Spark of Life (5 page)

He hung his cap on the hat rack of antlers and entered the living room. “Selma! Freya! Where are you?”

No one answered. Neubauer strode to the window and pulled it open. In the garden behind the house two Russian prisoners were working. They glanced up quickly and then continued eagerly to dig.

“Hi, there! Bolsheviks!”

One of the Russians stopped working. “Where’s my family?” shouted Neubauer.

The man answered something in Russian.

“Quit your swine language, idiot! You understand German! Or shall I come out and teach you?”

The Russians stared at him. “Your wife is in the cellar,” said someone behind Neubauer.

He turned round. It was the servant girl. “In the cellar? Oh yes, of course. And where have you been?”

“Out there, just for a moment.” The girl stood in the door, her face red and her eyes shining as though she had come from a wedding. “Already a hundred dead, they say,” she began to babble. “At the station, and then in the copper foundry, and in the church—”

“Silence!” Neubauer interrupted her. “Who said that?”

“Out there, the people—”

“Who?” Neubauer took a step forward. “Such talk is hostile to the State! Who said that?”

The girl stepped back. “Out there—I didn’t—someone—everyone—”

“Traitors! Brutes!” raved Neubauer. At last he could release the pent-up tension. “Skunks! Swine! Alarmists! And you? What were you doing out there?”

“I—nothing—”

“Slacking on the job, eh? Spreading lies and horror stories! We’ll soon find that out! Measures must be taken here! Damn strong measures! March into the kitchen!”

The girl ran out. Neubauer breathed heavily and closed the window. Nothing has happened, he thought. They’re in the cellar, of course. Might have thought of that before.

He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it. Then he straightened his coat, threw out his chest, glanced in the mirror and went downstairs.

His wife and his daughter sat next to one another on a couch that stood against the wall. Above them hung a multicolored picture of the Führer in a wide gold frame.

Before the war the cellar had been turned into an air-raid shelter. It had steel girders, a concrete ceiling and massive walls; in those days Neubauer had had it built simply for show; it had been patriotic to set a good example in such matters. No one had seriously considered that Germany could be bombed. Marshal Goering’s declaration that they could call him Meier if enemy planes ever brought off such a feat in the face of the Luftwaffe, had been enough for any honest German. Unfortunately it had turned out otherwise.
A typical example of the treachery of the plutocrats and Jews; to pretend that they were weaker than they actually were.

“Bruno!” Selma Neubauer got up and began to sob.

She was blond and fat and wore a dressing gown of salmon-colored French silk with lace. In 1941 Neubauer had brought it back from a furlough in Paris. Her cheeks trembled and her too-small mouth chewed on words.

“It’s over, Selma. Calm down.”

“Over—” She continued to chew, as though the words were out-sized Königsberger meatballs. “For how—how long?”

“For good. They’re gone. The attack has been repulsed. They won’t come back.”

Selma Neubauer gathered her dressing gown tight over her breast. “Who says so, Bruno? How d’you know?”

“We have shot down at least half of them. They’ll take good care not to come back.”

“How d’you know?”

“I know. This time they surprised us. Next time we’ll be properly on our guard.”

The woman stopped chewing. “Is that all?” she asked. “Is that all you can tell us?”

Neubauer knew it was nothing. So he asked gruffly, “Isn’t that enough?”

His wife stared at him. Her eyes were pale blue. “No!” she suddenly yelled. “That is not enough! That’s nothing but twaddle! It means nothing! The number of stories we’ve heard already! First we’re told we’re so strong that no enemy plane could ever get into Germany, and suddenly there they are. Then it’s said they won’t come back because we’d shoot them all down at the border, and instead ten times as many come back and the alarm never stops. And now that they’ve finally caught us here, too, in you come full
of yourself and say they won’t come back, that we’ll be sure to catch them! And you expect a sensible person to believe that?”

“Selma!” Involuntarily, Neubauer cast a glance at the picture of the Führer. Then he leapt to the door and banged it shut. “Damn it, pull yourself together!” he hissed. “D’you want to get us all into trouble? Have you gone crazy to yell so loud?”

He stood right in front of her. Above her fat shoulders the Führer continued to gaze steadfastly into the landscape of Berchtesgaden. For a moment Neubauer nearly believed he had been listening to everything.

Selma didn’t see the Führer. “Crazy!” she screamed. “Who’s crazy? Not I! Before the war we had a wonderful life—and now? Now? I’d like to know who’s crazy here?”

