*
The Chosen Ones Julius Becker was locked up in the punishment cell for five whole days. His punishment was solitary confinement or, as the term was, einzeln geben, and while he was held there he served as the institution’s bad conscience even though nobody dared to say anything. On the sixth day, in the morning just after Julius had been released, Doctor Jekelius, the medical director, came on a visitation. Adrian had seen the medical rounds come and go before but this was the biggest one so far and, when they got up that morning, Mrs Rohrbach used the clapper to make very clear that there was no time to lose – straightaway, off to the washrooms! Then go stand in line! The children who hadn’t had time to finish making their beds were pulled along and out into the corridor with Rohrbach shoving them from behind. Line-up meant that they had to stand in two rows, the youngest in front and the older ones behind. Jockerl stood in the middle of the front row. In the back row, Becker stood next to Miseryguts and Hannes Neubauer, who as usual didn’t move a muscle in his face. They had to wait for more than an hour and were not permitted to move their feet or even straighten their necks. Their nervous minders kept rushing to the windows to see if they weren’t coming and then, at last, they were on their way. Adrian, who had waited for the inspection rounds many times, still remembers in detail the sounds the medical staff made as they approached. It must have been like when the chords on a huge Baroque organ are being added together until a mighty, complex body of music emerges, music as inherently mysterious and abstract as it is terrifyingly able to fill and penetrate every space, every soul and thought. The approach of the round begins plainly: you hear doors opening and closing in the stairwell, then the harmless scraping of feet as people walk on the stairs, soon to mingle with the monotonous rumble of a group talking. The talk later splits into single voices, women and men can be heard speaking across each other, some mumbling, others sounding more insistent. The mass of sounds grows stronger and louder until, suddenly, it is as if a dam has given way, the ward doors open and the white-coated horde pours into the corridor, a dense crowd of junior and more senior doctors making up the bulk of the procession, followed by a tail of nurses and nursing assistants whispering together, but in an order related to their rank or status, and always an ‘appropriate’ distance of one or a couple of steps behinds the medics. This time, Doctor Gross led the procession. His head was inclined politely to listen to Matron Klara Bertha, who was apparently informing him of something of the greatest import. Doctor Hans Krenek was at their heels. Krenek was responsible for the childcare institution’s educational role (in practice, he was the headmaster) and Edeltraud Baar, the psychologist, was walking at his side. Baar was an older woman who used to come along to the day room after the quiet hour and gather up their completed writing and drawing exercises. Recently she had been observed in the corridor several times, talking with Mrs Rohrbach after visiting Becker in his cell. Eventually, Adrian also caught sight of Doctor Erwin Jekelius somewhere in the middle of the cluster of doctors. He looked surprisingly young and might have been taken for an accompanying junior medic if it hadn’t been for the observant look in his eyes and his restrained way of walking, as if any minute he might have to take control over where he was going and what he had to do next. He took a folder full of documents that Sister Bertha handed him but turned to the boys at once, without looking in the folder, and briefly cleared his throat. Immediately, everyone fell silent. Even at the edge of the group, where Doctor Gross had been continuing his conversation with Matron, the talk died down as if someone had turned a switch.
Children, Doctor Jekelius began,
I shall begin by reminding you why you are here.
(He spoke in the same way as he moved, in a low voice, sounding slightly tense but at the same time almost too gentle.)
I am not sure that you understand that you are the chosen ones. One day will be the everlasting day when the Great German Reich will arrive and you will be granted the delight of growing up in the light instead of enduring the shame and darkness that has been the fate of your fathers and mothers. However, you children must also be aware of the sacrifices that stepping up into this light of day has demanded. Not only have our brave soldiers who fight in the trenches been forced to risk their lives for your sakes, but you who are the chosen ones must know that obligations come with such a privilege.
Terrible offences have been committed here, in your section. The name of our Führer has been denigrated. The boys who were guilty of this have been punished but I will now make it clear to you, once and for all, that misdemeanours of this kind will not be tolerated. They must be rooted out and shall be rooted out even if they have to be burnt out of your bodies. To carry our German flag high, and to honour our Führer everywhere and at all times, are not only our obligations and highest responsibilities. These are also ways in which we prove that we are chosen. A true Aryan, proud of his race and his people, will regard the regulations of this institution as his guide and apply them rigorously. In doing so, he will become an ideal for others to follow. Even though he is not yet strong or grown up enough to bear arms in defence of the Reich and the Führer, he is still willing to make every sacrifice asked of him, as he knows that this is how he can show his true origin and his deepest loyalty. And, as for the rest of you – children! – you who believe it possible to get away with guile and laziness – for you I have the message that not one of you who have not been proven worthy will be saved. Not one. Heil Hitler!
