My Brother the Enemy

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not at all.’ He stubbed out the cigarette, grinding it into an ashtray. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘No, I won’t keep you long but I thought I ought to let you know...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s a little awkward.’

  ‘Take a seat, Mrs Emmerich, take a seat. Is it the twins?’

  She sat down on a wooden chair, her hands neatly resting on her lap. ‘Yes, it’s the twins. You see, I have two daughters, as you probably know. And the eldest, Helene, she likes to go swimming out in the lake in the woods.’

  ‘The lake. Yes, I know it.’

  ‘Well, I sent Monika out yesterday morning to fetch Helene – she’d forgotten an appointment we had and, well... Oh dear, I’m going to sound like an awful sneak. The fact is, Monika found your boys spying.’

  ‘Well, they’ll make good Nazi informants, then. Spying on what exactly?’

  ‘They were spying on Helene, my daughter. In the lake.’

  ‘Is that so bad?’

  ‘Well, yes, because Helene was not wearing any clothes. She was naked.’

  ‘Oh.’ The accusation hit him as if he himself had been caught. ‘The dirty little...’ He felt a flush of shame as he sat down heavily. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll speak to them. Severely.’ The dirty little bastards; he hadn’t brought them up to behave like perverts. Had his father caught him spying on naked women, he would have received a well-deserved hiding. Well, the twins couldn’t expect anything different. It wasn’t so much what they done but the fear that if it got round the village, they’d be labelled as degenerates as well as aliens. Fuck, what an existence, what a way to live. It never used to be like this. He needed that drink.

  ‘Are you OK, Mr Fischbacher?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, I’m OK.’

  ‘Have you settled in now?’ Her voice seemed laced with concern.

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’

  ‘What is it you used to do? Before you came here?’

  ‘Me?’ No one in the village had ever asked him before. ‘I had a business a long time ago, importing and selling cloth from the US. I made a decent living. Good quality material was always in demand, especially in Berlin.’

  ‘And then the came depression.’

  ‘Yes, and then the came the depression. Then after that I became a communist; you probably know that. It’s why I’m here. Exiled.’

  ‘Could have been worse.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You survived.’

  ‘Yes, we survived. We were among the lucky ones.’ He hadn’t been that lucky – they arrested him and sent to one of the new concentration camps just opening. But he couldn’t tell her that. The beatings, the degradation still hurt. He lit another cigarette. Released after a couple of months, and in that he had been lucky, he had his home confiscated and told to get out of Berlin. The following day they found themselves, with a suitcase each, on a train heading east, to this place that time forgot.

  ‘You can’t go back?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m banned from travelling further than five kilometres from the village centre. It’s part of the punishment – for being a communist.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Well, now you know my story. As a good German, you should hate me.’

  ‘Not at all. Your wife, I see, has a job, and the twins seem to have settled in.’

  ‘Except when they’re being peeping toms.’

  ‘Oh, I wish I’d never mentioned it now. It was Helene’s fault. What was she thinking of, swimming naked? I’ll speak to her. Well, Mr Fischbacher, it’s been very nice but I have to get going now.’

  But Adolphus was lost deep in thought, the cigarette burning between his fingers. When, finally, he looked up, she’d gone. Pity, he thought, she was nice. It’d been the first conversation he’d had in this godforsaken place. But instead of making him feel better, it’d only served to remind him how futile his situation was.

  ‘I don’t want a drink,’ he muttered, his fingernails scraping against the wooden table. ‘I don’t want a drink.’ The hours stretched ahead of him, hours of loneliness and boredom, hours of agony. He couldn’t face it, he couldn’t continue sitting there, pacing up and down this filthy hut, his memories full of happier, more prosperous times. He slammed the table with his palm. Stubbing out the cigarette, he rose clumsily from the chair, knocking it sideways, and lurched towards the shelves, reaching up for the bottle. Lunging at it, he knocked it and, for a moment, it tottered, threatening to fall, before settling back into place. Breathing a sigh of relief, he snatched it, uncorked the top and let the haze of fumes reach into his nostrils, launching a stream of saliva. With trembling fingers, he gripped the bottle and gulped down the liquid, feeling the burning pleasure as it slipped down his throat. He took in a heavy breath and held it there; savouring the moment, conscious of the tears prickling his eyes, such was his relief. As he breathed out, he smiled and felt his muscles relax.

