Everything was simpler here, his needs more basic – shooting, drinking and the occasional fuck – what else did a man need? And now that he was thinking about it, that little girl’s mother was rather nice. Fulsome breasts and that seductive smile. He hadn’t taken much notice of her that time she came to tell him of the twins’ peeping tom activities but that was back during his darkest days. The girl, Monika, she had her mother’s looks. One day, she’d make a good wife for one of the twins. Assuming she could tell one from the other. Maybe, the boys could take turns with her! She’d never know the difference.
They’d reached the spot Otto always gravitated to. A good place for rabbits and birds. Otto told him he once shot a kingfisher at the lake, which, considering their size, was no mean feat. Even if it was true, which he didn’t think it was, Adolphus hadn’t approved – didn’t seem right shooting something so beautiful.
‘Right then, boys, keep your voices down,’ he said quietly, even though they had hardly said a word all morning. ‘If we lie down for a while in this shallow bit, we might get lucky.’
The twins sat cross-legged in the indent, and looked as if they were expecting a picnic. ‘No, no, not like that; flat – on your stomachs. That’s it.’ He squeezed in between them and lay with his chest on the lip of the hollow, the rifle pointing out. ‘Now, keep quiet and something’s bound to come along soon enough.’
The forest hummed with unseen activity – squawks, squeaks and shrills; an abundance of wildlife but, as yet, none of it visible. Time seemed to tick by and, conversely, stand still at the same time. But either way, it didn’t matter – time was the one thing he had plenty of now. He turned round and Peter had dozed off next to him. A nudge in the ribs brought him round. ‘Sorry, Papa,’ the boy mouthed.
Adolphus smiled; this was, indeed, the life.
‘Shush, I saw something move,’ he said. He clicked the safety catch off the rifle and lowered his eye to level the sight. ‘It’s a rabbit. There, look. See it? Come on, my beauty, a bit closer... that’s it, stay still for Papa Adolphus, keep still, my darling, keep still...’
The crack of the shot brought an eruption of sound throughout the forest, a community of wildlife scurrying, flapping, darting. Behind him, the twins held their breaths.
‘Yes! I think I got it – quickly, boys, let’s see.’ He clambered out of the hollow, the twins on his heels skipping, the three of them whooping with excitement. ‘Over there,’ he said, running, pointing.
He was acutely conscious of his foot slamming into the tree root, the loss of balance, his arms sprawling, hitting the forest floor, and then the explosive crack of a gunshot. A boy's scream pierced the air, screeching up into the trees that suddenly seemed taller than ever.
Chapter 10: Call For Help
Adolphus and Martin stood stock still, their mouths gaping open in shock, the rifle on the forest floor where Adolphus had dropped it. Peter lay on the ground on his side, his hands clenched round his thigh, the blood pouring out between his splayed fingers; his leg trembling. His face, already deathly white, contorted in pain.
Adolphus and Martin looked at each other, each mirroring the other’s fear, their eyes searching for the answers to questions impossible to formulate. Peter’s mouth began emitting a strange noise, strangulated and desperate. Adolphus screamed, falling to the ground over his son. 'Peter, Peter. Oh, God, help me.'
Martin suddenly jerked into action, pulling his shirt off over his head.
‘What’re you doing?’ asked his father, his voice thin, shaky.
‘A bandage.’ But Martin realised he had a problem – how to prise his brother’s hands off his thigh long enough to apply the tourniquet. ‘Papa, help me,’ he shrieked.
Adolphus tried to pull away the iron-gripped fingers one by one, his own fingers quickly becoming submersed in blood as his son’s guttural noises increased. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘We must.’
‘You bloody try, then.’
Martin attempted to pull the hands off by the wrist. The blood, sticky and warm, was coming in torrents. The howl of pain took him by surprise, his brother’s mouth wide open; screaming so loudly Martin thought the forest would cave in. The leg was now visibly shaking, a pool of blood coagulating on the dried leaves. Adolphus knew his own resolve was weakening, his heart pumping so wildly it drowned out his thoughts. Peter’s screams seemed to be penetrating into his brain until he felt as if the noise was coming from within him. How he wanted to escape, to dissolve into the forest and pretend he’d never been there, that this was someone else’s nightmare and not his own. ‘He’s going to bleed to death,’ he shouted. ‘It’s too far to run; I don’t know what to do.’
