Touching the Wire (14 page)

Half an hour later they came
across a pine tree whose branches reached almost to the ground: beneath them
the forest floor was clear of snow and carpeted with fallen pine needles. It
made a shelter of sorts.

He bent beneath the boughs
and sank to the ground. ‘I can’t go any further tonight. We have to rest.’ He
brushed ice from his eyebrows. ‘Wish I had a flint. If we don’t light a fire
we’ll freeze to death.’

Albert brought out a pouch
that hung around his neck. ‘Flint, knife, spoon… and tobacco. Traded four bread
rations for the flint and a twist of tobacco. Made the knife out of a tin can.’
He laughed. ‘God bless Kanada.’

They collected a small pile
of pine needles, twigs, and thin branches, dead and dry. Albert struck the
flint against his makeshift knife.

‘Try again.’ A spark caught
and he blew on the needles, willing them to smoke. A small flame crackled into
life and he fed its hunger with the driest tinder until they had a fire. Pain
burned in his fingers as they came back to life. He poked the fire with a stick
and threw the gutted chicken carcass into the centre. The stench of burning
feathers filled the shelter, sending Albert into another coughing fit.

Chicken fat dripped down
their chins as they tore at the meat with their teeth. They sucked the bones
clean and licked greasy fingers, then Albert melted snow in his spoon and they
shared sips of blissfully hot water.

Albert lay back on the pine
needles and stared up through the branches. ‘Best meal ever, Chuck. Best water
I’ve tasted too. You’re right… together we have a chance of making it home.
I’ll come with you.’ He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have left my wife if I’d had any
choice in the matter, either.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Irene… her name’s Irene.’
His voice was a whisper. ‘I miss her.’

‘Where do you call home?’

‘Midlands. You?’

He took another sip of
water. ‘Mother’s family came from Liverpool. Father died at The Somme. I’ve got
a sister.’

Albert coughed again. ‘Such
a story to tell Irene and the kids.’

‘And your grandchildren.’

‘Yes, a story to tell our grandchildren.’

Next day they continued
south-east, hunger constantly gnawing, and tormented by thirst snow couldn’t
quench. They left the forest behind and travelled narrow roads between
snow-covered fields. The light was failing again when Albert pointed to tall
structures and regular block shapes in the distance. ‘Watch-towers. Must be the
camp. We can be there tomorrow if it don’t snow again. Just have to… catch my
breath.’

He stopped beside Albert,
glad to rest but afraid of delaying. Ahead were farm buildings. He yanked open
the nearest barn door: cows moved aside, their warm smell comforting, their
pink teats promising milk. They sank exhausted onto straw banked in a corner
and huddled together for warmth.

At last Albert stirred. ‘If
we can’t find eggs, a rat, anything, we’ll have to risk going to the farmhouse.
Maybe they’ll take pity on us.’

‘Albert, I can’t risk the
farmhouse and I can’t ask you to go hungry. There may still be German soldiers
about, or Soviet soldiers who wouldn’t understand.  What I carry… it’s
evidence. It mustn’t be lost in a midden in the wilds of Poland.  If you
go to the farmhouse, say you’re alone.’

Albert got to his feet and
nodded. ‘I’ll bring you something, I promise.’

He followed Albert outside,
and scanned the lane: he was so close to Miriam. Was she still alive? A light
showed in a window of the farmhouse. He glanced back at the white-roofed barn,
its eaves hung with swords of ice. The wind crept between the fibres of his
coats and chilled his bones. They needed more than an egg or a rat. Like
Albert, he was getting daily weaker. Each day they covered less distance, and
the longer it took them to reach camp the greater was the chance of them not
making it. He longed to be there, but his legs wouldn’t carry him another mile
without rest.

