‘Que faites-vous ici?’ I asked.
Before either could answer a shot fell and a dark stain appeared on the boy’s forehead. He fell like a sack and the girl let out a heart-wrenching cry.
I turned to Meifert and Wibeau in horror; both looked equally startled. As I wondered who had fired the shot, gunfire pierced the night-time air for a second time. I turned around and saw Captain Engel, in his hand a still-smoking revolver.
The girl had collapsed beside the boy but was still gurgling. Engel fired again from point-blank range.
Todesengel. On one occasion Engel was said to have killed a French soldier who had been felled by a shot to the stomach, then got caught in the wire in front of our lines. The soldier had been crying for his mother before Engel shot him in the head, an act of mercy, one might think, but later in the dugout Engel explained that he’d done it to prevent the Frenchman from upsetting his company’s morale. For all he was concerned the man was welcome to die like a dog. This was just one of many stories told about him, and no one knew if they were true or not. After that night, I wondered if they might only scratch the surface.
In the heat of battle one doesn’t stop to think. In war soldiers must do things they can never reveal to their families at home, and all in the name of the Fatherland. Anyone who has seen the strain to which front soldiers are exposed, will know what I am talking about. Each person reacts differently to the horrors of war. Wegener, the recruit, has never served on the front. It almost seems as if these are the first dead bodies he has seen.
‘You shot them,’ he says in disbelief. ‘They were children, and you shot them!’
Engel aims a second bullet at the boy. Blood spurts from his head as if from a fountain.
‘Remove the corpses, soldier,’ he says, looking Wegener directly in the eye. ‘Otherwise our hiding place will be compromised.’
‘We can’t just sweep this under the carpet. We have to report it. It needs to be investigated.’
‘This is a war! People die. Get used to it.’
‘What you did has nothing to do with war,’ Wegener says, and his voice nearly cracks. ‘You killed two innocent people.’
‘You’re explaining to me what war is, soldier? Do as I say! Remove these corpses!’
‘I can’t. This needs to be reported. It needs to be investigated.’
‘Calm yourself, man,’ Captain Engel barks. ‘You’re getting hysterical!’
But Wegener refuses to calm himself, seems, indeed, to have lost all control. He is shaking, there are actually tears running down his cheeks. ‘That was murder. I have to report it.’
‘What are you talking about? Now, do as I say!’
Wegener looks around as if seeking support from his comrades. ‘We have to report this,’ he says. ‘It is a German soldier’s duty…’
Before he can finish, Engel has fired the fifth bullet from his revolver. Wegener looks at the dark stain forming on his uniformed chest, as it glistens damply in the moonlight. His eyes seem to grow wider as if he cannot quite understand what is happening, then he topples like a tree and lands head first on the forest floor.
We stand in disbelief. Todesengel has slain a member of our company like a rabid dog.
‘Lieutenant?’
Engel stows his weapon away.
‘Sir?’
‘Write in your report: German soldier murdered by French partisans. Perpetrators killed in self-defence.’
‘With respect, Sir, that’s not how it happened.’
‘You making trouble like that bag of nerves?’ Engel gestures towards the dead Wegener. ‘The truth is what I tell you. Or do you think a lieutenant’s word is worth more than that of his captain?’
I fall silent as he turns to the others. ‘We are all in the same boat, men. There is no room here for traitors. I did what I did for you – because someone had to.’ Somehow Captain Engel still manages to sound cheerful. ‘Now: your report, Lieutenant.’
‘Two partisans lay in wait for the inexperienced Private Wegener, but his comrades were able to neutralise them.’
‘Very good.’ Engel nods and looks around. ‘The recruit might not have understood, but I hardly need tell you what betrayal means. It is the choice between wealth and court-martial.’ He pauses, and I can see that his words have made an impression. ‘The gold here belongs to us all. But only so long as no one mentions this. To anyone, ever. When the war is over, we will return and claim what is ours.’
I remember still how he said over and not won.
When the war is over…
This was the great revelation. A crime that had been suppressed in the turmoil of war was now on the brink of being exposed. The story went on and on, but he couldn’t read any longer. His eyes were closing and the bottle was empty. He stubbed out the cigarette and made his way to bed, snuggling up to Charly, who mumbled something and smelled so good that he fell straight to sleep.
28
Something roused Hannah from sleep. When she opened her eyes, everything was dark. She sat up, banging her head. ‘Shhh!’ someone whispered. Gradually, memory returned. The Jonass Department Store. The trunk. The boy she had finally allowed in. It was tight but they had snuggled together and fallen asleep. She hadn’t felt so rested in ages.
The boy lifted the lid and light streamed in so she could see his face more clearly: freckles, shaggy hair that was somewhere between blond and brown. He was twelve at most, surviving on the streets. ‘We have to go,’ he said, stretching. ‘If they catch us crawling out of here we’re finished.’
Hannah followed him out of the basket and trotted behind him through the still-dark department store. In the textiles department the boy swept clothes indiscriminately from the rails and under his arm.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Kitting myself out. Wouldn’t be worth it otherwise.’
Hannah, in nightshirt and three cleaner’s overalls under the stolen coat, made for the Ladies’ section. She lifted thick, warm knitted tights, a winter dress, a scarf and underwear, and went to the fitting room to change, dropping her old clothes in the wastepaper basket. The coat was still in decent shape, but the gumboots rubbed her calves. She worked through several boxes of shoes. It wasn’t easy finding a pair to fit. They heard the jangling of keys. She felt panic rising but the boy refused to be perturbed. He laced up new half-boots and gestured for her to be quiet.
As if she hadn’t thought of that herself! He was the one who’d started on the clothes.
‘If they catch us and we never see each other again,’ he whispered, stretching out a hand. ‘My name is Fritze.’
‘Hannah,’ she said.
They crawled along the sales floor until they heard the night watchman’s footsteps. How were they supposed to get out of here? She took a leaf out of Fritze’s book and remained calm as he hurled a large brass ashtray from one of the display cabinets through the half-light. It landed with a loud clang somewhere on the other side of the floor.
‘Who’s there?’ the night watchman shouted, moving to where the ashtray had struck against something metal.
‘Go,’ Fritze hissed.
With barely time to catch their breath, let alone think, they ran through a door into the large office wing, descended a flight of stairs and climbed out of a window into an access yard with countless Aschinger trucks. They charged up Prenzlauer Allee, sprinting until their lungs gave out, and used their last ounce of strength to vault a wall.
Never again, she thought, gasping for breath. Never again would she spend the night in a stupid department store. Leave that to those tattle-tales over by the Märchenbrunnen, but… gravestones. They had landed in a cemetery. It was some time before she had enough air in her lungs to speak. ‘So, you’re Fritze?’