'We have to try,' said Martin, his eyes full of tears. 'I’ll go.’
'Go then, boy, go.'
Peter had stopped screaming, instead emitting a constant groan while his father crumpled into a fit of sobs. Peter’s thigh was now soaked in blood, his reddened hands stuck fast over the hastily-bandaged wound. Then, Peter opened his eyes and looked straight at him. ‘Papa, please...’ he muttered, before closing his eyes and screeching again.
‘Get going, boy!’
Martin never realised he could run so fast. The trees passed him in a blur, his feet barely touching the forest floor. He ran down a slope that gradually steeped. By the time he reached the bottom, his feet couldn’t keep up with themselves and he fell and slid through a carpet of leaves. Bracing himself for the pain that never came, he sat up, his breath loud enough to block out all other sounds except that of his heart. He wiped his brow and realised his whole body was soaked in sweat. I’ve got to keep going, I’ve got to keep going.
He still had a good kilometre back through the wheat fields to get to the village, the shithole, as his father called it. Unable to run at speed any more, he jogged, conscious of the noise in his chest; of his heart weighing him down.
The ramshackle village was in sight now – the whitewashed one-storey houses with their sun-baked thatched roofs. In the distance he could hear a dog barking and the drone of the village’s one tractor. His legs felt as if they were made of wood, he couldn’t catch his breath. The scene in the forest came back to him – Papa’s face as white as chalk, the pool of crimson red, the quaking leg, the faint smell of cordite. He picked up speed as he approached the village, rehearsing a scrabble of words, wondering whether to break the news to his mother.
He decided to head straight for the more popular of the village’s two cafés. It was Sunday lunchtime and, as he expected, every seat outside was occupied. Nowadays, at least, he could approach people without them whispering, “Here comes one of the commie boys”. His face was familiar to them now.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, his head still pounding, conscious of the sweat pouring off him. ‘Excuse me...’ He feared he was about to faint.
Gathered round a wooden table sat about five men, each with a glass of beer, and a tray of nuts between them. ‘My, what have we here?’ said one of them, a village elder with a long beard, wearing his Sunday best. ‘Are you all right, lad?’
Trying to control his breathing, Peter pointed towards the forest. ‘My brother. He’s been... been shot.’
‘Shot?’ said the men in unison.
‘What do you mean shot; are you sure?’
‘Accident. The rifle. He’s shot.’
‘Otto’s rifle?’
Did it matter whose bloody rifle it was? ‘Help him... please.’
The elder spoke for him, taking charge of the situation. ‘Well, don’t just sit there like lemons, you idiots, go help him. Hans, you requisition Mr Wittmann’s car – we can drive round the back way; it’ll be quicker. Max, you grab Dr Reger from his Sunday shag; Matthias, you get to Butcher Schmidt and take one his meat trolleys – we might need it as a stretcher; and Wilhelm, you get me another glass of beer.’
The man called Hans spoke. ‘Mr Wittmann won’t let us use his car on a Sunday.’
‘Silly old fool. Tell him I said
it's a party order; that should sort him out. Get to it then, you idiots.’
Martin watched as the motley specimen of villagers each took a last swig of their drinks and only then, reluctantly, took up their orders. Hans shot him a grudging look. Martin realised how much they’d resented having their Sunday routine interrupted. None of them looked as if they were in any urgent hurry. He felt grateful that someone had taken control and relieved him of the responsibility. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘That’s all right, lad. Once a soldier, always a soldier. Now, how did it happen?’
Martin skimmed through the events, his breathing still too laboured to allow him to relate the details.
The elder nodded knowingly as if it was a daily occurrence. ‘What about your mother? Does she know yet?’
It was only then that the thought hit home – he might never see his brother again. By the time they reached his brother, he’d probably be dead. The full impact of this thought took a few seconds to absorb. And as the notion exploded in his brain, he burst into tears.
