BRANDT DIDN’T have to pull on the reins to halt the horse. It stopped of its own accord, wheezing great plumes of steamy breath. He pulled the wooden brake and swung himself down from the seat. The five women were throwing the last of the earth onto the burial pit and they were alive. That was good. He walked over to Fischer, the boy who was guarding them. The boy looked cold but proud of the responsibility he’d been given.
‘Show me your rifle, Fischer.’
The boy held it towards him. The safety was off and Brandt pushed it back on. He let loose some of the tension and anger he felt when he spoke. Enough to frighten the boy, he hoped.
‘Your task is to guard these prisoners, Fischer. Nothing more. If you shoot one by accident, I shoot you. On purpose. Is that understood?’
The boy nodded – his face pale, his mouth open.
‘Brandt?’
Neumann stood on the hut’s steps, his hands deep in the pockets of a greatcoat. He looked at Fischer then back to Brandt. Had he overheard him? Brandt raised his hand to salute him.
‘Herr Obersturmführer.’
‘Come with me.’
Neumann turned to re-enter the hut and Brandt took the opportunity to look properly at the women. Their hands were skin-covered bones, blue against the worn wooden handles. Their fear was apparent in the stiffness of their postures, their tight-skinned faces.
‘I promise it, Fischer,’ he said to the boy as he passed.
It was cold inside the hut. Brandt was surprised to find it annoyed him.
‘I’ll see to the fires, Herr Obersturmführer. I should have done it before I left.’
‘Thank you,’ Neumann said, making for the dining room. The long oak table glistened as Neumann walked its length – trailing a finger along its surface. At the far end, he turned.
‘The mayor has asked to use the hut as a base for the Volkssturm. His . . .’ Neumann hesitated, perhaps unsure how to describe the youths that made up the unit, ‘. . . men can sleep in the guards’ dormitory. Weber can sleep in one of the officers’ rooms. You too. The Volkssturm can eat in the kitchen with the guards. The mayor and I will eat here. You will join us.’
‘I—’ Brandt began, searching for an excuse.
‘Would be honoured, surely?’
Brandt found himself shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He stopped – forcing himself to stand still and meet the SS man’s gaze. He wondered if Neumann was mocking him.
‘Of course.’
‘We’ll eat what the men eat, but search the cellar – let’s drink something good. The Ukrainians as well.’ Neumann paused before continuing. ‘But not the mayor’s men, I don’t think. Certainly not the very young ones.’
‘As you wish, Herr Obersturmführer.’
‘And Brandt?’
Neumann paused once again and, unless Brandt was much mistaken, observed him closely.
‘Be sure to prepare provisions for the women. For their journey. It is likely to be chaotic. Who knows what arrangements have been made for feeding the prisoners on the march? Perhaps none.’
Brandt was certain now that there was an edge to Neumann’s instruction. As if he was looking for some kind of reaction. He did his best to give him none.