by William Ryan
As it turned out, the only person he met was Pavel with a wagonload of hay from one of the higher meadows. They hadn’t spoken since he’d returned, which wasn’t surprising, given, Brandt remembered, he was still enlisted in the army of the oppressors who had taken his farm and forced his son from the valley. Pavel looked though him as though he wasn’t there and Brandt shrugged. What was there to be said? That he was sorry? Saying sorry meant little without action to back it up.
In the evening, Brandt went out again, although this time he decided to take the road that led towards the dam, directly past the hut. It was busy at this time of day – with farmers returning from their fields and workers returning from their work. He was passed by a line of British prisoners, making their way to the POW camp near the town from the farms where they worked during the day. He caught their sideways glances as they noticed his tunic and his missing arm. He wondered if they thought themselves lucky to be here and not fighting in France, where such things could happen to a man.
Brandt had forty-one cigarettes remaining from those he’d brought home and he’d decided to give the last forty to his father for his pipe – he’d left them on his desk with a note. Now he took the remaining one – the last one – from his pocket. He wouldn’t light it just yet – he’d let it hang from his mouth and inhale the tobacco’s aroma for a minute or two. Then he’d light it. And when it was finished, well, perhaps the village shop would have some next week.
He didn’t see the two men until he was right beside them. They were standing in the shadow of a tree – and he was, as usual, looking into the hut’s garden for a sign of the woman. The first he knew of their presence was when the mayor called out to him.
‘Paul Brandt? How are you?’
Weber the baker had done well for himself – despite the heat he wore a wide-lapelled grey suit with a Party badge in its buttonhole. The suit looked as if it had been made for him. He also looked plumper than before, his round cheeks rounded still further by his smile. Beside him stood an SS officer, shirtsleeves rolled up above the elbow and a forage cap tilted forward so that it touched his left eyebrow. He was tall, slim, late forties – a pale face despite the summer weather. The men were physical opposites – long and thin, short and round.
‘I’m well, thank you, Mayor Weber. I hope the same is true for you.’ Brandt was conscious of the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He removed it. ‘Excuse me. My last one. I was contemplating it.’
The mayor’s smile widened and Brandt couldn’t help but feel that the fact he was down to his last cigarette pleased the man.
‘I was looking for you, as it happens, Paul. But let me introduce you to Obersturmführer Neumann. He commands the SS rest hut here.’
Weber pointed over his shoulder towards the hut. Brandt found himself stiffening to attention. It was natural. He had been a civilian for only a matter of days, after all, and Neumann was an officer.
‘Herr Obersturmführer.’
‘Paul here is the local hero, Obersturmführer Neumann. He fought on the Eastern Front, you know. Before . . .’
‘Well, let’s just say that some of me is still there,’ Brandt said, and felt the stretching of scar tissue that came with his smile these days. He decided it would be as well if this Neumann fellow had a good impression of him.
‘I can see you served the Fatherland well,’ Neumann said. At first Brandt thought he was talking about his arm, but then he saw he was looking at the combat badges and the medal ribbons.
‘The Tank Destruction Badge in Silver,’ Weber said, as proudly as if he’d been awarded it himself, ‘A real tank-killer, our Paul. The Iron Cross first class, the Infantry Assault Badge in Silver. And what else?’
‘The Wound Badge in Gold. Probably not necessary – the empty sleeve tells its own story.’
Neumann got the joke, even if it passed Weber by. Brandt decided to light the cigarette – he might as well.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked Neumann, who nodded – reaching inside his pocket for his own cigarettes.
Weber’s forehead was lined with a sincere frown.
‘It’s inspiring for the people, to have a real hero amongst them.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Herr Mayor.’
‘Everyone knows all about you, Paul – we kept them informed. The Party, that is. Which is why I was looking for you, as it happens. I have responsibility for the Hitler Youth in the village. Their heart is in the right place, of course, but they need to be prepared. For when their time comes. The right man could teach them a lot.’
Brandt nodded, as if Weber’s suggestion was an attractive proposition. He tried not to think of the smooth-chinned boys he’d seen on the train heading east. He didn’t want to have any part in sending more young men to die in a lost war.
‘I’m still recuperating, Herr Weber. And even if I weren’t, I might not be the best advertisement for a soldier’s life.’
Weber smiled warmly, reaching forward to put his hand on Brandt’s shoulder. The man’s touch irritated Brandt.
‘If it were up to me, Paul, I’d say: Absolutely. If anyone has done enough – it’s Paul Brandt. But I must ask you to give still more in the struggle towards our final victory. If you can walk up and down this road several times a day – and I’ve seen you do it – then you can talk to a group of youngsters once or twice a week, I’m sure. Of course, I should be clear that your loyalty isn’t in question, and nor is your father’s – it’s just that at this stage of the struggle, the Party has to ask for a little more from everyone.’
Brandt raised an eyebrow at the mention of his father. If it wasn’t a threat, then it was a strange thing to say.
‘So what do you think, Paul?’
Brandt considered the proposal, but not for long. There was no choice – that had been made clear.
