by William Ryan
And wasn’t that as strange as anything else?
25
AT THE END OF November it seemed clear they were facing a long, cold winter and Neumann asked the Commandant for a work detail of prisoners from one of the nearby satellite camps to chop wood for the hut. A gang of twenty men came each day for a week and chopped and sawed at the trees behind the hut. They worked from first thing in the morning till last thing at night. He wondered how they were able to, given just how thin they were.
When they’d left, and the stacked logs filled the open-sided shed beside the bunker, it worried him that the prisoners’ efforts might turn out to be for the Russians’ benefit, rather than the camp’s. But when he thought it through, he decided it didn’t matter, one way or the other. What was wood for, really, other than to be burned? And what were prisoners for, other than to work?
§
Neumann wrapped himself up, put on fur-lined boots to keep his feet warm and took Wolf for a walk down to the lake. It was the morning after the prisoners had finished stocking the hut with winter fuel. Wolf weaved his way along beside him, his tail wagging, his paws leaving their melting imprints in the light dusting of overnight snow. The cold air stung Neumann’s cheeks. Ahead of them, the reservoir was obscured by a clinging blanket of low white fog while the fields in between were grey with frost. The valley had lost its summer sheen and he knew it was unlikely he would see it again at its best. He sighed at the melancholy thought, which caused Wolf to stop and look back at him for a moment. Neumann leant down to rub between the dog’s ears.
‘Thank you, Wolf.’
His breath was a wispy white in the still air when he spoke. They walked on. The church bell rang eight o’clock down in the village, then all returned to silence.
He heard the postman before he saw him – there was almost no lubricating oil to be had these days. Although the ancient black bicycle’s chain would probably have squealed with each turn of the pedal in any event.
‘Herr Obersturmführer,’ the postman said, coming to a wheezing halt when he was close. ‘I have a letter for you, if you’d like it now. Otherwise I’ll take it up to the hut with the rest.’
Neumann didn’t get much post these days. The postal service was struggling with the bombing and with the lack of personnel and Marguerite was very busy, of course, now that she had been forced to move – the British having flattened the Hamburg apartment building they’d lived in. At least the small town she’d moved to with the boys was not too far from the city. Although far away enough to be safe from bombs. So far at least.
‘Thank you, Herr Schmidt. I’ll have it now.’
He held out his hand while the postman looked inside his leather satchel. Marguerite’s handwriting. Neumann slipped the letter inside the pocket of his greatcoat.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s a good one, I hope.’
‘From my wife.’
‘I’m pleased. They aren’t always, these days.’
The older man got back on his bicycle and resumed cycling up the hill towards the hut and the higher farms. Neumann noticed the Volkssturm armband and found himself shaking his head. He wasn’t even certain this man would make it to the top of the slope without having to get off and walk, and yet the mayor thought the old fellow should be a soldier.
When they reached the lake, Neumann threw a stick for Wolf. Then encouraged the dog to go for swim. Wolf shook the water off when he emerged, then sat down on his haunches, looking at Neumann as if he expected to be entertained and Neumann was the performance. Neumann reached into his pocket and slipped a finger under the envelope’s flap, tearing it open. The letter was only two sides long, although Marguerite’s handwriting was tightly packed in, its black copperplate filling up the entirety of each page. He read it through once. Then once again. He shook his head, not in disagreement, but to clear it, then read it once more. It was clear and it was precise. Not one word had been crossed out or needed alteration. She must have carefully crafted it – not wanting there to be any ambiguity as to its meaning. Wolf came towards him, his doleful gaze seeking out his master’s. Neumann found his fingers wrapping themselves into the Alsatian’s long fur and a part of him, he was surprised to discover, wanted to rip the handful he held away from Wolf’s head, to hear the dog’s howl of pain.
‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back home.’
They had almost reached the hut when they came across Brandt.
‘Herr Obersturmführer?’ Brandt asked, but what the question was he didn’t say.
‘Yes, Brandt?’
‘You look a little pale. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. Better for the walk.’
Brandt hesitated, as if there was something on his mind.
‘Spit it out, whatever it is.’
‘It’s the prisoners, Herr Obersturmführer. I found some Soviet padded coats in the store. I don’t know where they came from – war booty of some sort, I suppose – but I was wondering, now that the weather has turned cold, if you would permit them to be given to the prisoners?’
‘Why?’
‘Why not, Herr Obersturmführer? No one else is using them and we’ll get more work out of them if they stay healthy over the winter.’
Neumann shook his head – Brandt really didn’t understand a single thing about this place. And yet. Neumann was not cold-hearted. He had not forgotten how to be kind. He was still a human being. Marguerite was wrong about those things.
‘Tell Peichl I have ordered you to give the jackets to the women. Otherwise he’ll only come to me complaining. Is that all?’
Brandt looked surprised, but pleased at the same time. He saluted him. A proper military salute. Neumann experienced a flash of pleasure and wasn’t quite sure why.
‘Thank you, Herr Obersturmführer.’
Neumann nodded and carried on his way feeling, once again, numb.