Part Two
Three years later: Hitler’s 50th birthday, 20th April 1939
Chapter 11: Birthday
‘And so, on this tumultuous day, fifty years ago, Easter Day 1889, our great leader was born.’ The speaker, Michael Zeiss, the squat-faced chairman of the local Nazi Party branch, had been speaking for over a quarter of an hour and Peter was bored. ‘Never before has a country been in such need, never before had this proud nation of ours called out in such desperation. Hyperinflation, economic ruin, the cruel legacy of the war, the repressive terms of the Versailles Treaty. All that humiliation, a stain on our proud history, wiped away by the genius of one single man. Adolf Hitler, the greatest friend this country has ever had, the greatest political and military leader of all time...’
It was Hitler’s fiftieth birthday. The day had been declared a national holiday; the country celebrated. War may have been on the horizon but today, at least, was to be a day of national celebration. Zeiss proposed a round of three cheers for ‘our beloved Führer.’ Dotted round the fringes of the audience were various hard-looking men in uniform, men of the Gestapo, there to ensure the villagers enjoyed themselves in a sufficiently appropriate manner.
The communities of the three local villages had gathered for the birthday celebrations. Chairman Zeiss delivered his speech from a two-foot high podium, erected specifically for the purpose by Peter’s father’s glass-eyed friend, Otto. Every building, every house in the village was decked in swastika flags and banners, the villagers all wore their best outfits and greeted each other with hearty ‘Heil Hitlers’ and handshakes and kisses.
‘Hip, hip, hooray...’
‘Hooray...’ Peter, clad in his Hitler Youth uniform, cast his eye over the gathering, two hundred or so villagers. Old men with fulsome whiskers and pipes, younger men in dungarees, specially ironed, women with floral dresses and ribbons in their hair, elderly matriarchs in black, wrapped in their best shawls, Party members in their uniforms and Nazi armbands. Two hundred hoorays, two hundred smiles but only a handful of happy hearts amongst them. Except perhaps his own – for eight days ago, Monika had returned. A sick aunt in Lübeck had taken Monika and her mother away almost a year ago. Finally, the aunt had died and now they were back. And what a difference a year makes. The shy girl of eleven months ago was now a self-assured, self-aware young woman of sixteen. Her hair had cultivated an attractive wave, she was taller, elegant and, what’s more, she’d grown a bust, fantastic breasts he couldn’t help but admire. Both Martin and he had fallen over themselves when they first clapped eyes on her, refusing at first to believe this stunning girl was the same Monika they’d always known and reluctantly tolerated. Problem was, every other boy in the village had seen her, and now the boys from the neighbouring villages as well.
‘And now,’ announced Zeiss, ‘the schoolchildren will sing for us...’
One could hear the collective groan. What a relief to be sixteen, thought Peter, because the choir included every child aged fifteen and under. Last year, at the Heroes’ Memorial Day, he too had sung The Rotten Bones Are Trembling and the Horst Wessel Song: “The flag on high! The ranks tightly closed!” But now, he could stand and watch with the men and the older boys of the village. He folded his arms and breathed in. No more a child am I.
Chairman Zeiss made his way off the swastika-bedecked podium and suddenly, with a shriek, half disappeared from view. A burst of laughter broke forth from the crowd. Peter craned his neck – Zeiss’s foot had gone through a plank of wood on the podium, and he was now being helped out by two ashen-faced village elders. Otto, who’d been standing not that far from Peter, vanished. Zeiss re-emerged, red-faced and dishevelled, his glasses skewed across his nose. ‘Who’s responsible for this contraption?’ he bellowed, as the laughter died away, the crowd conscious of the steely Gestapo men watching them with narrowed eyes.
‘Really sorry, Chairman, perhaps it wasn’t assembled properly,’ said one of the elders.
‘Why in the hell not?’
Another elder whispered in Zeiss’s ear. That’s Otto done for, thought Peter.
The children sung robustly, their words crisp and rehearsed because, as Peter knew, they would have practised the songs numerous times daily for weeks on end, so that they’d all be heartily sick of them by now.
