My Own Dear Brother

by Holly Müller

‘Why did you do that?’ she said. She tried to stop the tears coming.

  ‘Can I play?’ called Schosi. He rested a foot on the first rung of the ladder, peering unseeingly into the darkness of the trapdoor above.

  ‘Not today,’ said Ursula. ‘Come back tomorrow.’

  Schosi hesitated then walked away. She heard him talking as he went and she thought it was strange because there was nobody there.

  Anton said, ‘Why’s he here?’ without much curiosity, his voice faint.

  Ursula hugged him and touched the hair at his temple. He closed his eyes; a rose glow shone prettily on his lids; his breath came fast.

  ‘Why do you have to hurt yourself, Toni?’

  ‘I told you, it doesn’t hurt.’

  Schosi was waiting for them in the shelter of the firs when they emerged after breakfast. Ursula and Anton laughed to see his peculiar figure and called out, ‘Looking for your cat again?’ and, ‘Don’t cry! He’s just gone mousing!’ Schosi came as far as the gate then drew a scrap of cloth from his pocket. He twisted the fabric around his forefinger before releasing it and letting it spin. He stared at the swirl of cloth then repeated the trick. Ursula watched him, perplexed.

  ‘He’s cuckoo,’ said Anton, tugging her arm. ‘Come on. Leave him to it.’

  But Schosi followed them.

  That day they were allowed to roam; they didn’t have to go to school because Papa was lost and Mama didn’t care about the time or coming back for dinner. She’d bandaged Anton’s hand but hadn’t bothered to beat him or confiscate the letter opener. Anton was jubilant because he was sure it was worth something. He said that digging for bodies with the Hitler Youth had its perks because if you found money or anything valuable you could keep it. He’d shown Ursula his stash after returning from a week’s rubble shifting – a gold ring, an ornate key, a pocket watch and some Reichsmarks hidden in his bedroom drawer. Also, a fire-blackened photo of a soldier posing in front of bleached pyramids beneath a searing sun.

  ‘I’ll go there one day,’ he’d said, studying the photo. Ursula had looked crestfallen at the idea of his leaving for the other side of the world. He’d pinched her face until she smiled. ‘Of course, I’d take you.’

  The three of them played stick racing from the footbridge. There was just enough water flowing between the ice sheets that shelved from the stream’s edge. By the time Schosi grasped the rules Ursula was tired of the game. He excitedly clattered back and forth in his heavy boots, laughing. Ursula and Anton shared a look – he was a fool, there was no doubt about that. Afterwards, they collected the home-made bows from the shed and chose a pine tree as their target. Anton was a deadly shot and within moments hit the bull’s-eye. Schosi squatted near by, collecting ice from the long grasses to put in his mouth; he didn’t try to join them but watched Ursula as she took her turn, an open gaze that flickered away as soon as she looked at him. He muttered to himself and played with the scrap of fabric, coiling it hard so that his fingertip turned bloodless white, or else pressed his wristwatch to his ear, his mouth stretching and trembling. Ursula was unnerved by his crouching, muttering, twirling – why did he make such expressions? His lips pressed together and outwards in a quivering line, as though barely able to contain the energy within, his eyes round as marbles fixed on the incessantly spinning cloth. His mother didn’t let him go freely about, perhaps for shame, or perhaps because he was dangerous. She knew he didn’t go to school and that the Hitler Youth didn’t want him either. Anton said he’d completed only one year after kindergarten, then disappeared, never to be seen in school or about the village again. Now he was fourteen, Anton’s age.

  ‘Why aren’t you in school?’ Ursula kicked at the ground, filling the air with powdery flakes, which engulfed Schosi.

  ‘I got a job.’ He hunched good-naturedly against the miniature snowstorm.

  Mama had told them he kept Herr Esterbauer’s scythes thin and keen with his whetstone. ‘He’s soft on the lad,’ she’d said. ‘Or perhaps it’s someone else he’s soft on.’ Mama enjoyed speculating. Herr Esterbauer had only his senile mother for company, and his vast fields and fine barns. Who might he fall in love with? Who’d be the lucky woman to become his wife? Schosi’s mama was the current wager. They were a lonely pair and deserved one another.