26
BRANDT WAS unfolding a linen tablecloth in the dining room – his right hand, accustomed to the task, moved in an efficient pattern as he spread it across the table. A whole man could just fling it open, of course, it would be the work of a moment. But Brandt would get the job done all the same. Most of the officers were still in bed. Outside, the early morning light was flat and grey. A December morning – the summer seemed very far away.
Jäger, a grey-eyed tanker who didn’t seem to need sleep, had taken a seat beside the fireplace and watched him. For some reason, Jäger had taken a liking to him. When the shouting started outside there was a moment where they exchanged a glance.
‘What’s happening?’ Jäger said, his expression more interested than concerned.
Brandt was already on the other side of the room, wiping the mist from the window pane to see outside, looking for the women prisoners. The women stood in a line, snow shovels in their hands, being addressed by Peichl. Brandt counted them – all still there – but Peichl’s voice was rising in pitch. His pistol was out of his holster.
‘Will he shoot one of them?’
Jäger stood beside him, trembling fingers fumbling with his cigarette case.
‘I don’t know.’
Brandt’s sense of helplessness was absolute but, to Brandt’s relief, Peichl holstered his pistol, waving the women with his other hand towards the snow-covered driveway.
‘At least he’s stopped shouting.’
Brandt didn’t reply. He exhaled slowly, his breath re-forming the mist on the glass in front of him. He could feel his blood fizzing with rage.
Jäger handed him one of his cigarettes, and Brandt took it instinctively, without acknowledging the gesture. He found its presence between his fingers comforting, then remembered his manners.
‘Thank you.’
He reached into his pocket, offering the flame from his lighter to Jäger first. When he inhaled, he held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds before releasing it.
‘Why do you work here, Brandt?’
The danger ca
me out of nowhere.
‘I don’t understand the question.’
Brandt was pleased with how calm his voice sounded in the circumstances. He had been off guard for an instant and look what had happened.
‘You’re a decorated soldier, Brandt. Surely you can’t be reduced to working for these people.’
Brandt allowed himself the luxury of formulating a real answer – of explaining why the hut was exactly the place a man like him should be working. Instead he smiled.
‘The village isn’t that big a place, Herr Hauptsturmführer, and there aren’t so many jobs a one-armed man is capable of. I’m fortunate to be able to assist the war effort in this small way.’
Brandt turned to face Jäger. A serving SS officer with a knight’s cross around his neck could afford to say whatever he liked about the hut and the SS. Brandt could not.
‘You think this work helps the war effort?’ Jäger asked, pointing his cigarette case at the women who pushed and scraped at the icy driveway.
‘If I do this, a fitter man can work as a farmer, or fight at the Front. I do what I can – so that another can do more. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’
Brandt returned to the tablecloth, lining up the folds just so, then holding them fast at each corner with metal clips. Jäger was silent. When Brandt had finished placing the last of the clips, he stood up and examined his work. The table was perfect, the linen white, the creases precisely aligned. Even the camp doctors couldn’t complain about it. It made him want to slash it with a knife.
‘Very pretty.’
‘Thank you, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’
Jäger had sat back down in his armchair, placed his hands flat on his knees and was watching them intently. They still shook.
‘Do you care about them, I wonder? The women? Is that the reason?’
Brandt turned back to the cabinet, taking his time reaching for the next glass. He wanted to consider his response carefully. He wanted to be certain his face showed no trace of his fear.
‘As human beings, I mean. Do you care about them as human beings?’
Brandt could feel a vein pulsing in his forehead and wondered if it were visible. It was best not to answer the question – he couldn’t be sure his voice would achieve the correct tone. But Jäger, as it turned out, wasn’t waiting for Brandt’s response. He stood to his feet, walked to the window and looked out at the snow-covered lawn. His profile was a fine one – a wide chin, long forehead and an aquiline nose. Brandt wondered whether the SS man was conscious of the fact. His skin must once have been smooth but years in the outdoors – the Russian winters and the Russian summers – had changed it, causing premature lining around the eyes that made him look older than he was and roughening and tightening the skin across his cheekbones. And then there was that long purple scar that ran down the side of his face until it disappeared under his collar. He’d told him what had caused it, but Brandt didn’t pay much attention to talk about wounds and scars and other injuries. He didn’t care about such things.
‘You must have a reason for being here, Brandt – that’s all I can think. It’s the only possible explanation.’ Jäger’s voice was low and intimate, as if he were inviting Brandt to unburden himself. ‘Otherwise your being here doesn’t make sense.’
Brandt’s chuckle wasn’t entirely forced. He felt strangely light-headed.
‘You think it doesn’t make sense that I should perform this small duty to the Fatherland?’ Brandt said. ‘Don’t let anyone in the SS hear you say such a thing.’
Jäger’s smile was really nothing more than a thinning of his lips.
‘I hear myself and I absolve myself. Anyway, you know as well as I do this whole thing ends in flames.’
‘You think so?’
‘I’ve been sure of it since ’forty-one.’
Brandt had placed the cutlery box on the table and was opening its lid when he stopped, interested despite himself.
