My Brother the Enemy

by Rupert Colley

  And together they shared an apartment in a down-to-heel suburb in the eastern part of the city. Things were going well – too well. They knew it couldn’t last, their lives were simply too frivolous at a time of war. Sure enough, four years ago, the summer of ’40, the twins received their call-up papers, ordering them to report at the recruiting battalion headquarters at a specified time. They duly turned up, only for Peter to be sent home almost immediately. His father’s shooting rifle had left him with a permanent limp. He returned home unsure whether to be relieved or ashamed. Monika’s reaction didn’t help. ‘Surely, they could have found you something to do,’ she’d said. Meanwhile, Martin passed his physical and mental examinations with ease – after all, a former Hitler Youth boy, he’d done his two years’ conscription; he was a fit young man of 18; there’d be no reason for him not to. Monika’s dancing school had closed down; now she worked as a teacher of primary school kids while Peter now worked as an assistant to the manager of a state-run munitions factory.

  A bright autumnal Sunday morning, Peter and Oskar were returning home with a loaf of bread each and a few vegetables and a lemon – their fruits of having queued for hours. ‘Chin-up,’ said Oskar. ‘Could be worse.’

  Peter frowned. ‘Don’t see how.’

  Oskar wore, as usual, his woolly hat with its earflaps tied over the head and a long burgundy-coloured coat. Like an urban scarecrow, his six-foot-five frame marked him out from the crowds milling about.

  They made their way home through the wrecked streets, gazing vaguely at the now familiar sights of destruction – facades blasted away, lampposts bent, fallen timbers, trailing tramlines, broken glass littering the ground, fragments of brick and stone strewn around. Two elderly men sat on an upturned crate at the roadside, leaning on their walking sticks, their coats filthy and torn, their shoes caked in dust. Oskar laughed. ‘Look at them,’ he said. ‘That’ll be you and your brother in a few years’ time.’ Near them, a burnt out car, covered in soot.

  Their apartment block on Kaiserstrasse had largely been spared the bombs – again. It always amazed Peter how it could survive such attacks, but apart from some damage to the roof, superficial stuff, Jünger had described it, it remained standing while neighbouring blocks had been pulverised.

  Peter invited his friend in. Oskar declined, saying he had things to do.

  ‘Like what exactly?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Sleep.’

  Peter returned to an empty apartment and had a wash. The bath was full of water – a ready supply in case their water was cut off. Taking Oskar’s lead, he lay on the settee and dozed off.

  There was a loud knock on the apartment door. It wouldn’t be Monika, who’d gone out to use her meat rations, she had her own key. Groggily, he rose to his feet, rubbing his left thigh, just above the knee, a constant reminder of the shooting accident. Another knock. ‘Coming,’ he shouted. How long he’d been asleep, he didn’t know. It was not yet lunchtime, the sun, streaming through the shattered windows, exposed the layers of dust everywhere.

  He went to open the door, fully expecting to see Mr Jünger who, as block warden, made not infrequent calls on all his tenants.

  It took him a few moments to register – a soldier on his threshold, a great coat, a hefty rucksack over his shoulder, a finger hooked round the strap of a helmet knocking against his leg. His mind momentarily clouded. ‘Is that–?’

  ‘Hello, Peter.’

  His heart thumped. That was his voice alright. ‘Christ, I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘Good to see you too,’ he said quietly.

  ‘My God, what... what are you doing here?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  ‘What? Yes, yes, of course. C-come in.’

  Peter stood at the door, his hand on its knob, watching as his brother traipsed into the apartment, dropping his helmet, letting his rucksack slip off his shoulder, yanking off his coat, leaving them all heaped on the floor, and almost falling onto the settee. ‘Christ, I’m knackered. Any chance of some coffee?’

  ‘Ersatz?’

  ‘That’ll do,’ he muttered, his hand, on the side of the armchair, propping up his head.

  Feeling suddenly self-conscious, aware of his brother’s presence, Peter filled a pan with water and lit the gas. Waiting for the water to boil, he picked up his brothers things from the floor and hung them all on the coatrack. The coat, crusted with dried mud and dirt, felt heavy. It all stunk; even the rucksack stunk. Then, hoping his brother wouldn’t notice, he washed his hands. Martin had aged; his eyes seemed almost lifeless, lacking in any expression except perhaps resignation and a deep weariness.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d still be here,’ said Martin without looking up. ‘I see the whole street’s gone up in smoke. Whole fucking city has.’

