The Search

by Maureen Myant

  One of the soldiers almost escapes. He was last in line, a little behind the rest, and when the shooting started he was quick off the mark, but Wlacek pursues him through the trees and gets him.

  Jan climbs down from the tree. The ambush was so sudden and so bewildering he’s not sure where all the bodies are. He strikes a match and looks around. The match is dropped as he stumbles over something. He strikes another and gasps at what he sees. He is standing in a mess of blood. There is a soldier with a hideous wound in his head. His brains are all over what was his face. No point in wasting time holding a feather under his nose. He’s dead for sure. Jan calls out to Marek, and he and one of the other men come over and lift the body to take it to the pit. Jan continues with his search. Ten metres away there is another body. He lights a match and holds the feather under the man’s nose. Nothing. Once more he calls to Marek.

  Jan isn’t sure how many soldiers there were. Marek expected at least ten, and he’s only found five bodies. His eyes are tired from straining to see. Wlacek cries out; he’s found another. Marek creeps up behind Jan. “You’re doing well, but there’s still four to be found. Try over there,” he points to the east.

  Ten bodies. They seem to have found them all. Jan stands back and watches the men shovelling earth into the mass grave. He’s dizzy, feeling sick, walks a little way away from the rest, stumbles over another body. Jan bends over the body with the feather and starts to count. He’s used to this by now, one, two, three. A movement. Jan holds his breath and waits. The man opens his eyes.

  “Bitte,” his eyes close again.

  Did he imagine it? Jan’s so tired he thinks he must be dreaming. He opens his mouth to shout to Marek.

  A tight grip on his wrist. “Please, let me go. I have a wife, children.” There are tears running down the man’s face. “I don’t want to die, please.”

  Jan can’t move. He is back at Horak’s farm, watching ten men at a time being lined up to die. He looks down at the man; his face has been replaced by that of his father. “Father,” he says. “Tati, is that you?”

  The grip is tightening. Jan winces from the pain. When he looks again, his father has gone, the German soldier is there instead, eyes open wide in fear; there is a shot. A hole appears in the centre of his forehead. Jan looks round to see Marek standing there.

  “You should have shouted for us at once,” says Marek. “They’re the enemy. Do you think they’d show any mercy to you?”

  Jan gets to his feet. His head is lowered; he doesn’t want anyone to see his tears. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, “I wasn’t thinking.” He pushes past Marek and hurries off. When he is sure he is out of sight, he leans against a tree and vomits, wishing he’d never agreed to go with the group that night.

  The men are jubilant. It’s been a while since they managed to kill so many in one strike. There were eleven in all, even better than they’d thought. The mood is good, and when they get back to the camp there is more rejoicing. One of the men gives Jan a drink. He gulps it down, thinking that it’s water, wondering why it’s in such a small glass. As it hits his throat he gasps. It must be vodka. He clutches his throat, and the men laugh, not unkindly. One of them says, “Take your time, little one. This is firewater, and a child like you should drink it slowly. Try again.” He hands Jan another small glass. Jan looks at it wishing he could throw it away. But he realizes it’s a compliment to be given a drink by the men, and so he sips at it. This time it’s not so bad. He takes another sip. His head feels light, it must be because he slept so little last night. But it’s not sleepiness, it’s more than that, it feels good. It takes away the bad feelings he has about tonight. Marek’s right, he would have killed him if it had been the other way round. If only he hadn’t seen his father’s face, though. He takes another sip. It wasn’t his father; he has to hold on to that. His glass is filled up, and he gulps down some more vodka. It’s getting easier to think about all the things he normally hides from himself: the killing of his father, the loss of his mother and sisters. He tries this out, and no, it doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does. This vodka is good stuff. Jan empties his glass and holds it out for some more, but one of the older men spots him and immediately tells him off.

  Jan is feeling bold. Isn’t he now a man after all? And this old guy, what does he know? He ignores him and waves the glass at Maciej, who has the bottle and is offering it round. Maciej fills it up without a glance, and Jan lifts it to his lips, letting out a cry as Wlacek knocks it out of his hand.

