Last Train from Kummersdorf

by Leslie Wilson

  Ida didn’t answer. She was almost done.

  The girl said, ‘Well, you’ve taught me something. I’m never going to have regrets like that. I’ll marry who I want no matter what anyone says.’

  Later, the wood came to an end, fields and reedy fen stretched out ahead of them and the track joined a narrow road bordered with poplars. Ida saw the ends of brick houses and barns. They came into a tiny village, and it was all in one piece, nobody had been fighting there. The houses had neat little gardens divided by little walls into raised beds that were full of bachelor’s button daisies, red and white, and a few late tulips. But there was no sign of life, no people, no chickens or cows. There were padlocks on the doors of the farm buildings. Either everyone was hiding from the Russians or they’d run away. It frightened Ida.

  They tramped through it, forward and on. Just wearily putting one foot in front of another. Even the dog looked as if he needed a rest.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They’d gone back onto forest tracks. It was getting late, soon it would be dark.

  ‘How far is it to Kummersdorf?’ asked the doctor.

  Otto said, ‘We’ll be there tomorrow morning.’

  Sooner or later they’d have to stop and rest, and once it was really dark, thought Effi, Otto would realize that he couldn’t keep an eye on her and Hanno. If they ran off, it’d be hard to keep fooling the rest of the party. He didn’t know that she was hanging around because she wanted to warn Ida Rupf, though he might guess that Hanno would keep near him because he wanted the diamonds back.

  On cue, he stepped forward and grabbed Hanno’s shoulder.

  ‘You two will walk with me,’ he said. ‘Right in front of me.’

  ‘Watch it,’ said Effi. ‘You’ll make the old dame suspicious.’ Then she cursed herself for forgetting to act like a fluffball.

  ‘You know I’ve got a gun,’ said Otto. ‘Any funny business and I’ll use it.’

  Or even without funny business. He might just suddenly decide, the way he had in the stable, that the nicest thing would be to start killing. Maybe he’d only do that when he was drunk. You had to look on the bright side.

  *

  Effi said to Hanno, ‘It’s my turn to push the cart.’

  Their hands touched as she took hold of it. Hanno’s hand was cold. Ahead of them, Frau Magda went, not speaking to her mother. Little Barbara was still keeping her eyes on the ground. The cow walked and mooed slightly, she’d need milking soon. They’d have to stop for that.

  ‘What is Otto up to?’ Effi whispered to Hanno. ‘OK, he’d have taken the diamonds from you whoever you were; after all, he’s got his retirement to save up for – but your train scam?’

  She wished then that she’d kept her mouth shut, because Hanno looked angry.

  ‘Be careful,’ she hissed.

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ Otto wanted to know, and he felt in his pocket – nothing subtle about this cat. He could never be a jazzman.

  Hanno said to Otto, ‘You said my father did something criminal. What was it?’

  Shut up, Swing Boy. And yet she understood why he wanted to know. She would, really, if it was her.

  ‘You don’t want to know, boy.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why should I tell you, just to please you?’ Otto laughed.

  Hanno said, in a scornful voice, ‘You were making it up. It never happened.’

  Otto laughed again. He didn’t say anything. Hanno made himself look as if he didn’t care, but of course he wanted to find out and Otto knew it.

  ‘Are there sleeping arrangements on the train?’ asked the doctor. ‘Will I be able to lie down?’

  ‘It depends how many other passengers there are,’ said Otto.

  ‘I paid you well,’ the doctor said.

  ‘So have all the rest,’ said Otto, impatiently. ‘You should be glad to get a seat on the roof.’

  ‘No,’ said the doctor. ‘I mustn’t go outside. The eyes will follow me if I’m outside.’

  ‘The eyes?’ asked Otto. ‘What eyes?’

  The doctor didn’t answer.

  Old Ida said to her daughter, ‘You know you’re a fool, Magda?’

  ‘When we stop to rest,’ Magda said, ‘you can give me the pearls.’

  Effi thought, It must be so tough, losing your twin. I don’t know what that would feel like. Like you’d have to start all over again being someone on your own. Only he’s not alone, he’s got me. And I’ve got him, and I do like him. We’ve been through a lot together. The old woman said I was in love. These days, you’re so busy, how are you supposed to have time to be in love? But I want to go to sleep beside him all on our own. Then when we wake up he might put his arms round me and I might kiss him. It was nice when I kissed him before. It was bad afterwards, though.

