He brushes the tears from his face. The action leaves two dirty streaks on his face. “Let’s go,” he says.
Pawel stands in front of him, hands on hips. “Hang on. You can’t just stop in the middle of the road like that, cry as if you’re a baby, then go on as if nothing has happened. Tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”
“It’s the trees,” says Jan.
“The trees? What about the trees?”
“In June last year, when it happened… they were in blossom. I hid from the Germans in the cherry tree at the farm. And now they’re bare, and I’ll never see my family again.” He pushes past Pawel and walks on ahead.
Pawel stares after him for a moment before running to catch up with him. He pulls Jan to a stop. “Why have you stopped believing you’ll see your family again? You have to have faith, that’s what you always said back in Germany when everyone cried about their families. So often you told the little ones their mothers were out there somewhere. You didn’t let up.” He scratches his head. “I don’t understand.”
Jan doesn’t reply. If he speaks he thinks he will scream, so he shakes off Pawel’s hand and strides on. Pawel shrugs and follows him. Once or twice Pawel tries to speak to Jan, but gives up when he doesn’t reply.
A rumbling. Jan tenses. “What’s that noise?”
“I don’t know,” Pawel is frowning.
“Quick, it’s getting nearer. It could be Germans.” Jan pushes Pawel to the side of the road and into the ditch, diving after him. Together they crouch in the dank mud. “I don’t hear anything now,” says Jan.
“Me neither, maybe we imagined—”
“No, there it is again. It sounds big, bigger than a car. It could be a lorry. If they look down they’ll see us, we need to get cover.”
A few yards away there is a large bush, Pawel points to it, and Jan nods in agreement. On their hands and knees they crawl through the ditch water. It is stagnant, smells vile, and Jan gags as they make their way to the hiding place. Shivering they push their way into the bush until they’re sure they can’t be seen. The rumbling grows into a roar. Jan parts the leaves so he can see the road. A convoy of trucks is passing. They are full of soldiers. He steps back certain they must have seen them, but the convoy continues, raising dust from the road. A minute later it is out of sight.
Jan pushes his way out of the bush and tries to wipe off some of the mud with his hands. It is useless, all he does is spread it further. “Where do you think they’re going?” he says to Pawel.
Pawel is picking leaves out of his hair. “How should I know?” He sounds grumpy.
“What if?…”
“What?”
“Do you think they might be going to Jankowice? If they are it won’t be safe there.”
“I know that.” Pawel picks up his bundle, ready to go on.
Jan has one last shot. “Why don’t we go back to Germany?”
Pawel shakes his head and starts to walk. Jan stares at his friend striding down the road. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he turn back, ask Miroslaw for help to get to Germany, or follow Pawel to an unknown village where they may or may not find their way to a partisan group? Jan can’t make up his mind; there are too many uncertainties. How could he cross Germany on his own? Was his German good enough to pass as a native? What would he do for money? At least in the resistance there would be adults to look after him. But he has a bad feeling about that convoy of trucks. If he follows Pawel, he could be walking into a trap.
Jan kicks at the road, sending a cloud of dust into the air. What to do, what to do… He takes out one of the coins he’d found in the fountain and tosses it in the air. “Heads, I follow Pawel, tails I go back to Germany.” The coin falls a metre or so away. He trudges over and looks down at it. For a moment he stands there, then he stoops to pick it up. It has been decided, he no longer needs to think what to do. What will be, will be. He gazes down the road the coin has chosen for him.
16
For some years Gisela has hated going into town. It started when Helga died: the sympathetic glances and murmurs of time heals drove her mad. Lately, though, she doesn’t mind the necessary trips as much. For one thing she likes to buy Helena little trinkets to surprise her. The smallest things bring her pleasure: a pale-blue ribbon for her hair, a bouncy rubber ball, even a pair of white socks. Helena loves them all. Every day she is becoming livelier. Her accent is less strange now, or perhaps they are getting used to it but, either way, Gisela stops worrying about where she came from and lets herself fall in love with this beautiful child, a little more each day.
