The Search

by Maureen Myant

“I heard about the raid,” he says, “and I wanted to let you know that if there’s anything I can do… anything.” He looks into her eyes, and she gasps; the look is so direct. He is reading her mind, he knows all about Wilhelm, everything. She lowers her eyes and says nothing.

  “You know what I’m saying, don’t you?”

  She cannot take the risk. Gisela takes a deep breath, forces a thin smile. “I have no idea what you mean, but thank you for your offer of help. It was very distressing to have Wilhelm’s name sullied in that way. If perhaps you would like to write to the authorities…” She breaks off, unable to continue.

  He smiles, a kind warm smile, a smile that can be trusted. “You are very careful,” he says, “that is good. You need to be careful. But you also need to know your friends, and remember this, I am a friend. You know where I am if you need me.”

  Gisela can only nod. She is clutching Helena so tight that the child starts to cry once more. She bends to soothe her and, when she looks up, Herr Knoller is gone. She looks round, but he is nowhere to be seen, and for a wild moment she wonders if she imagined the whole scene. She feels comforted, though. His presence was a good one. Feeling better than she has since the soldiers came, she gets on the bus. All the way home, she thinks about the old man’s words. Can he be trusted, could they ask him for help in hiding Wilhelm? The more she thinks about it, though, the more she thinks she has imagined that he knows everything. He was only offering to help, like lots of people, probably meant he’d say a prayer for them or some such pious nonsense. She has read far more into one look than was actually there. By the time she reaches the track where she leaves the bus, she has decided to say nothing to Friedrich. This is their problem, theirs and no one else’s. No one is to be trusted. They must deal with it themselves.

  A month since the soldiers’ raid and Helena continues to fret. She has lost her smile and remains as silent as she was when she first arrived three months ago. The silence is unnerving. Gisela thinks that it would be good for her to see Wilhelm, but she is frightened to suggest this to Friedrich. He too has been very quiet these past few weeks.

  They are very careful with their visits to the barn, taking care to go there only after dark, and to check carefully before they do so that there is no one in the vicinity. Friedrich insists that only he should go at first, but Gisela will not allow this. She needs to see her son, to check that he is well, even though it breaks her heart to see the space where he is confined.

  The days are getting shorter. At night the temperature falls to freezing, and Gisela frets about Wilhelm. She wants to bring him back into the house, but Friedrich will not have it.

  “You saw what they did, shooting into the wall like that. They’re ruthless. Next time they could bring dogs, and where would we be then? Dead, the lot of us.”

  She knows he’s right, but begs nonetheless. “What are the chances of them coming back? They’ve been once. They found nothing. To come again would be harassment.”

  “Have they punished that woman for her lies?”

  “No,” she concedes. It is true. Marguerite is free, Gisela saw her in town, the day before yesterday. She crossed the road to avoid her.

  “Don’t you think if they were sure she was lying, she’d be locked up?”

  “I don’t know, Friedrich. She’s a party member. Perhaps she has influential friends.”

  “Perhaps, or maybe they’re just biding their time waiting for us to slip up, to relax, and they’ll be back. With more men, for a more thorough search.”

  Reluctantly she agrees with him, and Wilhelm stays where he is. She’d hoped they might revert to their original plan of the false wall in the attic, but Friedrich’s argument is persuasive. She talks to Wilhelm about it.

  “I want to bring you inside, but Papa thinks it’s too risky.”

  “He’s right, Mutti. I think they’ll be back.”

  He’s so pale her heart aches for him. His cheekbones are pushing through his skin for he isn’t eating enough. Although she tries to feed him well, as often as not he barely touches what she gives him. It breaks her heart.

  “I don’t think so. They searched so well the last time, what possible excuse could they have?”

  “They don’t have to have an excuse. We think that Marguerite, you know, Herman Durr’s mother, has told them she heard you discussing where to hide me. She’ll keep on pressing for another search. I don’t know whether they’ll listen to her, but I suspect they will. We have to be prepared for the worst.”