  At five o’clock the sun deserted the children’s game and the sky became a freezing lid, threatening snow. Schosi was blue-lipped and Ursula’s hair beneath her woollen scarf was damp from exertion, it having been her job to run back and forth to collect arrows. A squirrel scuttled in rapid, tail-jerking bursts amongst the needles at the base of the tree. Anton took aim, stretched the bowstring to capacity.

  ‘No!’ Schosi shouted, rising part-way to his feet. Anton jumped; the bowstring snapped. The squirrel flashed upwards.

  ‘Damned idiot!’ Anton flung down the broken bow. Schosi crouched and covered his head. Ursula ran after her brother who marched homewards. She looked back at Schosi who stayed beside the pine, squatting and twining his cloth against the white hill.

  —

  ‘She hasn’t eaten?’ asked Ursula.

  Dorli shook her head then went to hang their wet coats above the Tirolia.

  Ursula was relieved to find that Mama in this instance played her part, even if she’d so often hissed and wailed at Papa when he was home for not caring about her and for treating her badly and he, swollen with rage, had kicked her shin so hard that it split like an overripe plum. Other village women fasted and stayed in bed when their husbands died, and were spoken of respectfully for it.

  Dorli said grace before beginning a dinner of stew and dumplings. Ursula sent vague prayers to the crucifix that crouched in the top corner of the room, about feeling grateful and being sorry for her sins. She ate with her usual speeding urgency to prevent Anton snatching what remained of her meal. She wanted to be less scrawny and to fill out her ‘perished-looking face’, which was what Herr Esterbauer had said about her when she’d gone to meet Mama at the farm. Her mouth and hands grew messy and she accidentally dipped one of her unravelling pigtails into her bowl – but Mama wasn’t here to overlook her and knock her elbows off the table-edge. She made believe that they were orphans alone in the house, not going to school, not sweeping the floors, not bothering with all the childish, repetitive things that must be done: blackberry picking, grass cutting and gathering twigs for the fires. She didn’t have to go to Junior League meetings to be laughed at in her ancient uniform, which used to belong to her sister. Anton hunted with traps, his bow, his gun, they were together all the time. Ursula’s life was full of unexpected things.

  Dorli clattered her spoon into her empty bowl long before Ursula was done; her dexterity with cutlery was unparalleled and somehow she remained neat. ‘You can wash the dishes,’ she said, stretching and tilting on her chair, her stomach and breasts straining the buttons of her dress. She loved to be boss – being an orphan with her around would be no fun at all.

  The clock in the living room chimed seven as they cleared the table, a bright sound that faded despondently in the silence that emanated from upstairs, from behind the closed door of Mama’s bedroom. Anton was morose as, leaning against the work surface, he watched Ursula wash plates, the wound on his hand leaking blood through the bandage. He didn’t chatter as he usually would. Had it been like this in Schosi’s house after his papa fell? Ursula found herself wondering. Did that odd boy really understand about death? She tried to picture the Eastern Front or Stalingrad but she didn’t know what they looked like. In her mind Papa floated vaguely somewhere, dressed in furs and blasted with endless blizzards. She was used to missing him – the only thing that was different was that now she knew he wouldn’t come back. He’d stay as she’d imagined, marching across colourless Russia, his outline blurred by flying snow.

  2

  Two nights later an SS man banged on the door with a gloved hand. Ursula woke at the sound and came downstairs to see him standing on the doorstep in the light of Mama’s lant
ern. She loitered behind her mother, nervous but curious. The SS worked at the camp in the centre of the village, a place that had about it such a forbidden and horrifying atmosphere that she never looked for long through the bristling barbed-wire fence at the mouldering huts within. Now and then prisoners came out into the village to mend a wall or dig a grave, the SS making free use of their batons. Other prisoners were taken daily to the munitions factory to do the worst of the labour, or to farms. They passed amongst the people of Felddorf, spectre-like in thin prisonwear, their shoulder bones sharp as the ploughshares that they pushed with weakened arms up and down the fields, their misfortune too brutal, too alien, to be contemplated.

  ‘Gnädige Frau,’ said the man standing straight as a pole, his buttons winking in the amber lantern-glow and the shining peak of his hat catching snowflakes like a stiff black tongue. ‘My name is SS Corporal Loehr. There’s been an escape from the camp. Twenty-six Russians.’ He clasped his hands behind his body. ‘Dangerous men. They must be captured as quickly as possible. It’s known they’re hiding in the immediate area, perhaps in your barn.’

