn’t like to think she was lying so close to him before. They will camp soon, but first she wants to get closer to home. She walks on along the river, following the boatman’s instructions, pressing on to the north.
—Our mother is with the Americans.
Tomas nods. The children lag behind. Lore can feel the stones in the road through her boots.
—It’s a camp. Run by the Americans.
—The Americans.
—It’s not a prison for criminals.
—No.
—Please don’t tell anyone, just in case.
Tomas nods again. They pass through two villages. Beg for food, are given milk for Peter, hot water to wash with. Lore finds a bright rag to wrap around Liesel’s head, and Tomas shaves. He and Lore walk ahead again.
—I was in a prison.
—When?
—For a long time.
—Will they keep Mutti for a long time?
—I don’t know. I don’t know about American prisons.
—It’s a camp.
They rest briefly in the third village, drinking water from the well. One of Jochen’s soles has worn loose, flapping as he walks. Lore tears a diaper into strips and binds his boot together again. They walk on.
—Were you in a Russian prison?
—No, I was in a German prison. I was moved around. Different prisons. Places they took us to work.
—One of our prisons?
—Yes, until the Americans came.
It is hot again. They are silent for a while, each absorbing what has been said. The sweat runs down Lore’s back under the bundle. Tomas keeps his jacket on. His face is damp under his hat.
—Are you a criminal?
Tomas puts his head to one side, doesn’t answer.
—What did you do?
His jaws work into what looks like a smile.
—Before I went to prison?
Lore shrugs. She doesn’t want to know now. She turns around to look at the children, straggling far behind, knows she has said too much.
—I stole from people. Money. Names, too.
Lore keeps pace with Tomas. She doesn’t speak, hopes he won’t say any more.
—What about your father?
Lore drops back. Tomas keeps walking, doesn’t look around, but he slows down, too. The children’s footsteps are louder now, closer, and Lore can hear Peter’s chatter. She falls into step behind Tomas, watching his heels, keeping a gap between him and the family as they walk.
—If I call you over, don’t say anything, let me talk. I am your brother. Your mother and father are dead. Our mother and father. Just agree with me. We can say we are going to Hamburg this time, but it’s better if I speak. Pretend you don’t understand if they ask you something; I will answer. I am your brother, remember.
Tomas walks ahead to the border control. They stand and wait, watch him talk, gesture, shift, talk. He gets papers out of his pockets, rolls up his sleeves. The soldiers look at them while he speaks, points, shrugs. They give him back his papers. He walks back to the children. He looks at Lore, shakes his head, apologizes. He le
ads them back down the road the way they came. Once they are out of sight of the checkpoint, they cut across country, parallel with the border.
They keep moving through the evening, along the edges of a forest. When the moon rises, Tomas leads them into the trees. He shows no sign of wanting to stop. Lore loses sight of him, his black suit melting into the thick dark ahead. She calls for him, hurries forward. The children are too tired to hurry with her. Lore strains her eyes for movement in the undergrowth, stops, shouts Tomas’s name again. She stands still, hears twigs cracking, leaves shifting underfoot.
Lore calls, Tomas calls back. They meet in the trees.
They walk back together to find the children and decide to stop for the night. Lore lies next to Peter and lets him cry himself to sleep.
• • •
On the other side of the forest they find railway tracks and follow them. They see no trains all day, but toward evening they find a small railway station. It has been bombed. Rabbits run through the craters; the buildings are shells; but the tracks have been repaired.
There are men gathered on the platform. They are thin, like Tomas. Lore watches as he speaks with them. They have teeth missing and hollow cheeks: heavy wrists and ankles on long, slow limbs. Some of them say they will wait for a train. Others want to try walking over the border. A few have already tried it. They say most of the time you get sent back, but you can be lucky. They say as long as you stick to the roads, you won’t get shot. Peter wakes up and starts crying, Lore stops listening. She goes to sit with the children, helps Jochen retie the rags around his boots.
Tomas hurries over, agitated.
—We’ve come into the Russian zone, over the border. We must have crossed it in the forest. Maybe in the night.
He holds Lore’s arm tight.
—We should go back to the forest. We should go now, keep walking. We can sleep when it gets light, walk on again tomorrow night.
The Dark Room Page 11