THE BUS WHEEZED as it climbed the road towards the higher valley. Behind them came a covered truck with Brandt and his Volkssturm boys – and the picnic. The small convoy had crossed the dam and now the frozen reservoir lay below them to their left. The road was barely more than a track, and icy with it. Occasionally the tyres would slip and the bus slide sideways before the driver corrected it. The officers shouted out in pretend fear, and then laughed. Neumann did his best to smile, but the truth was the prospect of tumbling down into the valley terrified him.
The problem was the bus. It was an old school bus and its engine wasn’t powerful enough for an incline like this. Painting it field grey didn’t make it a military vehicle. They hadn’t even changed the seats. The officers, swaddled in tweed and felt, their rifles wedged between their knees, swelled out into the central aisle, rubbing shoulders with the officers on the other side of the bus. With each bump and turn in the road, they leaned and swayed as one.
Despite the cramped conditions and their hangovers, they were in a good mood – there was a burble of anticipation despite the struggling motor and the steep slope. Each slide and slip, each twist that took them closer to the precipice, made them more cheerful still.
It helped that they’d left the SS women back at the hut – the officers were more relaxed as a result. It was cold in the bus and their breath had fogged the windows. Beltz drew a penis on the misted glass. Neumann doubted he’d have done it if an auxiliary had been sitting beside him, rolling blonde hair around a pretty finger. None of the others would have laughed along with Beltz if there had been women with them. The Commandant passed him a small flask. He drank from it. Better than leaving it to the Russians, after all. It burned as it made its way down but it warmed him. The Commandant took it back, sipping in turn. He gasped, his smile fleshy and wide, and took a grip on Neumann’s knee.
‘Well, what have you arranged for us?’
He spoke not only to him but also to Weber, who sat beside Neumann, his fat thighs taking up more than his fair share of the seat.
‘It’s a driven shoot, Herr Commandant,’ Weber said.
‘I know that much.’
Neumann smiled at Weber’s downcast reaction.
‘There is plenty of game in the woods up by the Red Farm, where we’re going; I’ve seen it myself,’ Weber said. ‘The shooting should be excellent.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, Weber.’ The Commandant turned to the other occupants of the bus, raising his voice. ‘Hopefully our celebrations from last night will not affect our aim.’
The officers, even the grey ones – the ones with the swampy eyes who didn’t laugh when the bus slid – even they smiled.
‘Where did you get beaters from?’ Jäger asked. He looked the palest of all – his cheeks seeming to have shrunk in on themselves overnight.
Neumann paused, considering how to answer. It was an awkward question but not deliberately so, he didn’t think. Jäger looked more curious than mischievous.
‘The Commandant was able to assist,’ Neumann said.
He’d have preferred to appear offhand, not to draw attention to his words. The hesitation had been a mistake and, sure enough, Jäger noticed. He might still be half drunk, but his brain was working efficiently enough. It took him a moment or two, but he reached the correct conclusion.
‘Prisoners? From the camp? It will be nice for them to get out for a walk in the fresh air. How lucky they must feel.’
Beltz’s laugh was like a dog’s bark but it stopped when the others looked away, discomfited. The mood on the bus had turned sour. Jäger looked around him, no longer appearing quite so bleary-eyed. In fact his blunder appeared to have revived him. The oldest of the doctors, a man in his late fifties, closed his eyes, his lips moving without words. Neumann wondered if he was praying.
‘I apologize, gentlemen,’ Jäger said, louder than was necessary. ‘I didn’t mean to offend your sensibilities.’
The irony was pitch perfect. Neumann had to admire it. He had to say something, of course. It was his duty to ensure the officers enjoyed themselves this morning. But before he had a chance, the Commandant leaned forward, taking Jäger’s shoulder in his hand.
‘Perhaps we should sing a song, what do you think, Jäger?’ The Commandant made the suggestion sound like a threat. ‘You were so keen to sing for us last night.’
Neumann knew the Commandant well enough to realize how annoyed he was. But Jäger wasn’t intimidated – he shook his head regretfully.
‘I apologize, Herr Sturmbannführer. I’ve forgotten all the words to all the songs I ever knew. I must have drunk too much last night.’
‘You could just hum, Jäger. That would be sufficient. Hum for us, why don’t you?’
It was enough to make one or two of the officers chuckle – but the Commandant wasn’t intending to amuse.
Jäger smiled. And began to hum.