  ‘Will there be water on the train?’ the doctor asked. ‘I would like to shave.’

  Effi thought about the little fuzz on Hanno’s upper lip. She wanted to finger it. She wanted to forget about Otto. I’ve got to be careful, she thought, I can feel the wildness again – and careless means dead. Like Pierre, God rest his soul. No, not rest, that wouldn’t do for Pierre. God ought to let him play jazz up in Heaven for ever. And Aunt Annelie can sit there with a nice glass of white beer, listening to the music. Pierre wouldn’t like it if Aunt Annelie wasn’t there. God’ll have to let her in even if she is an atheist.

  But Hanno was OK. Even those Russians had turned out OK: that was good –it proved the Nazis were wrong when they said the Ivans were all monsters. They were good and bad, like anyone else, and later on some of the ones who’d raped and machine-gunned refugees might be sorry for what they’d done. When they had time to think about it. The old dame was OK because she’d loved a Jew.

  ‘Dishonesty,’ Otto said to Hanno. ‘Your father was dishonest. Corrupt.’

  The cow mooed again, softly, as if she was afraid to make too much noise.

  ‘You mean he took bribes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Otto. ‘He took bribes from criminals. Then they could get on with their crimes undisturbed. He was a menace to honest Germans.’

  What did Otto mean by honest Germans? Maybe Hanno’s father had done some crimes. From the Russian or Jewish point of view, anyway. Nothing worse than what Otto had done, she’d swear. She started to sing, ever so quietly:

  Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,

  Nobody knows but Jesus.

  Suddenly, Cornelius jerked forward; there was no holding him. He dragged Hanno forward – oh, God, was Otto going to get his gun out? He didn’t, thank God, but he went running after Hanno; they were all running now, even the old woman, who was so tired, even the moaning cow on the end of her string, Ma Headscarf, little Barbara, the crazy doctor. The dog went off the path in among the pines and the dead needles slithered under their feet when they followed him.

  There was a row of trees and beyond it more trees, but between them there was a narrow railway cutting. The dog tore the string out of Hanno’s hand and vanished over the ridge. When Effi got to the edge of the cutting she saw the humped dark roof of a railway carriage – no, two railway carriages, standing on the single track.

  ‘Is that the train?’ asked Hungerland. ‘Will they bring the locomotive in the morning?’

  Cornelius’s pale fur made him easy to see in the failing light. He was peeing on the wheel of the train, then he put his front paws on the metal steps to the carriage door and barked. Otto stood still on the edge of the cutting, staring down at the train. Then he was on his way down the steep slope, slithering a little on the sandy soil. Cornelius turned round and barked at him again. He wanted to get into the train, he thought Otto was just the person to open the door for him. Now the doctor followed Otto, having a hard time with his suitcase and his long coat round his feet, half-sliding down the slope. Little Barbara went after him. Then her mother, letting go of the cow.

  ‘What is this?’ Ida Rupf asked.

  ‘It’s the Devil�
��s joke,’ said Effi. ‘If you go on that train you’ll disappear and never be seen again.’

  ‘You could be right,’ said Frau Rupf, ‘but my daughter and my granddaughter are down there, and even if Magda’s angry with me for loving a Jew it’s my duty to be with her.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got left?’ Effi asked. ‘Duty?’

  ‘And wanting to live,’ said the old woman. ‘That’s the strongest thing, you’d never think so, but it is.’

  ‘I’ll help you down,’ said Hanno.

  ‘You’re a good boy,’ said Frau Rupf.

  Hanno laughed suddenly. ‘It’s our train,’ he said. ‘We conjured it up when we made the tickets.’

  ‘He’ll hear,’ whispered Effi, and they both looked at Otto, but he didn’t seem to have done. He was trying the carriage doors, first one, then the other. They were both locked.

  ‘I heard,’ said the old woman quietly. ‘What’s he up to? No, don’t tell me. He’s dangerous, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hanno.

  Cornelius stood beside Otto with his tail wagging, whining a little. What was there inside that he wanted so much? Now Otto got his gun out of his pocket after all. He fired it once: the shot echoed in the cutting, an explosion and the smash of the lock breaking.

