Stile Maus

by Robert Wise

  ‘Take my hand, son.’

  Tears raced down the boy’s cheeks, a catch caught his throat. He reached out and grabbed at Felix’s gloved palm. The soldiers at Felix’s side kept their aim straight, deep into the murkiness ahead. As the boy stumbled to his feet a cluster of gunfire broke through the smog, catching a private to Felix’s left. Letting go of the boy’s hand Felix raised his rifle and prodded his helmet away from his brow, before sending three blind shots into the fray. A tussle could be heard and three more outlines breached the haze, their cries stifled and their hidden faces filled with pain and hate. Felix raised his rife until the cold metal met his cheek and he fired twice before ducking down and jabbing a new batch of ammo into the shallow duct. The fallen private was motionless, spread across the muddy ground. The other stood at the edge of the blockade and sent a spittle of quick fire towards the approaching enemy. As each shadow fell, another emerged. Felix rose and shot into the gloom. Fire licked the skies. An explosion of sound surrounded them. He grabbed at the boy and yanked him to his feet, firing another blast at the settling mist. The remaining soldier began to backtrack when a bullet clipped his leg, causing him to hit the mud, palms first. His firearm was swallowed in a matter of seconds and he kicked his heels into the sludge, desperately trying to escape the advance of hurtling foes. Felix glanced behind and caught his comrade’s frightful stare. He came to a halt and told the boy to crouch into the ground, handing him his rifle as he began his journey back into the bustle. The soldier clutched at his leg as he shifted against the slush, his eyes wide with an indescribable fear. Unsheathing the Luger on his waist, Felix unloaded upon the grouping shadows. The soldier seethed through gritted teeth. His words were lost within a gurgle of searing pain. A shrill whistle surged through the skies and before he knew it, Felix was lying with his back in the mud, a simmer of ash and dirt splashed against his face. A smouldering cloud of amber stoked flames rose upwards, swelling around a yellowish moon. The wounded soldier had been turned onto his stomach and no longer moved, his arched back motionless. Swarms of heavy, mud clogged footsteps scattered towards the third barrier. Felix stepped towards his fallen countrymen. A crackle of gunfire cut into the ground before him and he fell back. He looked back at the cowering boy, his face now hidden behind the cover of his bloody fingers. Voices emerged, outlines of angered souls bearing guns. Felix fired another rattle of shots and the Luger croaked as its chamber emptied. He turned and headed for the boy. In a hasty rush he wrapped the young boy’s arm around his shoulder and began to hobble quickly towards the trenches. The boy muttered something under his breath, something quiet, too quiet to hear. He simpered as his eyes drifted onto the ground below.

  ‘Don’t look down,’ Felix bellowed, ‘for Christ’s sake don’t look down.’

  He didn’t remember drifting off. Nor did he recall entering the reel of dreams that followed. Felix tore away the stretch of bed sheets that covered his sweat drenched legs and padded groggily down the stairs and into the kitchen. Klaus sat at the dinner table, munching stubbornly at a triangle of buttered toast. His golden hair was neatly combed and a scatter of crumbs sat amongst the twines of his shirt collar.

  ‘Did you leave any for your Grandpa?’

  Klaus shook his head with a cheeky smile.

  ‘No? What about milk?’

  With a rushed grasp Klaus reached for his glass of milk and gulped down the last few drops, finding it hard not to smirk while doing so.

  ‘I see,’ Felix grinned, ‘I’d better go to the market when a certain someone is at school then, yes?’

  After a toothy smile Klaus hopped down from his chair and scuttled into the living room where he acquired his shoes.

  ‘Just let me make some coffee and I’ll be in to help you with your laces!’ Felix called out. He unscrewed the coffee jar and scooped a heaped stack into a mug. In a matter of moments Klaus returned, a satchel strapped to his shoulder and his laces tied in a perfect knot.

  ‘Well,’ he said, astounded, ‘I’d better get ready.’

  Stuttgart had changed. There was a laziness to the town and its inhabitants, a slowness that seemed almost impossible to evade. The streets were lined with the snowy memories of winter and the dark clouds spoke of more rain.

  ‘Good morning,’ Felix said as he passed old Mrs Wolf. Klaus skipped along the curb up ahead.

  ‘Oh, Felix,’ said a soft voice from across the road. He turned to see Sophia and Elsie, Hugo’s wife and daughter.

  ‘Morning,’ he said with a smile, ‘on the way to school?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sophia said, ‘come on we’ll walk with you.’

  As Klaus and Elsie chased each other up the road, Sophia and Felix kept behind. He could sense her concern.

  ‘So how are things?’ she said, trying to inflict as much subtlety as possible.

  ‘I’m fine, I know you and Hugo worry.’

  ‘Just as long as you’re sure,’ she said. Her hair was kept under the woolly hold of a knitted hat.

  ‘You should come over during the week. Hugo would love to see you.’

  ‘It’s a promise,’ he said. They came to the school gates and said goodbye to the children. Felix watched Klaus skip down into the building and smiled.

  ‘I’ll see you, Sophia. Give my best to Hugo.’