  ‘Criminals?’ whispered Mama as she peered into the yard beyond. Ursula could see only darkness outside and she watched the SS man carefully as he nodded and turned briefly to follow Mama’s gaze, his face emerging from shadow – a red nose, tight with cold, and large womanly eyes blinking with troubled concentration. He turned back to them.

  ‘A party of your neighbours are scouring the woods. One mentioned that you have a rifle here. Are you prepared to use it?’

  Mama wrapped her shawl tightly about her – she blinked several times. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘One moment.’

  She hurried to the scullery where Papa’s gun hung across wall-mounted hooks. Ursula half hid behind the open door, feeling exposed in her nightwear. She daren’t look at the man in case he spoke to her. Mama’s lantern receded and disappeared into the back of the house. SS Corporal Loehr sniffed once or twice but was otherwise silent. Mama returned with the gun and some cartridges bulging in her apron pocket, broke the gun over her knee and fumbled the cartridges into the barrel. Her face was alive with something close to gladness, the misery of the last few days all but gone. Dorli materialised; she’d stuffed her hair up in pins.

  Two striding figures appeared near the gate, hats pulled low. It was Herr Esterbauer, Mama’s employer, and Herr Adler, the local Nazi Party inspector.

  ‘We’ll search the barns,’ said SS Corporal Loehr. ‘Flush out any unwanted visitors.’ He saluted briefly. ‘Gnädige Frau, it’s cold. Take time to dress yourself. We appreciate your patriotism and courage.’ With this he turned and walked to the centre of the yard, gesturing to the two men. Ursula saw the gleam of a pistol in his hand.

  ‘Get inside. And stay there.’ Mama elbowed Ursula then propped the rifle against the wall and ran to the coat-stand. She hastily and rather clumsily fastened her winter jacket. Anton was sitting on the stairs in his pyjamas.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he said.

  Mama waved him to be quiet. She grabbed the rifle and she and Dorli left.

  ‘What is it?’ Anton called again. He received no answer as the door thudded at their back. He bounded upstairs. Ursula followed, gripping the banister to propel herself. Upstairs, Anton writhed into his clothes, arms thrashing as he pulled a shirt over his head and a jumper too. Ursula hurried across the landing to the room she shared with Dorli to find her things in the wardrobe. She yanked long socks up over her knees and wriggled into her petticoat and skirt.

  ‘So?’ Anton cried breathlessly. ‘What did the man say?’

  She hesitated. It was a rare treat to be possessed of knowledge and to have him question her so intently.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He said that criminals have escaped from the camp.’ She buttoned her woollen cardigan straight over her vest. ‘Bolsheviks. They’re checking the barns in case they’re hiding there.’

  ‘Obviously Bolsheviks!’ he said, and she felt foolish because the camp was designated for prisoners from the East – Red Army, Russians predominantly, a few Poles and Czechoslovakians.

  Anton finished dressing and raced downstairs. Ursula knew he was going to get the old rifle. He was infatuated with it and had spent secret hours oiling and preparing it. He’d shot a sparrow from the top of the barn the previous week while Mama was still at work. It had rolled pathetically down the snowy roof and lodged in the gutter, one wing tip protruding like a final plea. Ursula followed as quickly as she could. She stopped to pull on her boots then opened the door. Mama had told her to stay but she couldn’t wait here. She dreaded the sharp bark of Herr Adler who didn’t take kindly to disobedient children, and whose inspections of their home made her guilt-ridden and afraid, but even a dose of his fearsome temper seemed preferable to being left alone. From inside the shed came a clatter. She slipped out and across the frozen yard. Anton had pulled the old hunting rifle from its concealment amongst a tangle of hoes and rakes and knelt with it on the floor, a box of cartridges scattered on the concrete. He blew into the sights, cocked the chamber and loaded, his movements practised, fluid. When he’d finished he stood. ‘Go back in,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Well, you can’t come with me.’ He left the shed, jogged to the barn and went inside; the high door was open and there was bleating from the goats and the voices of several people. A moment later the adults emerged, the men in front, Mama behind with Dorli and Anton.