  ‘No more than a few sips,’ he said, as he took a second swig, swiftly followed by a third. No, it never used to be like this.

  Chapter 4: Liars

  The thing about Martin, thought Peter, was that he took offence easily but equally he soon forgot. The day after the incident at the lake, they had walked the four kilometres to school in the neighbouring village as normal, his brother reminiscing about their life in the city. It was the same route taken by Monika but she always maintained a respectable distance and this morning, Peter noticed, she was nowhere to be seen.

  Coming back from school, Peter felt pleased with the day – he had taken part in a dress rehearsal ahead of the school play, a rendition of Little Red Riding Hood. The teacher, Miss Hoffman, had given him the role of a tree and he was enjoying dressing up in green and waving branches around. He never mentioned it to his brother – Martin had been assigned a minor backstage role and although he would never admit it, Peter knew it rankled. But as they entered the village along the dusty road that ran through it, Martin brought it up. ‘You know all your lines then?’ he asked.

  They cut through a cluster of chickens, causing a sudden whirl of feathers and flurry of squawks. The dirty little houses, all squat and rundown, never failed to depress Peter. ‘I only have the one. You were there.’

  ‘I wasn’t really listening. I was planning.’

  ‘Planning what?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  Nearby, the bell of the village church pealed. A horse and cart receded into the distance. An old woman in a black shawl ambled by. Peter said good afternoon but received no response. The villagers had not accepted their presence yet.

  Of all the squat houses, theirs was the worst. One floor and with just a couple of rooms, the low ceiling and tiny windows added to the feel of claustrophobia. Peter opened the heavy door, fearful of what sort of state his father might be in. Most days they found their father either asleep or in a vicious mood – both the result of drinking. Nervously, he stepped in, Martin behind him, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

  The air stunk, as usual, of smoke, alcohol and sweat. On the table a bottle, empty, an upturned glass, and a newspaper that’d been there for over a week. And sitting on the floor with cigarette butts scattered round him, was their father, laughing quietly for no apparent reason. ‘So, what the bloody hell were you two up to yesterday?’ said their father, struggling to sit up.

  The boys glanced at each other. ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, yesterday morning. Where were you?’

  ‘Erm ... can’t remember,’ said Martin. ‘Walking.’

  Adolphus gripped a table leg and hauled himself to his feet. ‘Where?’

  ‘The forest.’

  ‘Just walking, eh?’ he said, taking a lolloping step towards Martin. ‘Come across anything interesting?’

  Martin stepped back. ‘No.’

  ‘You bloody liar, I know what you were doing, you dirty little sods.’

  Damn her, thought Peter, Monika hadn’t
even hesitated.

  ‘We were only walking, Papa, honestly. Weren’t we, Peter?’

  ‘Yes, Papa, out in the forest.’

  Adolphus belched. ‘Come across any lakes? Come on, answer me that, you peeping toms.’ He lurched forward again, unsteady on his feet. ‘I’ll give you walking in the forest. I’ll teach you to lie to me.’

  ‘Stop it, Papa,’ cried Peter.

  ‘You’re both a disgrace.’

  ‘We’re a disgrace?’ shouted Martin.

  Adolphus straightened, his face contorted in anger as the implication sunk in. ‘Why you... you...’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Peter, surprising himself with the strength of his voice.

  His father turned abruptly to face him, panting, spittle on his lips, fury in his eyes. Peter’s stomach lurched. ‘Papa, please,’ he said, as his father’s shadow fell over him.

  Chapter 5: The Play

  Standing on the stage behind the curtain, dressed as a tree in a brown checked shirt and a green cardigan, Peter peeked through the gap. The village hall was filling up as parents and friends took their places amid the babble of conversation. Monika joined him. ‘Let’s see,’ she said. ‘It’s exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. I’m terrified.’

  ‘Listen to you. You’ll be fine. Anyway, you’ve only got one line.’

  ‘It’s all right for you, you’ve done this sort of thing before.’

  ‘Yes, I’m a natural, as they say. I can’t see my parents yet.’

  ‘I can see mine – right at the back.’

