by Holly Müller
‘How are you?’ Sepp asked Ursula. He glanced at her shyly.
‘Fine, thanks,’ she said stiffly, reminding herself of what her brother had said about Sepp and his aunt siding with the enemy and Sepp being unpleasant to Anton at the Hitler Youth. She should walk away now, she thought, if she was going to be loyal. She hesitated. She tried to imagine Sepp swinging for her brother, saying low-down things.
‘I like your ribbons,’ said Sepp. ‘I mean I like their colour.’
The ribbons were of a smooth lemon yellow material, pilfered last week from another girl’s bag at school. The inevitable blush began to heat her face. ‘Thanks. They’re only cheap.’
‘They’re nice.’
Schosi tried again to speak. ‘My p-p-papa,’ he managed.
Sepp looked stumped. Then after a second he said, ‘Oh, your papa! I was asking your friend if he was looking for someone because he seemed lost.’ Beads of sweat had appeared on Sepp’s nose and upper lip. Ursula had the urge to reach out and touch the damp skin with her finger. It had a thirsty look, like petals or leaves after rain. She forced herself to stare at her shoes. But Anton was so difficult, she thought. There were so many things that made him cross. She could far more easily picture him hitting Sepp than the other way round. She bet it had been Anton who’d landed the first punch. But then, he’d had reason to.
‘I was wondering if you—’ Sepp began. He shuffled about.
‘Josef!’ A high voice called from the base of the hill; a slender arm waved from the church doorway and a head poked around the doorframe. The head was plaited prettily and at the end of each pigtail was a large bow. It was Marta.
Sepp waved back to her. He turned to Ursula with an apologetic expression. ‘We’re confirmation partners, Marta and I,’ he explained. ‘It’s our rehearsal today.’ A woman emerged from the doorway and stood beside Marta; both stared up the hill. The woman beckoned briskly. ‘That’s our mentor. She’s a frightful bore.’
Ursula smiled and nodded, jealousy igniting in the hollow of her belly, a sour pain that burned like Mama’s black stomach ointment. Marta and Sepp confirmation partners; of course, she’d been right all those months ago. The two would share a ceremony. Marta would walk with him up the aisle to be blessed and taken into the church – she’d wear her glorious dress encrusted in lace so fine that everyone would marvel. They’d look for all the world like a couple being married. She imagined the preparation classes they’d been attending together each week. Sepp must love her by now; how could he not? She was pretty and rich and wore ribbons far more lavish than Ursula’s. She had the kind of family that everyone spoke well of. And now she was spending time with him after school, and every Saturday, getting to know him, casting her spell.
‘Well, hadn’t you better go?’ said Ursula. The words emerged clipped and cool. She hadn’t meant them to; it was just that she couldn’t quite talk normally.
‘Yes, I suppose,’ said Sepp. He held out his hand to Schosi. Schosi hesitated then shook it. Sepp seized Ursula’s hand next. She was unable to meet his eye, the grip of his fingers around hers almost more than she could tolerate. She pulled sharply away.
‘Bye,’ she said.
‘Nice to see you.’ He tried to smile at her but she didn’t allow it. He went off down the hill.
Ursula watched him go then picked up the stolen apples, handed four of them to Schosi and put the rest in her pocket. Schosi was delighted and thanked her. He bit into one of them and put the others into his voluminous coat. What awful luck, she thought glumly as they set off, dragging her feet through the mulch of pine needles and soil at the roadside, not caring that it dirtied her boots. What a horrible thing to happen. She wished she’d never come so she’d not found out. She was surprised Marta hadn’t already made a point of announcing it to her at school. What a liar Marta was; she’d warned Ursula not to encourage Sepp but all the while was planning to make eyes at him herself. Well, Marta wouldn’t want him half as much if Ursula told her about what Sepp and his aunt had done. Marta couldn’t abide Russians or Communists or anyone like that.
‘Uschi.’ Anton was sitting on the wall overlooking the road and church.
She stopped, startled. She hadn’t seen or heard him arrive.
‘Having a good time?’ He sprang from the wall with alarming energy. Ursula’s sour ointment instantly mixed with the dull churn of guilt. ‘Having a friendly chat with that no-good piece of shit?’