  ‘Are you on leave?’ asked Peter, fearing it sounded more like an accusation than a question. He realised he hadn’t seen his brother for over three years, not since the day in ’42 when he left for the Eastern Front. A couple years before that, he and Monika had seen Martin off to France in his new uniform of the Wehrmacht.

  ‘Yep, ten days. Ten whole days. Compassionate leave.’ He scratched his head.

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘I told them my mother had died.’

  Peter managed to stop himself from saying something.

  ‘How’s Monika?’

  ‘Monika? She’s fine; she should be back soon. Gone shopping.’ How simple he made it sound – gone shopping as if it didn’t involve hours of queuing, arguments, elbows and the constant risk of an aerial attack, and all for a couple half-rotten potatoes or some beans.

  ‘Hmm, so she hasn’t run off with someone else then.’

  You bastard, thought Peter. ‘So, how’s Russia?’ he asked.

  ‘Very welcoming,’ he said, scratching himself again.

  ‘Really?’ Too late he realised he’d fallen for his brother’s idea of irony. ‘I mean, what’s it like compared to Paris?’

  His brother laughed without feeling. ‘Paris! Hell, that seems like a lifetime ago. Oh, Paris. It was like a holiday camp. Jesus, what I wouldn’t give to go back there.’ He shook his head, momentarily lost in the memory.

  ‘Here’s your coffee,’ said Peter, placing it on the table next to the settee.

  Martin grabbed his arm, holding him still as he was bent down. God, he stank, thought Peter, sweat, dirt, unwashed clothes. ‘Papa did you a favour, shooting you. You know that now, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Martin let go, took a sip of his coffee. He didn’t grimace at the taste of it; he’d probably had far worse, thought Peter. Closing his eyes, Martin leant back and very quickly fell asleep.

  Peter sat at what Monika optimistically called the dining table and watched his brother. His face was heavily tanned but engraved with a deep fatigue; the first hints of grey were showing at his temples. In no time, his brother had fallen into a deep sleep, sprawled on the settee, his head thrown back, his mouth open. He looked weak, thought Peter – verging on skeletal, his fingers long and bony, his fingernails black with dirt. And inside – inside something had broken; that much was evident. War had changed him. It was obvious it would do – yet it still shocked Peter. Looking at him now, it occurred to him that he could go for days without giving his brother a single thought. He was happier without him but... but he was out there, fighting for the nation, seeing things Peter couldn’t even begin to imagine. Peter knew it, had always known it from that day in 1940 at the recruiting station, that he felt deeply emasculated. Being rejected from that place, being sent home as unfit for service in any capacity, had been a defining moment. Ever since, he’d lived under the label of being weak, of not being a man when his nation needed men more than ever. But being at home, at the mercy of the bombs, was no picnic either, but it didn’t count; at least he knew it wouldn’t in the eyes of Martin. And no, Monika hadn’t run off with someone else. They’d been together too long for that.

/>   Ten days. He was back for ten days. It wasn’t so long; it’d soon be gone. Unless, of course, the British hadn’t blown them to smithereens by then.

  Martin woke up. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he stretched his arms. The apartment door opened. A moment’s hesitation then she screamed on seeing him. Dropping her bag, Monika flew across the room, flinging her arms round him, repeating his name, too excited even to notice the stench. Martin staggered back, laughing, trying to keep his balance, batting off a whole fusillade of questions. When did you get back, how long you’re back for, why didn’t you tell us, is it really you; God, we’ve missed you; we’ve been so worried about you. Haven’t we, Peter?

  Peter, reheating his brother’s coffee in the pan, replied in the affirmative.

  ‘I wrote to you, said I’d be back,’ said Martin once Monika had calmed down.

  ‘We didn’t get it,’ said Monika, sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning forward.

  ‘The post has gone a bit dodgy,’ added Peter.

  ‘Let’s celebrate,’ said Monika. ‘I got some eggs. I’ll bake us a cake. We’ve got a lemon. You need feeding up, Martin. Look at you; there’s nothing left of you.’

