‘BE CAREFUL when you pass that place,’ his father said to him one evening, his voice low. ‘I saw you today, looking up at it. They could shoot you – just for that.’
Brandt nodded – it was the simplest thing to do. It wasn’t a discussion he wanted to let run on.
‘I didn’t realize – I’ll be more careful, don’t worry.’
His father held Brandt’s eyes for a moment longer than was comfortable. As if he had a question that he would like to have answered but was not quite ready to ask.
Monika leaned forward, reaching a hand across the table towards him.
‘You have to understand – there are no restraints on the SS here. They can do whatever they want. It’s best to avoid the place as much as possible.’
Brandt had to admit they had a point. There was no sense in getting shot for no good reason. But he might have a solution.
After they’d eaten, Brandt went to his bedroom and took his uniform from the wardrobe. He considered the insignia of his former rank, the badges and medal ribbons he’d been awarded for his service. He no longer wanted anything to do with what the tunic represented – but even the SS would think twice before shooting someone wearing it.
The next day he wore it on his morning walk, taking the roundabout route that went above and behind the hut before coming down to it along the narrow lane that ran past its main gate. It was only when he was walking in the forest’s cool shade that he remembered it wasn’t only the SS he needed to be worried about. He looked around him, at the shadows and the brush that ran close to the path. For all he knew, up here where few people lived or visited, there might be a partisan tracking his progress through the sights of his rifle at this very moment. He could be dead before he heard the shot fired. He would keep to the lower, more travelled roads, he decided, when next going out for a walk dressed as a soldier.
As it turned out, the only person he met was Pavel with a wagonload of hay from one of the higher meadows. They hadn’t spoken since he’d returned, which wasn’t surprising, given, Brandt remembered, he was still enlisted in the army of the oppressors who had taken his farm and forced his son from the valley. Pavel looked though him as though he wasn’t there and Brandt shrugged. What was there to be said? That he was sorry? Saying sorry meant little without action to back it up.
In the evening, Brandt went out again, although this time he decided to take the road that led towards the dam, directly past the hut. It was busy at this time of day – with farmers returning from their fields and workers returning from their work. He was passed by a line of British prisoners, making their way to the POW camp near the town from the farms where they worked during the day. He caught their sideways glances as they noticed his tunic and his missing arm. He wondered if they thought themselves lucky to be here and not fighting in France, where such things could happen to a man.
Brandt had forty-one cigarettes remaining from those he’d brought home and he’d decided to give the last forty to his father for his pipe – he’d left them on his desk with a note. Now he took the remaining one – the last one – from his pocket. He wouldn’t light it just yet – he’d let it hang from his mouth and inhale the tobacco’s aroma for a minute or two. Then he’d light it. And when it was finished, well, perhaps the village shop would have some next week.
He didn’t see the two men until he was right beside them. They were standing in the shadow of a tree – and he was, as usual, looking into the hut’s garden for a sign of the woman. The first he knew of their presence was when the mayor called out to him.
‘Paul Brandt? How are you?’
Weber the baker had done well for himself – despite the heat he wore a wide-lapelled grey suit with a Party badge in its buttonhole. The suit looked as if it had been made for him. He also looked plumper than before, his round cheeks rounded still further by his smile. Beside him stood an SS officer, shirtsleeves rolled up above the elbow and a forage cap tilted forward so that it touched his left eyebrow. He was tall, slim, late forties – a pale face despite the summer weather. The men were physical opposites – long and thin, short and round.
‘I’m well, thank you, Mayor Weber. I hope the same is true for you.’ Brandt was conscious of the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He removed it. ‘Excuse me. My last one. I was contemplating it.’
The mayor’s smile widened and Brandt couldn’t help but feel that the fact he was down to his last cigarette pleased the man.
‘I was looking for you, as it happens, Paul. But let me introduce you to Obersturmführer Neumann. He commands the SS rest hut here.’
Weber pointed over his shoulder towards the hut. Brandt found himself stiffening to attention. It was natural. He had been a civilian for only a matter of days, after all, and Neumann was an officer.
‘Herr Obersturmführer.’
‘Paul here is the local hero, Obersturmführer Neumann. He fought on the Eastern Front, you know. Before . . .’
‘Well, let’s just say that some of me is still there,’ Brandt said, and felt the stretching of scar tissue that came with his smile these days. He decided it would be as well if this Neumann fellow had a good impression of him.
‘I can see you served the Fatherland well,’ Neumann said. At first Brandt thought he was talking about his arm, but then he saw he was looking at the combat badges and the medal ribbons.
‘The Tank Destruction Badge in Silver,’ Weber said, as proudly as if he’d been awarded it himself, ‘A real tank-killer, our Paul. The Iron Cross first class, the Infantry Assault Badge in Silver. And what else?’
‘The Wound Badge in Gold. Probably not necessary – the empty sleeve tells its own story.’
Neumann got the joke, even if it passed Weber by. Brandt decided to light the cigarette – he might as well.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked Neumann, who nodded – reaching inside his pocket for his own cigarettes.
Weber’s forehead was lined with a sincere frown.
‘It’s inspiring for the people, to have a real hero amongst them.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Herr Mayor.’
‘Everyone knows all about you, Paul – we kept them informed. The Party, that is. Which is why I was looking for you, as it happens. I have responsibility for the Hitler Youth in the village. Their heart is in the right place, of course, but they need to be prepared. For when their time comes. The right man could teach them a lot.’
Brandt nodded, as if Weber’s suggestion was an attractive proposition. He tried not to think of the smooth-chinned boys he’d seen on the train heading east. He didn’t want to have any part in sending more young men to die in a lost war.
‘I’m still recuperating, Herr Weber. And even if I weren’t, I might not be the best advertisement for a soldier’s life.’