  Monika scanned the audience. ‘Oh yes. Ah, here come Mama and Papa – late as usual. I think the whole village is here.’

  A voice called to them from the side of the stage. ‘Peter, Monika, come back here.’ It was Miss Hoffman, their teacher and, for these last few weeks, their director. The play, Little Red Riding Hood, had been weeks in the planning. Peter knew that the rehearsals, costumes and set design had taken all of Miss Hoffman’s time. Monika had landed the lead part, and here she was dressed in a pink and white dress and a bright red cape. ‘Monika, are you OK? All ready with your lines?’

  ‘I’m fine, Miss Hoffman.’

  ‘Good girl. And how about you, Mr Tree? Oh dear, where’s your crown of leaves?’

  ‘It’s here, Miss H,’ said Peter.

  ‘Good. Don’t call me Miss H. Now don’t worry, you’ll be great; both of you. Let’s join the others.’

  Peter liked Miss Hoffman; he liked the way her hair curled into her face, the smallness of her nose and her finely plucked eyebrows.

  Behind the stage, a gaggle of schoolchildren tore up and down, some in costume, others trying to look authoritative. Miss Hoffman, carrying a clipboard, spoke to each one individually. Tomi, a short but tough boy with cropped hair, had landed the part playing the role of the huntsman, which meant a silly bushy beard and a large swastika sewn on the back of his costume, while his friend, Kurt, a tall, blond boy with a lazy eye, was playing the wolf, complete with a Star of David on his chest. Mr Manstein, the headmaster, a short, bald man with owl-like eyes, appeared, looking flustered and clutching a piece of paper. ‘Everything ready, Miss Hoffman?’

  ‘Yes, Headmaster. We’re ready to go.’

  ‘OK. Well, good luck to each and every one of you. Break a leg.’

  ‘Break a leg?’ asked a girl dressed vaguely as a tree.

  ‘It’s just an expression,’ said Miss Hoffman. ‘It means... oh, it doesn’t matter now.’

  Mr Manstein had taken his place on the stage in front of the curtain. The audience settled down. He welcomed the parents, waxed lyrical on the genius of the Brothers Grimm, writers of Little Red Riding Hood, and launched into a lecture on how great all German writers and composers and artists were.

  Behind stage, Peter, now sporting his crown of leaves, and his fellow cast members listened, getting increasingly nervous. Miss Hoffman flittered around; adjusting hats, tucking in shirts, making sure her charges looked their best. As Mr Manstein finished his introduction, Miss Hoffman gave Martin a nod – his only task was to lift the needle onto the record.

  As the music began and the opening bars sounded around the hall, the narrator, a boy called Albert, deemed to have the most authoritative intonation in the class on account his voice had broken, said his first lines into the microphone: “Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a young girl whom everyone called ‘Little Red Riding Hood’, because she never went anywhere without wearing a cap made of lovely red velvet that her grandmother had given to her...” Monika took her place on the stage. The show had begun.

  *

  Backstage, ten minutes later, Peter was almost skipping with glee. The show was going down well, the audience had laughed in the right places and, most importantly, Peter had remembered his one line. Monika stood beside him waiting for her next entrance. ‘This is fun, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but the strain of artistic endeavour is quite exhausting,’ said Peter, adopting a pompous tone.

  ‘Have you swallowed a dictionary?’

  ‘I overheard Miss H saying it.’

  ‘You are a fool sometimes, Peter. Oh, I’m next – better go.’

  *

  The show was nearing its end; Albert continued his narration: “Our hero huntsman had climbed on a branch and had made a lasso with which to catch the Yid wolf...”

  Miss Hoffman hadn’t been able to fashion a tree with an overhanging branch. Instead she had instructed a carpenter to build her a six-foot high wooden scaffold with a couple of rails. “The huntsman was carefully lowering the lasso from the branch...” Tomi, rope in hand, leant against the rail as the wolf circled beneath. With a loud and unexpected crack, the rail gave way. The audience gasped. Tomi crashed to the stage floor. Clutching his ankle, he let out an anguished cry. Some in the audience laughed, not knowing that Tomi’s fall was not intended. Miss Hoffman pushed her clipboard against Peter’s chest and ran onto the stage. ‘Tomi, are you OK?’