A tapestry of pale stars
reduced him to insignificance as he surveyed the patchwork quilt of woods and
fields between him and the camp. Not a light showed from barrack block or guard
tower. The camp looked abandoned in the light of an almost full moon, lifeless
under its blanket of snow, like a child’s nightmare made from toy bricks. 
He raised his head to the heavens, wanting to howl like a wolf. ‘
Miriam
…’                       

A late-January wind cut across the allotments,
the sky to the north bruised: snow was on the way again. Walt leaned on his
spade, contemplating the rows of freshly-turned earth, and rubbed his sore
back. He stuck the spade in the earth and went into his allotment shed. It was
forty years to the day.

He drew a packet of candles
from a bag and arranged them on the potting bench.  Miriam had lit candles
for her dead. He lit them one by one: Miriam, her parents and grandparents, her
first husband, Benedek, Efah and her children, little Mary, Ilse, Darja and her
baby, Aaron Schaeler, his own mother and sister, buried in a bombed-out house…
and the children.

He stood for a moment in
quiet reflection: Aaron’s friendship, Ilse’s kindness, his mother’s smile, his
sister’s laughter, the boys’ gappy grins and wide eyes, Miriam’s love and
gentle courage. That was how he wanted to think of them.

Justice and retribution?
He’d paid with the lives of those he loved, not his own. His promise and his
debt to Tykhe were not yet honoured. He’d failed to protect Miriam. Aaron had
died so he might live. Still he was less than he could be. Still he had to find
his courage and his good day to die.

He watched the flames gutter
and smoke.
Candles to burn… hair of innocents.
They’d been numbers, as
anonymous in life as they were in death, except to those who’d survived to
remember them. He snuffed the flames between thumb and forefinger, his anger
curling upwards with the smoke.

He pulled his spade from the
earth and jabbed it into the spit, turning the dark earth in a neat row, trying
to bury his memories. Five spits: walking skeletons in columns of five. He dug
to the end of the row and straightened. He was too old for all this digging,
all this pain and anger. He jabbed the spade in again; the job had to be done
before the early crops went in.

‘How’s it going, Walt?’
Eric, seventy-two years old, the same age he was and still working two plots,
approached with a jaunty step.

‘I’ve dug a bit over. It’ll
let the weather do its work.’

‘Gives you a good feeling,
don’t it, Walt, seeing the earth turned over, ready for spring.’

‘Job satisfaction, Eric.
That’s what they call it these days.’

‘You’re right… Nothing like
working with your hands… seeing things growing. Still, I wasn’t sorry for a bit
of a breather, end of last season.’ He waved a hand at the disparate scatter of
allotment sheds higher up the slope. ‘Some of the lads from top end are
organising a fishing trip off Lowestoft, June time. You interested?’

‘I haven’t been fishing for
years.’ The last time he’d been on a boat on the North Sea… He pushed the
thought away. ‘Don’t think I’ll be able to make it. Jane…’

‘She’d be glad to see you
out enjoying yourself. You work flippin’ hard on this plot all year. You got to
do these things while you still can, Walt.’

‘That’s true enough.’ He
felt every one of his aches and pains, especially with this bone-biting cold.
‘I’ll see what she says, if we can afford it. It would be something to look forward
to.’

‘The more as goes, the
cheaper it gets, mate. The boat’s the same cost whether it’s two or twenty.
You’d be doing the rest of us a favour.’

‘I’ll let you know. June,
you say?’

‘Ted says he’ll book it when
there’s enough people interested.’

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow,
if you’re going to be here?’

‘All day, Walt, if it don’t
snow. I still got a load of digging to do. Best crack on.’ Eric walked back to
his plot, a spring in his step.

One more spit then he’d call
it a day.

***

Walt sat in his armchair and flattened out the
broadsheet he hadn’t had time to read that morning. The miners were slowly
drifting back to work, despite Scargill’s intransigence. Greenpeace, on board
Rainbow Warrior, still harassed French nuclear testing on Moruroa Atoll.

He scanned page two and his
heart missed a beat. A group of survivors had returned to the camp to celebrate
the anniversary of their liberation. He steadied his breathing. 

