The Search

by Maureen Myant

  “No, I have a better idea. Later today I will put an advert in the local newspaper for a part-time housekeeper. You will apply for it, and no one will think anything other than that you need some extra money.”

  It is agreed. Gisela leaves the house lighter of heart.

  “You did what?” explodes Friedrich. His face is purple with rage.

  “I asked Wilhelm’s old teacher for help.”

  “Why him? Can he be trusted?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Gisela tells him about the Jewish girls and about the plan of her becoming a housekeeper.

  Friedrich mops his brow. “I don’t know, it seems very risky.”

  “No riskier than keeping him here for the Hitler Youth to sniff out.” Gisela is abrupt; she thought he’d be more enthusiastic than this.

  Friedrich goes to the door. “I’ll need to think about this,” he says. “I’m just not sure if the old man can be trusted.”

  The next day Friedrich agrees to the plan. Together they tell Wilhelm. He says nothing.

  “Tell us what you think,” begs Gisela.

  “I think I would be better to give myself up,” says Wilhelm.

  Cold fear clutches at Gisela’s heart. He is so depressed that she fears he will walk out of the house at any moment. “Don’t say that,” she says, “the war could be over any day now.”

  Wilhelm gives a snort which might be a laugh. “You’ve been saying that for months. The war’s been going on for almost five years now. I don’t see it ending soon.”

  Friedrich interrupts him. “The Eastern Front’s falling apart. Russians could be here within a few weeks. Everyone says so.”

  “And you think they’ll forgive me? You think they’ll just pass over what I’ve been doing?”

  “They’ll only want the bigwigs. They won’t care about ordinary soldiers like you.”

  “I don’t know,” says Wilhelm.

  He’s extraordinarily thin, thinks Gisela. Not for the first time does she wonder whether he eats everything he’s given. The knuckles on his hands stand out, and his face is gaunt. “Wilhelm,” she says as gently as she can, “we’re in a pickle. If you stay here, the Hitler Youth may find you. We can’t refuse to have them, and Herr Knoller, well, he’s a good man. He’ll look after you.”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “No,” says Friedrich.

  The letter confirming the arrival of the two Hitler Youth comes two weeks later. It is late August. They have missed most of the harvest, so will be of little help. The day before they are due to arrive, Wilhelm and Friedrich leave the house late at night to go to Herr Knoller’s house. Gisela hugs him fiercely. “I’ll see you soon, for now that I’m the housekeeper, I’ll be there at least twice a week. Don’t be any bother to him.”

  Wilhelm nods. He pick up the bag that’s been packed for him, with food and clothes, and turns to his father. “Let’s go.”

  They have chosen to walk over the fields to the town. Petrol is scarce, and in any case you never know when cars will be searched. It’s almost fifteen kilometres, but it has to be done. Gisela fears for Wilhelm’s strength for he has had little exercise for months. Friedrich will have no problem other than thinking up an excuse if he’s seen on the way back. It will be light when he’s returning, and it is likely he will be spotted. They fret about this, but there’s nothing that can be done about it other than pray he’s not seen.

  It’s fully dark by ten o’clock, and they set off. Gisela watches them as they stride across the upper field, Wilhelm a head taller than his father. “I should be worrying about him settling down,” she says to herself, “rather than this constant anxiety about whether he’ll be caught. Whether we’ll all be caught.” She watches until they’re out of sight, and then closes the door and goes upstairs to bed.

  The field is boggy after the recent rain. Friedrich wishes he’d had his boots mended, he’s been putting it off for weeks; water seeps through the worn sole, chilling his feet even though the night is warm.

  “You’d be better off without me,” says Wilhelm out of nowhere.

  “Don’t say that,” says Friedrich. He’s never been a demonstrative man. When the children were little, he rarely hugged them, often watching in envy as Gisela swung them round and played easily with them. Strangely he’s more at ease with Helena than he ever was with either of his own children. Feeling brave, he reaches across and hugs Wilhelm awkwardly. “It would kill your mother to lose you.”

  “She would get over it.” He pauses. “And now you have Helena…”

  “You’re not jealous are you?”