  ‘Check the Hillier property!’ SS Corporal Loehr made a swoop with his arm in the direction of Schosi’s cottage. ‘Herr Esterbauer, go with them!’ The corporal set off with Herr Adler. ‘We’ll call at the Fingerlos place.’ The Fingerlos house was along the track towards the village, home to Ursula’s only and part-time friend, Marta. She watched Herr Adler run behind the corporal with the heavy-footed inefficiency of a plump man. She was struck by how like a hog he looked, with his ruddy neck bulging over his coat collar and merging with his darkly flushed cheeks, eyes black and small and his swollen hands and feet. As ever she experienced a faint sickening as she looked at him. She feared for the camp inmate who might be caught by him. Just before the men disappeared from view, SS Corporal Loehr shouted something over his shoulder and his voice echoed between the walls of the outhouses – about being ‘vigilant’, and shooting ‘immediately’.

  Herr Esterbauer, Mama, Dorli and Anton exited the yard through the field gate with a lantern between them and Anton darted ahead with the gun slung low in his hand, graceful, like the spear of an Indian brave. The beam of the lantern was eclipsed and Ursula was in complete darkness. Nerves clenched in the pit of her stomach. In the dank shed, mice – or worse, rats – scuttled erratically amongst the boxes. She set off with the feeling of a devil at her heels, clambered the gate, snagged her socks on the rough wood, jumped and landed in a deep drift. The others had trampled the snow and formed a path she could follow but she soon lost their tracks once properly into the field. She tried not to think about the stories she’d heard of Russian prisoners turning to cannibalism in the camps. They were an animalistic people, with violence in their blood. Gory images rose in her mind and painted themselves on to the darkness, red-ringed mouths, clawing hands, burrowing to find her insides. Her panic deepened. She would come to no good. She’d be pounced on and pinned to the ground. Her body filled with hot sparks of fear; a sense of the inevitable weakened her limbs so that they lost power and her steps grew slower. She gasped aloud – she had a sense that she’d run before through snow like this, in terror, amongst muffling drifts, under a black sky just like this one. The strength-sapping paralysis in her limbs was familiar, an echo. She told herself briskly to be calm, to control her thoughts. She forced herself to move faster, wallowed onwards, the cold air hurting her lungs and the snow so deep that her legs were almost entirely submerged with each step.

  After a while of arduous running, and of staring into the night and scanning for a sign of the others, she glimpsed m
ovement and vague shapes up on the hill, the tiny glitter of a lantern. It must be Mama and the others; an escaped Russian wouldn’t have his own lantern. A loud crack came, the air splintered with its echo. A gunshot. Ursula knew it immediately. There was another report and another. The shots came from the valley below, from the village. Could it be Anton’s rifle? No, he was elsewhere, heading for the Hillier cottage. It occurred to her that he might be in danger, that he wasn’t invincible despite his own belief. Hadn’t the SS man said that the convicts were armed? She looked frantically again for the lantern and when she found it, a blinking speck in the dark, it seemed impossibly far ahead. She ran faster, falling often, her hands throbbing from cold and from plunging through the frozen crust of the snow. She must keep her head, she told herself again, and found that she was able to remove herself in part from her sweating, thrashing-along body, the fury of the moment, the fierce cold, the painful bite of ice in her tired lungs, the din she made on the night-time hill, allowing her to run without stopping, without constantly turning to check who followed.

  At the brow of the hill, trees huddled black to her right and she could hear the burble of the river in its icy channel. She decided on the longer, open route along the edge of the woods and continued down the far side of the field. She kept to the right path by referring to the position of the trees, the section of field seeming far longer than she remembered. She prayed to God to protect her, to protect her brother. She’d be good for ever if He’d have mercy on them now.

  Eventually, the forest curved away so that she knew she was at the top of the sloping field that overlooked the valley of Herr Esterbauer’s land, and amongst the trees below would be the Hillier place. There was a pinprick of light. The lantern again or the cottage. She sped into a clumsy gallop down the incline, hoping she didn’t meet any logs or wires. Her knees buckled when she ploughed into an unexpected snowdrift and her hand struck something hard and sharp as she fell. She cried out and scrambled to her feet. Her fingers pulsated with pain and she held the hand to her body and kept running as best she could. The ground levelled and became uneven; there were the pale outlines of birches dividing the field from the next. She guessed that she now travelled along the rough cart track that led to the Hillier house.