She has travelled into town by bus. Wilhelm is looking after Helena. She’d thought he might like to come with her, visit some old school friends, perhaps go to the cinema that he used to love so much, but he shakes his head when she suggests it. She’s a little worried about him: he’s so quiet and he hasn’t left the house. Friedrich too is quiet, and she’s caught them whispering about things outside in the dark, more than once. Last night she thought she heard Wilhelm swear, something about this damned war. Friedrich hates cursing of any kind, and she waited for him to reprimand their son. Nothing, not a word. He must be getting soft in his old age. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to fight with Wilhelm when he has to go back to war in a few days’ time. She’s dreading that parting; it has been idyllic having him home, watching him play with his new sister.
The bus comes to a halt, and she gets off. During the journey it started to rain, and she pulls out an umbrella from her handbag. She puts it up and hurries across the road to the haberdashery shop. Last week she saw some mother-of-pearl buttons that she thought would look good on a dress she is making for Helena, please God they’re still there.
The shop has a bell, which sounds loudly each time someone opens the door. It peals out its tinny ring as Gisela enters, and the four customers already waiting turn to stare at her. They were talking animatedly before she came in, she’d seen them through the glass, but now they have fallen silent. Gisela nods at them – their faces are familiar, and although she has no wish to join in their gossip, neither does she want to snub them. She folds up her umbrella and takes her place at the end of the queue, waiting for their chatter to resume. It doesn’t, and this makes her uncomfortable. Perhaps they were talking about her. She looks down at her shoes: they are scuffed and worn. Is this what they were talking about? How shabby she looks? Surely not, most people are not as well turned-out as they used to be; the war has seen to that. One of the women coughs, and Gisela looks up.
“We’re so very sorry,” she says in a quiet voice.
Gisela stares at her. What is the woman on about? Surely they’re not still talking about Helga’s accident? Will she never have peace from people wanting to share their condolences? She nods at the woman, but doesn’t say anything in return.
One of the others pushes her way forwards. Gisela knows this woman; she is the mother of one of Wilhelm’s school friends, she can’t remember his name, Helmut, Herman? It won’t come to mind. She can’t remember his mother’s name either. The poor woman is tired-looking, and she is dabbing at her eyes. Surely she hasn’t had bad news about her son? Gisela waits for her to speak. She doesn’t want to ask about Herman – yes, definitely Herman, she can see him now, a chubby boy with freckles all over his face – in case something terrible has happened to him. “Such a terrible loss,” says the woman.
Gisela doesn’t know what to say. Who is she referring to? Is it Helga as she thought originally, or Herman? She has an overwhelming urge to get out of the shop, but they are all staring at her, waiting for her to reply. “Yes,” she manages at last. “Terrible.”
“So unfair,” murmurs one of the other women.
“Mmm,” agrees Gisela, wondering how she can get out of this. She doesn’t think they’re talking about Herman, his mother doesn’t look distraught enough, and if they’re going to talk about Helga she wants to escape. Now. She turns to go, but Herman’s mother has taken hold of her arm,
and she is trapped. Marguerite, that’s her name. She – a fervent Nazi – was embarrassed about it: it sounded too French; for a time she’d changed it to Margit, but it had never caught on.
“We saw it in the paper,” she says, nodding towards a newspaper open on the counter. “Couldn’t believe it at first. We thought it must be a mistake.”
“It’s in the paper?” Gisela is baffled.
“Why, yes. There’s always a column about those missing in action.”
So they are talking about Herman. Poor soul. Gisela is about to say that Wilhelm will miss him, that he was always well liked, when the newspaper is thrust under her nose, a finger pointing to the article about missing soldiers. She doesn’t like to refuse it so she takes out her glasses to read it. Her heart stops, she thinks she’s going to vomit. There, four lines from the top, is her son’s name. She reads it through again. There is no doubt, missing in action, it says, presumed dead.
