by Glenn Bryant
‘Of course you can,’ agreed Michael, glad to establish any foothold in the uncomfortable canyon between them.
‘What was a Nazi concentration camp?’
Jozef was impressed with his detachment. Keep it short, he told himself, remembering the professor’s best advice.
‘It is always important, in my experience, to think of these things in literal, simple terms,’ Michael began. ‘A concentration camp was simply that – a concentration of people in a camp, a work camp. National Socialism believed – and I did not argue with it – that certain sections of German society had lived a decadent lifestyle between the wars. After the Depression, it was time for that to stop. The National Socialists made society productive again.’
‘Why couldn’t those people be given normal jobs in factories or offices?’
‘Special times called for special measures,’ said Michael, drinking a little wine to wash down his lunch. ‘Herr Hitler was not afraid of getting tough.’
‘Who did he get tough with?’
‘Lots of people. Political enemies like communists and Jews to begin with.’
‘Jews,’ repeated Jozef.
Michael finished his wine rather too quickly and hurriedly ordered a second glass. It was unlike him at lunch. He took a mouthful as soon as it arrived. The waitress began to tidy things up on their table, but Michael impatiently waved her away. His sharks were circling in.
‘What did you do during the war?’ asked Jozef.
Bad question.
Michael drank some more. He was starting to feel it – the intoxication was whirling in his head and clouding his senses.
‘Jozef,’ said Michael, trying to compose himself. ‘We all did things we would rather forget during the war. Everyone who lived through it here in Berlin alive today did something they regret to survive. We survived. We are the survivors.’
‘What did you do to survive?’ asked Jozef.
Such determined questioning was not in his nature. But he was doing well; he could feel Professor Zielinski whispering encouraging words in his ear.
‘I worked in a hospital.’
‘A normal hospital?’
‘It was a special hospital for the mentally and physically handicapped. Cripples, spastics. During the war we needed to care for them, keep them out of the way, to release society from the burden and allow people, normal, productive people, to focus on the war effort. Winning was all that mattered.’
‘I think I have found you,’ said Jozef, suddenly producing the death book from Hadamar. He placed it on the table framing the gulf between them. He pushed it forward slightly.
Michael retreated.
‘You were at a place called Hadamar.’
Professor Zielinski was at Jozef’s side now, cheering him on.
Michael continued to recoil.
‘Here you are. That is you, isn’t it? Dr Michael Drescher? Dr D on a lot of these papers.’
Michael looked back at his tiny portrait. A ghost in his National Socialist uniform. His past was sat in front of him; in front of all these people, happy, enjoying lunch and wine and beer and coffee. ‘Yes,’ said Michael gently. ‘That is me.’ It was time. It was time. ‘I want you to come and live in South America with me.’
‘South America?’ said Jozef alarmed. ‘What do you mean, South America? My whole life is in Germany. My future.’
‘You will have friends in South America. New friends, important friends, people who can give you opportunities. You would be able to achieve things. Think about it.’
‘Why South America?’ Jozef asked again.
‘It is the last place where we can rise, where we can build again,’ said Michael, looking beyond Jozef. He was picturing it. The power.
‘The last place? The last place to build what?’
‘We are already out there, creating jobs, doing business, in government. Our friends could not have greater power. You will be able to realise your potential Jozef. You have great potential.’
‘I’ve just finished my first year at university. Why can’t I achieve my potential in Germany? I think I’d like to write Michael – newspapers.’
‘There are newspapers in South America too.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Catharina was alone in the dining room she had shared with Gerhard for all those lifetimes. She had sat there quietly thinking, contemplating since early afternoon. She felt hollow now she was back. She hated this place. She hated him. No, more than that. She loathed him. She wanted him dead for what he had done. She knew she did not have murder in her, but what did she have in her? She wanted to find out.
Catharina heard the front door open and click gently shut. It was Gerhard. He was home. She could hear him, like clockwork, place his briefcase carefully down by his feet before removing his raincoat and hanging it on the same hook as always. She heard her husband then open the door to his study and place his briefcase by his desk for the night, waiting to be collected again first thing in the morning. She fleetingly felt she had never been away and almost shuddered. She was not that person anymore. She had changed. She was different. The furnishings surrounding her now looked like they belonged to another time entirely.
Gerhard appeared and was startled. He had not been expecting her. ‘You made me jump,’ he said, standing there, scared to intrude further into the space.
Catharina was guarding the room like a lioness ominously protecting her young. She did not say anything.
He wanted her to say something. Say something, he repeated impatiently in his head.
The tired clock on their tatty mantelpiece struck 6pm, but the cold war between them continued. I am not going to bail him out, Catharina thought. He can speak first.
She wanted to know what he was going to say, what he could say after what he had done, after all he had done. She felt her throat burn with fury. She was thirsty, but she did not want to move and abandon her position, her sanctity. Her heart was beating in her chest, a chest he would never touch, never caress again, so softly. Rising bile began to replace the burn – more corrosive. She was struggling to breathe. Her heart felt like it was about to explode. Why would he not say something? She wanted him to say something. Say something, her head screamed. Say something!