‘When you put it like that – I am, of course, happy to give still more towards the final victory, Herr Weber,’ he said, then gave what he hoped was a good impression of a smile. ‘Which piece of me do you think you’ll want this time?’
There was a moment’s silence, during which Weber turned to Neumann, his face distorted by indecision, somewhere between a smile and a scowl, turning to relief when the SS man began to laugh. It wasn’t a joyous laugh but then it wasn’t a joyous joke. Weber joined in, his eyes gleaming with moisture. He laughed a little too hard, in Brandt’s opinion – as if he might not have understood the humour. Neumann had, of course. Brandt had hoped he would.
‘That’s good,’ Weber said at last, drying his eyes with a knuckle.
‘I was looking for something to do, as it happens. To pass the time,’ Brandt said. ‘Does the position come with a cigarette ration?’
‘A cigarette ration?’ The mayor’s features rearranged themselves to assume an expression of disappointment – even if Brandt suspected the disappointment was going to be felt by Brandt rather than the mayor. ‘It’s only a couple of evenings a week – but I can see what might be done.’
‘My last one,’ Brandt reminded him, holding up the stub that was left of it. The tip was close to his fingers, hot enough to hurt. He inhaled one final time, the burn scouring the back of his throat, and threw it away. All good things must come to an end, even things that weren’t so good.
Brandt saw the SS man glance across at the mayor and had the impression that a silent question was being asked. Weber shrugged in response. For a moment Brandt considered stooping to pick up the butt in case he’d broken some rule or other.
‘You said you were looking for something to do – a job perhaps?’ Neumann asked.
‘I might be.’
‘It’s only that Neumann needs someone up at the rest hut,’ the mayor said, pushing his jacket back behind his hips, slipping his thumbs into his belt.
‘A steward, of sorts. We were just discussing it. Not with you in mind, of course.’
‘A steward?’ Brandt asked, looking up at the hut and not quite believing his ears.
Ne
umann reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew a silver cigarette case. It gleamed.
‘It’s a simple enough role, Brandt. Your job would be to make things run smoothly. The physical work is already taken care of. We’ve had SS men as orderlies up until now – but they have been transferred to more active roles.’
By which, Brandt decided, he meant that the orderlies were up to their ankles in their own shit in some foxhole at the Front.
‘By whom?’ Brandt asked. ‘Is the physical work done, that is.’
‘By prisoners. Female prisoners.’
Neumann offered the cigarette case to him. Brandt took one and the mayor’s hand appeared between them, its fingers curled around a lighter.
‘I am still building up my strength. I wasn’t being misleading on that.’
‘I understand. You could start off a few afternoons a week – an evening here and there. There’s a shortage of available men around here, of course, and a woman wouldn’t be suitable. If you were interested, we would be patient. You could take on as much work as you were able, until you recover your health.’
Brandt looked through the trees at the nearest guard tower.
‘You say it’s a rest hut and you say a woman wouldn’t be suitable. If you don’t mind my asking – what kind of rest activities are on offer?’
Neumann’s easy smile tightened momentarily before it relaxed again.
‘It’s not a brothel, if that’s what you mean. It’s just a place where officers come for a day or two, sometimes longer if they’re recovering from injuries. They talk, they sing, they do nothing. Whatever suits them, they do. They can swim in the reservoir, go walking – it’s a rest from the stresses of the war. Much needed, for some of them. They drink. Sometimes a lot. A woman might make them feel restrained.’
Unless she was a female prisoner, of course.
‘Walking?’ Brandt said, aloud. ‘In the forest?’
Neumann smiled.
‘Not so much these days. The partisans are more active than they were.’
‘It would be good for you, Paul.’ The mayor nodded in the direction of the hut. ‘It’s a very pleasant atmosphere. And it could be combined with your Hitler Youth duties, I should think.’
‘Of course,’ Neumann said, nodding. ‘I would see to it that you were available when you were needed. It’s light work – I’m sure you could manage it. But, if not, then we wouldn’t hold you to the commitment. Well, are you interested?’
‘And the pay?’
‘We’ll talk about it. More than you received from the army, anyway. Oh – and cigarettes, of course. The hut is well provided for. I’ll make sure you receive a sensible ration. Generous, even. There will be other benefits, along the same lines. We aren’t skinflints.’
Brandt contemplated the cigarette Neumann had already given him. It wasn’t bad. A nice smoke.
‘Is there a pension?’
The mayor looked as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant and Brandt thought, for a moment, that he might have gone too far. But Neumann was made of sterner stuff.
‘If you see out the first twelve months, we’ll talk.’
His tone was dry as dust – but Brandt couldn’t help but laugh. In twelve months’ time they would all most probably be dead, or in a Russian gulag. Neumann smiled – they understood each other.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain taking the job to his father, but he wasn’t going to sell his soul for a packet of cigarettes just yet. He’d wanted to get close to the woman and this was the opportunity he’d been looking for.
‘When do I start?’
8
NEUMANN watched Brandt leave, his tunic loose around his shoulders, one sleeve folded up to the elbow. There was no reason to feel proud, but he did feel a little pleased with himself. Of course, giving the man the job had been no more than his duty as a decent German. He was sure that behind Brandt’s scarred face he was the same decent sort he’d always been. Perhaps not exactly the same – these things changed a man – but similar in many ways, at least.
