Jan whispers to one of the men, “What will happen to his sister?”
Piotr overhears and starts to cry. “You want to know what will happen to her? Go down to my village in a couple of days’ time and you’ll see. Her body will be hanging from a gallows. And they’ll torture her first. Why do you think we’re moving? They’ll break her down until she tells them exactly what she knows about us, then they’ll hang her or, if she’s lucky, shoot her.”
“Piotr,” says Marek, “it’s a risk we all take, you know that, and your sister knew… knows that too. She chose to do what she did, no one forced her.”
Piotr throws Marek a look of pure hatred. “Try telling my mother that. Kasia was all she had left.”
Marek sighs and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Piotr, I don’t know what else to say.” He turns to the rest of the men gathered round and starts giving orders.
“Gather together anything of importance. Make sure nothing is left that can identify us, for they’ll use that against our families. Guns, knives, ammunition, we need all of that. Wear two sets of clothes, if you have that many” – he grins as he says this, for many of the men have no change of clothes – “and bring as much food as you can carry. Everything else will have to be left. We have little time, so get a move on. We’ll meet back here in half an hour.”
The next thirty minutes are a blur of activity. Everyone rushing round collecting their belongings, getting ready to go. Everyone except Piotr; he sits staring into the dead ashes of the fire, tears streaming down his face.
After the time is up, Marek addresses the group of men. Jan counts them; he’s never seen them all together in one place before. There are twenty-four of them. “We have to split up. Those of you who have a safe house to go to, I suggest you go there. If you can take a comrade with you, then do so.” He pauses. “How many of you have somewhere to go?”
There’s a murmuring among the group, then a show of hands. Jan counts fifteen. Marek holds up a hand for silence. “Please don’t tell anyone where you are going. That way, if anyone is captured, they can’t be tortured into telling the Nazis where you have gone. The rest of you spilt into threes. You’re on your own for the next few days. The usual methods of communication apply. Look out for signs after a week has passed. With any luck they’ll have given up the search by that time.” He raises his clenched fist in the air. “Comrades, I salute you. Good luck to you all!”
Jan tugs at Marek’s shirt. “What about me?” he whispers.
“You can come with me.”
They are walking back to where Zygmund died. Marek wants to bury the boy; it’s wrong to leave him unburied. He and Jan carry spades as well as a little food. The others have dispersed to God knows where. The journey is tense. And slow. Marek insists on stopping many times to listen for the enemy. As they walk, Marek asks Jan about what happened. Again he tells him it is not his fault that Zygmund is dead, but Jan’s guilt lies heavy on him. If only they had not stopped by the train, they should have kept on walking, ignored it, or if only he had not run alongside the train to talk to Pawel. It’s all his fault.
“Do you really think that?” asks Marek.
“Yes… No, I don’t know,” says Jan. “But I should have realized that there would be soldiers guarding the train, and that they would have guns. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“But you could say that of Zygmund too. He should have realized about the guards too.”
Jan wipes his eyes. He doesn’t want Marek to see the tears, but it’s too late.
“Don’t cry, little one. You’re not to blame. You didn’t shoot Zygmund. He’ll have suffered very little,” says Marek. “He must have died immediately.”
Jan wants to believe this more than anything. He can’t bear to think that Zygmund was dying and he did nothing to help.
They reach the spot. Zygmund’s body lies where it fell. They’re about twenty metres from it. Marek stops Jan from running forwards. “They could be watching out for us. The guard will have reported it, and they may suspect that someone will come to claim the body. I think we should dig a grave for him, and when it is dark we can carry his body back and bury him properly.”
They retreat into a nearby wood, and in the middle of it, where they can’t be seen from the road, they dig a grave. Jan is used to the work for he has done it many times before. He had never thought he’d be doing it for a friend, though. When they finish, Marek sits down with his back against a tree and rolls two cigarettes. He lights them and hands one to Jan. “This is dangerous work,” he says. “I think maybe I was wrong to allow boys to join us.”