  ‘I managed to get a few days leave and then I’m back. I never thought I’d find you. Have you heard from mum and dad? I never thought... never knew it’d be like this. It never stops. The fighting, I mean, the killing. The killing, it just... It’s good to be back. Even if half the city is destroyed. Still good. God, Russia’s fucking horrible. There’s no end to it. You can walk for days. Days and days. You look at the map and realise you’re still on the outline. And the Russians, they even send their women to fight. People call them subhuman. I thought that harsh at first but it’s true – they bloody are, the whole lot of them – subhuman.’ His eyes kept flicking round the room, unable to hold anyone’s gaze for more than a second or two. ‘This place, the flat, it’s just as I remembered it to be. Bit dusty. We could do with a new carpet. And the doorbell – it needs fixing. I thought, once it’s all over, I mean really over, we could go on holiday somewhere. Somewhere faraway. The States, perhaps. Imagine going there. Hollywood, Empire State. Full of Jews, they tell me, Jews and Negroes. Doesn’t bother me. I’d go live on the moon with a bunch of fucking aliens if it meant not going back.’

  ‘Is it really as bad as people are saying?’ asked Monika.

  ‘We keep hearing reports about the where the Russians are.’

  Martin nodded. Peter and Monika watched him as he lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been hearing but yeah, we’re being pushed back at a rate of knots. We can’t hold the front. I’m tired. I could sleep for a week.’

  ‘What about these new weapons we keep hearing about, these wonder weapons?’

  Staring into his mug of coffee, he said, ‘Yeah, right. Wonder weapons. That should do it. You got anything to eat? Meat, soup, something like that?’

  ‘Yes, we can find something. Martin, have you got lice? You keep scratching yourself.’

  ‘Everyone gets lice.’

  ‘We’ll have to see to it. We’ve got some powder in the bathroom.’

  During the course of the afternoon and the evening, Monika looked after him – running him a bath, helping him shave, washing his clothes while Peter, feeling redundant, wished he could simply vanish.

  Chapter 14: Wounded City

  The following day, with the sun out, the three of them went for a stroll amidst the ruins. Martin, wearing civilian clothing, said he wanted to see the damage for himself. Peter and Monika had to slow down, to allow Martin to keep up. Walking gently, they picked over the rubble and broken glass, Martin stopping frequently, gazing at the destruction, houses stripped of their facades, of buildings reduced to a pile of timber and bricks, of large, gaping craters, the red dust that never settled. Cars blackened and pulverized clogged up a street known for its wealthier apartments. Everywhere the stench of burning, of ash, of death. In one ground floor apartment, a woman was washing clothes in her sink, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her outer wall was no longer there. Martin stopped to watch as people hurried along, their clothes and hair coated in dust, couples pushing their few remaining belongings on carts or wheelbarrows looking for somewhere new to sleep. At the bottom of one street, piled in a doorway, a pile of corpses, a mangle of twisted limbs and grotesque faces. Scooping down, Peter picked up a golden necklace. Martin stopped at a ripped poster on the ground, caught under half a brick – a painting of Hitler in profile, the words in bold gothic script, The Führer will lead us to victory. Further along, they watched a group of people using their bare hands to remove a small mountain of bricks, searching for survivors buried within.

  They went to the park and together sat on a bench, the only one visible that hadn’t been buckled or damaged in some way. Everywhere were trees uprooted, bent double. A couple of feral cats scavenged amongst the fallen branches. ‘This is nice,’ declared Martin, staring at the reflection of the sky on the lake that dominated the middle of the park. ‘Where are the ducks?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably eaten,’ said Monika.

  Martin had bought a newspaper, Der Stürmer, and began reading aloud from it.

  ‘Anyone would think we were playing a football tournament,’ he said, flinging it to one side. ‘It’s all about attack and defence, regrouping, orderly retreats and victory is still ours to be had.’ He paused. ‘To think people believe this shit.’

  A mother, dressed in a shabby coat, her hair greasy and unwashed, passed, pushing a pram. It was only as she got closer did Peter notice the yellow star.

  ‘When will it all end, Martin?’ asked Monika.