  Wilhelm’s face is not visible in the dark. “No,” he says, “not jealous. Not in that way.” He shifts his bundle to his other shoulder. “I suppose I envy her innocence. I can’t believe I was once like that.”

  It’s hard to know what to say. Friedrich knows only too well that Wilhelm’s guilt is immeasurable. He’s seen the tears on his son’s face after another sleepless night. Heard the cries of anguish when he does sleep, watched the weight drop off him like melting snow in spring. He’s tried many times to comfort him, to tell him he was only carrying out orders, but Wilhelm cannot be consoled. He wishes his son still had his faith, could believe in absolution, for if ever anyone was truly sorry for his sins, it is Wilhelm. But his faith had died when he killed innocent civilians, when he stood with a rifle in front of people who had done nothing other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time or who had the misfortune to be Jewish in an inhospitable land. Yet Friedrich feels he has to try.

  “You mustn’t blame—”

  “Who?” Wilhelm sounds angry. “Who mustn’t I blame? Surely you’re not going to trot out that shit about me not being to blame. I pulled the trigger, I stood in front of men, women and children who didn’t deserve to die, and I killed them.”

  “I know, I know,” Friedrich’s voice breaks. “But you were carrying out orders.”

  Wilhelm’s voice is softer. “Don’t you think I tell myself that every minute of every day? You’d think it might make things easier, but it doesn’t. All I can think is why didn’t I disobey, why didn’t I kill myself rather than shoot innocent people.”

  “Because we all want to survive in the end,” says Friedrich. “We all want to live, and we’ll do what it takes to keep on going.”

  Wilhelm doesn’t say anything for a moment then, so softly that Friedrich isn’t sure he’s heard properly, he says, “Do we? Do we want to live?”

  It takes longer than they planned to reach Herr Knoller’s house. The ground is uneven and wet, and makes their journey hard. It is cloudy too, and difficult to see in the dark. After almost three hours they find themselves on the outskirts of the town. This is the most dangerous part of the journey for if they are spotted they will be asked for identity cards. Fortunately Herr Knoller lives near the edge, and they get to his house easily. He answers the door and drags them inside before they have time to knock. He has been looking out for them.

  “Herr Knoller,” Friedrich’s manner is stiff and formal.

  “Please, call me Hans. You too, Wilhelm.”

  They sit down in the kitchen while Hans makes them coffee. Its aroma reminds Friedrich of happier times.

  As they drink the coffee along with some homemade schnapps, which Friedrich has brought as a gift, Hans tells them of where Wilhelm will hide.

  “I have a cellar. It’s not deep, you’ll have to stoop.” He nods at Wilhelm. “And I doubt anyone knows it’s there. The entrance is in a cupboard through a trapdoor, and I keep the trapdoor hidden by piling up rubbish on top of it. From outside the house no one would know it was there. You know you’ll be sharing it?”

  “Yes,” says Wilhelm.

  He’s abrupt, rude-sounding, thinks Friedrich, and rushes in to fill the silence. “We’re so grateful to you, aren’t we Wilhelm?”

  A grunt. Friedrich could shake him, but Hans only laughs.

  “Leave him be,” he says, “he’s tired and cros
s. I’ve put another mattress down there, and hung up a curtain to give the girls some privacy. When you’ve finished your drink, I’ll show you.”

  Hans takes them out into the hall. There’s a wide staircase sweeping up to the floor above and under the stairs, a cupboard. Hans pulls the door open. As he said, it’s full of rubbish, cardboard boxes, old newspapers, bundles of clothes and shoes. He pulls them out and reveals the trapdoor. When he lifts it up, he presses a switch just inside, and a dim light rises from the cellar. There’s a fixed ladder which Hans starts to climb down, followed by Friedrich and Wilhelm. There’s only half a dozen steps to the bottom, and none of them can stand upright. Hans beckons them on. “It’s better through here,” and they move into the main part of the cellar. It’s a room about four metres square with a concrete floor and, just as Hans had said, a curtain hanging down to separate part of the room. In the part of the room that was to be Wilhelm’s was a mattress with some blankets and a pillow. Nothing else.