  “Did you not hear me, boy? This is not a drink for youngsters. Get yourself off to bed!”

  “Leave me alone,” says Jan, but it comes out all wrong. Something isn’t working right. His words are slurred. He looks up at the man who is smiling down at him.

  “You’ll be sorry in the morning,” says Wlacek. “You’ll have a head like a bear.”

  “Better than a head like an ugly old pig,” says Jan and giggles.

  Wlacek cuffs him. “I won’t tell you again, bed.”

  Jan tries to hit him back, but when he stands up he finds his legs are not holding him properly, and when he takes a swipe at Wlacek, not only does he miss him by several feet, he falls in a heap at his feet. He tries to get up, but can’t. The last thing he remembers before falling unconscious is the sound of everyone laughing at him. Bastards.

  Jan opens his eyes to bright sunlight and closes them again at once. The light hurts not only his eyes, but his head too. It feels as though someone has put it in a vice and is squeezing it. He groans. Even that hurts.

  “Drink this,” Marek hands him a cup.

  “What is it?”

  “Water. No more vodka for you, little one. We had to clean you up last night before you went to bed. There was vomit everywhere.”

  Jan sips the cool water. Somewhere in his mind is a memory of everything spinning, like being on a swing and a roundabout at the same time. His stomach lurches just to think of it. He gulps down the water and holds out the cup for more.

  “So, little one,” says Marek, “you’re a man now. You’ve seen things that only men should see.”

  “You forget what I saw in my village,” says Jan.

  “So I do, so I do. And what you saw in your village – does that make you want to kill the men who did that to your father?”

  Jan doesn’t reply. The memory of his father falling has come to him with full force. Last night he thought he could think of it without pain. Now he realizes that he was wrong to believe that the pain had gone; it will never go. He pushes the memory aside, but it is replaced at once by a vision from the night before: the face of the man as he spoke of his children, the look of terror as he was shot. Jan closes his eyes to try to get rid of the memory, but it won’t go away.

  “Jan?”

  “I… I don’t know.” Jan looks up at Marek as he says this and catches a glimpse of something fleeting in his eyes. Disappointment perhaps, or sadness. Maybe even relief. It is gone before he can decide what it is.

  Marek smiles at him, ruffles his hair. “Maybe one day, little one, maybe one day.” He strolls off to join the other men.

  Jan lies down again, his head still aching. He’s feeling sick. But whether it is from last night’s drink, or from what he saw, he isn’t sure. He clutches the blanket close to him, wishing it were his mother.

  ‌21

  The officer takes off his gloves and lays them on the kitchen table. Gisela stares at them; she has never seen such fine leather in her whole life.

  “So,” he says. “Let me tell you about what has been happening in this little corner of our Fatherland.”

  Gisela looks up at this. There’s something about his tone that worries her. “What do you want with us?” she asks.

  “All I want is for you to listen,” he is standing with his back to the range and has lifted the bottom of his jacket so as to warm his rear. “But perhaps you know already?”

  “Know what? I don’t take much notice of what goes on around me these da
ys,” says Gisela. “I have recently lost my son, but then you already know that.”

  “Your son, yes. Well, we can talk about that later. I want to tell you about one of your neighbours, the Bielenbergs. They own a farm not far from here.”

  Gisela knows the family. They are good folk, the woman is a little older than she is, and she was kind when Helga died. Came round, but didn’t say the usual stuff which angered Gisela so much, just held her hand as Gisela wept. Her heart grows cold. “What about them?”

  “Perhaps you should take a walk up past their farm. I’d do it one day soon, before the smell gets too bad. Then you’ll see what happens to traitors who hide Jews.”

  “Jews?” says Gisela. “But they’re not Jewish.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so, but they had a whole family of vermin living in one of their barns. Up in the hayloft, behind the hay. They squealed like the pigs they are when we went in with hayforks.”

