AT THE END OF November it seemed clear they were facing a long, cold winter and Neumann asked the Commandant for a work detail of prisoners from one of the nearby satellite camps to chop wood for the hut. A gang of twenty men came each day for a week and chopped and sawed at the trees behind the hut. They worked from first thing in the morning till last thing at night. He wondered how they were able to, given just how thin they were.
When they’d left, and the stacked logs filled the open-sided shed beside the bunker, it worried him that the prisoners’ efforts might turn out to be for the Russians’ benefit, rather than the camp’s. But when he thought it through, he decided it didn’t matter, one way or the other. What was wood for, really, other than to be burned? And what were prisoners for, other than to work?
§
Neumann wrapped himself up, put on fur-lined boots to keep his feet warm and took Wolf for a walk down to the lake. It was the morning after the prisoners had finished stocking the hut with winter fuel. Wolf weaved his way along beside him, his tail wagging, his paws leaving their melting imprints in the light dusting of overnight snow. The cold air stung Neumann’s cheeks. Ahead of them, the reservoir was obscured by a clinging blanket of low white fog while the fields in between were grey with frost. The valley had lost its summer sheen and he knew it was unlikely he would see it again at its best. He sighed at the melancholy thought, which caused Wolf to stop and look back at him for a moment. Neumann leant down to rub between the dog’s ears.
‘Thank you, Wolf.’
His breath was a wispy white in the still air when he spoke. They walked on. The church bell rang eight o’clock down in the village, then all returned to silence.
He heard the postman before he saw him – there was almost no lubricating oil to be had these days. Although the ancient black bicycle’s chain would probably have squealed with each turn of the pedal in any event.
‘Herr Obersturmführer,’ the postman said, coming to a wheezing halt when he was close. ‘I have a letter for you, if you’d like it now. Otherwise I’ll take it up to the hut with the rest.’
Neumann didn’t get much post these days. The postal service was struggling with the bombing and with the lack of personnel and Marguerite was very busy, of course, now that she had been forced to move – the British having flattened the Hamburg apartment building they’d lived in. At least the small town she’d moved to with the boys was not too far from the city. Although far away enough to be safe from bombs. So far at least.
‘Thank you, Herr Schmidt. I’ll have it now.’
He held out his hand while the postman looked inside his leather satchel. Marguerite’s handwriting. Neumann slipped the letter inside the pocket of his greatcoat.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s a good one, I hope.’
‘From my wife.’
‘I’m pleased. They aren’t always, these days.’
The older man got back on his bicycle and resumed cycling up the hill towards the hut and the higher farms. Neumann noticed the Volkssturm armband and found himself shaking his head. He wasn’t even certain this man would make it to the top of the slope without having to get off and walk, and yet the mayor thought the old fellow should be a soldier.
When they reached the lake, Neumann threw a stick for Wolf. Then encouraged the dog to go for swim. Wolf shook the water off when he emerged, then sat down on his haunches, looking at Neumann as if he expected to be entertained and Neumann was the performance. Neumann reached into his pocket and slipped a finger under the envelope’s flap, tearing it open. The letter was only two sides long, although Marguerite’s handwriting was tightly packed in, its black copperplate filling up the entirety of each page. He read it through once. Then once again. He shook his head, not in disagreement, but to clear it, then read it once more. It was clear and it was precise. Not one word had been crossed out or needed alteration. She must have carefully crafted it – not wanting there to be any ambiguity as to its meaning. Wolf came towards him, his doleful gaze seeking out his master’s. Neumann found his fingers wrapping themselves into the Alsatian’s long fur and a part of him, he was surprised to discover, wanted to rip the handful he held away from Wolf’s head, to hear the dog’s howl of pain.
‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back home.’
They had almost reached the hut when they came across Brandt.
‘Herr Obersturmführer?’ Brandt asked, but what the question was he didn’t say.
‘Yes, Brandt?’
‘You look a little pale. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. Better for the walk.’
Brandt hesitated, as if there was something on his mind.
‘Spit it out, whatever it is.’
‘It’s the prisoners, Herr Obersturmführer. I found some Soviet padded coats in the store. I don’t know where they came from – war booty of some sort, I suppose – but I was wondering, now that the weather has turned cold, if you would permit them to be given to the prisoners?’
‘Why?’
‘Why not, Herr Obersturmführer? No one else is using them and we’ll get more work out of them if they stay healthy over the winter.’
Neumann shook his head – Brandt really didn’t understand a single thing about this place. And yet. Neumann was not cold-hearted. He had not forgotten how to be kind. He was still a human being. Marguerite was wrong about those things.
‘Tell Peichl I have ordered you to give the jackets to the women. Otherwise he’ll only come to me complaining. Is that all?’
Brandt looked surprised, but pleased at the same time. He saluted him. A proper military salute. Neumann experienced a flash of pleasure and wasn’t quite sure why.
‘Thank you, Herr Obersturmführer.’
Neumann nodded and carried on his way feeling, once again, numb.