Neubauer seized her arms with both hands and shook her so that her head wobbled to and fro and she had to stop screaming. Her hair came loose, a few combs fell out, she swallowed the wrong way and coughed. He let her go. She fell like a sack onto the couch. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked his daughter.

“Nothing much. Mother is very excited.”

“Why? Nothing’s happened.”

“Nothing happened?” the woman began again. “Not to you up there, of course! But what about us alone down here—”

“Quiet! Damn it, not so loud! Have I been slaving fifteen years for you to ruin everything overnight with your yelling? Do you think there aren’t already enough men waiting to snap up my job?”

“It was the first bombardment, Father,” said Freya Neubauer calmly. “After all, up to now we’ve only had alarms. Mother’ll get used to it in time.”

“The first one? Of course the first one! We ought to be glad that so far nothing’s happened, instead of yelling that nonsense.”

“Mother’s nervous. She’ll get used to it.”

“Nervous!” Neubauer was irritated by his daughter’s calm.

“Who’s not nervous? D’you think I’m not nervous? We’ve got to control ourselves. What would happen if we didn’t?”

“The same!” His wife laughed. She lay on the couch, her plump legs sprawling. Her feet were in pink silk slippers. She considered pink and silk to be very elegant. “Nervous! Get used to it! Easy for you to talk!”

“I? Why?”

“Nothing happens to you.”

“What?”

“Nothing happens to you. But we’re sitting here in a trap.”

“That’s blooming nonsense! The one’s the same as the other. What d’you mean, nothing can happen to me?”

“You’re safe, up there in your camp!”

“What?” Neubauer flung his cigar on the floor and trampled on it. “We’ve no cellar like you have here.” It was a lie.

“Because you don’t need one. You’re outside the town.”

“As if that made any difference! Where a bomb falls, there it falls.”

“The camp won’t be bombed.”

“Really? That’s a new one. How d’you know that? Have the Americans dropped a message about it? Or given you special information by radio?”

Neubauer glanced at his daughter. He expected approval of this joke. But Freya plucked at the fringes of a plush cloth which was spread over the table next to the couch. Instead, his wife answered. “They won’t bomb their own people.”

“Nonsense! We haven’t any Americans there. No English, either. Only Russians, Poles, Balkan riffraff. And German enemies of the Fatherland—Jews, traitors and criminals.”

“They won’t bomb any Russians and Poles and Jews,” explained Selma with blunt obstinacy.

Neubauer turned sharply round. “You seem to know a great
deal,” he said angrily under his breath. “But now I want to tell you something. They haven’t the remotest idea what kind of camp that is up there, understand? All they can see is barracks. They can easily be taken for military barracks. They see buildings. These are our SS quarters. They see buildings with people working in them. For them they are factories and targets. Up there it’s a hundred times more dangerous than here. That’s why I didn’t want you to live there. Down here there are no barracks and no factories. D’you understand for once?”

“No.”

Neubauer stared at his wife. Selma had never been like this before. He didn’t know what had gotten into her. That bit of fear alone couldn’t be it. He felt suddenly deserted by his family; just when they should be standing together. Annoyed, he glanced again at his daughter. “And you,” he said, “what do you think of it? Why don’t you open your mouth?”

Freya Neubauer got up. She was twenty years old, thin, had a yellowish face, a jutting forehead, and resembled neither Selma nor her father. “I think Mother’s calming down now,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“I think she has calmed down.”

Neubauer was silent for a while. He waited for his wife to say something. “All right, then,” he finally declared.

“Can we go upstairs?” asked Freya.

Neubauer cast a suspicious glance at Selma. He didn’t trust her yet. He had to make it clear that under no conditions should she talk to anyone. Not with the servant girl, either. Least of all with the girl. His daughter forestalled him. “Upstairs it’ll be better, Father. More air.”

He stood undecided. There she lies like a sack of flour, he thought. Why can’t she say something sensible for once? “I’ve got
to go over to the Town Hall. At six. Dietz phoned, the situation has to be discussed.”

“Nothing will happen, Father. Everything’s all right. We’ve also got to get dinner ready.”

“All right, then.” Neubauer had made up his mind. At least his daughter seemed to have kept her head. He could rely on her. His flesh and blood. He walked over to his wife. “All right, then. Let’s forget all this now, Selma, eh? These things can happen. It’s not really so important.” He looked down at her, smiling, with cold eyes. “Eh?” he repeated.