  ‘It’s my ankle – it hurts,’ he said between sobs.

  The audience shuffled uneasily in their seats. A murmur of voices spread across the hall.

  ‘That wasn’t meant to happen, folks,’ said Albert helpfully over the microphone.

  Mr Manstein was also on the stage, feeling Tomi’s ankle. ‘OK, let’s get you off,’ he said. ‘Miss Hoffman, tell someone to stop that ghastly music.’

  ‘Martin,’ she shouted. ‘Stop the music.’

  Peter, standing to the side of the stage, still sporting his leaves, turned to see his brother lifting the needle off the record. What he saw shocked him – Martin was laughing so much, tears were pouring down his face. Peter knew.

  *

  It was a girl in the year below that told on the twins. Later that afternoon, once the audience had dispersed and gone, and the children were preparing to go home, Mr Manstein called Martin and Peter in to see him.

  He invited the twins to sit down. His office was bright with the sun streaming through the large window but it was small; enough room only for desk and a couple of chairs either side. On the desk, a pile of papers and folders, a fountain pen and a bust of Hilter, on the wall a large map of the world flanked by framed portraits of Hitler and the old Kaiser.

  ‘The girl saw one of you Fischbachers with a hacksaw in your hand.’ Peter felt himself wither as the Head held his gaze for a few moments with his owl-like eyes. ‘So, you thought it’d be funny, did you, to saw the rail and then support it with tacks? Tomi is OK, no thanks to you, but he could have broken his ankle. So, was it you, Martin; or perhaps it was you, Peter?’

  ‘It...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It wasn’t either of us, sir,’ said Peter.

  The headmaster steepled his fingers. ‘This girl, who shall remain nameless, is an excellent pupil and I trust her implicitly. I appreciate she may have got you and your brother confused, after all, it’s easy to do, but if she says she saw one of you with a hacksaw, I believe her. W
hich one of you was responsible for this act of sabotage? Which one of you saw fit to destroy Miss Hoffman’s play?’

  The boys glanced at each other. Go on, thought Peter, tell him, tell him the truth. But he knew, from his brother’s determined expression, that he wasn’t going to confess.

  ‘It weren’t me,’ said Martin.

  ‘Nor me,’ added Peter with a sigh.

  Mr Manstein narrowed his eyes. ‘You have one last chance. Speak up or I shall have to cane both of you. Surely, whichever one of you it was, would want to spare your brother unwarranted punishment.’ He spoke slowly – ‘So, I ask again, which one of you was it?’

  Peter’s fingers tightened behind his back. If he ever needed his twin to be brave, this was it. He needed his brother to take responsibility for his own deeds. Surely Martin cared enough for him to save Peter from being caned. But as Martin kept his silence, the bitter truth hit him – his brother cared nothing for him. He had an idea – it was risky, but he needed to force the issue, to test his brother’s loyalty. ‘Headmaster, sir,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes, Peter?’

  ‘It was me.’

  Mr Manstein raised an eyebrow. For what seemed an age, he said nothing; Peter could sense his disappointment. Martin, not able to prevent himself, shot him a look. Finally, Mr Manstein spoke. ‘Martin, have you anything to say?’

  Please, thought Peter, say something. Prove yourself to me.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Headmaster, sir, all I can say is that I am ashamed of my brother’s behaviour.’

  *

  Half an hour later, Peter walked slowly home by himself, his hand down the back of his trousers, trying to ease the throbbing pain across his backside where the cane had done its brutal work. He was crying. But it wasn’t the pain that was causing him to cry.

  Chapter 6: The School

  ‘OK, that’s enough now, quieten down, please.’ Mr Rich, the teacher, was wanting to start his lesson, dressed as always in his usual suit, an odd muddy brown colour and stained from excessive use, and his hair greased back, accentuating the carefully executed middle parting. Peter and Martin, as the sons of a known communist, sat towards the back away from the other pupils as if their mere presence might infect their loyal Hitler Youth classmates. The classroom was small but with enough desks and chairs to sit the twenty children in the class. Smudged-yellow paint peeled off the walls, the windows layered with years of grime, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. Even on this warm June morning, it smelt dank, thought Peter, like an old man’s vest.