IT WAS STILL dark the next morning when Brandt opened the hut’s front door. He hadn’t had much sleep and he felt anxiety like a physical weight. He’d tossed and turned in bed and eventually got up, going downstairs to sit in the armchair and have a smoke – at which point his eyes had promptly closed. He awoke feeling tired and stiff, the key to the bunker, which he’d removed from the bunch, still clutched in his fist. What had he been thinking – taking it?
Brandt turned on the light switch and, miracle of miracles, light resulted. He checked his watch, just past five o’clock, and looked around the entrance hall – the must of stale cigarettes and spilled wine clung to the air. And something else. He found the vomit under a carefully placed armchair. The Christmas tree had been pushed sideways at some stage so that it now leaned crookedly against the wall. He tugged it upright. At least someone had snuffed out the candles. He wrapped his fingers around the key in his pocket. He’d say it came off by accident when they asked him. It didn’t make sense, of course. But he could think of no better excuse.
Adamik brought the women in at six. Brandt knew he must have used a spare key to open the bunker, so the guards knew the other one was missing. Brandt waited for the question, but Adamik barely even looked at Brandt – just took the cup of hot milk Brandt had made for him. Brandt felt the cold sweat sticking his vest to his skin. Perhaps it was a trick. He felt the key’s shape in his pocket like a weight dragging him into his grave.
The officers began appearing for breakfast around seven. They were dressed for the shoot, in winter jackets and woollen jumpers. Most of them looked as though they’d rather be in bed. At least they had nothing to complain about – the dining table was once again covered in a clean, crisp cloth and the smell of fresh bread and soup had replaced the other, more unpleasant odours.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, he began to prepare the meat for the evening meal. He waited. Maybe they were waiting for him to take it to the guardhouse. Perhaps holding on to the key was the worst thing he could do. He pressed the mutton onto the spiked carving board and began to trim away the fat. He tried to focus completely, for a moment, on the blade and the cutting. On days like this, his missing forearm hurt him – and not just where the material of his jacket rubbed against his still-raw stump. Each of his lost knuckles ached, even though they were long gone.
He wondered if perhaps his fingers were still there, in another version of this world, attached to a version of him that hadn’t been to war. A different world from this one, where the camp had never been built and the valley was as it always had been. Where he had finished his studies and never had to kill a man. One where he hadn’t taken the damned key.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps descending the staircase that led to the hut’s upper level – the wood creaking under their weight. Someone was coming now – looking for him.
‘Brandt?’ Peichl’s voice came down. ‘Are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ Brandt said, forcing the words through the fear that filled his throat.
‘And?’
The key pressed against his thigh, cold through the fabric of his pocket.
‘At your service, Herr Scharführer.’
Three more steps, the boots and belt appearing. Then four more. Then the final three. Peichl’s black belt cut into the taut fabric of his uniform like a tourniquet. Brandt reminded himself to breathe.
‘What’s wrong with you, Brandt? You seem out of sorts.’
Peichl made his way over to him, standing so close that Brandt could smell the onions and stale schnapps on his breath. The SS man, not being an officer, had taken his entertainment in the village the night before. Brandt wondered if he might still be drunk.
‘I wasn’t aware I was out of sorts, Herr Scharführer. I thought I was just the same as every other day.’
Peichl laughed, walking over to the cast-iron cooking stove. He lifted his buttocks one after the other onto the round metal rail that ran along its length.
‘Bobrik said you locked the prisoners up last night.’
Brandt kept his eyes on the meat. He didn’t dare look up.
‘There was no one else. I wanted to go home. It was late.’
‘Did you tuck them in?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You think I don’t notice your little kindnesses to them, Brandt?’
Brandt said nothing. Even if he’d wanted to, he wasn’t certain his mouth could form the words he required.
‘I imagine you were an awkward soldier, Brandt,’ Peichl said. ‘Even when you were all in one piece.’
Brandt turned and picked up the knife once again, sliding the blade along and down into the flesh. Adrenaline made him clumsy.
‘I was awkward enough, I suppose, Herr Scharführer. But awkward soldiers are often good at fighting – they have their own minds, you see.’
Brandt heard the inference in his words as soon as they were spoken. He turned and saw that Peichl had heard it as well. ‘You think I wouldn’t be much use when it comes to fighting the Russians, do you, Brandt? You think I don’t have my own mind?’
With slow menace Peichl lifted himself away from the stove.
‘I could have a couple of the Ukrainians take you for a walk in the wood. Perhaps I should take you myself. Then we’d see how brave you really are, for all your talk.’
Brandt held the knife in his hand loosely. A lunge and a twist. Pull it out, slash, slash. Lunge again. He could be in the forest before anyone was the wiser. He could leave this place behind him. All he saw, for an instant, was Peichl and the place beneath his ribcage where he’d stick him. Peichl stopped, his eyes narrowing. And then there was a noise. A plate being placed, very carefully, on a hard surface. Agneta washing dishes in the small pantry. The sound calmed him. He had forgotten why he was here. He remembered now. He swallowed, allowing some of the tension to flow out of him.
Peichl hadn’t mentioned the key. And that was important. Because if he was going to, he would have by now. Brandt gave Peichl his best attempt at an ingratiating smile, holding his hand out wide – pointing the knife away from the SS man. He didn’t place it on the counter, however, that would be stupid.
‘Who would supervise your kitchen for you then, Herr Scharführer? Who would look after the officers from the camp? Who would make sure you and your men had sandwiches and soup at the end of the shoot? And a flask of something to take with you this morning?’ Brandt pointed with the knife to the army water bottle on the counter, which he had filled with brandy. ‘I didn’t mean to cause any offence.’
Peichl’s eyes narrowed, as if looking for another insult. Brandt was conscious that the only sounds came from upstairs, where the mood of the officers’ breakfast had begun to lighten. Laughter. Brandt kept his gaze fixed on Peichl’s, then leant his head forward infinitesimally. A gesture of subjugation to Peichl’s will. There was a long, tense pause. But the gesture seemed to satisfy Peichl. He grunted.
‘We can always find someone else from the village, Brandt. You aren’t irreplaceable. Not at all.’ Peichl lifted the water bottle, unscrewed the camp and sniffed. ‘This is the good French stuff?’
‘Armagnac. The best we have.’
Brandt leant his head forward another fraction, lowering his eyes.
‘Make sure the soup is hot, Brandt. It will be cold up in the forest.’
Peichl screwed the cap back on and nodded, allowing his gaze to wander around the kitchen, before turning his attention back to Brandt.
‘Be careful, cripple. I’m not a man to be crossed.’
Brandt looked after Peichl as he made his way back upstairs. And began to breathe once more. He was surprised by how much he’d wanted to put the knife into him – even at the Front he’d never felt anything like it. He shivered.
He needed to talk to Bobrik. He needed to understand why no one knew about the missing key.