by Anton Gill
They walked fast, going back along the road for a kilometre before turning off onto a lane, rutted by cartwheels. Now and then there was a gate, which allowed a view of meadows, which, in any normal year, would have been planted with wheat or rye.
In one or two, there were turnip patches. Brandau and Hoffmann passed these quickly, as they were likely to be guarded. Any farm boy, running back unseen to report their presence, would be a danger; but if they showed no interest in the food, there'd be no reason for the guard to move.
They gave farms a wide berth because of the dogs.
28
They reached Teudorf, the large village – almost a town – which was their destination, later than they'd hoped. Fortunately the church and vicarage stood at its edge, since there were a few people about by now. Hoffmann's uniform might draw unwelcome attention in a biggish place like this. It was time to shed that skin.
They moved through the outskirts cautiously, and met no-one.
The vicarage was a grey two-storey building with a red roof and rectangular windows, which were blocked by net-curtains, and set at regular intervals. It stood in a large garden surrounded by a yew hedge which separated it, via two gates, from the church and the road.
Once inside the road gate they breathed more easily.
They didn't have to knock. The door opened as they approached it.
It revealed a man in his mid-forties, balding, greying, unshaven, his dark shirt stretched over a jutting beer-belly; but when he moved, light on his feet. Black trousers, brown carpet slippers. An intelligent but, at the same time, rather loose face. A drinker, but not one who'd lost all control.
The man ushered them in.
They stood in a large stone vestibule, lit by one high window. An ancient oak table flanked one wall, piled with tattered prayer books and pamphlets, among which two heavy brass candlesticks stood like towers. Above the table an Ecce Homo and an Ascension of the Virgin, both nineteenth-century copies of Renaissance originals, hung lopsidedly in gilded frames.
'Hello, Franz,' Hoffmann said.
The priest grinned at them. He gave Hoffmann a bear hug.
'Maxie, you bloody old rogue. I've been expecting you for a week. Couldn't you have called? No, I suppose not.' He looked at Brandau. 'You must be Hans. Maxie's mentioned you.'
Brandau looked at Hoffmann in alarm. He would have expected a stranger to address him as Dr Brandau, and he wasn't happy that this untidy and erratic country parson knew who he was. He extended his hand cautiously, and the priest seized it in both of his and pumped it up and down, before clapping him on the shoulder. 'You must be knackered. And starving. You certainly look like shit. Come in. Monika's in the kitchen. She's looking forward to seeing you.'
He led the way down a broad corridor, off which several rooms led. Their doors were open, and Hoffmann could see as he passed that only one or two were occupied. The others were more or less empty, their only contents ancient church detritus: battered angels, a noseless armoured martyr; paint peeling from an large baroque St Denis, his mournful head clasped in an attenuated left hand, the right raised in blessing, though the index and middle fingers were broken off at the first and second joints. Catholic stuff, pre-Reformation. How long had it been here? There was a smell of damp wood; but ahead came the promise of a warm kitchen.
A gaunt, once beautiful woman with tired eyes stood in the door, leaning against the frame, her long arms folded across her chest.
She was thin, dressed in a green cotton smock and an old blue skirt, both of which hung too loosely on her. She gave them a tired welcome before turning to quieten a small terrier which, unsure of itself, made a sound between a growl and a snuffle. Given a biscuit, it subsided, and took the booty to its lair under the dresser, from where it made an occasional, half-hearted threatening noise. She nodded the men into the room but didn't shake hands. She seemed too weary to make the effort. She smiled though, a smile as thin as her body.
29
Hoffmann glanced around. He'd been here a few months earlier, delivering the equipment they needed for the next phase of their escape, but Monika had been away then. He'd chosen the moment because of that. There was no reason to doubt either of them – Monika or Franz – though he knew the extent of the risk they were taking, and what would happen if the trail led here.
How familiar that kitchen was. He'd known it twenty years or so.
Franz Galen had come here as curate as soon as his seminary year as a missionary in China was over, and had stayed ever since, succeeding to the post when Pastor Bönig had died in – when was it? '29 or '30? He'd married Monika the same year, whichever it was, but the marriage wasn't a success.