  From the other side of the curtain, a young girl’s face appears, pale and sleepy.

  “Go back to sleep, Hannah,” says Hans. “It’s your new friend, like I told you.”

  The girl smiles at them and vanishes behind the curtain. She’s very young, thinks Friedrich with a pang, about the age Helga was when she died. “What age is she?” he asks.

  “Ten, and her sister’s eleven. They’re very quiet. Too quiet, I fear.”

  “What do they do all day?”

  “I teach them,” says Hans. “Maybe you can teach them too.”

  Wilhelm says nothing, dumps his bundle on the floor and lies down on the mattress. It’s a signal to his father to go. Friedrich touches him on the shoulder, but he shrugs him off. “I’ll be seeing you,” he says.

  The road home is long and weary. Friedrich wonders if he’ll ever see his son smile again. When he reaches his home, he opens the door gently so as not to disturb his wife and creeps upstairs. He undresses quickly and gets into bed beside her, relishing the warmth coming from her body. She shifts slightly to make room for him, and he spoons into her. It’s so comfortable he thinks he could lie like this for ever.

  ‌24

  Jan struggles to keep up with Marek whose long legs set a brisk pace. They’ve been walking for two days, mostly in silence. Marek doesn’t want to speak, and Jan is scared to. Since they buried Zygmund, their mood has been low; Marek blames himself for Zygmund’s death, but Jan thinks it’s his fault. If only they’d never stopped by that train. They are also hungry. For the most part, food has been scarce, though they managed to get a good meal last night in the house of a comrade. The food was given willingly enough, and a bed for the night too, but Jan felt that the woman was pleased to see them go. Her smile when they said they were leaving was much broader than that when she had to welcome them into her small cottage. Who could blame her, though; she had three small children to protect. Jan didn’t think arguments about the greater good would have much impact on her. She drew her children close to her while she watched her husband talk to Marek. From the look on her face it was clear she feared him joining the partisans; it was one thing to help them, but to leave your family is something else. Jan knows that Marek, like many of the partisans, has no close family. Zygmund had told him he had a fancy for a Jewish girl, but she had disappeared into a ghetto in Lodz. Soon after that he had joined the partisans, and all his energy went into becoming a leader.

  The countryside is different here. More open, fewer trees. This worries Jan, there’s nowhere to hide. But they have seen little activity on the two days they’ve been walking. An old man with a cart and horse earlier today, that was all. They’d hitched a lift with him for a few kilometres, relishing the chance to rest their legs. Just before he let them off Marek had spoken to him softly for several minutes. They seemed to be bargaining. Jan heard a sum of money being mentioned, but he was too tired to try to hear what was said. If it were important, Marek would tell him.

  It is several hours since they left the cart, several hours since they last ate. Jan’s stomach is gurgling like water swirling down a plughole. Sometimes it’s worse getting a good meal, for it reminds you of what you’re missing. He hurries behind Marek whose stride has lengthened; he seems to have endless energy.

  “Where are we? Do you know?” Jan is worried that they’ve lost the way. They must be many kilometres away from the rest of the group.

  “I know where we are, don’t you worry,” Marek smiles at him. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out some bread, breaking off a piece to give to Jan. Jan tries to eat it slowly, but he’s so hungry it disappears in a few seconds.

  “That was foolish, Jan,” says Marek. “You don’t know when you’ll next have something to eat.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.” Jan digs his nails into the palm of his hand.

  “Never mind. Here, have some more,” Marek hands him the rest of the loaf. This time Jan takes a small piece and chews it slowly before putting away the rest.

  “Good boy, you’re learning.”

  The sun set half an hour ago yet there’s no sign of them stopping anywhere. Jan’s so tired he could cry, but he forces himself to keep moving; he doesn’t want to be a burden to Marek. There are few houses around; it is a desolate part of the country. Field after field, some of them with tired-looking crops. The farmhouses are shabby. Every time they get near one they have to be very quiet in case a dog hears them and starts barking. Finally, as the moon rises, Marek stops and looks around. A hundred metres to the east, there is a farm building. He points it out to Jan. “We’ll sleep there. I had hoped we’d manage more tonight for we’re not far from where I want to go, but I can see you’re exhausted.”

