The Chosen Ones (21 page)

It was me, Mrs Lauritz, it was me who …!

But Mrs Lauritz will not be diverted. She feels sure that she has seen ‘with her own eyes’ who is guilty, and acts before Pototschnik has had time to get out of the way. She grabs at the cauliflower head, gets hold of an ear and twists until the boy’s entire body is dangling from her hard, determined thumb-grip.

So far, it is all part of the traffic of dormitories and closed day rooms, a straightforward routine move of the kind that happens many times daily. But as Mrs Lauritz gets on with chastising Pototschnik, an older woman carrying a rough string bag full of shopping comes walking along on the other side of the road. When she catches sight of Lauritz with Pototschnik, who is screaming his head off, she puts her bag down and moves across the road while waving her arms in the air and shouting:

You leave that child alone! Have you lost what sense you ever had, woman,

going for a poor helpless child like that …!

Mrs Lauritz still holds on to the grimacing Pototschnik while she tries to get to terms with this utterly baffling situation: a complete stranger who dares to challenge her authority! But the woman won’t back off. She would like to make it clear that her husband is personally acquainted with the institution’s director, and Mrs Child-Molester had better state her name and employee grade so the husband can make sure that she is appropriately reprimanded. By now, many more people are joining in. Adrian notices that two boys are coming towards them. They look like brothers. The younger one pushes a bicycle and the older one walks at his side, looking a little doubtful. By now, Mrs Lauritz has clearly scented a potential threat because she goes bright red in the face, puffs her chest out like a bird and says:

I bring these children up in the spirit that my Führer has chosen and commanded!

Later, Adrian often speculates about what would have happened if he had legged it there and then. He was carrying enough for his short-term needs in his rucksack: dry clothes, a thermos of hot tea and the unopened packed meal that had been handed out that morning. And he had the cartridge, his secret weapon, as well. Still, he probably wouldn’t have got away with it. The road was long and straight, and all around were houses on sites surrounded by tall fences and walls. He wouldn’t have been able to run very far with his heavy pack before Lauritz or Krämer would have been snapping at his heels. Add to that the fact that Mrs Lauritz was furious. Still red-faced, she ordered her charges to turn round and start walking, leading the march at an exhausting pace. But Pototschnik was even
more upset. As soon as Mrs Lauritz had turned her back, he jumped on Jockerl and stage-whispered so loudly that everyone, even those well away, could hear what he said:
when we get back I’ll shoot your head off, you little shit.
Only this time, Mrs Lauritz was on the alert and hit Pototschnik with her walking stick until, temporarily cowed, he made himself small and took his place in the line.

Jockerl’s Punishment
   The news about the incident must have travelled ahead of them because, when they got back, Doctor Krenek stood waiting at the door to pavilion 9. They were ordered to go straight to the day room without hanging up their outdoor clothes and stand at
Habt-Acht
– to attention – by their seats while Krenek lectured them on the subject of discipline and, more specifically, how they, whenever they were outside the walls of the institution, were to behave with the utmost propriety and, above all, never speak to any strangers. The fact was, of course, that none of them had addressed any strangers, or vice versa. It was their
Erzieher
, Mrs Lauritz, who had had words with that lady. But Doctor Krenek didn’t waste time on the finer points and, anyway, no one protested. Mrs Rohrbach stood at his side with the register open and read out their names. As soon as yours was called out, you had to step forward and empty the contents of your pockets for Doctor Krenek to inspect. He was patently satisfied when the odd innocent chestnut landed in front of him, or a pretty stone or bottle cap, but then it was Jockerl’s turn and, as Jockerl bent forward to show his empty pockets, Pototschnik started shouting in his familiar loud, shrill voice:

Hand back the cartridge you stole!