She didn’t answer.

He put his arms round her fat shoulders and fondled them. “Run along then and prepare dinner. And cook something good now that the shock is over, eh?”

She nodded listlessly.

“That’s fine.” Neubauer saw that it really was all over. His daughter had been right. Selma wouldn’t talk any more nonsense. “Cook something specially good, children. After all, Selmachen, I’m doing it for you so you can have this beautiful house here with the safe cellar, instead of living up there near that dirty gang of thugs. And don’t forget I always spend a few nights a week down here. We’re all in the same boat. We must hold together. Now then, cook something tasty for supper. I trust you there. And what about bringing up a bottle of the French champagne? We still have enough of it, eh?”

“Yes,” answered his wife. “Of that we still have enough.”

“Just one more thing,” explained Group Leader Dietz snappily. “It has come to my ears that several gentlemen have voiced the intention of sending their families to the country. Is there something in it?”

No one answered.

“I cannot permit that. We officers of the SS must set an example. If we send our families out of town before a general order to evacuate has been given, it could be wrongly interpreted. Grumblers and alarmists would immediately jump on it. So I expect nothing of the kind to take place without my knowledge.”

He stood slender and tall in his elegantly cut uniform in front of the group and gazed at them. Each man in the group looked determined and innocent. Almost all of them had considered sending their families away; but none of them betrayed it with so much as a glance. Each one thought the same: it’s easy for Dietz to talk. He had no family in the town. He came from Saxony and his only ambition was to look like a Prussian officer in the Guards. That was simple. What didn’t personally affect one could always be carried out with great courage.

“That is all, gentlemen,” said Dietz. “Remember once more: our newest secret weapons are already in mass production. The V.1.’s are nothing in comparison, however effective they may be. London lies in ashes. England is being blasted all the time. New York’s skyscrapers are heaps of rubble. We occupy the major ports of France. The invasion armies are having the greatest difficulties with reinforcements. The counteroffensive is going to sweep the enemy into the sea. It is in immediate preparation. We have accumulated powerful reserves. And our new weapons—I’m not allowed to say more about them—but I have it from the highest authority: victory is ours in three months. We’ve got to hold out that long.” He stretched up his arm. “Back to work! Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!” thundered the group.

Neubauer left the Town Hall. About Russia he hadn’t said a word, he thought. Nor about the Rhine. Least of all about the broken West Wall. Hold out—that’s easy for him. He doesn’t own anything. He’s a fanatic. He hasn’t an office building near the railroad
station. He doesn’t own shares in the Mellern newspaper. He doesn’t even own any building ground. I have all that. Supposing it all goes up in the air—who’ll give me anything for it?

Suddenly there were people in the street. The Square in front of the Town Hall was packed. On its steps a microphone was being installed. Dietz was going to speak. Smiling, unmoved, the stone faces of Charlemagne and Henry the Lion stared down from the façade. Neubauer climbed into the Mercedes. “To the Hermann Goeringstrasse, Alfred.”

Neubauer’s office building lay on the corner of the Hermann Goeringstrasse and the Friedrich’s Allee. It was a large building with a fashion store on the street level. The two upper floors consisted of offices.

Neubauer had the car stopped and walked round the building. Two display windows were cracked; otherwise nothing was damaged. He looked up at the offices. They lay in the fog of fumes from the station; but nothing was burning. There could be a few cracked windowpanes there, too; but that was all.

He stood for a while. Two hundred thousand marks, he thought. It was worth at least that, if not more. He had paid five thousand for it. In 1933 it had belonged to the Jew, Max Blank. He had demanded a hundred thousand for it and had made a fuss and complained that he was losing enough on it as it was, and wouldn’t let it go for less. After two weeks in the concentration camp he had sold it for five thousand. I have been decent, thought Neubauer. I could have got it for nothing. Blank would have made me a present of it after the SS had had their fun with him. I gave him five thousand marks. Good money. Not all at once, of course; at the time I didn’t have that much. But I did pay it after the first rents came in. Blank was also satisfied with that. A legal sale. Of his own free will. Attested by the notary. The fact that Max Blank had accidentally fallen down in the camp, lost an eye, broken an arm, and
otherwise hurt himself had been a regrettable incident. People with flat feet fell easily. Neubauer hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t even been present. He hadn’t given any orders. He had only arranged to have Blank taken into protective custody, so that overzealous SS-men couldn’t do him any harm. What happened after that had been Weber’s business.