  “No, I’m not,” says Jan, feeling his eyelids droop as he says this.

  “Yes, you are,” Marek gives him a friendly push towards the barn. It stinks inside, but Jan doesn’t care. He finds some hay and lies down on it. Not even his empty stomach can stop him falling asleep.

  Jan wakes to bright sunshine. Marek is nowhere to be seen. In that instant he goes to pieces: Marek has disappeared, leaving him God knows where. The soldiers must have captured him; they’ve killed him, and any minute now they’ll storm the barn and bludgeon Jan to death. He hears footsteps and sits petrified, waiting to be found. A cheery whistle, he recognizes it as Marek’s. Thank God, he’s safe. Jan jumps up to welcome him.

  “Were you worried?”

  “No,” says Jan.

  Marek opens his hands to show Jan two eggs. “You can eat it raw,” he says, giving one to Jan, “or you can keep it until later when maybe, just maybe, we’ll find someone to cook it for you.”

  Jan looks at it, he’s so hungry he wants to eat it immediately, but the thought of a cooked egg is enticing. He hands it back. “I’ll keep it for later. What are we going to do now?”

  “We’re going to meet someone, an old friend of mine who I hope will be able to help us.”

  “Where, when?…” The questions bubble out of Jan, but Marek won’t tell him any more.

  “We have to go now, before people start moving around,” he says, pushing Jan towards the open air. “Hurry up.”

  “This is Anatole,” Marek introduces the tall young man in front of him. Jan shakes his outstretched hand. “I’m Jan,” he says.

  “Anatole once lived in the town near where your sister is.”

  It’s hard to take it all in, to understand what is happening. Marek’s words stream out, too fast for Jan to comprehend: the border, Germany only a few kilometres away, his sister within reach, only two more days’ walk. Anatole brings out a map, explains it to Jan. “You are here, see. And here,” he points to a spot a few centimetres away, “is the town where I used to live.” Jan looks at the piece of paper, wishing he’d paid more attention in geography lessons in school. He looks round at Marek. “I don’t understand.”

  Marek sits down and takes out a cigarette. “You have to go and find your sister. This is your chance.”

 
“But why now?”

  “You’re too young to do this work, and you want to find… what is her name?”

  “Lena,” says Jan. In a rush he says, “Will you come with me?”

  “I wish I could, but I’m needed here. Anatole will take you across the border. He’s used to going across, and he’ll get you there safely. Or as safe as you can be these days. But after that you’re on your own.”

  Jan has a thousand questions; they tumble out of his mouth. Marek laughs at his haste. “Slow down, little one. Save your breath. Come on, let’s cook those eggs.”

  They go through to Anatole’s kitchen where he produces a bowl, some more eggs and some ham. He takes Marek’s two eggs, cracks them into the bowl along with some others and adds salt and pepper before whisking them. Meanwhile, Marek is melting butter in a frying pan. He takes the bowl from Anatole and lets the eggs slide into the pan while Anatole tears up the ham and adds it to the omelette. A minute later it’s ready, and the three of them sit down at the table to eat. Anatole produces some bread, apologizing that it isn’t fresh, but Jan doesn’t care. He’s eating his omelette – it’s just as he likes it, soft and runny inside – thinking that not even his mother could produce something so perfect.

  Once they’ve eaten, Marek tells Jan to clear up the dishes. Jan does so slowly. He feels that something is coming to an end, that very soon, Marek will tell him to go, and he’ll be alone. Tears prick his eyes as he wipes the dishes and puts them away. He’s terrified of being on his own, thinks about asking to stay with the partisans, but in his heart he knows this is too good an opportunity to miss. When will he get a similar chance? It could be years before he’s so near her again, and by then he’ll have changed beyond recognition, and maybe she won’t recognize him. His hearts stands still at this thought; he has no choice. In two days’ time he could be with Lena once more. He goes back through to the other room to tell Marek of his decision.