by William Ryan
There were only six of them left now: the two German women, Joanna the Pole, and the two Jewish sisters – Lena and Rachel.
And her.
Six of them living in what had been the sleeping quarters for twenty Polish soldiers sometime before the war and three times as many again when the building crew had been quartered here during the hut’s construction. They should consider themselves lucky, to have so much space. But the winter was coming and they would feel the cold with only a few thin bodies to warm it.
Six women were all that were needed to serve the hut now and they would have to make do with five soon. Lena was close to the end. They all knew it. Lena didn’t, but then Lena was past the point of knowing anything very much.
The women occupied the corner of the room beside the door where they’d pushed the last two good bunks together. Most of the bunks on which the building crew had slept in had now been reduced to skeletal outlines, the wooden bases taken by the guards for firewood, leaving only the metal frames. They slept across the two intact bunks like a row of tinned fish. Even in the summer, the bunker was cool at night and, sleeping close, they shared their warmth. In the winter, they would have to huddle closer still. It had been so cold some nights the last winter, they’d been afraid they wouldn’t wake at all.
Now they stood, just inside the door, listening to the guards – two guards – approaching along the path from the hut, their heels sounding heavy on the stone path. Another sound – the soft patter of a guard dog walking beside them. And when they came to a halt outside, the swish of its tail against a leather boot. They listened. They made a picture in their minds. They studied the picture for any change to the routine.
Now the guards would wait outside, talking in Ukrainian about this and that, until Peichl came – the German Scharführer. If they were lucky, it wouldn’t be the NCO but the officer – Neumann.
Once either Peichl or Neumann arrived, and not before, the guards would open the door and line them up outside. If it was Peichl, he would insist on the line being absolutely straight before he would even consider counting them. It was, of course, impossible to ensure that none of them had tunnelled through the concrete walls overnight if the line was crooked. If it was Neumann, he would look them over for an instant, say, ‘Very good,’ and send them about their business. If it was Neumann, she would be happy.
Peichl was different. He must have been an insignificant person before the war – ordered hither and thither by his superiors, smiling and bowing as he went, while underneath he’d raged. And then the war had come and he had found himself in a place where rage and stupidity were cherished values and he was the one who gave the orders. She imagined he lulled himself to sleep each night thinking about the power he held over them and what he could do with it. There had been twelve of them in the spring.
She stopped herself. Anger had a way of showing. She must appear compliant and uncomplaining. She must be invisible. She found herself involuntarily smiling, as if to perfect the necessary ingratiation. She felt her chapped lips crack as she did so, surprised by the effort it involved, at how the muscles in her cheeks resisted the attempt. Anyway, to smile would be unusual – and she mustn’t do anything unusual. But what if one of them made a joke or passed a pleasant comment? It happened sometimes. As a political prisoner, as a German, at least in their eyes, she was different from Joanna and the Jewish women. Obersturmführer Neumann, for example, would sometimes speak politely to her, even attempt a conversation. She wasn’t trusted the way Katerina and Gertrud were, of course – the Bible students – but she was in a different category, an Aryan category. The wrong category, as it happened. She looked across at Lena, at the small yellow star beside her prisoner number. She shook herself. She must never think about that. She must hide it even from herself.
She looked at the others. The hazy light from the small window in the door softened their gaunt features. Gertrud and Katerina stood closest, their hands clasped and their mouths moving as they prayed. Gertrud’s white hair was pulled back tightly. Her eyes were downcast but she knew they were the clearest, palest blue. She looked like someone’s grandmother. As she was, or had been. Gertrud had been in the camps nearly as long as she had, and yet her face was unmarked by the experience. Gertrud would come through all of this – she was sure of it.
She caught Rachel’s gaze – her face drawn and pale. She knew she was asking for her help. But there was nothing anyone could do for Lena now. They’d done what they could. It was possible to help another person here in the hut – it was possible to help out with another prisoner’s work, and they were hungry but they weren’t starving. But Lena was too far gone now. Lena – her face grey, her eyes lifeless – only stood because Rachel held her. She found herself shaking her head. She looked away.
She understood love. She understood why Rachel held her. She understood why she would hold her until it was no longer possible to. But she also understood that soon Lena would fall and she would not get up again. She had been ill for months and the Germans hadn’t treated her and so she had steadily declined. There had been nothing that any of them could do about it – not even Rachel.
If Lena could just keep going for a little longer, all this would come to an end. She could be free. She could die in her own bed, of old age – happy to go, most likely. Perhaps there was still a chance for her. She glanced across at the young woman. Lena hadn’t the strength to hold her head up straight.
There was a pause in the conversation outside. The guards shuffled their feet to attention. Heavy boots stamped down the wooden steps of the hut. The owner walked with the bow-legged gait of a cavalryman – you could hear the shape of his legs in his ungainly march. She felt her breath shorten.
Peichl.
‘Open it up,’ Peichl called as he approached. He was annoyed. With who or what, it was impossible to say. She filled her lungs with air and let it slowly out. There was nothing to be done except to calm herself. She mustn’t show fear.