Gisela looks up, is about to tell them that it’s a mistake, her son is at home this minute, on the farm, playing with his new sister – did they know she’d adopted an orphan from Hamburg? – when something stops her: the memory of all those whispered conversations between Friedrich and Wilhelm. Their words come back to her – Wilhelm determined, I won’t do it, you can’t make me, it’s wrong, Friedrich stern, it’s your duty. She hadn’t known what it was they were talking about, told herself it was none of her business. In a rush she understands: Wilhelm is a deserter. She sways, catches hold of Marguerite’s coat sleeve, pulls herself together. Ignoring the solicitous comments of the women, she manages to speak.
“Can I take that?” She nods towards the newspaper.
“Of course,” Marguerite pushes it towards her. She hesitates, then says in a rush, “You should be proud. Your son died a hero. For the Fatherland, serving his Führer.”
Gisela takes the paper and puts it in her bag. “Excuse me,” she says, “I must go.” She opens the door, flinching at its cheery ring. The women stand staring at her as she leaves. “How will she cope?” she hears one of them say.
Outside the rain is pouring down in sheets. Heedless, Gisela makes her way towards the bus station. Her umbrella is in her bag, but she doesn’t get it out. She walks through the gutter where the rain has gathered to form a gushing torrent. The water soaks through her old shoes, but she doesn’t feel it. All she feels is the pain in the place where her heart should be.
There is a flash flood on the road back to the farm, and the journey takes four hours longer than it should. By the time she gets back it is dark, and she stumbles up the track to her home, praying she won’t turn her ankle in one of the many ruts made by the tractor. The farmhouse is about a mile off the main road, and she is weary beyond words when she sees at last its lit windows. Friedrich is standing in one of them, looking out for her. He opens the door and runs out to get her.
“Where have you been? I thought you would have been back before now.”
She understands his anxiety. Since Helga died, they fear the worst when one of them is later back than they should be. She pats his arm. “There was a flood. The bus had to wait until the water went down.”
He has heated up some stew she made earlier in the day. Wilhelm is sitting at the table with a plateful in front of him. It smells of onions and sage, and she realizes how hungry she is – she hasn’t eaten since breakfast. He looks up as she comes in and gives her what now passes as a smile from him. How could she not have noticed before now how strained and pale he is?
“Where’s Helena?” she asks as she takes off her coat.
“I put her to bed an hour ago. Poor mite, she was exhausted. Wilhelm chased her all over the farm. She fell asleep before she’d said her prayers.” Friedrich smiles, looks happier than he has done for years. Gisela’s heart twists as she thinks of what she must do now. She opens her handbag and takes out the newspaper, spreads it out in front of the two men.
“When were you going to tell me?” she asks.
Friedrich exchanges a glance with his son. Wilhelm has stopped eating, puts his head in his hands.
“Well?” she demands, hearing her voice rise. She feels hysterical, wants to scream and shout, how dare you destroy my last bit of happiness? How dare you desert? Do you know what they do to people like you? Gisela takes a deep breath to calm herself. “I want an explanation.”
Wilhelm looks up at her. Slowly, his voice so quiet she can barely make out his words, he begins to tell her.
It is late, past midnight. They have talked for hours, Wilhelm mostly. He weeps as he tells them of the sights he has seen, the things he has done. Friedrich has heard most of it before, but for Gisela, the things he says are difficult to accept. Especially the murder of children, this is unbelievable.
“Why would they want to kill children?”
“Not just children, babies too.” Wilhelm spares them no detail.
“I don’t understand.” She shakes her head.
“I think they want to get rid of all Jews. And in their eyes, it doesn’t matter whether the Jew is young or old. They all have to die.”
Gisela feels sick. It can’t be right to kill so many people. Not civilians, women, children who can’t fight. Where is the sense in it? A terrible fear grips her heart. Wilhelm has deserted. She can’t condemn him for this, not after what she has heard, but he is a deserter, and they are sheltering him. If he is found, they will all be punished. There is no doubt about this. Yet shelter him they must. They must find a good hiding place for him. Although the farm is a mile or so away from the main road, it is not unusual for people to pass by, for neighbours to drop in unannounced. It doesn’t happen all that often, especially since Helga died. They were never a sociable couple, and people find Gisela’s dull gaze and Friedrich’s silence hard to take. And there will be callers – now that the announcement of Wilhelm’s “death” is in the paper, that priest will take the opportunity to call by.