Jockerl showed no sign of hearing what Pototschnik was shouting. He stood still, as if glued to the floor, not moving a finger until Krenek irritably shoved him forward and they could all see how
Jockerl’s legs were shaking. Had he already checked his secret bedside store? Did he know that the cartridge had gone? Did he guess who had stolen it? The next name was called and Jockerl returned to his place. Pototschnik turned round to glance murderously at him. Jockerl said nothing, just stared straight ahead. And then, what they had all been half-expecting happened: a bubbling sound that fused into a faint but sustained trickle while the sweet, warm smell of urine filled the air. Mrs Lauritz fixed her stern gaze on Jockerl, who tried to hide the dark stain on his crotch by putting one leg across the other. Doctor Krenek had of course also taken in what was going on but only turned to the window, his hands clasped behind his back, and pretended to look outside, presumably in order to spare his poor staff further humiliation. Mrs Lauritz swung into action, walked swiftly along the line of tittering boys, grabbed hold of Jockerl’s arm and marched him out of the room. Doors were pulled open and slammed shut, then came the familiar sound of water splashing against the hard, enamelled sides of the bathtub. Jockerl was to have the
water treatment
. His screams echoed between the tiled walls but the sounds were unusual, with a tinny echo. Until, suddenly, silence fell, as if someone had put a lid on the tin. After that, nothing happened except that Doctor Krenek, who had stood by the window without moving, suddenly cleared his throat and walked out. A little later, Mrs Lauritz entered. Something had made the stitching that held the bits of her face together come apart but she didn’t say anything, just sat down to keep an eye on them as if nothing else had happened. Because nobody had told them anything different, they all kept standing. Dusk darkened the room until they could barely make each other out, and Mrs Lauritz even less. Adrian was preoccupied with his rucksack and the best way to get rid of the cartridge. Finally, he mustered his courage and asked to be allowed to go to
the toilet. Mrs Lauritz shuddered as if her deep thoughts had been shattered and, perhaps because she wanted to avoid any more painful incidents, she unlocked the door, told him to go on his own and knock when he wanted to come back in. Then she closed the door and left Adrian alone in the long corridor, so dark by then that all he could make out was the clock hanging from the ceiling, but only its blank face and not its hands. He heard a rhythmic drip from the sink where the tap must have been carelessly turned off. Then he caught sight of Jockerl standing in the cocoon of sodden towels Mrs Lauritz and the nurses had wrapped around him. Jockerl looked so peculiar, frail and tense at the same time. Long, shivery shakes ran from his thin legs up to his neck, extended like a hungry bird’s. He seemed frozen to the floor. His head, hanging like a stone suspended from his angled body, looked different, no longer sad but transformed into that of a very old man whose skin has crumpled into stiff folds around his nose and mouth and whose unseeing eyes are hidden by half-closed eyelids. At first, Adrian thought Jockerl might be dead already but somehow still upright. Once he had thought that, another idea took over. Perhaps there was sly cunning, almost hatred lurking behind that rigid stare. Adrian slowly went over to the rucksacks that they had dumped in the corner, found his own and took the cartridge out. Then he gave way to a sudden impulse. The remorse for what he did would not give him any peace for the rest of his life. He bent close to Jockerl’s shivering, old man’s face, held the cartridge only a few centimetres from those dead, yet cold and condescending eyes and said:

As he said it, he pushed the sharpened tip against Jockerl’s left eye. Jockerl didn’t even blink. His little old man’s face with its corpse-like pallor was like a mask. Brief waves of shuddering kept running through his body. Adrian didn’t know what to do and wandered off towards the washroom and the toilets. The showers were lined up along one wall, opposite a row of washbasins, and behind them was a screened-off area with toilets and urinals. The doors to the toilet cubicles couldn’t be locked. The windows in the larger, lighter part of the room were different from the other windows in the pavilion in that their lower panes were made of milky, opaque glass. Two ventilation panes at the top stood open but were so narrow not even an infant could have pushed through them. For the escapist, the best thing would be to concentrate his efforts on the fastenings at the bottom. Zavlacky had showed him once how to attack them. Both window latches were attached to their hooks with a metal fastening that could be cut if one had a tool that was sharp enough. That was why Adrian had been sharpening the tip of the bullet casing. At best, the edge could function as the teeth on a saw-blade. He tried but hadn’t had time to make more than a faint score mark in the polished metal when he suddenly heard steps approaching in the corridor and then Mrs Lauritz’s voice:
Ziegler …!
He hid inside one of the toilets, crouching next to the seat with his back pressed to the wall, and prayed that Mrs Lauritz wouldn’t open this door. If Jockerl had decided to tell on Adrian he would have done so long ago. But Jockerl was not like the other children in the pavilion. He was never out to gain advantages, didn’t even seem to understand what was best for himself. Thoughts of revenge were utterly alien to him. Adrian felt ashamed. Now Mrs Lauritz was in the washroom, her voice echoing in there:
Zie-eegler …!
Then the telephone in the nurses’ room rang, Lauritz responded to the sharp noise and
hurried off down the corridor on thudding cork heels. He attacked the window fastening again with renewed energy. And now it was giving way, the latch shifted a little on its hook and the milky pane moved a fraction outwards. He went for the other fastening, which was easier to break. All that remained now was to climb up on the edge of the basin, force himself through the tight gap between the window and its frame, and he was outside. He landed with a faint sucking noise on the wet, muddy grass, broke the fall with his knees and arms, and then ran across the gravelled path and towards the Steinhof buildings. If only he had known how easy it was to get out, he would have brought his rucksack, which was still in the corridor, and for as long as Mrs Lauritz stayed on the phone no one except Jockerl would have seen him. Then it struck him that because Jockerl hadn’t said anything, the likelihood was that he would have to take the punishment (again) once they realised that Adrian had escaped. Shame almost overcame him. He had a vision of himself holding up the stolen cartridge in front of Jockerl’s unmoving eye,
here you are, arsehole
and, suddenly, he simply couldn’t run fast enough. They had walked along the outside of the asylum wall on their excursions so many times that, although it was almost completely dark by now, he knew exactly in which direction he should run to get to the large chestnut tree where they had stopped earlier today. From the inside of the tall wall, the tree didn’t look as proud and huge as it had from the outside but he knew he could trust its long, strong branches. It was hard to clamber up the slippery, mossy trunk but he managed to climb to the first point where a strong branch joined the trunk, about four metres above the ground. From there, he had an open view of the entire hospital site. He saw the colossal mass of the Steinhof asylum and, further away, the group of gardening sheds near to where the blank surfaces of the greenhouse walls floated in an inky
blue, shimmering light at the edge of the parkland, which looked black in the evening gloom. In the opposite direction, he could just make out the brooding bulk of the anatomy building and the subdued lamplight from some of its windows. He climbed higher up. He had no idea of where the wall was below him and tested the toughness of different branches. The most solid-looking one took off upwards rather than sideways but he followed it as far along as he dared. Leaves, damp with evening dew, whipped his face. The branch swung and dipped under his weight, deeper and deeper. He could hear the showers of torn-off chestnuts pattering against the cobbled pavement. It meant that he must be clear of the wall by now. In that instant, he saw a dazzling light further away. It didn’t come from a stationary source but bopped about like torchlight. From below he heard a dull rasping noise, like sandpaper rubbing against smooth wood. Were they about to catch up with him after all? His heart was thumping inside his chest. Should he hide inside the canopy of the tree or take a chance and let go? The branch made up his mind for him. It suddenly swayed and he slid down it as if poured out of the tree. He fell blindly and crash-landed with his hip and shoulder hitting the edge of the pavement. In the same instant, there was a screeching sound of bicycle brakes. Another body rolled heavily over his. Then the bicycle came down on top of them both and the handlebars slammed into Adrian’s stomach. A pair of frightened eyes took him in and a voice said:

It’s you!

It was the boy who, together with his older brother, had stopped to watch when the marching group had scattered and then stayed to listen while Mrs Lauritz and the shopping-bag lady were having words. Adrian recognised him by his broad smile and the beret he wore pushed well down over his forehead.

You’re from in there, aren’t you?

He said ‘in there’ in a deeply impressed tone.

I’ve seen you lots of times.

Adrian didn’t know what to say. The boy’s grin grew even broader.

You won’t get far, at least not in that kit!

Adrian looked down at his short trousers and dirty sandals. The boy was tugging at the front wheel of his bike which had partly jammed under Adrian. It was a good bike, with a sturdy frame and wide tyres. It didn’t have a light in front but the boy had a phosphorus lamp pinned to one lapel on his half-length jacket. In its pale light, the boy gestured to Adrian to jump on. They took off, Adrian perching uneasily on the handlebars, with the bell pressing into a buttock and his legs sticking almost straight out, while he heard his young benefactor sometimes singing behind him, sometimes panting as he pushed on the pedals and they zoomed downhill along Flötzersteig. He could just distinguish in the dark the allotment gardens they had marched past so often, then another place he recognised, the Wilhelminenspital’s towering façade. As they swept down the long slope towards Ottakring, the wartime blackout meant that all he could make out at the bottom of the valley was a jumble of roofs and chimneys, but it didn’t take long before he saw, rising out of the dark, real buildings with proper frontages facing real streets with cars driving up and down and on the pavements people walking about, real flesh-and-blood people, not half-dead prisoners. A wild happiness filled Adrian’s mind. He was free.