The key scraped into the lock and she recognized Evanko from the grunt of effort he made as he turned it. Evanko was one of the older guards – in his mid thirties – a worried frown, perpetually in place – not as dangerous as the others. She had to squint her eyes against the brightness of the morning. Then they were moving, quickly as they could, their clogs clipping over the concrete as they filed out to stand in the expected line. She listened to Lena coming along behind her. She was moving, she still had a chance.
Peichl looked them over while Adamik – barely out of his teens and pretty as a girl – went through the list. He called out their numbers, waited for their answer, checked the number on the front of their blouses – ticking them off in the log book. Lena’s voice was faint but she answered. Maybe, just maybe, she would last one more day.
The last name was called. All present. No tunnellers. Peichl took the register from the guard and read it through, as if memorizing each name.
‘Prisoner Müller,’ he said, eventually.
Katerina, the younger of the two Bible students, stepped forward. She had square shoulders, a frame that had once carried more weight. The camps had aged her but she was still strong. Peichl smiled.
‘Did you sleep well, Prisoner?’
‘No, Herr Scharführer.’
His smile broadened.
‘Why not? Do you think we should provide you with a feather bed? Would you like more blankets? Crisp white sheets, perhaps.’
Katerina didn’t answer. The Bible students had a leeway with the SS that no one else had. They could renounce their opposition to the war at any time and walk away from the camp – or so the SS said. The fact that they didn’t gave them a power of sorts. And they were needed. They could be trusted not to kill them when they cooked their food. They followed the Lord’s Commandments even if no one else did.
‘You’re here to be punished, aren’t you? It shouldn’t be comfortable, should it?’
‘It isn’t my place to decide such matters, Herr Scharführ
er.’
She found her hands had clenched into fists, anticipating Peichl’s reaction. But he said nothing, only smiled more broadly. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, however.
‘That’s correct, Prisoner – it is good that you know your place. Now that your God has forsaken you.’
‘I have been brought here to be punished for my faith, Herr Scharführer. The torments I face are torments inflicted by you, not by him. If our Lord Jesus faced death on a cross for me, then I will face your punishments for him.’
Peichl’s laugh was hollow, she thought. She wondered if he would stay faithful to his beliefs when they came to punish him. Of course not. He wasn’t brave, she was certain of it. She knew something about courage.
‘What was said last night? Amongst you prisoners.’
‘Nothing, Herr Scharführer.’
‘I asked what was said. Answer me precisely. Remember you must tell me the truth.’
She kept her gaze on the gravel at her feet and waited for the answer. She felt the same terror she felt every morning. What if she had said something in her sleep?
‘Nothing. The other prisoners know you ask us each morning what was said the night before and they know we cannot lie. So they say nothing. And so we hear nothing.’
‘But you know things. Secret things. What secrets have you for me this morning?’
‘I know the secret of Our Lord’s love for each man and each woman amongst us.’
Peichl laughed. This time the amusement wasn’t feigned.
‘Even me?’
‘Even you, Herr Scharführer.’
‘What other secrets do you know? About the other prisoners?’
‘I know no secrets. I know nothing which isn’t already known to you.’
She had once thought Katerina was slow – perhaps even stupid – but she didn’t think that any more.
‘What secrets do I know?’ Peichl asked.
‘If I knew, surely they wouldn’t be secrets?’
There was silence for a moment and she felt her fear form itself into a small bubble of laughter deep inside her. She squashed it immediately. Imagine if she let it out – what Peichl might do to her.
When Peichl broke the silence, his voice was soft – almost gentle.
‘Do they love us, Prisoner Müller? The other prisoners? Remember, you can’t lie.’
‘I do not.’
‘I didn’t ask about you. I asked about the other prisoners.’
‘They have never discussed loving you or otherwise, so I can’t be sure.’
‘Do they hate us, Prisoner Müller? Do you think they might hate us?’
She felt fear block her throat. She had said something once, something stupid. And she knew Katerina had overheard her.
‘I do not hate you. You are one of God’s children. I try to love you. I fail in that, I admit it.’
‘I asked about the others.’
‘I have heard no one say they hate you.’
She blinked. Katerina had lied, or close enough that there wasn’t much difference.
‘I don’t think I believe you. I don’t think your God will either.’
‘You know I must tell the truth, Herr Scharführer,’ Katerina said.
There was the slightest inflection in Katerina’s voice – a defiant edge to it that no one else would dare risk. A lengthy silence followed. She wanted to look at the SS man, to see if she could tell what he might be thinking. Instead she studied the silence.
‘We’ll see about that,’ Peichl said.
The SS man walked around the women, each footstep on the loose stones in front of the bunker’s entrance sounding as though it were breaking something fragile. The skin on her back wanted to crawl round to her front as he moved behind her. The muscles in her shoulders braced in anticipation of a blow. When he reappeared in front of them, she watched out of the corner of her eye as his gaze ran along the line, prisoner after prisoner, until it rested on her.
‘What about you, Prisoner? Do you hate us? Look at me, Prisoner.’