  On the way home Felix stopped off at the market. The stores and stalls were bare, lacking the fruitful colours they once displayed. Before the war he’d come to the market every other Friday and pick out the most beautiful bouquet of roses for Lena. The trail of cobbled road used to be a welcoming place at night. Yellow lights would hang from the lamp posts and a warm tussle of townspeople bustled together against the winter wind. He would hold Lena close, kiss at her cheeks.

  ‘Felix, Felix Kalb?’

  He turned into a nearing hug and a band of frail, bony fingers clinched at the arc of his back, forcing him into a limp embrace. When Felix resurfaced he met the slim face of a pale man, his nose and cheeks laced with the metallic frame of rounded spectacles and his smile magnificently rigid, almost reaching his ears. Felix shook his head politely, too dumbfounded to search for a name.

  ‘Armin, Armin Dreyer,’ relayed the greeter, his hands now rapping firmly against Felix’s chest.

  ‘Third division, we crossed paths right before the offensive...’ Felix relaxed as the memory blossomed.

  ‘Armin Dreyer, Hamburg?’

  ‘Yes! Right! What are the chances?’

  ‘Wow, that’s something.’ Felix didn’t want to appear blunt but he was sure he came across that way to a certain degree.

  ‘So what brings you to Stuttgart?’ Armin Dreyer pursed his lips as though someone had just asked him to reveal a deadly secret and then tilted his oversized glasses so that his hazel brown eyes peered just over the rim.

  ‘God, you’ve changed. The last time we rubbed shoulders we were young men! Mere amateurs of the age game, now look at us, the price of war I imagine. How’s your wife?’

  Felix took a moment to reply.

  ‘She passed away, Armin.’

  ‘My condolences,’ he said shakily, ‘my very dearest condolences.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Felix replied solemnly.

  ‘What of your handsome Grandson? I remember the picture.’

  ‘He’s well,’ Felix murmured, ‘in fact...’

  ‘Excellent,’ Armin Dreyer sniggered, ‘we’ll have to sit down and discuss his future, if he’s anything like his Grandfather, we’d be happy to have him.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Felix said, setting down his summoning hand.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Armin sniffled, ‘I have to say, I’m quite astonished it’s taken so long for us to branch out, after all, Stuttgart has a vast array of talent on offer.’

  Felix gestured a sign of polite confusion and Armin dug a hand into the inside pocket of his trench coat and passed over a sharp card of eggshell finish.

  ‘We heard what happened you know, I remember telling my battalion that we had met, to the
ir disbelief I might add. Yes, I recall a messenger came on horseback, stopped at our camp to issue a warning to the high command and ended up telling us how the legendary Felix Kalb had downed an entire enemy frontier single handily. A legend. Well, it was just a shame about Axel but then...’

  ‘Axel?’ Felix interrupted, his confusion growing.

  ‘You said something about Axel?’

  ‘Oh, you haven’t heard?’

  Felix shook his head.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Axel Lorenz died, Felix. He died years ago. And as for his brother, your guess is as good as mine. I’m surprised you weren’t told.’

  ‘No, no, it’s... He’s really gone, huh?’ Felix brooded. He went blank.

  ‘Well I’m sorry to bring you such bad news my friend,’ Armin Dreyer continued, ‘I must get on however, I’ll make sure to pop in for a tea on the way out.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Felix, his mind elsewhere, ‘that would be nice.’

  ‘You’ve got my card, I expect to see you very soon. Farewell Felix Kalb.’

  And just like that, Armin Dreyer was gone. Felix flipped the card that tweaked in his fingers and ran his thumb over the cratered texture. There was suddenly a feeling of great unease and he let the card slip away from his cold fingers and fluster down into the snow curbed gutter below. It seemed as though the smoky, blurred aftermath of the war had been kind to Armin Dreyer. While others scraped at the withered remains of dying crops and sold inherited possessions to feed their families, Armin Dreyer took to the streets at the request of a man who was slowly but surely rising to power. He was a recruitment officer, hoping to enlist the future of Germany, hoping to seek out the perfect race. The Hitler Youth.

  Debris shuddered around their ankles. The explosions appeared to have ceased for now but the fallout proceeded to flood the trenches. Axel leant into the ladder and dug the butt of his rifle deep into the muddy fortification, hoping it might steady his shaking legs.

  ‘Keep your heads up,’ bellowed the Marshall, ‘heads up and rifles straight.’

  August moved up to the second rung and looked across the way, studying each climber.

  ‘Ready men!’

  There was a bustle and the band of jittering fatigues prepared their rifles.

  ‘We’ll be alright, won’t we brother?’ August strained, barely able to keep the barrage of tears from falling across his cheeks.

  Axel turned to his brother.

  ‘Of course, I’m with you until the end.’

  He held out his arm and August clutched at the point just below his elbow.

  ‘Until the end.’

  A whistle shrieked overhead and the long line of men clutched at the birth before embarking upon the wasteland. Axel had never seen anything like it. The wilderness was harsh, nightmarish. The agonizing cries of men stole the night, almost extinguishing the sound of rapid gunfire. August’s legs were heavy. Men fell all around him, screaming for a second or two and then slapping into the muddy quicksand below. Axel groaned as his breath became heavy. In the distance he could hear the snap of a sniper rifle, ripping through the mist. Explosions rattled the ground.