  *

  Effi and Hanno only just managed to fit the handcart through the carriage door. It was dark inside the train, but Effi got her little lamp out. In its dim yellow light they saw elegant leather armchairs, a chair and a solid walnut desk for someone to write at, a walnut dining set. Polished wooden floors. Dr Hungerland slipped off his coat with its astrakhan collar, put it carefully down on the floor, sat down in one of the armchairs and started to ease his boots off.

  ‘The furniture has been polished,’ he remarked. He approves of the housekeeping, then, thought Effi. Then he said, ‘Pull the blinds down. I don’t want the eyes looking in from outside.’

  Otto did as he’d asked. Of course it made sense to pull the blinds down. If you were inside, with a light on, you had to have a blackout: Effi could only just remember when things were different. There were little lamps with parchment shades, but they must work off the train’s own electricity, so it was no use trying to light them. Pity.

  Otto sat down himself now, looking the premises over. Of course this was some Party high-up’s carriage, some real top brass, maybe even Goebbels or Göring, or Himmler. Everyone knew they had these luxury trains. There was something about all the luxury that made you feel safe, that was the weird thing. Maybe that was why they’d done all those crazy and monstrous things and kept on about the final victory when it was only a ten-pfennig tram ride between the two battle fronts, as Sperling had said. They’d done themselves so proud they thought nothing could touch them.

  Otto stood up.

  ‘We’ll go and see what’s in the other carriage,’ he said. ‘Bring the lamp, girl.’

  The whole party except the dog went, Effi felt like the conductress showing them the sleeping arrangements, because that was what was there, four bedrooms, all really nice, goosefeather quilts and pillows, white embroidered cases and a little cut-out in the middle of the quilt covers to let the nice red quilt peek out from underneath. Beyond there was a bathroom with a little tub and a shower. The blinds were all down here already. Hungerland pushed ahead of them into the bathroom and tried the taps, but no water came out of them. Probably the water needed an electric pump too. Effi shone the lamp on a shelf with a pile of white linen towels, another with four thick white bath towels.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the doctor. ‘The accommodation is suitable for a man of my standing.’ He squeezed his way back along the corridor and must have found his coat and his suitcase in the dark, because he came back with them. ‘Give me some light in this bedroom,’ he said to Effi. She shone the lamp for him and saw him dump them on the bed: they put mud on the white quilt cover, but he didn’t care. He opened the suitcase: he had neatly folded clothes inside and a lot of tissue paper. He fetched out a pair of red leather slippers and a shoehorn, unlaced his walking boots, eased them off with the shoehorn, and put on his slippers. He took his hat off and laid it on the bed next to the suitcase.

  ‘I would so much like to shave,’ he said.

  Three bedrooms left, thought Effi, one for the old dame, one for Ma Headscarf and Barbara, one for Otto. That leaves me and Hanno out. Oh, well. Maybe we can push a couple of armchairs together.

  ‘Back to the other carriage,’ said Otto. Swine, she thought. I hope you burn in hell.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Dr Hungerland, trotting along after Otto, ‘the driver will arrive with the locomotive. Once it is attached, the water will function, and I shall wash and shave. And at noon we shall be on our way. Perhaps we could persuade the driver to leave sooner? I would make it worth your while – looking at Otto. ‘I have other means.’

  More numbered Swiss bank accounts, thought Effi.

  ‘You old fool,’ said Ida Rupf, ‘what makes you think this train will move?’

  Effi saw Ma Headscarf put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Who’s an old fool?’ Otto asked Ma Headscarf. ‘The doctor, or your senile hag of a mother?’ Jeering, he was good at that. Well, it was the Nazi tone. At least he wasn’t beating the old dame up, or torturing her. Yet.

  ‘You have no faith,’ Ma Headscarf said to old Ida. ‘I’ve known it for years.’

  ‘This is the train,’ said Dr Hungerland, ‘and tomorrow it will move.’ He glanced at the windows, reassuring himself that the eyes couldn’t look in at him through the blackout blinds. He sighed with relief.

  Two of them with faith, thought Effi. Well, I have faith too, in my own way. I believe Pierre’s in a jazz band in the sky. Then she noticed a big paraffin lamp sitting in a corner, full of fuel and a tin can of paraffin beside it. Someone had been thinking of everything, though whether they’d been expecting Otto and Hungerland, Frau Rupf, Ma Headscarf, Barbara, Hanno, Effi, the handcart and the dog was another matter.

