––––––––
Having returned from his daily pointless trip to the café, Adolphus eyed the bottle on the top shelf. It sat there, a quarter full, tempting him with its clear liquid. He could taste it, feel the joyous burning sensation as it cascaded down his throat. Everyday he fought this battle; everyday he lost it. Annoyed with himself, Adolphus spun away and flung himself onto the chair, desperately trying to delay the inevitable. He hadn’t realised how much he was sweating. God, he wanted that drink – it’d make him feel better – and... worse. A lot worse.
He wished the twins would come back. Their presence, irritating as it was, took his mind off things, made him feel as if he was part of the present. Marta, his wife, would be ages yet. She’d got a job earning a degrading wage with Höch, a local farmer and Nazi-lover, the smarmy git. If only the communists had power – they’d have confiscated Höch’s farm in the spirit of collectivisation by now. That’d have taken the grin off his face. Pitiful though they were, Marta’s wages were a godsend but how it hurt, how he resented it – to be dependent on her income, to have to feel grateful for every scrap. How he hated this life – this prison of a hut with its primitive clay floor and rotting wood, this fucking squalid little village with its inbred inhabitants, suspicious and simple. He knew they were all Nazi accomplices, gleefully handing over their Jews, happy to wipe the shit off their boots. He grabbed for his cigarettes, his hand shaking as he lit one, the pale blue smoke dancing in the rays of fading sunlight. If only he could go back.
The knock on the door was so quiet, he thought he’d imagined it. The second time, he realised he hadn’t. No one had ever knocked on their door before, no neighbours, no friends (for he had none), and for a few moments he felt that overly familiar surge of fear that they were coming for him – but then the Gestapo aren’t known for knocking gently. ‘Come in,’ he said, hesitantly.
The door opened noisily and a woman’s face peeked round.
‘Mrs Emmerich?’ She didn’t come in, as if unwilling to commit herself to his hospitality. Monika’s mother was the only villager willing to bid him good day, and he accepted her greetings like a man starved. ‘Well, come in, come in,’ he said, conscious that his parched voice sounded like a growl. He cleared his throat. ‘I won’t bite,’ he added, trying to sound more congenial.
She took a step in but remained at the door, her hands behind her back. A pretty thing, he thought, past her best but still attractive with her black hair tied in a bun and her green eyes. Her presence there, the way she looked at him, reminded him how unclean he was. But with no water beyond the dribbling tap at the back of the hut, what could he do, and the clothes he wore were his only set.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ she asked.
‘No, not at all.’ He stubbed out the cigarette, grinding it into an ashtray. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘No, I won’t keep you long but I thought I ought to let you know...’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s a little awkward.’
‘Take a seat, Mrs Emmerich, take a seat. Is it the twins?’
She sat down on a wooden chair, her hands neatly resting on her lap. ‘Yes, it’s the twins. You see, I have two daughters, as you probably know. And the eldest, Helene, she likes to go swimming out in the lake in the woods.’
‘The lake. Yes, I know it.’
‘Well, I sent Monika out yesterday morning to fetch Helene – she’d forgotten an appointment we had and, well... Oh dear, I’m going to sound like an awful sneak. The fact is, Monika found your boys spying.’
‘Well, they’ll make good Nazi informants, then. Spying on what exactly?’
‘They were spying on Helene, my daughter. In the lake.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘Well, yes, because Helene was not wearing any clothes. She was naked.’
‘Oh.’ The accusation hit him as if he himself had been caught. ‘The dirty little...’ He felt a flush of shame as he sat down heavily. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll speak to them. Severely.’ The dirty little bastards; he hadn’t brought them up to behave like perverts. Had his father caught him spying on naked women, he would have received a well-deserved hiding. Well, the twins couldn’t expect anything different. It wasn’t so much what they done but the fear that if it got round the village, they’d be labelled as degenerates as well as aliens. Fuck, what an existence, what a way to live. It never used to be like this. He needed that drink.
‘Are you OK, Mr Fischbacher?’
He sighed. ‘Yes, I’m OK.’
‘Have you settled in now?’ Her voice seemed laced with concern.
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’
‘What is it you used to do? Before you came here?’
‘Me?’ No one in the village had ever asked him before. ‘I had a business a long time ago, importing and selling cloth from the US. I made a decent living. Good quality material was always in demand, especially in Berlin.’
‘And then the came depression.’
‘Yes, and then the came the depression. Then after that I became a communist; you probably know that. It’s why I’m here. Exiled.’
‘Could have been worse.’
‘Yes.’
‘You survived.’
‘Yes, we survived. We were among the lucky ones.’ He hadn’t been that lucky – they arrested him and sent to one of the new concentration camps just opening. But he couldn’t tell her that. The beatings, the degradation still hurt. He lit another cigarette. Released after a couple of months, and in that he had been lucky, he had his home confiscated and told to get out of Berlin. The following day they found themselves, with a suitcase each, on a train heading east, to this place that time forgot.
‘You can’t go back?’
‘Of course not. I’m banned from travelling further than five kilometres from the village centre. It’s part of the punishment – for being a communist.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Well, now you know my story. As a good German, you should hate me.’
‘Not at all. Your wife, I see, has a job, and the twins seem to have settled in.’
‘Except when they’re being peeping toms.’
‘Oh, I wish I’d never mentioned it now. It was Helene’s fault. What was she thinking of, swimming naked? I’ll speak to her. Well, Mr Fischbacher, it’s been very nice but I have to get going now.’
But Adolphus was lost deep in thought, the cigarette burning between his fingers. When, finally, he looked up, she’d gone. Pity, he thought, she was nice. It’d been the first conversation he’d had in this godforsaken place. But instead of making him feel better, it’d only served to remind him how futile his situation was.
‘I don’t want a drink,’ he muttered, his fingernails scraping against the wooden table. ‘I don’t want a drink.’ The hours stretched ahead of him, hours of loneliness and boredom, hours of agony. He couldn’t face it, he couldn’t continue sitting there, pacing up and down this filthy hut, his memories full of happier, more prosperous times. He slammed the table with his palm. Stubbing out the cigarette, he rose clumsily from the chair, knocking it sideways, and lurched towards the shelves, reaching up for the bottle. Lunging at it, he knocked it and, for a moment, it tottered, threatening to fall, before settling back into place. Breathing a sigh of relief, he snatched it, uncorked the top and let the haze of fumes reach into his nostrils, launching a stream of saliva. With trembling fingers, he gripped the bottle and gulped down the liquid, feeling the burning pleasure as it slipped down his throat. He took in a heavy breath and held it there; savouring the moment, conscious of the tears prickling his eyes, such was his relief. As he breathed out, he smiled and felt his muscles relax.
‘No more than a few sips,’ he said, as he took a second swig, swiftly followed by a third. No, it never used to be like this.