She shook her head as Anton came towards her, an intense flush leaping into his face. He grabbed a handful of her cardigan. She flinched, certain he’d strike her. ‘I could hear you. I saw you smiling and shaking his hand.’ He shoved her. ‘You’ve got the hots for him. It’s ridiculous. I bet he’s laughing.’ He adopted a silly girlish voice. ‘All pink and lovestruck – what a treat for him.’ He began to walk away. ‘I asked you to do one thing, which was to stay away from him. But you don’t give a damn how it makes me feel.’
Ursula went after him and Schosi followed. ‘I didn’t want to speak to him. He came up to me.’
‘Oh, don’t bother.’ Anton walked faster.
‘Toni, please!’
He turned and sneered. ‘If he knew you like I do, do you think he’d smile at you then?’
She stopped dead. ‘Don’t say that!’ The shadow loomed and clutched, sent her heart into an anxious muddling beat. He knew all her secrets, the worst of them. She hurried after him again. Soon they neared the centre of the village, the camp to their left, Ursula jogging to keep up, Schosi at her side, panting, his shoes slapping loudly on the road.
‘He was talking to Schosi, not me,’ she exclaimed breathlessly as she caught up with her brother. She couldn’t stand it if he thought her so faithless, even if she had been tempted.
Anton lunged towards Schosi and pushed him; Schosi’s half-eaten apple flew and he fell heavily to the ground, the other apples rolling free from his coat. He sat, pressing his chest and gulping air, then scrambled to retrieve the fruit from the gutter. He was tearful, trying without success to wipe clean the apple he’d been eating, which was covered in grit. His leg was grazed and bleeding.
‘Don’t use the idiot as an excuse,’ said Anton. ‘You shouldn’t have brought him here. He’ll be taken off on the murder bus.’ He pretended to snatch Schosi, hands outstretched. ‘And it’d be good riddance!’
Just then, the gates to the camp opened with a jangle of wire. A guard appeared. Beyond him, prisoners carried tools and pushed barrows, exiting the camp; another guard herded them at the rear. They lined up on the verge. Ursula took Schosi’s arm. She walked fast but didn’t run, not wanting to draw attention, all Frau Hillier’s worried comments springing to her mind. She should have gone back on the footpath, not on the road. Anton followed, kicking at Schosi’s feet like a hound worrying a sheep.
‘Stop it!’ said Ursula. ‘Just lay off him!’
‘Or what?’
They reached Frau Gerg’s grand house. Vines tumbled from the balcony, the red of autumn bleeding through the leaves, matching the swastika flags that poked from amongst them.
‘Hey, Frau Gerg!’ Anton cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Here’s your Hillier boy. Here’s the one you’ve been looking for. He’s subnormal all right!’ He grabbed a corner of Schosi’s coat and delved into the pockets. He tossed the apples out on to the road. ‘And a thief too!’ A shadow moved behind the net curtain at the downstairs window. ‘He stole these just now from someone’s garden. He should be dealt with.’
‘Anton!’ Ursula wrenched Schosi free of her brother. ‘They’re my apples. Stop it!’
‘You should keep an eye on those Sontheimers too,’ Anton continued, his voice growing louder. ‘They’re traitors and Russian-lovers. They hid one of those criminals. I saw them do it!’
The door to the grand house opened and Frau Gerg appeared, her narrow face blotchy as if it had been scrubbed raw and the thin brows unpainted, faint curves above her unblinking eyes. She stepped outside a
little way amongst the crowds of ornaments that cluttered her steps; she stared at Schosi much as someone would stare at any repulsive and alien thing – a centipede or a wriggling creature from the bottom of a pond. Ursula ran, dragging Schosi with her. Anton gave chase, laughing. An apple pounded into the road near Schosi’s feet and the white flesh exploded. Another apple thumped Schosi’s back with a hollow sound.
‘You’re for the oven!’ called Anton. ‘You’re for the chop!’
Ursula ran as fast as she could, crying, hating her brother, shocked because she hadn’t known he could be so cruel. Why had she brought Schosi here, into this danger? What a stupid thing to have done. She looked behind but Anton no longer followed. He sauntered towards Frau Gerg, whose sharp face still poked from the doorway, intent, dog-like, sniffing the wind.