HEIL HITLER! The reply rose from the tightly constricted throats of thirty children who all raised their arms in the correct German greeting. Doctor Jekelius had turned away as if the sight of all these suddenly far too eager boys made him weary. Next, the selection process would follow and the selected chosen ones separated from the less worthy. Accompanied by Mrs Rohrbach, a smiling Doctor Gross walked slowly past the boys in the front row. Then he turned and started to walk back, meanwhile scrutinising the boys in the back row while Mrs Rohrbach read to him from a list of names. Now and then, Gross would stop, take hold of an arm or a chin, sometimes simply using his thumb to part lips that fear had kept tightly closed or to force screwed-up eyelids apart. Now and then, he said something incomprehensible for Sister Bertha to note in the big folder. And then they reached Julius Becker. They stayed there for what must have been just a short moment but which felt like an eternity to everyone. Nobody said anything. Doctor Gross smiled. And went on to say: We can only hope that you have improved somewhat, Becker, now that you’ve had time to think through the consequences of what you did. Still, he didn’t sound angry or anything, just amused. He also kept smiling (he had smiled like that at Sister Bertha, in a partly knowing, partly supercilious way) and even winked, barely noticeably, with one eye as if to send a message to say that what would happen next was a matter between him and Julius, and nobody else. How Julius reacted is not on record, because the boys could not turn their heads to have a look, but they could all see how Doctor Gross searched in the pockets of his white coat and found a small, round sweet, peeled the wrapper off with seductively slow finger movements. He then held the sweet up between thumb and index finger, delicately, as if it were a precious object, before popping it into Julius Becker’s mouth, and he kept looking at him (his smile, if possible, even more comradely and encouraging) until Julius had started to suck at the caramel, at which point he nodded gently, contentedly. All the while, he kept a keen eye on the folder in which Sister Bertha now was writing very quickly as if there wasn’t enough time to make a note of all essentials. And then it was all over, the procession reformed, more quietly now, though some of them were still chatting, and they set out along the corridor where Mrs Rohrbach stood, ready to open the door for them like a hostess about to say goodbye to her guests. And that was that (once more, but now it was final) and for those left behind, still standing with straight backs, and eyes locked onto the row of windows opposite, it was impossible to work out what was worst: the realisation that whatever had happened was irrevoc
able, that what had been decided at the inspection was a sentence that would be carried out, or the certainty that this was how things were and would be forever after, and that whatever plans they might dream up, they would never escape this kind of scrutiny and, yes, more than that, that the entire purpose of their existence here was the inspection with its crowning event when the reward for having been chosen, as promised, was the sweet that Doctor Gross with such punctiliousness inserted into the cavity of your mouth and watched to see being sucked so there was no way to remove the dank taste, mingling with the sticky sweet caramel flavour, of that alien finger inserted into your mouth and touching your tongue or the inside of your cheek. Eventually Adrian, too, would come to belong to the happy group of selected boys who were given one of Doctor Gross’s sweets. For as long as the inspection continued, no one was safe.