He could see Monika speaking to Tomi and Albert, also in uniform. Tomi, once the class rebel, had seen his status gradually diminish as his weight rapidly increased while Albert had grown unfeasibly tall. Monika looked bored by them both, her eyes darting this way and that, looking for an escape. By God, she was lovely now, and she knew it. What a change, what a transformation. But a small part of him missed the Monika of old, the Monika he could speak to without blushing, the Monika he could ignore but was always there. Their happy gang – Martin, Peter and Monika. But now she was too much a catch to be considered automatically theirs – every boy wanted Monika for himself. Including Tomi. Poor old Tomi, with his boy breasts and his flabby eyes – he was wasting his breath on her. But Albert, tall, blonde and handsome... well, he was a worry.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Martin had re-appeared.
‘No you don’t, you don’t always know what I’m thinking.’
‘I reckon it’s fairly obvious in this instance,’ he said, nodding towards Monika.
Peter rolled his eyes. ‘Fair point, I suppose.’
‘She’s going to the dance. I’m asking her out.’
Peter was appalled, having had the same idea. ‘You can’t.’
Martin laughed. ‘And pray, why not?’
‘Because...’
‘Oh, don’t tell me, because you, my dear brother, were planning the same.’
There were, thought Peter, distinct drawbacks in having telepathic minds. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well, may the best man win and all that, but you can’t dance with that leg of yours.’
‘Can.’
‘Nah, and I’ll tell you now – you may as well give in.’
Typical Martin, thought Peter. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because,’ said Martin, lowering his voice, ‘I have a secret weapon guaranteed to melt any heart.’
Peter knew by the flash in his brother’s eyes that this was not bluff. ‘What? Go on, tell me.’
Martin laughed again and tapped his nose. ‘See you later,’ he said, as he slid away into the crowd.
Mercifully, the children had finished their recital, concluding with a rousing ode to the Führer and his achievements. The gathering clapped politely. The Gestapo men clapped in an exaggerated, almost comical fashion, a direct signal to the assembled that their applause lacked sufficient enthusiasm. The crowd accordingly took their cue.
So what, wondered Peter, was this secret weapon of his brother’s? He headed home, determined to discover, because whatever Martin was hiding, it was bound to be in the house somewhere. His father was standing outside, near the front door, smoking. ‘Hello, so
n. You OK?’
‘Fine thanks, Papa.’
His mother was inside, entertaining a couple of her female friends. A pan of water boiled on the stove. ‘Tea, Peter?’
‘No thanks.’ He headed straight for the boys’ bedroom. Even at midday, the room was dark with only the feeblest of light bulbs to cast any light. He delved under Martin’s bed, ran his hand behind the books, checked through his clothes, looked inside his boots – but nothing.
Perhaps it was just a bluff after all; Martin playing psychological games – he wouldn’t put it passed him. He was determined, for once in his life, not to play second fiddle to his brother. But somehow, he knew fate would be against him – as always.
*
The day passed with more speeches that no one dared miss, more singing, and even a parade. The younger children snaked through the village dressed as fat Jews, stamping their feet and singing The Stars and Stripes with ironic passion. How proudly they wore their grotesque masks, with pillows stuffed down their shirts, and bearing banners with slogans writ large: Let their blood run on our swords, the time of the Jew is over! The villagers greeted them with much laughter and applause.
Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw Martin with Monika. The two of them were giggling and sharing a joke. Immediately, Peter lost interest in the parade and felt the bitter taste of jealousy rise up within him. As the procession snaked along, the adults followed, stamping their feet in time with the children’s singing. He noticed Martin and Monika join the procession somewhere in the middle. Peter followed suit, ten yards or so behind, and found himself next to Tomi.
‘Fun this, don’t you think?’ said Tomi, his chin wobbling. ‘That Monika turned out tasty.’
Tasty? What a revolting word, thought Peter. How dare he pass opinion on her; she’d been part of his gang, it was too late for the likes of Tomi to try to muscle in. He wanted to lay some sort of claim on her but realised that unless he acted quickly, Martin alone would steal her for himself – secret weapon or no secret weapon. The parade was now marching down the main street that divided the village into two. And then he saw them go, a quick sprint towards the café and behind.
My Brother the Enemy Page 5