  Gisela’s hand is at her mouth. She doesn’t trust herself to speak.

  “So, now you see what happens to traitors. The Bielenbergs are hanging from a tree, for the ravens to feast on.”

  Gisela can’t help it; there are children in the family, she has to know what has happened. “All of them?” she whispers.

  The officer studies the ceiling. “All of them. And the Jews too, all dead. Impaled on hayforks. It makes you think doesn’t it? Hardly worth taking the risk, is it?”

  Gisela wants to be sick. The Bielenbergs had four children; surely they didn’t kill them. But after what Wilhelm has told her of what ordinary soldiers are ordered to do, she could believe anything. And the SS are worse. She pulls herself together; she has to be strong, call their bluff. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says.

  “Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? You have a farm with outbuildings. Perhaps you too, have Jews living there. Or,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “maybe your son is hiding there.”

  She may vomit, her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. The officer is watching her closely; she stares back at him, unblinking, unglues her tongue. “Yes, we do have outbuildings. No, our son is not hiding there. The only thing you’ll find in our barn is hay.” She stands as tall as she can. “Our son is dead. He died a hero, fighting for the Fatherland. I don’t understand why you are bothering us, and I will complain about it, I guarantee it.”

  He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “And so, I thought, I’d give you a chance. You tell us where your son is hiding, and we’ll spare you and the child. We can’t spare your son. An example has to be made of him. To deter the others, you know how it is,” he rubs his eyes as if weary of it all. “Just tell us where he is.”

  Friedrich steps forwards. “Wilhelm is lying in a grave somewhere, unmarked, in pieces, blown to bits by a shell exploding. Go on, search the barn, search the house, search all you like. You won’t find him here or anywhere else. He’s dead, dead.” He sits down at the table and starts to weep.

  For the first time, doubt sweeps over the officer’s face. He moves away from the fire towards the table and picks up his gloves. “Come with me.”

  They stand outside the barn. The band of soldiers has searched all the other outbuildings. “This is your last chance,” says the officer. “Just point us in the right direction and you’ll be spared.”

  “Our son is dead,” repeats Friedrich once more. He sounds so weary, so sad that Gisela herself starts to wonder if something has happened that she doesn’t know of. They are standing near the trap door that is well hidden by the hay spread thickly over the floor of the barn.

  “Very well.” The officer beckons to his men. Their rifles have bayonets attached, and one by one they stab at the pile of hay at the back of the barn. Nothing. The frustration on the officer’s face would almost be amusing if the danger weren’t so clear. He allows the farce to go on for five, maybe ten minutes, his face becoming more flushed by the minute. At last he gives the order to stop.

  Although Gisela is feeling a sense of relief she is very much on her guard. Righteous indignation is the correct approach to take, she decides. “Last time you harassed us I said we would write to the authorities. We didn’t because we are in mourning. This is too much. This time we will complain. And to Hitler himself if necessary.”

  The officer’s face surely cannot get any redder. He shouts to his men to line up and marches them out without another word.

  Gisela and Friedrich walk back to the farmhouse together. Gisela’s heart is pounding with fear. She knows how close they have come to discovery and feels it is only a matter of time before they come again. For some reason, the Nazis are deeply suspicious of them. She thinks it must be because of Marguerite, but wonders why the woman seems so determined to frame them. As she nears the farmhouse she hears Helena crying; she must have woken from her nap. Gisela runs to the house and upstairs to the bedroom. Helena is sitting up in the bed, crying with great heaving sobs that seem fit to burst her chest. Gisela gathers her into her arms. “Liebchen, Liebchen, Mutti ist hier.”

  Helena twists and turns in her arms as if demented. Rage rises up in Gisela; she wants to tear the soldiers apart for she knows that the stress of all this is affecting Helena. “Ssh, ssh,” she tries, but the child will not be quietened. She carries her downstairs, cuddling her closely. In the kitchen Friedrich is sitting at the table writing in his beautiful copperplate.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m writing a letter to complain about how we have been treated.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Gisela is beginning to regret her words to the officer, thinking that perhaps it’s best after all to lie low for a while.