The mayor interrupted Neumann’s thoughts with a cough. Neumann waited. He knew this cough. The mayor was preparing to ask something of him. He wondered what it would be this time.
‘He’s not a bad fellow, Brandt,’ the mayor said. ‘His humour may be a little different than we’re used to here – but he is only just back from the Front. It was the same in the first war. We always had that black humour. It’s understandable, I suppose.’
Neumann examined the mayor. It was clear he was regretting his endorsement of the cripple. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow and his mouth looked unsteady, uncertain whether to smile or scowl. The man was nervous. He needn’t be, for once.
‘He’s a soldier who has given his all for his country. I’m certain he’ll fill the role more than adequately. If not, he will be let go. It needn’t concern you. I won’t hold you responsible, if that’s what you’re concerned about.’
The mayor relaxed, and his mouth risked a crooked smile.
‘I’m pleased to hear you say it. That you’re sure about him.’
Neumann didn’t necessarily want to smile, but the man needed reassurance. It would be unkind not to.
‘Was there anything else we needed to discuss?’
Brandt had arrived in the middle of a conversation about the local farms’ need for labour to bring in their crops. Weber wanted additional workers from the camp – an extension to the arrangement they’d already reached. Neumann didn’t think it would be a problem but there would have to be something in exchange.
‘You’ll do what you can for us?’
‘I’ll talk to the Commandant. There is a possibility – I can’t say any more than that. There will be some logistical problems.’
‘If it’s a question of payment.’
‘I understand – you are happy to pay the organization.’
‘We’ll pay whoever we have to – just to make it clear. I could mention a figure.’
As bribes went, it wasn’t too bad an effort and the Commandant wasn’t averse to such things. Not averse at all. But Neumann didn’t deal with bribes – Schlosser did.
‘I’ll let the Commandant know. I’m sure Obersturmführer Schlosser will be in touch.’
‘We are in real need – if you could suggest anything that might sway the Commandant’s mind in our favour.’
What was he going to offer now? The farmers’ womenfolk, perhaps? Their firstborn children?
‘It’s not always easy to obtain dairy products, for example – we could help with those. There will be other things our people can provide to the hut and to the camp as well. Over and above what we contribute already. All the Commandant has to do is ask. We have to get the harvest in, you see. Soon. We need the manpower. Urgently.’
‘Schlosser will call you this evening, Herr Weber. I feel certain the response from the Commandant will be positive. Particularly in light of your previous generosity.’
Weber’s smile was like a small boy’s – joyful almost. He said his farewells, made the customary salutes and protestations of loyalty to the leader to whom they must all be loyal and then marched off down the lane, shoulders widening as his confidence returned. Neumann knew how the scheme worked – the farmers paid the mayor, the mayor paid Schlosser and Schlosser made sure the Commandant was taken care of. If there was enough money involved some of it might even be sent to Berlin. Everyone would be happy – except the prisoners, of course.
Neumann’s fingers went to the twin silver shapes on his collar. They were smooth to the touch. The source of his authority. If it weren’t for the runes, of course, Weber wouldn’t fear him. But they worked as a disguise as much as anything. A way for the world to perceive the wearer and one that was often quite different from the truth. The fact was Neumann felt more and more, with each day that passed, like an impostor. There was more similarity between him and Brandt than the mayor knew.
There was a rustle in the bushes behind
him. The sound of a body thrusting itself through the low-lying vegetation, brittle leaves crunching under a paw. He held out his hand and Wolf came to him, his wet nose pushing at his fingertips.
‘Good boy.’
The dog sensed his mood and pushed once again – he looked down at the hooded almond eyes, intense with devotion, the tongue pink against the white teeth.
‘Come on, then. We’ll go to the reservoir.’
The dog understood him, he thought. Understood when each step, however brisk and efficient Neumann might force it to be, felt like it forced its way through sand.
§
Brandt found that he was whistling. It wasn’t a cheery tune or even recognizable as a particular piece of music. His lips were no longer full enough or soft enough for that and he was out of practice. Whistling wasn’t something he’d done for a very long time. A passerby might think he was pleased with himself, but he wasn’t. After all, tomorrow morning he would be going to work for the SS and he would also find out for certain whether the woman was who he thought she was. Tomorrow was likely to be a difficult day. Yet, all the same, here he was, whistling.
He wondered why.
9
IT WAS QUIET in the bunker. The walls were a metre thick and made from reinforced concrete and, beyond the walls – beside them and above them – was half a hillside of earth. The solitary door was steel and so heavy it had wheels to bear its weight – which, no matter how much oil was used to smooth their turning, squealed when it was opened.
Some sounds did reach them, however – the firing slits hadn’t been fully sealed when the Germans had decided the bunker could be as easily used to keep people in as it could to keep them out. And there was a tiny barred window in the door. So they listened, even in their sleep, to the faint echoes of the world outside. And whatever they heard they did their best to decipher. After all, one word could mean the difference between life and death to existences as precariously balanced as theirs.