  A few days later, and the worst is here. This time they haven’t bothered to wait for the cover of night. They have come prepared to search the whole farm. When Gisela sees them marching up the track she feels as though they have sent the entire German army, there are so many of them. Her heart is hammering as she goes out to greet them. Friedrich is in the fields, mending a fence. There is no one to warn Wilhelm, to tell him to stay quiet and still.

  The officer stands in front of her. He is so close she can smell the sweat from him, a stale smell like cabbage. She recoils from him. Once again he has papers. He thrusts them into her hand, but she lets them drop to the ground.

  “You’re wasting your time,” she says.

  His voice is loud, grates on her. “We’ll see. Where are your outbuildings? This time we’ll do a thorough search. This time we’ll find him.”

  ‌20

  Jan is welcomed into the band of partisans. He’s not sure he’s happy with this, but there seems little he can do about it. With the disappearance of Pawel, a lot of his hope went too, and he is resigned to living rough in the forest and doing whatever is asked of him. For some time he hopes that Pawel will somehow find him, but as the days turn to weeks his hope fades.

  His tasks are simple to begin with. Easy jobs that anyone could do: picking up supplies from a village, taking messages to other partisans. He and another boy, Zygmund, who is just a little older than he is, are often sent together to do this. The idea is that even if they are seen, they are unlikely to be suspected as resistance fighters because of their age. Gradually they are trusted with more difficult tasks – laying traps, digging holes; Jan doesn’t like to think about this for the holes are deep, and he thinks they might be for graves. He hates the Nazis, but it scares him to think of bodies tumbling into these holes. Soon he learns to block out these thoughts in the same way that he never thinks of that day in June last year.

  He’s becoming stronger. The winter is harsh, and he’s always hungry even though there is usually enough to eat. The men are well supplied by people willing to help with food even if they are not prepared themselves to endure the hardships of the forest. But even though he’s hungry he can feel muscles developing through all the hard work, digging these holes. And he can run fast too. He found this out one day when he was picking up supplies and was spotted by a German army patrol. They chased him for a mile or more, but he easily outran them and was careful to run in the opposite direction from where the partisans were. This act earned him extra rations that night.

  “You’re a bright boy, Jan,” said Marek.

  Jan thinks every day about this. He thinks that if he earns their respect, maybe the partisans will help him find his family. When he confides in Zygmund, though, he laughs at him.

  “Don’t you understand? They are only interested in destroying the Nazis. Helping you is the last thing on their mind. And don’t go thinking they rely on you. You’re expendable. All of us are. Even Marek.”

  “I don’t believe that. They’d be lost without Marek.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s the greater good that counts.”

  “The greater good?”

  “I’ve just told you, defeating the enemy. Besides that, everything else is unimportant. If a few of us were to die, so what? There will be others left to fight, others who will run their errands.”

  Jan looks at his friend. “You sound bitter. You’ve never told me how you came to be here.”

  Zygmund shrugs as if he doesn’t
care, but his eyes are burning with anger. “I am Jewish. The choice was between here and a concentration camp. My family arranged for me to be hidden on a nearby farm, but the woman became nervous, and eventually I felt I had no choice but to go. She didn’t try to stop me. It was lucky for me that a few days later I met Marek and he helped me. I was starving by then, pretty desperate.” He smiles at Jan. “I’m not bitter, just…” he falls silent.

  Jan takes a chance; this is the longest conversation they’ve had. Usually Zygmund does what he has to do in near silence. “What happened to the rest of your family?”

  He’s gone too far. Zygmund gets up as though the question was never asked. “We have work to do, let’s get a move on.” The conversation is over. Jan doesn’t really understand what has happened, but he recognizes a sadness in his friend that is at least as great as his own. He follows him into the forest where they start to gather firewood. Jan chatters on, tries to get him to speak again, but he remains silent. A few days later one of the men tells him that they found out some months ago that Zygmund’s whole family was murdered. Gassed and cremated in a concentration camp. Jan never asks him about his family again.