Jan says nothing. He draws on his cigarette and tries not to cough as the smoke reaches his lungs.
“He was only twelve when he joined us, some said it was too young, but I said he had nowhere else to go, and we should take him in.”
“But you were right. He did have nowhere else to go. I think you did the right thing.”
“Do you?” says Marek. “Do you think I should have made you stay? After all, it stopped you looking for your sister.”
“I still want to find her,” says Jan. His voice is shaky.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t know. I was lost, and you took me in. It was only right that I should work for you. I had to earn my keep.”
“But the things I asked you to do. Dangerous things, and now Zygmund is dead…”
With a jolt, Jan realizes that far from blaming him for Zygmund’s death, Marek blames himself. He doesn’t know what to say. Marek has always seemed to be so much in control. It’s worrying to see this other side of him.
Darkness falls. They wait for an hour for the moon to rise, but it’s waning and gives little light. Marek throws a stone onto the road to see whether there’s any reaction. He tries again, to make sure, and when it remains quiet he whispers to Jan to follow him, and they creep along the road to where Zygmund’s body lies.
“You take the legs, and I’ll take the upper half of his body,” says Marek. Together they lift him; Jan is surprised how light he is, but then everyone is thin these days. Perhaps he could have managed to carry him on his own after all. By the time they reach the place where they are going to bury him, though, he is panting, exhausted.
“We’ll rest for a moment and then bury him,” says Marek. He lights a cigarette, but doesn’t offer one to Jan. Jan wishes he would, for although they make him light-headed, the cigarettes take the edge off his hunger. Marek smokes in silence. The red tip of the cigarette glows red in the darkness. Jan watches, waiting for it to die.
“Right, let’s get on with it,” Marek stubs it out on the ground beside him and jumps up. “We need to be careful. If we put the body at the edge, we can roll it over, and it will fall down.”
Jan’s arms shake with tiredness as he lifts Zygmund for the last time. When Marek says the word, he lays him down and steps back to allow Marek to roll the body over. It lands with a thump at the bottom of the pit they’ve dug. Without a word, Marek hands him a spade, and Jan starts shovelling earth on top of Zygmund. He swallows to keep back the nausea that’s threatened him all day. Jan tries to think of pleasant things as he carries on with his task, but he can’t do it, and tears fill his eyes. At last they are finished.
“Let’s go,” says Marek.
“Aren’t you going to say a prayer or put a cross on the grave?” asks Jan.
“He was Jewish. I don’t think a cross is appropriate, do you?”
Jan feels the blush stealing up on him and is thankful for the dark. “But, a prayer…”
“I don’t know any Jewish prayers.” Marek is curt. He strides off into the night, back the way they have come.
Jan doesn’t know what to do. It seems so barren to leave Zygmund in this way, his death unremarked, with nothing to mark his grave. He looks round, but sees only stones. Quickly he gathers up a dozen or so and lays them on the soil in the shape of a Z. “Goodbye, Zygmund,” he murmurs, before running
to catch up with Marek.
23
A brown envelope, their name and address typed; it has to be an official letter. Gisela looks at it, places it on the kitchen table in front of Friedrich and waits. He continues to eat his breakfast. She wipes her hands on her apron. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“It’s addressed to you too,” he says, before picking up his cup and gulping down the rest of his coffee.
Gisela’s mouth is dry. “Who do you think it’s from?”
He gets up and starts clearing the table. “How should I know?”
They’re terrified, both of them. Official letters are rarely good news. Neither wants to open it, but they both know they have to. Gisela breaks first. She grabs it from the table and tears open the envelope, bringing out a one-page letter. Her eyes flicker over it, scanning the contents. Without a word, she gives it to Friedrich, then sits down at the table and puts her head in her hands.
“We’ll write back and say no,” says Friedrich.