Catharina then launched herself at Gerhard like a twister, terrifying, out of nowhere. She rushed at her husband. Again and again. Pent up fury, dormant for decades, now flew out, possessing her, overwhelming her – overwhelming him.
Gerhard whimpered under the weight of the assault, cowering and holding his arms and hands up meekly to protect his head. He was pathetic, she thought. Pathetic. Pathetic. He whimpered again and began to cry.
Catharina thumped and smashed down on him like she was beating a drum.
Gerhard collapsed.
She had never hit him before. The sensation was unreal. She forgot who she was briefly. She thought of Janus, her beautiful Janus, drifting into death and all that blood. His grotesque rattles regurgitated inside her chest and she relaunched her assault on her husband with a scream.
Catharina then caught herself. It took Gerhard several seconds to realise the blows were no longer pouring down on his position from above. Smiling down on her from the mantelpiece. Her perfect little boy. He must have been two. Just before maybe. Catharina’s first sobs made her whole chest heave – like someone was releasing an ancient valve letting off rusted steam. She buckled. Her lungs gasped from the effort and sheer emotion of her assault. She crumpled into a ball on the floor next to her husband. He was still whimpering and she looked at him and did not hate him so fiercely for a moment. She felt sorry for him instead.
Two dice lay curiously on the carpet, hidden underneath an armchair. They were from a favourite game Jozef and Catharina had played for hours on end when he was very little. He did not really understand the rules, but he had loved it unconditionally all the same. Catharina remembered how he had cried for hours when they had lost the dice. Gerhard had searched the house for da
ys and weeks after their disappearance until failing memory allowed them to forget.
She picked them up now and put them away routinely, back where they belonged.
Catharina looked down again on her husband crouched in a foetal position, like he was praying, rocking gently. His whimpering had quietened. Jozef, Catharina recalled again. Tears welled out of her eyes.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why, Gerhard? Why? You murdered our son. My son. Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was a different time – remember? Anything seemed possible. Things became better, didn’t they?’
‘He was only a little boy,’ she said, louder. ‘Our little boy, Gerhard, ours! Not yours. Not the Party’s. Ours. You killed him. You killed him.’
Catharina began slapping her hands down on her husband again. He yelped pathetically and quickly tried to cover himself, bringing his arms and hands up over the top of his frame. Her assault had less energy this time.
‘I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle it, alright!’ Gerhard confessed. ‘Couldn’t you see? You couldn’t handle this anymore, could you? You left. You killed our marriage. We’re even.’
‘You bastard. You bastard,’ she said with tears inflaming her tone. ‘We are never even Gerhard! Never! Do you understand? Do – you – understand?’
‘Yes,’ he said weakly. ‘Yes.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘Gerhard and Catharina had a little boy,’ said Michael. ‘He was also called Jozef. He was a month older than you.’
‘I know,’ said Jozef. ‘He was stillborn. Mother couldn’t have children after that.’
‘That’s not strictly true.’
An elderly lady knocked clumsily into their table, making Michael spill coffee down his blazer.
‘I do beg your pardon, gentlemen,’ the lady apologised. ‘I am so very sorry.’
Michael fixed a fake, forced smile across his face. He would have happily slit her throat and Jozef sensed Michael’s furious unease.
‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘What is not true?’
‘Gerhard and Catharina did indeed have a son and named him Jozef before you. But he was not stillborn. He was a cripple. He had a condition called cerebral palsy.’
‘But he died in birth?’ said Jozef, off-balance for the first time in the exchange.
‘He died early in life. He was four. There was a war to be won and Gerhard was under a very great deal of pressure. I helped take the pressure off your parents.’
‘What happened to my stepbrother?’ said Jozef.
Michael searched carefully for the words.
Jozef could see him thinking hard.
‘He died in an institution during the war,’ said Michael. ‘Of pneumonia. I helped your parents place him in that very great institution. The initial transition proved too much for him. He was weak. He did not survive.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Jozef.
Michael was shocked.
Jozef had never questioned his authority before.
‘Jozef, I understand this is difficult. But it happened. It was a very different time. It is hard for people who did not live through that time to understand.’
Michael sipped some more coffee but flustered he spilt it down his chin. ‘Scheisse!’ he whispered, scolding himself under his breath.
Jozef finally saw the old man was human after all. ‘You persuaded Gerhard to give up Jozef and then you murdered him at Hadamar.’
He knew, thought Michael. Jozef knew. But how? The professor. ‘Nonsense,’ he said, calmly trying to sweep the revelation off the table like bread crumbs.
‘It was National Socialism policy to report and then murder physically and mentally handicapped children. It was your job to ensure that policy was executed accurately and efficiently.’
Michael’s mind began to reel. He could see increasingly little room for manoeuvre. Then he smiled and regrouped. He finished his coffee and he enjoyed the warm sensation in his throat. Caffeine stimulated his brain. He leaned forward and Jozef focused, ready to hear his concession. Their heads came closer until their lips were almost touching, like lovers. Michael’s face was suddenly bigger than the moon. The sunlight warming central Berlin was blocked out. There was only Michael’s round features left. His eyes.