  “It was your idea,” he doesn’t look up from his task. He is concentrating on making the letter sound as good as possible.

  “Well, yes, I know. It’s just—”

  He interrupts her. “We have the upper hand, now, for a brief moment. But if we don’t complain they’ll start to wonder why, and then they’ll be back. More soldiers, a more thorough search. We can’t live like this.”

  Helena has stopped sobbing. Gisela lets her down on the floor, and she runs to the corner where her one doll is kept. She grabs it and hugs it to her. Gisela watches for a moment before turning once more to Friedrich.

  “You’re right. It would look suspicious if we didn’t write. Let me see what you’ve written.”

  He hands the paper to her, and she scans it, murmuring the words to herself: patriotic Germans, loss of our only son, outrage at this invasion of our privacy at a time of mourning. “You should add ‘unjustified’ before invasion. It makes it stronger.”

  Friedrich takes it from her and looks at it again. “I’ll write it all out now, and we can add more as we think about it.”

  That evening they take extra care when they visit Wilhelm. Instead of using a torch as they normally do, they walk to the barn in the darkness. It is nerve-racking, for Gisela expects Nazis to leap out at her from behind every tree; she jumps at every rustle of the leaves When they reach the barn, they sweep aside the hay and give the coded three knocks followed by five seconds of silence, then another two knocks to let Wilhelm know it’s safe to come out. The trapdoor is pushed up, and Wilhelm comes out. He staggers a little as he does so.

  “What was going on? This afternoon… they were back weren’t they?”

  “Ssh, not here. Let’s get back to the house.”

  They make their way back in silence. The shutters are already shut so no one can look in on them, and the lights are on. Wilhelm blinks as he comes into the light. With a pang Gisela notices his pallor; his skin is grey and sickly. Poor Wilhelm who always looked so brown and strong – he is fading away.

  “Tell me what happened,” he says.

  When they’ve finished telling him and shown him the letter they’re going to send, he sits very still for a few moments. Then he gets to his feet. “I have to go,” he says. “There’s nothing else for it. If they find me here, they’ll kill you too, and I won’t
have that.”

  Friedrich bars the door. “You’re going nowhere. If you leave, the worry will kill your mother and most likely me too. We will go back to our original plan and build a false wall in the attic. They’ve shot into it so they know there was nothing to it. They won’t do it again.”

  “They’ll be back, you know they will.”

  Friedrich shakes his head. “I don’t think so, not this time. The officer looked very upset when he left, and when the authorities get our letter…”

  It takes two hours to convince him. Only when Gisela says that if he leaves, she will come after him, search for him in every city in Germany, does he at last agree.

  Friedrich thumps him on the back. “Just as well too, son. For if she goes, who’ll look after me?”

  Wilhelm smiles dutifully at this weak joke, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and Gisela thinks back to the past with sorrow, to a time when his laugh filled the kitchen.

  They send off the letter the next day to the Kommandant of Wilhelm’s company. They don’t expect to hear anything back, the best they hope for is that no one will search the farm again, but one bright morning two weeks later, a letter comes for them.

  Gisela hands it to her husband. “You open it, I can’t bear to.”

  Friedrich takes it from her and opens it. It is a single sheet of crisp white paper, with an official crest at the top. He starts to read it aloud.

  “Dear Herr and Frau Scheffler, thank you for your letter. I have investigated your son’s case in some detail. While I am sorry to have to tell you that we are in no doubt that he died following an attack on our company, I am pleased to let you know that steps are being taken to punish the person whose malicious gossip caused you so much distress. Please be assured of our sympathy in your time of loss, and that you will no longer be harassed. Heil Hitler.” He squints at the paper. “I can’t read the signature.”

  Gisela grabs it from him and reads it to herself. She cannot believe what is written there. Her eyes are shining as she takes it in. “It’s too good to be true,” she says to Friedrich, who is sitting stunned at the table.