They had given up hope of children early, and even called a halt to sex, as Galen had confided to Hoffmann over a bottle one evening, five years later. A pity, but something which went some way towards explaining Galen's relentless bonhomie, and his wife's mal du siècle.
Hoffmann hadn't seen Monika since the war started. In those five years they had both aged fifteen. In a different time he and Franz had been students together. He'd read Hebrew with her husband, before he stopped studying for the priesthood and his life had taken a different direction. Seemed like a dream to him, but, for all that, more real than what was happening now, in that oversized kitchen, dreary despite the warmth and the residual smell of cooking, with its empty ham-hooks on the ceiling. Maybe it was just that it needed a fresh coat of paint.
This was the room they lived in. There was a parlour for formal visits, Franz had an office, and, somewhere, there must be a bedroom; but they were places for work and sleep only. Outside the kitchen, the house was cold, even in summer. There was no life in it.
He shook his head to dispel his tiredness as he sat down. He mustn't drift. He wondered when he could allow himself another dose of snow. If all went well, he'd be able to sleep that night. He'd have to. He looked at Brandau. He was just as exhausted. How did he manage? Would he fall asleep on the train? Would he talk in his sleep?
Breakfast was on the table. Black bread, yogurt, cheese, hot milk, watered; acorn coffee. Galen fussed about in a larder beyond the stone sink and emerged with a shrivelled salami, which he placed on the table with a flourish.
'Such as we have, we give thee,' said Monika, with just enough irony to reach Hoffmann, as she put a saucepan of water on the hob to boil. Franz appeared not to hear this, but continued to busy about, producing knives, mugs and plates for his guests.
'Eat,' said Franz, joining them at the table and pouring out coffee. At least it was strong. Monika had added chicory to mitigate the taste. They drank it as if it were nectar.
'You look worse than he does,' the priest told Brandau. 'There's just time for you to take a bath. I'll give you a fresh shirt and socks and pants, so you don't have to use the spares in your case.'
'Thank you,' said Brandau. 'We'd better make it an exchange, because I don't suppose I'll ever be in a position to give them back.' He was wearing a Swiss cotton shirt, and silk socks and underwear. He doubted if the exchange would be to his advantage, and hoped he wouldn't swim about in the huge clergyman's clothes, but any clean clothes were better than what he was wearing. His undergarments were beginning to stick to him, and he could smell himself. He couldn't recall ever having been able to do that before.
'Don't worry, Hansi,' said Franz, catching his expression. 'I've got some old stuff that's a bit smaller than what I wear now - from before I went on the beer!'
How long it had been, Hoffmann thought, watching Monika as she added hot water to the coffee, catching her blue-grey eyes for a moment, but failing to hold them. He had hesitated before taking them into his confidence, but he knew they had sheltered people before, without fuss and without fear, as a straightforward Christian duty. Until recently they'd kept a Jewish student in the house; she stayed for eighteen months. In the end they'd managed to get papers for her, passing her off as their niece; and Hoffmann had provided her with travel permits as far as Elsa
ß-Lohringen. With luck she would have made it over the border into France and lost herself there in the mass of people whom the Occupiers and the Vichy collaborators spent so much time trying to control.
If she got past the police. Police, Hoffmann thought. He thought of the zealous Jewish police in the Warsaw Ghetto. Of the French police turning their Jewish fellow-citizens over to the Germans. Only too happy to please their new masters.
The Galens had guarded the girl until late last year. No-one in Teudorf had blown the whistle on them, which meant either there were no informers here or the Galens were very good at keeping secrets. They enjoyed Hoffmann's discreet protection, without knowing about it - not that it was worth much; but the local district police chief was an old friend, who owed favours, and who kept an eye on things.
They breakfasted hastily, Hoffmann surprised at how hungry he was, and noticing the same reaction in Brandau, though both men tried to eat as little as possible. They didn't want to cut too deeply into their hosts' food supply. The dog remembered Hoffmann now, and emerged from under the sideboard to lie on the floor at his feet, placing its head on his boot. Under the table, he scratched its nose with his other foot, and it wheezed contentedly.