*
Interrogation of a Traitor of the Fatherland From that day, Julius Becker seemed transformed. Before, he had been drifting about, scowling and withdrawn. Back then, the only time he brightened up at least a little was when his titular uncle delivered one of his rare parcels. After the inspection, Becker smiled continuously but it was a flat, dumb, joyless smile. When he opened his mouth, his gums were the colour of cement and his eyes, always directed at you but apparently not seeing you, looked as dull. Everyone knew that his end was nearing. Every day that passed with him still among them was painful. When they lined up to march off to school, Miseryguts was twisting with discomfort. He asked Hannes if they wouldn’t come soon for the traitor to the Fatherland and take him away. Away, where? Hannes asked. And Miseryguts knew: to pavilion 15, of course. Julius stood just behind them but looked unmoved. His smile and his unseeing eyes did not flicker. Mr Hackl knew, too. Why else would he torment Becker with lots of questions when he hadn’t as much as glanced at him before? All the schooling took place in pavilion 13, to the right of pavilion 15 and opposite the kitchen, which was on the other side of the site’s central axis path that ran from the main entrance all the way to the church with the angels. Structurally, pavilion 13 was very like their own building but with the difference that the two floors had been changed to schoolrooms for four classes, all furnished with rows of coat hooks and linoleum on the floors to conserve heat. Mr Hackl taught older and younger children, and both boys and girls, but in separate classes. It was obvious that he preferred to be with the older boys, which conferred more of a sense of power and status even though, when all was said and done, each and every one of them was (as he incessantly told them) of the same ilk, all unteachable thieves and ruffians. Mr Hackl wore a monocle, though he could have been little more than thirty years old, and boasted that he was related to the great explorer Julius Payer who, in 1873, had discovered the group of islands in the Arctic called Franz Josef’s Land. Or, Emperor Franz Josef’s Land, as Mr Hackl would have it. The islands made up the world’s northernmost archipelago, an uninhabitable place although nonetheless conquered by the Austrians, of course, characterised as they are by the resilience, self-discipline and willpower so typical of the Germanic race. Most of Mr Hackl’s lessons, not just those in the natural sciences and geography, often ended up as long lectures on the character of mankind, how human moral strength and stature were reflected in physical activities and also, he argued, the other way round. Each lecture left him utterly exhausted, as if he had trudged across the same icy plains as Payer and his companions, so he had to support himself against the teacher’s desk and wipe his forehead with a hanky. With an almost resigned gesture, he let the class take over the exploration of the topic by asking them a series of quick questions, like this one for Julius Becker:
Can Becker tell us what an evil person is?
The question was so surprising that most of them had no time to turn round to look but if Becker himself was surprised, he didn’t show it. Unhesitatingly, he opened his mouth, inside which one could already see the grey bones of his cranium and said calmly, quietly, but with certainty:
An evil person is an extortionist and profiteer whose deceits and betrayals shame and dishonour the entire German race.
Mr Hackl didn’t seem surprised either. He even looked pleased, as if he had recovered a little from his fatigue:
And what do we call such evil people, Julius?
We call them Jews and Bolsheviks, Mr Hackl.
And what about yourself, Becker, what kind are you? A Jew or a Bolshevik?
This time, Julius didn’t have his answer ready quite so promptly. But Mr Hackl didn’t care because he had got what he wanted and turned to the class:
I can inform the rest of you that Becker isn’t a Jew because then he wouldn’t be here. How we treat Bolsheviks is a matter I’ll tell you about tomorrow.
That was the end of the lesson. Nobody said anything else. After the midday-meal break, Mr Hackl switches to teaching arithmetic. They get their ‘homework’ problems to solve during the quiet hour. As usual, they sit straight-backed, with their hands on the table, and stare at their notebooks. This time it is Nurse Demeter’s turn to supervise them. She scans her subdued flock, eyes sharp inside her long, scoured, red-nosed face. After half an hour, Julius puts his hand up. Do you want the toilet? Demeter asks. Like Nurse Mutsch, she knows the routine. Small or large? Julius says large and Mrs Demeter sighs, goes to pick up the keys and brings two pieces of toilet paper. Julius gets up and follows her outside.
Scissors, says Hannes Neubauer.
No one has a clue what he means, as usual.
Then darkness falls and a boy walks inside the Mountain.
*
Guardian Angels The children in Spiegelgrund have guardian angels watching them from the summit of Gallitzinberg. Like the world’s children, the angels are innumerable. They stand with their arms draped across each other’s shoulders, like football players, so close that no one can get up to or past them. In case the Mongols attack, the guardian angels will protect us, Nurse Mutsch explains. To give the children an idea of the Mongols, she puts two fingers slant-wise over her eyes, bends forward and bares her teeth in a dreadful grin. Mongols and Bolsheviks are the same, really, she says. They eat children. That’s why a lamp that casts a pale blue light must always be on in the dormitory when the children are asleep. If the Mongols were to attack, the nurses must have time to lead the children to the shelters and lock all the doors so the Mongols can’t get in. Julius Becker doesn’t believe the bit about the angels on the mountain and, on quite reasonable grounds, he doesn’t believe in the Mongol story either. But he does believe in that strange, bluish angel-light that every night lifts the white-painted bedsteads and