  Otto saw it too. ‘Light that,’ he said to Effi. She turned the screw and struck one of Sperling’s matches on the sole of her boot. The lamp flared and hissed and lit the room up properly.

  There was a painting on the wall in a heavy gold frame. Two horses running across a field. On the desk Hitler’s photograph sat, looking bad-temperedly at them, though no doubt it was meant to be a glance full of serious concern for Germany. Frau Rupf went to it, and put it face-down. Otto frowned, but he didn’t stop her. There was another door, too, which they hadn’t noticed. Cornelius was sitting in front of it, sweeping the floor with his tail. How long had he been there?

  Hungerland sat down in the armchair again, crossing his legs. ‘Is there any food?’ he asked. ‘Or do we have to eat what we have brought with us?’

  ‘What food have you brought?’ Frau Rupf demanded of him.

  ‘Coffee beans,’ he said.

  ‘There’s that other door,’ said Otto. ‘Where the cur is. Bring that lamp of yours, girl.’

  Effi filled it up with paraffin from the tin first. Otto stood there tapping his foot. Then Effi came over with the lamp. Little Barbara came with her.

  ‘Dinner, maybe,’ said Effi to the child.

  Frau Rupf came. So did Hanno and Ma Headscarf. Only Dr Hungerland sat in his chair with his legs crossed, waiting for the aperitifs.

  It was a kitchen. The blinds were down in here, too. There was a clean cooking stove, a table built in against the wall, a sink with a tap, which didn’t work either. There were three cupboards against the wall. Otto pulled one of them open and it was full of food. Frau Rupf gasped.

  ‘Caviar,’ she said, reverently, ‘truffles, French champagne – my God, how many bottles are there?’

  ‘About twenty,’ said Effi.

  Ida Rupf went on: ‘Italian macaroons, three tins, one, two, three, four – five jars of bottled peaches, condensed milk, tins of black bread, a side of smoked salmon, my God, tinned salmon, chocolate, cognac, how many jars
of coffee beans? Tins of new potatoes, peas and carrots, dill-pickled gherkins and marrons glacés. Three boxes. Real apple juice. One moment we’re hungry and the next we have all this fine food in front of us. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Touch it,’ said Effi. ‘See if it disappears in a fart of sulphur.’

  But she fetched one of the bars of chocolate down and broke off a big piece that she handed to little Barbara. Barbara stared at it, sniffed it, then leaned against her mother and started to eat it. She didn’t stuff it down but nibbled it in tiny bites, stopping to taste and enjoy before she nibbled another fragment. At her feet, Cornelius sat and dribbled.

  ‘Have the whole bar,’ said Effi to Barbara. ‘It’s yours. And the next one’s for me and Hanno. You’ll get something, dog. Tough horsemeat out of my bag, that’s what dogs like. Chocolate’s for kids, right?’

  Suddenly Otto said, ‘Not another bite. Nothing for any of you till you pay me the fare.’ He patted his pocket, where the gun was bulging. Now everybody saw it.

  ‘Mother!’ said Ma Headscarf, and her voice sounded almost relieved. She’s OK with this, thought Effi, having someone bully her again. It’s what she’s used to.

  Old Ida sighed. ‘Very well. You’ll all have to go out. I’m not undoing my corsets with people watching.’

  Otto opened another cupboard, as if he hadn’t heard her. There was a row of bottles of cognac. Oh no, thought Effi. If he gets drunk he might shoot us before we can get our dinner. She stuffed the bar of chocolate into her bag. She wasn’t going to leave the bag down, though she’d give the horsemeat to Cornelius. She fetched it out and handed it to him. He ran away with it into the salon: she could hear him growling at Hungerland in case the doctor tried to steal it from him. Otto wasn’t looking, he was undoing the cognac bottle. Effi whipped two tins of salmon off the shelf and slipped them in the bag to make up for the horsemeat. She’d have to find a tin-opener, too.

  ‘Leave the room!’ said old Ida sharply to Otto. ‘You can fleece me of my pearls, but I’ll get them out with decency. Or you can just take that gun out and shoot me. You should be ashamed of yourself.’