Had he known of the reunion
he wouldn’t have had the courage to face that place again. The name he could
hardly bear to think,
his
name, took centre stage. Fear and loathing
tightened his chest. The other survivors would feel the same even after all
these years.
All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God
. Some,
it seemed, had managed to put the past behind them.
Father
Forgive
.
The words haunted him. He would never forgive.

He read on. A trial ‘in
absentia’ was planned for the beginning of next month at Yad Vashem.
He
had
escaped justice all these years and this determined group had decided, in his
absence, that the Wolf of Günsburg, the Angel of Death, should be tried and
convicted for his crimes. Pressure was being brought to bear at last; outraged
public opinion might yet kick-start the justice that had been denied his
victims.

He closed the paper with a
rustle and folded it with shaking hands. Just when he’d thought the world had
forgotten. He couldn’t blame the victims for stirring new media frenzy, and
those responsible deserved to be brought to justice, but while the wolf still
slumbered he could stay where he was loved.

He pushed down rising panic.
Yad Vashem… He had vital evidence that should be heard: he’d promised Miriam,
owed it to the children, but neither side of the law would hesitate to sacrifice
him and his family. His lips alone could condemn,
should
condemn. Years
ago they’d have hung: it would have been finished.

He longed to speak out and
keep his promise but it wasn’t just him, or Jane or Jennie, it was the twins.
Newspapers loved a good story. If he let go of the wolf it would hound
them
to
the gates of hell.

***

The cold wind of January abated at last. The
weather turned unseasonably warm. With luck, February would see the last of the
winter digging finished before the weather turned again and made the ground too
muddy to walk on. If there was anything he hated more than snow, it was mud.

Eric came out of his
allotment shed with a shiny new spade. ‘I was hoping to catch you, Walt. The
lads have caught this fishing bug. They don’t want to wait until the summer.
They want to go now, while this good weather lasts. They reckon we can get a
cheap rate this time of year, particularly a last-minute booking, and the
forecast sounds good all week. You interested?’

He rested on his spade.
‘Cheap sounds good.’ It would help take his mind off the public trial at Yad
Vashem. ‘That’ll suit me fine. Jane says the change will do me good.’

‘They’re hoping for
tomorrow, Saturday or Monday.’

‘All are good for me.’

Eric polished his spade with
his jacket sleeve. ‘I’ll let you know, then.’

The sea air would do him
good and he’d be able to think better away from home: he had a decision to
make. He cleaned his spade and put it away, and then locked his shed. He
weighed the key in his hand. The wolf stirred. How much time did he have? He
left the key under a flowerpot by the door, looked back at the neat spits of
freshly-turned earth and walked away.

Jane was out when he arrived
home. Where had she said she was going: an over-sixties club lunch? He made
coffee and switched on the television for the lunchtime news: it was still
about
him
. He had to know.
The United States Justice Department has
announced that the case is being officially reopened
.
Reuters reported
today that rewards are being offered for information leading to the
apprehension and conviction of…
He grabbed the arm of his chair and sank
into it, hot coffee slopping on his hand. The West German government alone had
offered three hundred thousand dollars. The rewards totalled more than a
million dollars already, and more were due to be published.

Every criminal and
law-abiding citizen alike would be out looking; it would only take one person
who could connect him with the camp, and the vital, missing evidence. What if
he was recognised? Witness protection wouldn’t protect his family from the
backlash: it was a million dollars too late for that. Wselfwulf stretched, and
bared his fangs; it was time, finally, to put his trust in the Fates. He walked
up the garden path to his workshop. The small book lay where he’d hidden it. He
carried it into the house and telephoned Eric.

‘I was about to ring you,’
Eric answered cheerily. ‘We’ve booked tomorrow. The minibus will collect you at
the top of your street at six in the morning. We’ve got the boat from eight o’
clock so we may as well make the most of the bugger.’

‘I’ll be there.’ He put down
the phone with numb finality, relieved that he didn’t have to prolong the
agony, and went upstairs.