Weber smiled warmly, reaching forward to put his hand on Brandt’s shoulder. The man’s touch irritated Brandt.
‘If it were up to me, Paul, I’d say: Absolutely. If anyone has done enough – it’s Paul Brandt. But I must ask you to give still more in the struggle towards our final victory. If you can walk up and down this road several times a day – and I’ve seen you do it – then you can talk to a group of youngsters once or twice a week, I’m sure. Of course, I should be clear that your loyalty isn’t in question, and nor is your father’s – it’s just that at this stage of the struggle, the Party has to ask for a little more from everyone.’
Brandt raised an eyebrow at the mention of his father. If it wasn’t a threat, then it was a strange thing to say.
‘So what do you think, Paul?’
Brandt considered the proposal, but not for long. There was no choice – that had been made clear.
‘When you put it like that – I am, of course, happy to give still more towards the final victory, Herr Weber,’ he said, then gave what he hoped was a good impression of a smile. ‘Which piece of me do you think you’ll want this time?’
There was a moment’s silence, during which Weber turned to Neumann, his face distorted by indecision, somewhere between a smile and a scowl, turning to relief when the SS man began to laugh. It wasn’t a joyous laugh but then it wasn’t a joyous joke. Weber joined in, his eyes gleaming with moisture. He laughed a little too hard, in Brandt’s opinion – as if he might not have understood the humour. Neumann had, of course. Brandt had hoped he would.
‘That’s good,’ Weber said at last, drying his eyes with a knuckle.
‘I was looking for something to do, as it happens. To pass the time,’ Brandt said. ‘Does the position come with a cigarette ration?’
‘A cigarette ration?’ The mayor’s features rearranged themselves to assume an expression of disappointment – even if Brandt suspected the disappointment was going to be felt by Brandt rather than the mayor. ‘It’s only a couple of evenings a week – but I can see what might be done.’
‘My last one,’ Brandt reminded him, holding up the stub that was left of it. The tip was close to his fingers, hot enough to hurt. He inhaled one final time, the burn scouring the back of his throat, and threw it away. All good things must come to an end, even things that weren’t so good.
Brandt saw the SS man glance across at the mayor and had the impression that a silent question was being asked. Weber shrugged in response. For a moment Brandt considered stooping to pick up the butt in case he’d broken some rule or other.
‘You said you were looking for something to do – a job perhaps?’ Neumann asked.
‘I might be.’
‘It’s only that Neumann needs someone up at the rest hut,’ the mayor said, pushing his jacket back behind his hips, slipping his thumbs into his belt.
‘A steward, of sorts. We were just discussing it. Not with you in mind, of course.’
‘A steward?’ Brandt asked, looking up at the hut and not quite believing his ears.
Neumann reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew a silver cigarette case. It gleamed.
‘It’s a simple enough role, Brandt. Your job would be to make things run smoothly. The physical work is already taken care of. We’ve had SS men as orderlies up until now – but they have been transferred to more active roles.’
By which, Brandt decided, he meant that the orderlies were up to their ankles in their own shit in some foxhole at the Front.
‘By whom?’ Brandt asked. ‘Is the physical work done, that is.’
‘By prisoners. Female prisoners.’
Neumann offered the cigarette case to him. Brandt took one and the mayor’s hand appeared between them, its fingers curled around a lighter.
‘I am still building up my strength. I wasn’t being misleading on that.’
‘I understand. You could start off a few afternoons a week – an evening here and there. There’s a shortage of available men around here, of course, and a woman wouldn’t be suitable. If you were interested, we would be patient. You could take on as much work as you were able, until you recover your health.’
Brandt looked through the trees at the nearest guard tower.
‘You say it’s a rest hut and you say a woman wouldn’t be suitable. If you don’t mind my asking – what kind of rest activities are on offer?’
Neumann’s easy smile tightened momentarily before it relaxed again.
‘It’s not a brothel, if that’s what you mean. It’s just a place where officers come for a day or two, sometimes longer if they’re recovering from injuries. They talk, they sing, they do nothing. Whatever suits them, they do. They can swim in the reservoir, go walking – it’s a rest from the stresses of the war. Much needed, for some of them. They drink. Sometimes a lot. A woman might make them feel restrained.’
Unless she was a female prisoner, of course.
‘Walking?’ Brandt said, aloud. ‘In the forest?’
Neumann smiled.
‘Not so much these days. The partisans are more active than they were.’
‘It would be good for you, Paul.’ The mayor nodded in the direction of the hut. ‘It’s a very pleasant atmosphere. And it could be combined with your Hitler Youth duties, I should think.’
‘Of course,’ Neumann said, nodding. ‘I would see to it that you were available when you were needed. It’s light work – I’m sure you could manage it. But, if not, then we wouldn’t hold you to the commitment. Well, are you interested?’
‘And the pay?’
‘We’ll talk about it. More than you received from the army, anyway. Oh – and cigarettes, of course. The hut is well provided for. I’ll make sure you receive a sensible ration. Generous, even. There will be other benefits, along the same lines. We aren’t skinflints.’
Brandt contemplated the cigarette Neumann had already given him. It wasn’t bad. A nice smoke.
‘Is there a pension?’
The mayor looked as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant and Brandt thought, for a moment, that he might have gone too far. But Neumann was made of sterner stuff.
‘If you see out the first twelve months, we’ll talk.’
His tone was dry as dust – but Brandt couldn’t help but laugh. In twelve months’ time they would all most probably be dead, or in a Russian gulag. Neumann smiled – they understood each other.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain taking the job to his father, but he wasn’t going to sell his soul for a packet of cigarettes just yet. He’d wanted to get close to the woman and this was the opportunity he’d been looking for.
‘When do I start?’