That night Ursula woke several times from dreams of suffocation and her brother’s face above hers, pushing her down into the stifling bedclothes. A tall shape stood near by in the shadows, watching, a thing she couldn’t quite see, a wrong thing, a dirty thing. She was to blame; it was her fault. She’d let everybody down. She’d never be good, not ever. She was guilty and full of sin.
In the morning a telegram arrived. Mama read it then buckled forward; a long, straining cry wrung from her like the hopeless bray of a lonely donkey beaten till it bled. Ursula caught the few words she gasped amidst the tears: ‘The People’s Army. Oh, Sigi – my love.’
Ursula wanted to run to her, to hug her and tell her it would be all right, but she couldn’t because she’d brought this grief, she’d made this happen. A summons to the People’s Army – it was as good as a death sentence; everyone knew that. Wretched, she stood by and wished all her actions undone.
Part Two
11
Schosi and his mama ate dinner in the kitchen of their house. Her face glowed like a yellow apricot, soft and pleasant-looking in the pool of candlelight. Beyond her, darkness stood in the living-room doorway and outside the trees were loud. There was no talk between Schosi and his mother – the groans and cracks and squeals of the branches were enough to fill the air, and the whispering rustle of the leaf drifts moving against the base of the house. One of the flowerpots toppled on the front step, the small shrub in the pot caught by a strong gust. The pot rolled about on the stone and Schosi’s mama got up and opened the door to set it right.
‘It’s cracked,’ she shouted and a gale blew down the hallway and into the kitchen. The tea towels fell from above the stove.
Bedtime would soon arrive and then Schosi would be alone in the loft listening to the woods and the rattle of glass. He licked his plate while his mother wasn’t looking and put it in the sink.
Silvery morning came through the loft window. The birds peep-peeped to each other. Schosi turned in his bed – his hot-water bottle, now cold, sloshed against his feet. Today he was to stay at home and get the wood in the basket. His mother was awake downstairs, so he got out of bed and wrapped the blanket around his body. He went to the trapdoor. ‘Mama!’ he called.
She came to the bottom of the ladder. ‘Come on down, my mouse,’ she said. ‘So I can say goodbye.’
He dropped the blanket and climbed down the ladder, shivering in his long johns, his bare feet already numb with cold. She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed the top of his head.
‘Be good,’ she said. ‘Get the wood in. No wandering.’ She embraced him and he breathed the smoky smell of her hair.
She went out of the front door and closed the screen but not the door itself, so that they could speak through the mesh. ‘Your breakfast’s on the table under the basket,’ she said. ‘Promise me, my love – no wandering. Do you promise?’
‘I promise,’ he said.
Schosi watched his mother with her slow limp go off along the track. She walked with her head down in the sifting rain. She went round the corner out of sight. Schosi climbed back up the ladder and got dressed. His long johns showed below his trousers so he pulled his socks over the top to cover them. He put on his coat because it was cold, and his favourite hat. He made his bed – the blue material rippled when he tried to smooth it – he liked the way it looked, like wavelets on a pond. He twirled his comfort blanket before laying it on the pillow, then put on his boots.
Downstairs he ladled warm water from the water chamber into a mug and also washed his face. He sat down to his breakfast, lifted the basket, which was upturned over the meal to keep the bugs and mice away. It was bread with pickled gherkin and kohlrabi, all cut in pieces for him. There was a slice of Herr Esterbauer’s bacon, also cut up, which the farmer gave to them even though it was breaking the rules. Schosi’s mama had dusted the food with salt, which was a special treat because salt was for stews and preserving. After eating, he said his prayers in the living room. He thought of his mother at the factory and prayed she wouldn’t be too tired. He thought about little bear and wished her good things. He finished his prayers and went to feed the cats in the woodshed. They coiled around his ankles, tails vibrating, poker-straight. He leaned against the woodstack to watch them. Simmy hunched over his bowl, his muscular ginger shoulders in two peaks, his stubby tail swishing. Schosi brushed his fingertips between the tattered, mite-encrusted ears and Simmy spoke to him, a soft, questioning greeting.