  ‘Stay close,’ yelled August. There was a brief dip in the earth and Axel and August and a few others slipped into its foggy domain. Bodies lined the crater. Mud clung to their torsos and consumed their distressed faces. Axel clambered to even ground and crouched with his rifle aimed while August scrambled to his side. A heap of damaged artillery protruded away from the gloop and they passed it with haste, continuing into the haze. A crackle of shots sparkled towards them. Then came a great noise, a thunderous, metal trundle that whirred and groaned as it approached. The brother’s stalled within the confines of a small fissure. The clamour was nearing at a slow but steady speed. There was only one thing it could be. The wide underbelly of a tank dipped into the pit, merely missing Axel’s right shoulder. It moved like an armoured snail, gushing and spraying smoke as it passed. With an incredible belch the tank spat out a flourish of red fire, scorching whatever lay in its path.

  ‘We can’t let it reach the trench,’ Axel said, getting to his knees. August unclipped a grenade from his belt and nodded at his brother. They chased it down and climbed onto the dark frame of metal. Axel grabbed at the hatch but found it locked. With a careful thrust August tossed the grenade down into the tread of the tracks and gripped at the bars that sat alongside the hardened casing. The tank grunted and a flash hit the back of their eyes.

  ‘Again,’ shouted Axel, ‘hit it again!’

  August yanked away another grenade. The hatch opened and a soldier rose from the cabin below.

  ‘Axel!’

  Two blasts clipped into Axel’s shoulder and he fell backwards, slapping into the muddy swamp below.

  August prepared to jump when a pair of arms grabbed at his neck. His brother’s face was lost in a blur of tears and August felt the soldier’s forearm tightening as he desperately tried to pull away. He jabbed an elbow into his attacker and reached for the Luger strapped to his waist. He could feel the grenade slipping away from his other hand, his fingers were becoming limp and tingled with a panicky numbness. The soldier behind began to mutter something in his ear and cracked August twice on the chin with a gloved fist. The grenade slipped away and clunked down onto the lower end of the tank where it snagged on a small rise of steel towards the edge. His fingers scuttled around the buttoned latch of his leather sheath until finally the cold handle met his icy palm. He tugged at the trigger and four sharp sparks sent the soldier sprawling away from the hatch. August collected the grenade and covered his eyes before flinging the stick of dynamite down beneath the slow trundle of the tank. The impact was considerably effective and the tank trundled to a halt, spitting out a flicker of flames from both sides of its blown out underbelly. August leapt down onto the ground below and holstered his pistol. In the distance, crouched behind a fortress of wood sat a sniper, his scope lodged onto the chest of a wandering soldier. August began a steady jog towards the blockade, where his brother lay. He wouldn’t see the shot coming.

  He was lifted down into the pits. A wall of soldiers stood by as the stretcher carried him towards the infirmary. Felix Kalb was one of them. He knew the boy. He’d seen the brother’s around. The other men had named the Lorenz twins the soldier with two lives on account of their identical looks. They were well liked. The stretcher arrived at the station and August was eased onto a bed.

  ‘Ah, General Kalb, and to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Doctor Brandt,’ Felix returned, ‘I came in with the Lorenz boy.’

  Hugo wiped down his hands and patted Felix on the shoulder.

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  With a pair of sharp scissors Hugo stripped away August’s sleeve and observed the babble of blood seeping from his shoulder. Hugo turned to his assistant.

  ‘I’ll need stitches and some anaesthetic.’

  ‘So,’ he aimed at Felix, ‘What’s his story?’ A man approached and handed Hugo a kettle that was filled to the brim with small instruments.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Felix, studying the boys face, ‘he’s got a brother, a twin, I saw them take to the wasteland not an hour ago.’

  ‘And where’s he?’

  Felix met Hugo’s inquisitive stare.

  By the time Felix had returned to his battalion, a hushed whisper took to the trenches. It carried in the cold night air like a mysterious hum, passing from mouth to ear in quiet fashion. He marched through the hallway of freezing soldiers, his fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his pistol and climbed onto the nearest ladder. It quaked beneath his mud swathed boots.

  ‘I need two men.’ There was a bustle of hushed discussion and confusion.

  ‘Two men,’ his repeat came with an obvious anger.

  ‘Here.’

  A face pushed past the shoulders of the front row. Felix nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Anyone else,’ he recurred, his voice hoarse and sprinkled in
frost.

  ‘Here,’ said a voice from the gathering crowds, ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘What’s your name son?’ Felix said, placing a hand on the volunteer’s shoulder. His eyes were wide and cold, his words barely made it through his frost split lips.

  ‘Heinrich,’ he said, ‘Heinrich Anaheim.’

  When Klaus returned home from school he headed straight for the kitchen. On a normal day, Felix would have laid out a plate of biscuits or cookies, accompanied by a glass of cold milk. Today however, was not a normal day. Instead of a plateful of treats, Klaus found his wide eyes set upon a batch of heaped towels and a circular tin of black boot polish. He looked at his Grandpa with an innocent misunderstanding.