She lifted her head slowly. He looked almost kindly and she felt her fear fall from her. She knew what he wanted from her. After all she’d been through – after all the countless times she’d been closer to death than anyone should be and survived – she would meet her fate now, so close to the end. She found herself looking up at the blue sky above the German’s head. She wanted to float high up there, where there was nothing.
‘Well, Prisoner? I’m waiting for your answer.’
When the noise came, it was not clear what made it – her first thought was some earth had dislodged from the bunker’s roof. It happened sometimes. But Peichl was looking at the ground in front of him.
‘What is this?’ Peichl took a step forward, shaking his head. ‘What is going on here?’
Lena was lying on the ground, her knees bent up almost to her chest – as if her body had collapsed downwards. Her eyes were open and she was taking quick shallow breaths. One of her hands was on her knee, trying to gain a purchase to stand up again. Rachel reached down to help her, but it was too late. Peichl was standing over Lena now, looking down at her, his hands on his hips. He raised the toe of his boot and pushed at her shoulder. Lena fell to the side.
‘Kick her,’ Peichl said to Adamik.
Adamik took a step back to put his weight behind his boot. It struck Lena hard in the back, making a hollow sound – as if the woman were a drum. Lena’s moan was barely audible.
‘She’s finished, Herr Scharführer.’
‘I can see that,’ Peichl said. ‘Müller and Gruber. You will bury her.’
‘She’s still alive, Herr Scharführer. She should see a doctor.’
Katerina’s voice was calm and she blessed her for speaking up.
‘I take your point.’
He unbuttoned his holster, his hand reached in. Two steps forward. Adamik stepping backwards as Peichl advanced – the Ukrainian’s mouth opening in a bored yawn. At the last moment, Lena lifted a hand towards Peichl. Too late.
After the shot, Rachel’s quiet sobbing was the only sound she could hear. A raven lifted itself from its perch on the hut’s peaked roof and flew slowly off towards the reservoir. Peichl looked down at the dead woman, pushing her over onto her back with the sole of his boot – her blood turning the hard, scrabbly earth red.
‘Now you can bury her,’ Peichl said to Katerina. The pistol was still in his hand, smoke curling around his forearm as it rose. He pointed it at Rachel. ‘Stop that mewling or you’ll join her in the hole.’
Rachel stopped and Katerina, for once, had the good sense to say nothing.
‘Evanko, see to it.’
‘Of course, Herr Scharführer.’
Peichl gestured the other prisoners towards the house and she found herself looking at the top of Peichl’s neck, just above his collar – the spot where an executioner would aim his pistol. She imagined herself holding the gun and the image was so vivid that she could even feel its weight, the texture of its grip in her hand, her finger crooking around the trigger. To press the muzzle into just that place. To observe his flinch as the gun touched his bare neck. To push. To see him shrink away from the cold metal.
‘You must be Brandt,’ she heard Peichl say. ‘You’re early.’
A man in a military tunic, its arm folded where his own should be, stood beside the entrance to the hut. His face appeared expressionless – but it was so disfigured by burning and scarring that it would be hard to tell one way or the other.
‘I wasn’t sure what time to come,’ she heard him say.
He spoke to Peichl, but he stared at her. His gaze was so direct that she closed her eyes to avoid it, lowering her head. After a moment, gathering herself, she risked another glance. Meeting her gaze, he nodded, turned away and followed Peichl up the wooden steps.
Evanko, the older Ukrainian guard, was standing over Lena’s body. She appeared even smaller in death, not much bigger than a child.
‘Quick now, you s
ee what mood he’s in,’ Evanko said.
She and Katerina lifted her between them. Lena was light. When they reached the fence they placed her on the ground. They knew where to take her – the uneven, rolling ground bore witness to earlier murders.
‘Go and get the spades,’ the guard said to Katerina, toeing the ground with his boot. ‘And a pick. The ground is dry.’
The guard turned to her as Katerina walked toward the hut.
‘Take her clothes off. Bring them to the store room.’
She knelt down beside Lena and began to unfasten the buttons of the striped tunic. She wished she could remember the Hebrew prayers she’d heard at her grandfather’s funeral. All she could do was treat the body with care, pulling the rough jacket gently across Lena’s bone-sculpted shoulders before she lowered her back to the ground. She took the opportunity to close her eyes. Poor Lena had weighed almost nothing at the end.
She was surprised when one of her tears fell on the dead woman’s pale skin. She hadn’t thought she was capable of crying any more. But the body should be washed, she knew, and so she rubbed the tear along the line of a rib.
It was something, at least.
10
IT WAS ONLY WHEN the shot was fired that Brandt noticed the prisoners. At first, he thought the dead woman must be her – but it wasn’t. He must have said something in response when the stocky Scharführer came bustling over, replacing his pistol in his holster, telling him he was early, but he couldn’t remember what. Instead of paying attention to Peichl, he was looking across the yard at the woman. She was still alive.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, Brandt. Come on inside.’
Peichl gestured for Brandt to follow him up the stairs just as Judith and another prisoner lifted the dead prisoner’s corpse. They began to carry it towards the far fence.