“How can we? Have you read what it says? It’s all about the war effort, pulling together. If we say no, they’ll have us down as traitors. And it could raise suspicions again.”
“How can we have members of the Hitler Youth to stay? How? Will you answer me?” Friedrich thumps his fist on the table. The noise startles Helena, and she starts to cry.
Gisela picks her up. She’s such a nervous child; it’ll be a wonder if she ever recovers from all she’s been through. She strokes her hair; that usually calms her.
“What are we going to do?”
Gisela cuddles Helena. “Why don’t we write back, say we don’t need anyone, that there’s little harvest to bring in this year?” That much is true. They were able to plant little last year, and what there is they could easily harvest by themselves.
“We could try, I suppose. But it says here that the young people are from the cities, and that they’re being bombed. It’s to keep them safe as much as anything.” Friedrich is looking old, thinks Gisela in surprise. He’s only forty-two, but looks many years older. She wonders if she too has aged in this way. For years she has avoided mirrors. Helga’s death put ten years on her. She hands Helena over to Friedrich and gets up from the table.
“Where are you going?”
“There are some things I have to do in town.”
“What things? Can’t they wait? We need to sort out this problem.”
Gisela leans across the table and takes one of his hands. “I hope that’s what I’m going to do.”
Standing in front of Herr Knoller’s house, Gisela wonders if she’s doing the right thing. What if she’s wrong in thinking he knows about Wilhelm? What if she’s misjudged his kind words? What if he’s really a Nazi? Her hand, which is hovering near the knocker, drops to her side. Perhaps she should leave it; they can try writing to the authorities as she suggested, tell them they don’t need any Hitler Youth to help with the harvest. No, it won’t do. This is their only real hope. Before she can change her mind she takes the knocker in her hand and raps sharply on the door. It resounds along the street. She looks round to see if anyone is watching. No one. She listens to hear if he’s coming to the door. Herr Knoller lives alone. His wife died many years ago, in childbirth if Gisela remembers rightly. The child, who was a boy if her memory is correct, also died. She holds her breath as she waits for him to answer the door. A minute passes, more than enough time for him to answer. He must be out. Gisela stands in front of the door wanting to kick it down in frustration. She’ll leave a note, just a few words to say she called. Nothing else, nothing incriminating. She rummages in her handbag for some paper and a pencil, jumps back in shock from the door when Herr Knoller shouts from behind it, “Who is it? What do you want?” His voice sounds shaky, perhaps he’s ill.
“It’s me… Gisela. Wilhelm’s mother,” she adds.
The door opens a crack, and Herr Knoller peers round. He’s pale and thin. Much thinner than when she last saw him, a couple of months ago. His eyes look huge in his face. “What do you want?” he says.
This is not the response she’d hoped for. In her mind she’d envisioned him welcoming her in, offering her coffee, perhaps some cake. She can’t reply she’s so disappointed, but then manages to stutter out, “I… I’m sorry to disturb you. This is a bad time, please forgive me,” and turns to go.
“Gisela, wait.” He opens the door and beckons her in. when she doesn’t move, he reaches out and grabs her arm. “Come in, quickly.”
She’s inside. It’s a large house, perhaps six or seven rooms, and the hall is dark and dingy. It lacks a woman’s touch, she thinks. The walls are painted a dark, mustard yellow that reflects on his face, making him look bilious. The wooden floor is partially covered with a long rug, elaborately patterned. It looks eastern, Turkish perhaps, but it’s hard to tell for sure because there’s so much dust around. She sneezes.
“Bless you,” he says.
“Gott sei dank,” she says, giving the traditional response.
He moves through to the sitting room. The blinds are down, making the room dreary. It could be a beautiful room, the ceiling is high, and there’s a wonderful stove with blue ceramic tiles in the corner. It’s not lit today, though. “Sit down,” he gestures to a chair. Gisela sits down and waits.
“It’s good to see you, Gisela. Are you well?”