Inside, Schosi settled on the armchair in the kitchen with his wristwatch. He wound it and put it to his ear. He focused on the comforting noise, regular, gentle and pleasing. He enjoyed doing this more than most things; he liked to guess when the big hand would get to one of the markers, though he lost track when he tried to count around the face in the correct order.
A loud knock shook the front door and he jumped violently. He stuffed the wristwatch in his pocket. A visitor had come once before when his mother was at work. It’d been Herr Esterbauer delivering a tin whistle, which was a gift Schosi had barely touched because it made a terrible shrieking sound. The knock came again. He knew what he must do – he must hide. Even if he thought it might be Herr Esterbauer or another friend, his mother had strictly told him not to open the door. The best hiding place was the cellar, which had only enough space for a few bags of potatoes. He hated it down there. It was dark and smelled disgusting.
He got out of his chair very carefully. He knew he was clumsy and heavy-footed, and the people outside – he could hear them talking – mustn’t know he was here. He crept from the stove to the cellar hatch and lifted it quietly. The whiff of damp and rat urine and droppings reached him. He stepped on to the first of the stairs, held the hatch open with one hand and allowed it to lower over his head as he climbed slowly down. Darkness closed over him and he could hardly see; his foot bumped against an object; he stumbled and let go of the hatch and put his hand on to the wall to steady himself. The hatch dropped with a bang just missing his head. He felt his way forward; his foot struck the object again – it was a sack, he could feel the rough material. A loud clattering and then a splintering sound came from the front door. His heart galloped, galumphing with its unequal gait, hurting him. He navigated the last low step and then squatted on the floor and held on to the sack, the only familiar thing, the only other presence he could sense in the darkness. His eyes were met with pure blackness. He heard feet on the floor above. Someone was in the house – people walked above him. He pulled out his wristwatch and pressed it to his ear. This calmed him a little. He wished his mama would come. She’d greet the visitors and ask them what they wanted then send them off. And once they were gone, she’d let him come out. She’d give him an apple for being brave and a cup of hot Malzkaffee.
The people stopped directly above. ‘In here,’ came a voice.
The hatch rattled and lifted; light flooded in. Schosi hid his face behind the sack and hoped he wasn’t visible; he held the wristwatch against his ear as hard as he could.
‘Ah!’ said the voice.
A small pair of feet on the end of a fat pair of legs came down the stone stairs and a hand grasped Schosi’s collar and pulled hi
m upright. He struck his head on the low ceiling. He was hauled upwards. A second man waited at the top of the steps. He was a policeman, short and thin, his belt fastened neatly around his small waist, his face pointed and beady-eyed. Like a weasel, thought Schosi.
‘Are you Hillier Schosi?’ asked the weasel. Schosi didn’t reply, his mother having told him never to speak to a man in uniform. Schosi looked at the other man, who was much larger. When he realised who it was he became weak with fright. It was Herr Adler, the Party inspector. This was the person his mama warned him of more than anyone – when Herr Adler came Schosi must leave the house entirely, hurry out of the back door and scramble up the steep, weed-clogged bank to wait in the copse till the inspector was gone. Herr Adler shifted his grasp on Schosi’s forearm; his pudgy hands squeezed too tightly so that Schosi’s wrist began to ache.
‘Answer him!’ he snapped.
Schosi looked at each of the men then nodded.
‘You have been reported as being unruly in the village of Felddorf. You have been seen stealing fruit from a garden.’
‘N-n-no!’ exclaimed Schosi, despite himself.
‘Where’s your mother?’ asked the weasel-faced officer.
‘Disgraceful,’ muttered Herr Adler. ‘The state of him. The whole house is a tip as usual. She clearly can’t care for this boy – Frau Gerg was not wrong in her assessment. And he certainly can’t care for himself. He can barely understand what we’re saying.’
‘Let’s go,’ said the weasel. ‘Let’s get him to the surgery.’
Herr Adler nodded and moved Schosi down the hallway. Schosi looked up at the inspector’s bulky cheeks that bristled like pork flesh, the small red mouth – he was much more terrible up close than when Schosi had peeped through foliage to watch him searching the woodshed and yard. Schosi tried to resist briefly as they went through the front door but Herr Adler hit him hard across the head so that his neck jerked in agony and he felt dizzy. He was pushed over the threshold.