‘How so?’
‘We were in the Ukraine. You know the kind of business. The Soviets had dug themselves in along a river and had decided to stay there. We, of course, had decided they shouldn’t. I was sent to the adjoining infantry regiment to coordinate the details of our attack. Their commander and I went to look over the ground. On the way, we passed a field full of dead Soviets. A large field. Someone had decided they weren’t taking prisoners that day. Hundreds of men. Perhaps thousands. Some weren’t old enough to be called men, some didn’t even have uniforms. Some, and I’m not lying about this, didn’t even have shirts. They must have rounded them up from the local factory. Heavy calibre machine guns at close range. I’m sure you saw such things – I don’t need to tell you about the sheer mess, the blood, crows picking at the corpses. Not a scene for the film reels.’
Brandt remembered the smell. And the silence.
‘There were so many prisoners,’ he found himself saying. As if a few less could have made no difference.
‘The infantry Oberst turned and said: “We’re shooting our own men when we do this. I wish they’d realize it.”’
‘We thought we were unstoppable.’
‘Well, we had to fight like hell to break through when we attacked the next morning. The Russians fought to the last – and we’d made them do it. It wasn’t their officers or their love of Stalin did it. And we were the ones who trained them to show us no mercy when it was our turn to lose. That was the Oberst’s point.’
Brandt sighed.
‘I prefer not to think about the war these days.’ ‘Why not?’
‘I’m a civilian now, Herr Hauptsturmführer and I work here. I don’t listen, I don’t see, and when I do think, I’d prefer to think about some film actress. It makes my life easier.’
Jäger’s snort was either laughter or contempt – Brandt didn’t much care either way.
‘What did you do before?’
‘Before the army?’
‘Yes. Before that. Before this.’
‘I was a student.’
Jäger snorted again.
‘I should have known. What did you study?’
Brandt placed the fork he was positioning on the table and looked at it for a moment. He’d had enough of Jäger’s constant questioning. Each time he opened his mouth he walked on dangerous ground. He considered how to change the course of the conversation.
‘Why are you so interested in me, Herr Hauptsturmführer? I don’t understand your curiosity – why you seem so determined to draw me out.’
Jäger reached into his coat pocket, his fingers seeming to catch on the fabric as he did so. He managed to extract his cigarette case once again, scuffed and dented as a soldier’s belongings often were. He clicked it open and offered the contents to Brandt. It shook as he held it – the SS man unable to keep it still.
‘No thank you, Herr Hauptsturmführer. I’m grateful.’
‘It wasn’t good, the last one?’
‘I’m not permitted to smoke while I’m working. I shouldn’t have accepted it.’
‘I outrank Peichl and Neumann. I order you to smoke. If they quibble, I’ll have them shot. You think I wouldn’t?’
Brandt found himself smiling, despite himself.
‘In which case, thanks.’
Brandt took one and then, when Jäger reached in his pocket, held out his lighter to the SS man’s cigarette.
‘Thank you,’ Jäger said.
‘For what?’
‘For lighting my cigarette. For saving me the embarrassment. My shaking hands.’
‘I noticed nothing, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’
‘Good for you. What do you think? Nice tobacco?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Turkish. A friend had them sent them to me. From Berlin.’
‘A kind friend.’
‘A dead friend.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘So was I. An air raid. She was a nice girl. Too good for me.’
Jäger shook his head slowly, then turned his attention
back to Brandt.
‘Why didn’t they make you an officer? When did you enlist?’
‘Nineteen thirty-eight.’
‘Before the war, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when were you wounded?’
‘Last October.’
‘That long? A university man? And they didn’t bump you up?’
Brandt sighed. To hell with it, if the mayor knew about Vienna then it was certain Neumann knew as well. Jäger wouldn’t be telling anyone anything they didn’t know already.
‘There was a restriction. I got into some trouble. Joining the army was the solution. Not that I wanted to become an officer – but it wasn’t a possibility.’
Jäger considered this for a moment, allowing his finger to run down his facial scar.
‘It must have been political trouble. Which university?’
‘Vienna.’
‘Nineteen thirty-eight? Ah. I can imagine. A Red, were you?’
‘No. Well, not what I would call a Red. There was some resistance when the German troops marched in. Not much. I was caught up in what there was.’
‘But no arrest – no punishment.’
‘I was given a choice.’
‘And you chose the army.’
‘It seemed a sensible decision at the time.’
‘You’re not so sure in hindsight? You surprise me. These female prisoners outside with the red triangles – they’re here for political offences. That could have been you.’
Brandt inhaled a lungful of tobacco smoke and savoured the way the nicotine crept its way to the furthest tips of the extremities he had left. He thought about Agneta pushing snow from the driveway. It could indeed have been him. It probably should have been him.
‘May I ask you a question Herr Hauptsturmführer? Seeing as we are being so open?’
‘Of course, we can speak freely. No one else is here.’
‘Why did you join the SS?’
Jäger turned and gave him a lopsided version of his thin-lipped smile. He appeared embarrassed.