  One day, not long after this, Marek takes Jan to one side. He offers him a cigarette, which Jan takes, feeling very grown up. “What age are you, Jan?”

  Jan draws on the cigarette, and immediately the smoke catches in his throat. He splutters, can’t stop coughing. What a baby he is. After what seems like an age he gets himself under control. “What month is it?” he asks. Not so long ago he would have felt stupid asking such a question, but there is nothing to differentiate the days, and he has lost track of the weeks.

  “It is December, December the eighteenth. A week to Christmas.”

  Christmas. The word sets off so many memories that Jan is almost overwhelmed, but he only says, “Then I am almost twelve. My birthday is two days after Christmas day.”

  “Nearly twelve, eh? You are a good size for twelve, Jan. Tell me, do you like what we do here?”

  Jan is flattered by this conversation with Marek. He’s noticed how the other men respect him, how they fight to sit beside him at meals, laugh at his jokes, keep the best seat for him. It’s flattering that Marek is treating him like a grown up. He thinks carefully before he speaks. “I think what we do, we do because it’s for the greater good.”

  Marek throws back his head and laughs; his white teeth glint in the firelight. “You’ve been listening to the comrades, Jan. The greater good! Marvellous.”

  Jan doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He knows he’s being laughed at, and it hurts, but he doesn’t want to show it. He gives Marek a wavering smile. Marek smiles back.

  “Jan, you’re a good worker. You do what you have to do, and you never complain. I don’t know if you realize it, but recently we’ve had a few losses.”

  Jan nods. Over the past few weeks there have been times when the men come back from raids or ambushes depressed and angry. He knows of at least six men who have died.

  “I’d like you to do more direct work for us. Not killing, you’re too young for that. But I have a very important job for you.”

  A flutter in his stomach; no, it’s more than a flutter, an ache. Jan’s scared, but he doesn’t want to show it. He waits for Marek to say more, but Marek is getting up, stretching his arms and yawning.

  “I’m off to bed now. Take your time and think about it. There’s no pressure, but it would be a great help to us.”

  Jan stares after him, lost. What can it be that they want him to do?

  Marek ignores Jan for the next week. He is always with the older men, laughing and joking, plotting. Jan longs to be one of them, wishes Marek would speak to him like that, but he never does. One of the older men, Wlacek, has been delegated to give the boys their tasks. The usual sort of things: cleaning up, peeling vegetables, nothing that seems to Jan to be important. Nothing that would gain him an approving word from Marek. One day, as Jan is gathering firewood, he flings down his load and stamps his foot. Zygmund looks round, his eyebrows raised. “What’s up with you?”

  “I’m better than this!”

  “And?”

  “I’m not going to do it any more.”

  Zygmund stands very still, his eyes are enormous in his pale face. “Has Marek asked you to do something else?”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “Nothing. But I think you should know: he asked me first, and I said no.”

  Jan shrugs. “So?”

  “So, think carefully about what you’re getting into.”

  Jan doesn’t want to admit he doesn’t know what he is being asked to do, so he starts to pick up the firewood that lies scattered all around him and says nothing.

  Zygmund helps him, and they start the walk back to the camp. When they reach it, Zygmund holds out his hand to Jan. “No hard feelings?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Have you told Marek yet that you’ll do it?”

  Do what? wonders Jan, but he is nonchalant as he says, “No, I’ll catch him later.”

  Zygmund grasps his hand tight. “Good luck,” he whispers.

  Later that evening, Marek comes to him. “I’ve been watching you for the past week. You seem unhappy. No, that’s too strong. Dissatisfied. I get the feeling you’re ready to move on. Am I right?”

  Jan nods.

  “So, you’ll help us?”

  “Yes,” Jan’s voice is barely audible.

  “Good man! Tomorrow evening. I want you ready and fresh. Make sure you get a good sleep tonight.”

  Jan is swelling with pride at being called a man, but it’s not enough to divert him; he has to know. Swallowing hard, he says, “Marek, what is it that you want me to do?”