He put the book in his sock
drawer where Jane would find it. He knew the pages almost by heart: they filled
his mind through the sleepless hours before dawn. He closed the drawer. He
needed warm clothing. He had to look the part. Jane’s bus rattled the sashes,
as always, the sound suddenly unbearably precious. The front door opened and
clicked shut.

‘Walt?’

‘Up here, love.’ He took a
deep breath, marshalling his self-control. ‘They’ve organised the fishing trip
for tomorrow. It’ll be cheaper than waiting until June and the weather forecast
is pretty good, according to Eric.’

Her soft tread padded on the
stairs. ‘That’s great, love. You’ll need to wear your thermals, and take your
overcoat and waterproof. What about fishing equipment?’

‘They hire it out on the
boat.’

Jane came into the bedroom, her
smile deepening her dimples. ‘Just as long as you have a good time and come
back safe.’

He held her close and kissed
the hairs that shone silver among the brown. A lone tear sparkled on the
silver. ‘I love you more than life itself. I want you to remember that.’

‘I love you too, Walt.’

***

Walt tossed on a storm sea as the huge cargo
ship wallowed westwards. The boilers needed constant stoking to make headway.
Sweat stung his eyes, and flames burned his face.
He
was there at every
turn, taunting, controlling, ordering… Miriam died with a bullet in her
stomach… a noose around her neck… of starvation… His arms cradled her, spittle
dribbled from the corner of her mouth, and the light went from her eyes. Miriam
was screaming, but she was dead, wasn’t she? She ran to save Mary, and he ran
too. He was too late; always he was too late. They lay among a tumble of
skeletal bodies decomposed beyond recognition. Even as he wept, he heard Jennie
singing. She was playing a game,
On the Way to the Chimney
. She was dancing
and the orchestra was playing: a steam train chuffed to a halt, steam hissing.

Jane… No, please, not Jane…
Her pretty face was smashed to a pulp, a mass of bloody, insensate pulp. Dear
God… Horror stopped his heart, tears burned his soul. The scene changed and
terror gripped him; blonde hair swirled across a marble slab. Charlotte and
Lucy, his beautiful twins, dressed all in white, lay side by side, fastened
down by their wrists and ankles.
He
beckoned him forward.

He stood, as if apart from
the action, and watched himself move to stand over them, scalpel in hand. Lucy
was crying; Charlotte was pleading,
Me
, cut
me
. Their expressions changed; their fingernails grew into talons, their
teeth into fangs. The Keres, those most vengeful daughters of Night, were at
his mercy. Their demise would end all the plague and violent death in the
world.

He turned to Lucy and saw a
slow smile spread across his own face.
He
nodded approvingly. He nicked
the thin fabric and lifted it away to reveal pale flesh. The scalpel drew a
thin, red line down Lucy’s chest and stomach. Charlotte’s scream was drowned by
her twin’s cries of agony. Charlotte’s time would come: the Keres would be no
more. He parted the flesh and cut deeper; blood flowed, pooling at his feet on
a floor of washed sand, raked smooth. Screams echoed round the bare room,
pounding at his skull and joining his own soundless cry. His hands delved
inside Lucy’s body: blood covered them to his wrists and fountained across his
white coverall. Her guts slithered across the marble slab. He was going to be
sick.

‘Grandpa?
Grandpa…
’

What? He stood at the foot
of Lucy’s bed. She was asleep. He stared at her in confusion.

Charlotte sat up. ‘Grandpa…
What’s the matter?’

How had he got here? His
fingers gripped a kitchen knife. Nerveless fingers opened and dropped the knife
to the floor. He could have… Sweet Jesus, he could have killed them both. He
sank onto the bed and hugged Charlotte to him, never wanting to let her go.
‘Just sleep-walking, sweetheart. A bad dream.’

‘Grandpa?’ Charlotte’s blue
eyes held his. ‘What’s wrong?’

He longed to share his pain
and fear.  She was so grown-up he almost forget she wasn’t yet twelve. ‘I
wish I could tell you, Charlotte.’