'What's his name?' he asked Monika, wanting in some way to break her silence.
'Her name. Spitzi.' She looked at him ironically. 'Don't say you'd forgotten.'
Franz was looking at his watch. 'Well, gentlemen, if you've had enough... ' Under the jollity he was keen to see the back of them. Hoffmann was aware too that Galen had noticed him looking at Monika. But that was so long ago it should hardly have registered now. Still, if he hadn't been so tired he wouldn't have stared so long.
30
They left the table. Franz led them through the apparently endless house to a large drawing room. It was clearly never used and had the melancholy, oppressive atmosphere rooms long uninhabited always have. A clock on the cracked marble chimney-piece had long since stopped, and in one corner by the ceiling a massive black damp patch had established a menacing presence. The room was dim, its narrow windows, with their yellowing net curtains, shaded by a section of the yew hedge, so that the crepuscular light within was probably as bright as it ever got. On the floor by the hearth were two cheap suitcases, their lids open. How had Galen known, or had he done this every morning in anticipation of their arrival?
Brandau's was the smaller of the two. It contained pyjamas and slippers, a change of shirt, socks and underwear, a razor, a spongebag and - bizarre touch - a New Testament.
'There's a bathroom across the hall. You can wash and shave there.' Franz told Brandau. 'Monika will bring you those clothes of mine, and don't worry, she'll knock on the door and leave the stuff outside. Wouldn't want her getting too much excitement at this time of day!' He grinned broadly. Brandau put a polite expression on his face and left.
'Want to take a bath yourself?' Franz asked.
'I have to shave off my moustache. To go with the photos in the new documents.'
'But you've always had a moustache!'
'Only since I was eighteen, and the photos were shaved specially, by a very expert artist.'
Galen laughed. 'I wish I could ask you to stay here and rest for a night, but you're going to be red hot before you know it. You're going to want to put as much space between you and Berlin as you can while they're still running round in circles.'
Hoffmann nodded as he stripped off his uniform and dumped it on the floor with his service cap and the papers that went with his old life. From the larger suitcase he took a set of civilian clothes and put them on. A good blue suit, crumpled - why had the Galens not hung it up, it needed to look impressive, but it was too late for that - Party badge in the buttonhole, a blue shirt, dark enough not to show dirt for days, a grey tie, an old tweed overcoat. A pair of his own shoes. Otherwise the contents were the same as Brandau's, except that there were two changes of shirt, and so on. Hoffmann would be on the road longer than his friend.
Meanwhile Franz had unlocked an ebony sideboard carved with wild men whose faces were composed of leaves. From a concealed compartment at the back of one of its cupboards, built into the original piece of furniture two hundred years ago, he drew an envelope which he placed on the console table between the windows. It contained a Swedish passport for Hoffmann, and papers for two Party officials authorising travel in any part of what was still called Greater Germany, though large tracts of that territory were inaccessible now, having been occupied by the Russians. The papers were duly signed and stamped and otherwise accredited. There were identity documents to go with them, and one single railway ticket for Munich.
'Where are you going, Max?' asked Franz.
Hoffmann pocketed his documents, and replaced the others in the envelope for Brandau. 'You know better than to ask me that.'
'Who would I tell?'
'Better you don't know. You know why.'
Franz spread his hands. 'They'll never come here.'
'I hope not.'
'Are you going to Sweden? I mean, the passport ... '
'Not yet.'
'I'd like to know. I want to pray for you.'
'You can do that anyway.'
'Fuck you, Max.'
With the toe of his shoe, Hoffmann nudged the SS uniform and the rest of the stuff he'd shed. 'Will you burn these? Immediately we're gone.'
'I kept some petrol back.'
'You'd better bury the greatcoat.'
Franz thought for a moment, then said, 'Why don't you take it? It might help. Looks the part.'