  Marek shakes his head. “Tomorrow, Jan. Tomorrow, all will be clear.”

  Jan can’t sleep. Try as he might, it is impossible to relax. There are too many things to think about. It’s clear that he wasn’t the first choice for this special task; they asked Zygmund, and only came to Jan when Zygmund refused. But he is a year older than Jan. Still, it’s not as flattering as it might have been. He is their second choice. And he has not yet been told what it is he has to do. It’s not killing, though. At least it’s not killing. He knows someone has to do it, but it’s a man’s job, not for a boy. And despite what Marek said earlier, he’s not a man. Not yet. Jan’s thoughts continue to whirl for hours until at last he falls into a deep sleep. For the first time in months, he dreams of his father. At dawn, he wakes with tears running down his face.

  The forest is darker than anything he’s known since the night the partisan group found him. Jan can barely make out the figures of the other men as they make their way to the ambush point. Marek has told him that there is a group of soldiers expected along that road late that night. They are on their way to a village where two of them have sweethearts, or think they have. The girls are actually members of the partisan group and have told their “boyfriends” that there will be a party with plenty of girls for any soldier they might care to bring with them. The soldiers have told the girls there will be ten of them.

  The plan is to ambush them. The partisans will hide in trees, and on Marek’s signal will shoot. Jan worries about this; what if someone hears? But Marek is clear that it is far enough away from the army camp for gunfire not to be heard. If their bodies are found, however, the girls will be blamed, so it has to look as if there has been a mass desertion. This is not as unlikely as it sounds as the regiment is due to be sent to the Eastern Front in a few days’ time, and according to Marek’s information there is widespread unhappiness about this; one of the soldiers has already told his “girlfriend” that he’ll kill himself rather than go to the east, where the Russians are massacring the Germans.

  Marek ordered the group to dig a mass grave. Most of the day has been spent digging it, a narrow trench six or seven feet deep, and maybe thirty feet long. Jan was one of those who dug it, and he’s terrified he’ll fall into it in the da
rk, though as Marek pointed out this is unlikely, because of the huge mounds of earth surrounding it.

  When they reach the ambush spot, Marek tells Jan what he has to do. He gives him some matches and a feather. Jan looks at them, bewildered.

  “It will be clear in a minute what they’re for. You’ll be up a tree with the rest of us. I want you to watch carefully to see where the soldiers fall. As soon as the gunfire stops you must find each soldier. We have to be sure they’re dead, so I want you to hold the feather under their noses. Count to one hundred. If there’s any movement in that time, call one of us, and we’ll finish them off.” Marek wipes the sweat off his forehead. “Do you understand?”

  Jan nods. His heart is hammering in his chest; he’s not sure whether it’s apprehension or excitement. Marek shoves him towards a tree, and he shimmies up it. There are already two men up there. They’re ready to shoot; he can make out the outline of the rifles, and prays they won’t shoot him by mistake. He tries to make himself comfortable, but the bark is scratching his skin, and he has cramp in his right calf. He flexes his foot to try to ease the cramp. Above him, one of the men whispers that he should try to keep still. It’s not easy to stay in the same position when he’s so uncomfortable.

  The night is full of sounds: the wind in the branches, scuffling below them, the grunting of a boar as it looks for food. Nothing that could be soldiers on their way to a good night out, though. Jan closes his eyes wishing he’d slept better last night. He’d love to go to sleep now, but forces his eyes open. It would be dreadful to let Marek down. But it’s so boring…

  A song, men’s voices. Jan grips his branch. This is it. His tiredness flees; he’s wide awake, listening for Marek’s signal. Above him, one of the men shifts slightly, must be to get a better line of sight. The moon’s up now, but it’s still hard to see anything clearly. The singing’s getting louder. Any moment now. Yes, there it is, three hoots like an owl.

  The sound of the gunfire is deafening. Jan almost falls out of the tree; he has to grab on to his branch to stop himself falling. A bullet whistles past his ear; he’s sure it’s grazed him, but when he touches his ear it seems fine.