Michael’s face then altered grotesquely and screwed up into a heated ball of hatred. Jozef recoiled but Michael’s hand had a tight hold on his collar, throttling his attempt to retreat. He was hurting him. Jozef wanted to shout out, but he felt paralysed. He needed to get out of there. He needed to get out.
‘I hate this country,’ hissed Michael, spitting out words like blood. ‘These people, this weakness. I am drowning. I can’t stand it.’
Every syllable was soaked in poison. Jozef was forced to ingest every burning one. Those eyes.
‘I must get out of this place, this Germany. I must be free. You are the key to my freedom, do you understand?’
Jozef still dare not move. All he could feel was Michael’s choking hold on his collar.
‘I need you to come to South America. You are my ticket. I am old. They want youth, a future. You represent the future Jozef.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Catharina and Gerhard shared silence in their dining room as they thought about what they had done, all they were responsible for. Two people lay dead as a result of them.
Catharina felt sick. She climbed up off the floor. Her bruised knees cracked with numbness. She could not walk far and she still had to suffer him so close. She wanted to beat the life and the lies out of him, but she was exhausted. She did not have the heart anymore.
She hauled her wooden frame back into the chair she had sat in when Gerhard had first returned home from work. Gerhard remained huddled on the floor, like he needed permission to rise. The telephone rang loudly, rudely. Catharina jumped, but Gerhard did not flinch. She wanted to hurl it violently across the room and send it smashing through the window. But she did not and did not know why. She picked it up and enjoyed the normality of conversation.
‘Mum, it’s Jozef.’
‘Jozef,’ she said, trying to brighten up too quickly.
Jozef immediately sensed it. ‘Are you okay?’ he said.
‘I’m fine darling. Long day. That’s all.’
‘Mum, can you and dad come and get me a day early? I don’t want to wait until Saturday. I’m ready to come home now.’
‘That might be difficult,’ said Catharina, working through the consequences in her head. ‘Everything is okay, isn’t it? No trouble?’
‘Fine, mum. Michael is here. He is hanging around. It’s strange to be honest. I’d rather you came and got me tomorrow.’
Michael, she thought. Anger rushed through her blood again. ‘Jozef, is everything alright? Michael hasn’t hurt you has he – or threatened you?’
‘No, no,’ said Jozef, still fragile and bruised emotionally after the afternoon’s disturbing encounter. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, shielding his mother from the truth. ‘Michael is our friend. Why would he hurt me?’
‘I know, I know. I’m just being silly. You know me. We’ll be there tomorrow, as soon as we can. Don’t worry. We will be there.’
‘Auf Wiedersehen Mutter,’ said Jozef, allowing fear to creep into his tone.
‘Auf Wiedersehen Jozef,’ Catharina said. ‘I love you. Auf Wiedersehen.’
Catharina placed the telephone calmly back down. She turned around to Gerhard. He still had not climbed up off the floor.
‘What have you done now?’ she said.
Catharina and Gerhard drove the 600 kilometres from their home in Munich to Berlin and Jozef overnight. Catharina could not sleep and Gerhard had no choice. It was time he did something for her. Now Gerhard was sleeping fitfully in the passenger seat. Catharina was to his left, driving. She was glad to. The act had proved difficult and stressful at first, but now she was smoothly flying along the anonymity of the autobahn. It was
proving therapeutic.
Catharina found her thoughts like their car rolling through the dark. Headlights lit the way, but she could not see clearly. She liked it that way and had been happiest in her life when she had not looked too far forward. Appreciate what you have now, she had always told herself. Catharina had endured a lot, but less than most in the generation still reeling, still haunted by ghosts after the war. Yesterday was never far from today. Tomorrow always seemed distant.
Gerhard stirred and opened his eyes. They weighed heavy and were pained with a lack of deep sleep. Catharina flicked her look from the road to her right and her husband. He noticed, but did not say anything. He felt he was journeying with Heinrich Himmler himself and all the malevolent intent that entailed.
‘Can you light me a cigarette?’ she said. She could still only be cold and impolite.
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘I feel like it tonight,’ she said.
Gerhard reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. He lit one and handed it to his wife. She took it and sucked on it, drawing a deep, heavenly drag. The nicotine floated high into her head and massaged it, filling it with fog. She felt good suddenly. Gerhard thought briefly about joining her, but then thought better of it.
He rolled over, rested his head uneasily against the car window and closed his eyes. He drifted in and out of half-sleep. He knew he was kidding his body, which was starting to ache from the long night and being unable to stretch out properly in bed. His eyelids hung like lead. The car smacked against a hole in the road. It jolted him and awoke him angrily. Catharina smiled at his misfortune and inhaled more of her cigarette. She felt adult.
She thought of Jozef, the son she had given birth to and who they had given to the Party to care for in 1944. Time had not allowed the moment or thought to heal. She swallowed a nauseating hatred. It felt in hindsight like tossing her baby into the jaws of a Great White. How naive she had been. But Gerhard had always known what the consequences were. He had known.