  ‘If only I knew, Monika.’ He shook his head. ‘If only I knew.’

  They stayed for an hour, maybe more. Martin, lying on the grass with the newspaper over his face, fell asleep.

  Peter and Monika watched him for a while. ‘He’s changed, hasn’t he?’ said Monika quietly.

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure how but he has.’

  ‘I wonder what it’s like out there.’

  ‘In Russia? It can’t be easy. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.’

  ‘We ought to go soon. Find something to eat.’

  ‘A few more minutes.’

  Eventually, with the sun at its highest, they left the park.

  ‘How you feeling, Martin?’ asked Monika as they entered the desolate street that had once been the most-sought after in the vicinity; a thriving community of flats and shops and cinemas reduced to a wasteland. But still, people scurried about, anonymous identical figures searching for food or shelter or both.

  ‘I don’t know. Tired. Glad to be back, worried about having to go back. Hungry.’

  ‘We’ll look after you. Ah, there goes the siren.’

  ‘Already?’ said Peter. ‘It’s not even lunchtime yet.’

  ‘Look.’

  Following his brother’s gaze, Peter’s heart quickened on seeing the mass of planes in the distance – numerous V-shaped formations of English bombers filling the sky. ‘My god, there must be hundreds of them, thousands.’

  ‘Quickly, we need a shelter,’ said Monika, her eyes scanning the street. People all around scattered in different directions, mothers screaming for their children, old women hitching up their skirts to run more quickly.

  Their approach was swift, the hum of the engines intensifying with each second. If it wasn't so terrifying, thought Peter, the sight of the sun glinting off those metallic birds could almost be considered beautiful. An absurd thought.

  'For God's sake, Martin, hurry up,' shrieked Monika.

  'I can't go any faster.'

  The hum had, all too rapidly, become a roar. Peter could hear the rattle of their machine guns, the whistle of falling bombs. The first wave swooped over them like a swarm of wasps, the noise deafening. Instinctively, they threw themselves onto the ground. Bullets pinged against brick and stone blowing up balls of dust. A house at the end of the street caved in on itself, victim to
a direct hit.

  Getting up, the three of them ran but where to, Peter, his mouth full of grime, had no idea. He clashed into someone, where they'd come from he didn’t know. Spinning round, he realised he’d become separated from the others, unable to see through the clouds of smoke and dust. There was nowhere to hide. Some of these houses might have cellars, even the ones that lay in ruin, but he didn't have the time to seek. Frozen by indecision and abject fear, he called out for Monika.

  More planes, their noise crushing him. Again, the rattle of machine gun fire; death from the skies. He’d fallen in a pothole behind a blackened car. Monika appeared behind him. ‘Where’s Martin?’ he asked.

  ‘I lost him.’

  Taking her hand, he led her on; surely they’d find a shelter.

  An elbow in the face caused Peter to spin round. A lad of the same age stared back, his eyes wide with fright. And then the boy fell into Peter’s arms. Peter caught him. The boy was hot, covered in sweat. ‘Peter!’ screamed Monika. Peter let the boy go. The boy fell limp. Peter’s hand reached again for Monika. They touched but her hand shot back on contact as if caught by an electric current. His hands were red, soaked in blood.

  Sitting upright against a wall, a mother with her arms wrapped round her baby – a neat crimson hole in her forehead. It was the woman from the park – the Jewish mother.

  Monika’s face was contorted with pain. We’re living our last few moments, thought Peter. I love you, Monika.

  It was as if a hammer smashed into his teeth. He didn’t see the person whose elbow caught him so fully on the jaw. He staggered. Falling to his feet, his fingers slipped away from hers. Monika turned. Her hands to her face, she screamed. Only an elbow, Monika. But the blood. Christ, the blood. Oh, fuck, he’d been hit. It felt strange, not quite real. He didn’t know what had happened, the pain was there but it was the panic that overpowered him. He didn’t know what to do. The helplessness of it. Help me, fuck, help me. What’s happening, it was hurting like hell; he was fading away, the world so full of noise was suddenly and strangely very quiet. All these people, so close, so distant. He was by himself. It didn’t feel right. Help me, Monika, help me. Don’t leave me...