This has been a mistake. She’s come to him thinking he’s an ally when all he did was say some kind words to her. She’s imagined the whole thing. He knows nothing about Wilhelm’s desertion. She’ll make her excuses and go.
“I’m well, thank you.”
“And your husband?”
“Yes.” Her hands are sweating. She has to get out of here. She rises to go.
His voice is soft, almost a whisper. “I know about Wilhelm.”
She sinks back into her seat, heart pounding. Her mouth is dry; she can’t speak. She waits for him to say something else.
“I saw him, when he was on his way home. I was out walking near your farm. I thought nothing of it. Just that he was on leave. Then I heard he was missing, presumed dead, and I realized.”
“Did anyone else see him?”
“I didn’t see anyone, so I doubt it. Anyway, if they had, if they had anything to go on other than what Marguerite said, your place would have been searched over and over until they found him.
Appalled, Gisela stares at him. Although she guessed that he knew something, she’s horrified to have it confirmed. “What will you do?” Her voice is tense with fear.
He picks up on the fear, sits down with a sigh. “What do you take me for? I want to help you, Gisela. I’ll only do what you want me to do. This regime is… How can I put it? It’s abhorrent to me. I’m not going to harm you, or Wilhelm, if that’s what you think.”
“Thank you,” she whispers. Her hands won’t stay still; she pleats the material of her skirt between her fingers. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, Herr Knoller, but you don’t look well.”
He grimaces. “Hunger is a terrible thing.”
There is rationing, but most people manage. “Hunger? But don’t you have enough to eat?”
A pause. “I share my rations.”
“But why? For you, there is no need—” She breaks off as she realizes. “Oh.”
He nods. “Yes, I too am hiding someone.”
Her eyes widen. “Who?”
“My wife was half Jewish. Her father was Jewish, no one around here knew about it because they were not a religious family and they came from Berlin. Anyway she died long before all this nonsense started. The daughter of one of her cousins contacted me in desperation four years ago. She left her daughters with me, saying she’d be back for them. She has not returned, and I fear she never will.”
“My God. But the danger.”
“You can talk of danger, you’re hiding your son at great cost to yourself.”
“He’s my son. I have no choice.”
“And I too have no choice. You know
what is happening to Jews. How could I not shelter these children?”
Gisela is silent. She had no idea such things went on. He was taking a huge risk in telling her.
“Why did Wilhelm desert?”
The question takes her by surprise. “He was being asked to kill women and children. He couldn’t do it.”
Herr Knoller nods. “I thought so; I hoped so. I mean,” he rushed to explain, “Wilhelm was always a gentle, kind boy at school. I couldn’t imagine him doing the sorts of things I’d heard about.”
“And yet he did.” The words are out before she can stop them.
“He must be feeling terrible.” His voice is sympathetic. “And you too.” He rises from his chair. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Gisela blinks back her tears. “No, thank you. You must be wondering why I’ve come.”
“I assume you need help.”
“Yes,” Gisela takes a breath. “This morning we received a letter. From the government. They want us to take two young people from Berlin, members of the Hitler Youth. It’s supposed to help us with the harvest, but also to get them out of the city, away from the bombing.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” asks Gisela, for she is still not sure that the old school teacher has fully grasped what is going on. He seems to have aged a great deal, and there is no sign of these children he is supposed to be hiding.
“You’re frightened they will find your son and betray him. You want me to hide Wilhelm here.”
Relief sweeps through her. “Yes. Could you?”
He nods. “Of course, but I can’t feed him. My rations are barely enough for three, I could not share them out any further.”
“Of course not. We will bring him food.”
Herr Knoller gets up from his chair. “We must think about this carefully for people will talk if they see you coming here regularly.”
Gisela blushes; she has not thought about this, but of course people will gossip. “I’ll send Friedrich,” she says, thinking even as the words form in her mouth how impossible it will be. He’ll need to work on the farm, even if they do have help from the Hitler Youth he’ll need to supervise them.
The Search Page 18