BRANDT descended the stairs to the kitchen, still feeling the grip of Neumann’s fingers on his shoulder. He wanted to wash himself – to cleanse his skin of the contact. He also wanted to take back his stupid petulance. He could only hope Neumann wouldn’t remember the conversation in the morning.
In the kitchen, the Bible students stood beside the counter, as if waiting for inspection. The others had been sent to the bunker earlier.
‘The Obersturmführer says you can go to bed.’
Gertrud, the older one, closed her eyes as if a prayer had been granted. Katerina held his gaze. Neither of them moved. Katerina’s tone was patient.
‘Someone has to unlock the bunker.’
‘Of course. I’ll get one of the guards.’
Outside, the pale moon lit the snow and made the shadows of trees, fences and even guard towers crisp. The air was sharp, it stung his eyes it was so cold. He could see Bobrik in the tower by the gate, his face orange – he must have the stove’s door open, trying to keep himself warm.
‘Bobrik?’ he called up to him, his voice breaking the silence of the night.
Bobrik’s shadow appeared above him, leaning over the parapet.
‘Brandt? Are you going home?’
‘In a few minutes. But the women need to be taken back to the bunker first.’
‘Wait a moment.’
There was a delay and the sound of Bobrik’s iron-nailed boots walking across the tower’s concrete floor.
‘Here.’ The keys dropped into the snow beside him. ‘It’s the big round one.’
Brandt looked down at the keys then up at the guard tower.
‘Bobrik?’ he said, and heard the anger in his voice. ‘I’m not a guard. This isn’t my work.’
‘I can’t leave the gate. Peichl would have my skin. It’s just letting them in. You can manage that.’
Brandt cursed as he bent down. Bobrik was still leaning out over the parapet – watching him – and Brandt felt a scowl pulling at his taut, frosted skin. He was certain he heard Bobrik’s chuckle as he walked back towards the kitchen, the cold keys heavy in his hand.
‘Come on,’ he said, opening the door. ‘There is no one else to take you.’
Katerina walked towards him, her eyes on the floor in front of her. Gertrud followed, also avoiding his gaze. The women said nothing.
They walked along the concrete path that ran along the side of the hut, hearing the revelry above them. The concrete was icy underfoot and Brandt saw Gertrud reach for Katerina’s arm when her clogs slipped. And here he was, walking behind them, the key to their prison in his hand.
The sound of their footsteps changed when they turned towards the bunker – the gravel on the path was frozen together and it crunched apart under their weight. The noise from the dining room receded and the silence of the valley took its place. Above them countless stars were scattered across the sky – the snow-shrouded trees shining in their silver glow. The women stopped beside the heavy metal door, standing aside while he inserted the key. He needed all his strength to turn it and, when the door was unlocked, he had to lean his whole body on it until momentum took over and it swung, squealing, open.
‘It’s only this once,’ he said as they entered. ‘I’m not one of them.’
‘Who are you, then?’
The voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. He wasn’t even certain anyone had said anything, it was so quiet. Agneta.
He swallowed his bitter retort, pushed the door closed and turned the key in the lock. He felt desperate, cornered like a rat. He had betrayed her once again.
As he walked back towards the hut his frustration grew until it solidified into a need. A need to take some action. A willingness to risk all.