It was a good suggestion. 'Will you be all right, Franz?' asked Hoffmann, slipping the coat over his shoulders. The thoughtful expression hadn't left the priest's face.
'Of course.' Franz looked at his watch.
'Take care when you burn that stuff. Use wood and straw too, and leaves if you can. It'll smell like a bonfire then. People can smell petrol.'
Franz grinned. Hoffmann was relieved to see it; but he didn't have time to think about whatever cloud had passed across his old friend's mind just then.
'Teudorf's a pretty tight town,' said the priest. 'Only the mayor and the deputy chief of police are real Nazis, oh, and the brewer, but they're a half-hearted bunch, especially now. So don't worry. Just get out of here, fast.'
'Yes.'
'One other thing. You could do with a hat. You can have one of mine. Black trilby. No-one will recognise you then.'
Both men laughed a little. Once he'd put it on, with the greatcoat, Hoffmann looked like a copybook government official. 'This is good,' he said. 'I should have thought of it.' His mind was too full - he had to keep a clear line. He knew he was in danger of making mistakes.
Soon afterwards, they returned to the kitchen, Hoffmann now touching his tender upper lip. Brandau, wearing a clean shirt from which his neck protruded like a tortoise's, was waiting, drinking a schnapps. He smelled of cologne.
'Home-made,' he said. 'Potato schnapps. Very good.' He raised his glass in a toast to Monika, who stood at the far end of the large table. The dog came tottering up to Hoffmann and tried to launch itself at him, succeeding only in pushing itself onto its hind-legs for a moment before collapsing back again, though not without scrabbling at him for a foothold. It looked up at him with expectant, kindly eyes, and wheezed with pleasure again.
'And I toast your bare forelip. You look ten, well, five, years younger!' said Brandau; but humour was fighting a losing battle against nerves.
'We've packed you some food.' Monika placed two grey paper bags on the table.
'Thank you,' said Brandau, without enthusiasm.
'Black bread, some cheese. Not much, I'm afraid. And a flask of water each.'
It wasn't until he saw those sorry little bags that Hoffmann began truly to feel like a refugee; or until then that the width of the river he'd crossed became really clear to him. Brandau wanted to put his food in his pockets, but the pockets were too small.
'There's a basket on the front of the bike,' sa
id Franz. 'You can put them there.'
'We'd better get on,' said Hoffmann. From the window, Franz was watching the road beyond the church gate. 'Everything ready?'
'Yes. Come with me.'
Franz opened the back door, which led from the kitchen, and they followed him across a small courtyard, Brandau first, murmuring his thanks and his farewell. Hoffmann did the same, but as he looked back from the other side of the courtyard, he saw that Monika had turned away. Her hair was as rich and long as he remembered it. He remembered its smell. She closed the door.
He thought of the seminary in Würzburg where he'd studied with Franz. He thought of a doctor's daughter in the town. A serious-minded girl, but one who, in those days, was still capable of laughter.
Rivalry? Nothing was ever said.
And then his gradual falling out of faith, the appalling doubts, the desperate need to accept separation, and his leaving. Berlin was a long way north. He hadn't written, nor had she.
He remembered his father's relief, and then his horror when his son announced that he intended to join the police.
The long haul of life. Some plusses. Occasionally, real daylight. Those were things to be remembered as well.
Spitzi followed them to the high double doors of an outhouse whose walls abutted the courtyard, and then abruptly returned to the parsonage, to scrabble at the closed door.
Franz unlocked the outhouse doors and swung them open. Inside was the black Volkswagen Hoffmann had left here in May. It had civilian plates and its tank was full. There were two extra cans of petrol in the boot. It had taken Hoffmann all his clout and all his charm to get them.
'Kept her warm?'
Franz looked at him. 'Little beauty. Tempted to take her out for a spin.'
'Glad you didn't. Tyres?'
'Fine.'
'Thank you, Franz.' Hoffmann looked around. The outhouse was high, barn-like, and dim. It smelt of straw. There was a workbench in one corner. The place was warmer than the house. 'And the bike?'