bedside tables from the floor and makes them float free in darkened space. This night, too, all the children are adrift. They are hanging helplessly inside their dreams, as if enclosed in large white cocoons. Inside one of these cocoons, Julius Becker slowly closes his hand around the handle of the pair of scissors he stole from the nurses’ room. Afterwards, there will be much talk about the scissors and how Julius could have got hold of them. All tools and equipment that might hurt a child must be kept locked up in the appropriately designated cupboards or similar spaces and only Mrs Rohrbach or members of staff trusted by her have access to the keys, which means that if any such key goes missing or is suspected of having ended up in the wrong hands, the loss must instantly be reported. No report had been submitted. Nobody has seen any keys in the wrong place. Also, nobody has noticed that a pair of scissors has gone missing. However, it has of course been known for a long time that Julius Becker was in the habit of sneaking about without permission to investigate cupboards and drawers. Several of the children have already admitted as much. One morning, he was caught trying to hide writing exercises under his bed, actually quite comical efforts but nonetheless done without permission. In other words, cunning and deceit are not at all unfamiliar aspects of this child’s behaviour. Why should he not also have managed to steal a pair of scissors without anyone noticing? But Julius sees the scissors quite differently: a long, thin obje
ct with properly sharp blades that feels warm to hold. At least, his fingers go warmer as he closes his hand around it. He might be thinking: I’ve got it now. Perhaps also: now Nurse Mutsch can’t open my parcels. Or maybe he took the scissors simply to have a weapon to defend himself with. Against the other children, or against Nurse Mutsch, who came to him in the isolation cell, bent over him and spat in his face before demanding to be told what made him believe he deserved extra rations when no one else could have them, and then went for his pathetic little body, shoved his elbows and his drawn-up legs apart and hit him where it hurts most, on his midriff and genitals, on the small of his back and his neck, hit his Adam’s apple until he couldn’t draw air into his lungs and couldn’t get a scream out either so it stuck, as if inside a gigantic, brightly lit space full of pain. Now, he has a pair of scissors in his hand but the pain is still inside him. Nurse Mutsch is still there, too. She bends over him and spits and rubs her saliva into his lips and closed eyelids. You swine, she says. You have no right to live. We’ll either send you to the idiots or else the doctor will inject you here and now. And the scissors are no longer scissors. The object rises into the blue light, floating as the other objects do, he must get it back down before Mrs Rohrbach comes in and discovers it and, the moment he thinks this, Mrs Rohrbach is there. She slams the clapper against his bed, only his bed and nobody else’s. Bang bang bang bang! it goes and all around him, the children climb out of bed and come to stand around him shouting BANG BANG BANG BANG! and Julius has to silence them and grabs the scissors with both hands, lifts them high up in the air and plunges the blades straight into himself, right into his middle. And then silence falls. For an instant, it seems as if even the blue angel-light dies down. But then the light comes back on and with it comes a pain too enormous to grasp and he clenches his teeth and contracts his nose and mouth to shut in the terrible scream that is raging inside him. Now he knows he can’t get away with it. Not after taking the scissors. Not after what he has done with them. This time he must stab himself deeply, at best so deeply that the blades can’t be pulled out and the thought of how he must do this grows so big there is hardly room for it in his head, it becomes even bigger than the pain and the glisteningly cold wave of nausea that flows through his body but, in that moment, he can’t feel any hands holding the scissors. What can he do without hands? He loses his grip, manages to grab the edge of the mattress and haul his whole body around so that he lands on top of the scissors and, this time, the blades pierce the membrane lining of his abdomen, then his intestines, go all the way inside him where everything explodes, and the pain, too, and all bursts out, washes out; as if drowning, he reaches for the blanket, bites into it to hang on and save himself from the rising sea of blood that is pouring out of him and to save his scream, too, before it erupts from him. And no scream comes. Or perhaps he has already screamed, only so loudly he didn’t hear it. Now all he hears is the sound of blood running over the edge of the bed onto the floor. He listens to it running, then dripping – drops falling in a rhythm that slows steadily – until, finally, the drips stop and only the bluish-violet angel glow is left, although it is also fading as the faint dawn light comes through the curtains and starts to make the white-painted beds blanch and their shapes solidify, as do the floor and the walls and the sleeping children. Daylight also brings the dry clatter of the day nurses’ cork-soled sandals hurrying along the corridor outside; then, the sound of keys rattling, of double doors opening and Mrs Rohrbach entering, there’s a shrill screech of her whistle, she claps her hands … one two three four … and everyone wakes apart from Julius who stays curled up in his bed, half on his back, half on his belly and, between his two partly clenched hands just below the diaphragm, the handles of the scissors protrude like a big white shout and there is blood everywhere: on the sheets, down the side of the bed, on the floor, even around Julius’s eyes and mouth. His lips are twisted into a rigid grimace. But for the fear in his eyes, even after death, one might have thought he was lying there, laughing Mrs Rohrbach straight in the face.
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