THE OFFICERS from the camp were late and there had been yet another power cut. The third already that day. Brandt lit a candle and started his final check with the bedrooms at the far end of the building, the end closest to the village.
There wasn’t much to be checked. The rooms were small and bare – designed for brief stays rather than permanent occupation. Jäger had been here for six weeks now, but he was an exception and he should be going tomorrow if the doctors who were coming for the dinner approved his return to active duty. The narrow beds had been made up with several blankets and the linen was clean and freshly ironed. Each room looked like a mirror of any one of the others – all very disciplined, all very regular.
Next, he checked the washroom with its row of sinks and the toilet cubicles – all appeared spotless. He would like to be absolutely certain but the flickering candlelight prevented this. There would be consequences if the expected standards weren’t met. Not for him but for the women prisoners. The doctors, in particular, had a horror of dirt.
He walked through into the dining room. It was warmer here, a fire had been lit and the orange glow from its flames swirled across the ceiling. The long table filled the room and each place had been set. Twenty-four would sit down to dinner. Silver cutlery twinkled golden and the glass sparkled in the firelight. The windows that lined one side of the dining room, overlooking the yard, glittered.
If he was concerned about anything, it was about the candles. Antique silver candlesticks lined the centre of the table like soldiers on parade. He wouldn’t light them yet. Already a candle was worth two packets of cigarettes. Candles, cigarettes and matches were as good as money when the world turned upside down. Perhaps they would be worth as much as a human life soon. He wouldn’t waste them.
The Yule tree – as Neumann insisted it be called – stood in the entrance hall. It looked like a Christmas tree to Brandt. He found Neumann standing in front of it, a candle in his hand, contemplating the silver swastika that had been placed at its top with a look of puzzled concentration. He was wearing his dress uniform, a golden braid hanging down from his left shoulder epaulette. The braid and his polished black boots reflected back what light there was. He looked tired.
‘If only we could have found a goose.’
Brandt wondered if Neumann expected him to go out and try to find one, in the dark, on Christmas Eve.
‘The stew is good, Herr Obersturmführer. The mayor tried everything. There are no geese to be had.’
‘I know. And we are soldiers, not children. Still – for the time of year – a goose would have been more appropriate.’
Neumann looked at his watch and then walked to the window. It was pitch black outside. He looked out as if hoping to see the officers arriving. The only sound was the crackling of the burning logs in the fireplace.
‘We should light the candles.’
Brandt found himself frowning. All those candles burning down, just for one man.
‘The candles, Herr Obersturmführer?’
‘The tree should be lit when they walk through the door – it will set the tone for the evening. It will put them in a better mood.’
‘An excellent suggestion, Herr Obersturmführer.’
‘It wasn’t a suggestion, Brandt.’
Brandt found his teeth had clenched, top against bottom.
‘I will light them,’ Neumann said. ‘You will take photographs. I want to have this memory for my children. I want them to know I wasn’t always a . . .’ He paused as though searching for the correct word. ‘A soldier. That there were quieter times. That I thought about them. Especially tonight.’
Neumann turned to face Brandt once again.
‘The camera is on the table. You must hold it very still – rest it on something perhaps. In this light, if you move, even slightly, the image will be blurred and the moment will be lost.’
‘I’ll make sure I hold it steady.’
Brandt listened to himself speaking, conscious the words had revealed some of his anger. Neumann didn’t notice.
Brandt positioned the camera on the back of an armchair and squinted through the viewfinder. Neumann looked small beside the enormous tree – it was nearly twice his height. Brandt had had to find the tallest of the Ukrainians and a step ladder to place the swastika and the higher candles.
Neumann stooped to light the long taper in his hand from the fireplace.
‘Can you make out my face?’
‘Not clearly.’
‘Am I in shadow?’
‘Yes.’
Only his oiled hair, his boots and his gold braid reflected any light.
‘I’ll light some of the candles.’
There were twenty-four on the tree. Neumann addressed them one by one, and soon the SS officer’s face was a half-moon against the dark behind him. Click, whirr. Click, whirr. With each photograph the image of Neumann in the viewfinder became more distinct.
‘Doesn’t it look magnificent?’
Neumann stood back to examine his handiwork. ‘Very elegant,’ Jäger said. ‘Just like a Christmas tree.’
Brandt hadn’t heard Jäger come in but here he was – in black tanker uniform with silver runes at his collar and a chest and neck filled with ribbons and crosses. His sardonic smile was in full working order.
‘A Yule tree, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Neumann corrected him.
‘Of course. A Christmas tree. As you say.’
Jäger stepped closer to it, passing a hand over the flame of a candle. Slowly.
‘So, when do our comrades arrive from elsewhere?’
‘In half an hour. For certain this time.’
‘Excellent,’ Jäger said. ‘The Last Supper will finally take place.’
Neumann frowned.
‘What’s the matter, Neumann? It was at Christmas, wasn’t it? The Last Supper? Brandt, you went to university?’
Jäger’s gaze shifted between Brandt and Neumann – but ended up with Brandt.
‘It was Easter, Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ Brandt said. ‘The Thursday before Easter.’
‘I see. My mistake. It’s only that I’m hungry, Neumann,’ Jäger said, giving the Obersturmführer a pleasant smile. ‘I feel like I’ve been waiting for a very long time for this supper, you see.’