Gisela rises from the table. “It’s late,” she says, “and we have much to do tomorrow. Let’s sleep on this.”
Upstairs Gisela undresses in silence. Friedrich is already in bed. He lies on his back staring at the ceiling. “What are we going to do?” he says as she gets into bed beside him.
“I’m going to sleep. We can talk tomorrow.” Gisela plumps up her feather bolster. She lies down, knowing it will be a long time before she will sleep peacefully again.
In the morning, she is up long before anyone else. She is at the kitchen table writing when Friedrich joins her.
“What are you doing?” he asks as he pours himself some coffee.
“Writing down all the options.”
Friedrich sips his coffee and grimaces; it is a coffee substitute, bitter with chicory. “Can I see?”
Gisela pushes the paper towards him, and he reads through what she has written, silently mouthing the words. “There’s not much choice, is there?”
“What are you thinking?”
“I think that perhaps the attic is the best option.”
Gisela nods. “Yes, I do too. We can start work on it today. It won’t be long before we start getting visitors, and we need to be ready.”
“What do we need to do?”
“Move a mattress up there, build a false wall that he can hide behind in case the house is ever searched.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’ve never been so serious in my life. Our son has deserted. I know they think he’s dead, and I don’t think the army will come looking for him, but if they do we’re in trouble. They shoot deserters, and who knows what they’ll do to us if they find out we’ve been sheltering him. There’s no room for error.” She throws the paper in the fire, watching it flare up. Friedrich is rubbing his eyes. Gisela thinks that he has never looked so old, so tired. In an instant she understands that she has to be stronger than she has ever been in her life; he’s about to break down. She reaches out to stroke his face. “We’ll get through this, I promise you. We have a second chance as a
family, and no one is going to take that away from us.”
Friedrich grabs her hand. His grip is so tight that she cries out in pain. His words are measured. “You’re right, we must be strong. I don’t know why this has happened to us. I can’t believe what Wilhelm has been through, how he—”
A noise at the door startles them. Gisela turns round to see Marguerite standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
17
Jan is hungry and tired. He longs for his mother: her smile, her cooking, the way her eyebrows used to raise when she was warning him about being naughty. One arch of her right eyebrow, and he knew he was in trouble. Most times it was enough to stop him in his tracks, although there were times when he knew he tried her patience to the limit, when he’d annoy Maria or refuse to help with the chores. He’d give anything now to hear her asking him to bring in water or throw out the slops. He thinks of when he last saw her, dressed only in her underwear, tears streaming down her face when she turned for one last look before she was pushed through the school door to God knows where. She didn’t look like his mother. His mother was always in control; this woman was lost in sorrow.
He punches the side of his head to rid himself of these memories. Over the past year he has become very good at shutting out those things which disturb him. If a bad thought comes to his mind he can get rid of it by hurting himself; hitting his head does the trick, or pinching his arm. The pain from this usually drives anything else away. What he can’t do, though, is control his dreams. Mostly they are happy, dreams of the past, fragments of memories: playing with his friends or chasing Maria round the local farms, a summer picnic, stuffing his mother’s food into his face. Often when he is hungry he dreams about this and wakes up with his empty stomach protesting. One dream persists. The day Lena was born, he saw her when she was just an hour old, a bawling scrap in his mother’s arms. She looked red and angry, and he hadn’t understood why his parents seemed so happy. But they were. His father had taken him and Maria out to the nearby town where he bought them each a puppet, a present from their new little sister. The puppets were carved from wood, and beautifully dressed as Hansel and Gretel. They’d had hours of fun playing out the old fairy tale, scaring each other with tales of the wicked old woman who lived in the woods. Lately, though, when he dreams of this, it turns into a nightmare, Maria screaming for help as the old woman grabs them with her claw-like hands, and in the background, looming ever nearer, the furnace in which she is going to roast them.
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