––––––––
Standing on the stage behind the curtain, dressed as a tree in a brown checked shirt and a green cardigan, Peter peeked through the gap. The village hall was filling up as parents and friends took their places amid the babble of conversation. Monika joined him. ‘Let’s see,’ she said. ‘It’s exciting, isn’t it?’
‘No. I’m terrified.’
‘Listen to you. You’ll be fine. Anyway, you’ve only got one line.’
‘It’s all right for you, you’ve done this sort of thing before.’
‘Yes, I’m a natural, as they say. I can’t see my parents yet.’
‘I can see mine – right at the back.’
Monika scanned the audience. ‘Oh yes. Ah, here come Mama and Papa – late as usual. I think the whole village is here.’
A voice called to them from the side of the stage. ‘Peter, Monika, come back here.’ It was Miss Hoffman, their teacher and, for these last few weeks, their director. The play, Little Red Riding Hood, had been weeks in the planning. Peter knew that the rehearsals, costumes and set design had taken all of Miss Hoffman’s time. Monika had landed the lead part, and here she was dressed in a pink and white dress and a bright red cape. ‘Monika, are you OK? All ready with your lines?’
‘I’m fine, Miss Hoffman.’
‘Good girl. And how about you, Mr Tree? Oh dear, where’s your crown of leaves?’
‘It’s here, Miss H,’ said Peter.
‘Good. Don’t call me Miss H. Now don’t worry, you’ll be great; both of you. Let’s join the others.’
Peter liked Miss Hoffman; he liked the way her hair curled into her face, the smallness of her nose and her finely plucked eyebrows.
Behind the stage, a gaggle of schoolchildren tore up and down, some in costume, others trying to look authoritative. Miss Hoffman, carrying a clipboard, spoke to each one individually. Tomi, a short but tough boy with cropped hair, had landed the part playing the role of the huntsman, which meant a silly bushy beard and a large swastika sewn on the back of his costume, while his friend, Kurt, a tall, blond boy with a lazy eye, was playing the wolf, complete with a Star of David on his chest. Mr Manstein, the headmaster, a short, bald man with owl-like eyes, appeared, looking flustered and clutching a piece of paper. ‘Everything ready, Miss Hoffman?’
‘Yes, Headmaster. We’re ready to go.’
‘OK. Well, good luck to each and every one of you. Break a leg.’
‘Break a leg?’ asked a girl dressed vaguely as a tree.
‘It’s just an expression,’ said Miss Hoffman. ‘It means... oh, it doesn’t matter now.’
Mr Manstein had taken his place on the stage in front of the curtain. The audience settled down. He welcomed the parents, waxed lyrical on the genius of the Brothers Grimm, writers of Little Red Riding Hood, and launched into a lecture on how great all German writers and composers and artists were.
Behind stage, Peter, now sporting his crown of leaves, and his fellow cast members listened, getting increasingly nervous. Miss Hoffman flittered around; adjusting hats, tucking in shirts, making sure her charges looked their best. As Mr Manstein finished his introduction, Miss Hoffman gave Martin a nod – his only task was to lift the needle onto the record.
As the music began and the opening bars sounded around the hall, the narrator, a boy called Albert, deemed to have the most authoritative intonation in the class on account his voice had broken, said his first lines into the microphone: “Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a young girl whom everyone called ‘Little Red Riding Hood’, because she never went anywhere without wearing a cap made of lovely red velvet that her grandmother had given to her...” Monika took her place on the stage. The show had begun.
*
Backstage, ten minutes later, Peter was almost skipping with glee. The show was going down well, the audience had laughed in the right places and, most importantly, Peter had remembered his one line. Monika stood beside him waiting for her next entrance. ‘This is fun, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes, but the strain of artistic endeavour is quite exhausting,’ said Peter, adopting a pompous tone.
‘Have you swallowed a dictionary?’
‘I overheard Miss H saying it.’
‘You are a fool sometimes, Peter. Oh, I’m next – better go.’
*
The show was nearing its end; Albert continued his narration: “Our hero huntsman had climbed on a branch and had made a lasso with which to catch the Yid wolf...”
Miss Hoffman hadn’t been able to fashion a tree with an overhanging branch. Instead she had instructed a carpenter to build her a six-foot high wooden scaffold with a couple of rails. “The huntsman was carefully lowering the lasso from the branch...” Tomi, rope in hand, leant against the rail as the wolf circled beneath. With a loud and unexpected crack, the rail gave way. The audience gasped. Tomi crashed to the stage floor. Clutching his ankle, he let out an anguished cry. Some in the audience laughed, not knowing that Tomi’s fall was not intended. Miss Hoffman pushed her clipboard against Peter’s chest and ran onto the stage. ‘Tomi, are you OK?’
‘It’s my ankle – it hurts,’ he said between sobs.
The audience shuffled uneasily in their seats. A murmur of voices spread across the hall.
‘That wasn’t meant to happen, folks,’ said Albert helpfully over the microphone.
Mr Manstein was also on the stage, feeling Tomi’s ankle. ‘OK, let’s get you off,’ he said. ‘Miss Hoffman, tell someone to stop that ghastly music.’
‘Martin,’ she shouted. ‘Stop the music.’
Peter, standing to the side of the stage, still sporting his leaves, turned to see his brother lifting the needle off the record. What he saw shocked him – Martin was laughing so much, tears were pouring down his face. Peter knew.
*
It was a girl in the year below that told on the twins. Later that afternoon, once the audience had dispersed and gone, and the children were preparing to go home, Mr Manstein called Martin and Peter in to see him.
He invited the twins to sit down. His office was bright with the sun streaming through the large window but it was small; enough room only for desk and a couple of chairs either side. On the desk, a pile of papers and folders, a fountain pen and a bust of Hilter, on the wall a large map of the world flanked by framed portraits of Hitler and the old Kaiser.
‘The girl saw one of you Fischbachers with a hacksaw in your hand.’ Peter felt himself wither as the Head held his gaze for a few moments with his owl-like eyes. ‘So, you thought it’d be funny, did you, to saw the rail and then support it with tacks? Tomi is OK, no thanks to you, but he could have broken his ankle. So, was it you, Martin; or perhaps it was you, Peter?’
‘It...’
‘Yes?’
‘It wasn’t either of us, sir,’ said Peter.
The headmaster steepled his fingers. ‘This girl, who shall remain nameless, is an excellent pupil and I trust her implicitly. I appreciate she may have got you and your brother confused, after all, it’s easy to do, but if she says she saw one of you with a hacksaw, I believe her. Which one of you was responsible for this act of sabotage? Which one of you saw fit to destroy Miss Hoffman’s play?’
The boys glanced at each other. Go on, thought Peter, tell him, tell him the truth. But he knew, from his brother’s determined expression, that he wasn’t going to confess.
‘It weren’t me,’ said Martin.
‘Nor me,’ added Peter with a sigh.
Mr Manstein narrowed his eyes. ‘You have one last chance. Speak up or I shall have to cane both of you. Surely, whichever one of you it was, would want to spare your brother unwarranted punishment.’ He spoke slowly – ‘So, I ask again, which one of you was it?’
Peter’s fingers tightened behind his back. If he ever needed his twin to be brave, this was it. He needed his brother to take responsibility for his own deeds. Surely Martin cared enough for him to save Peter from being caned. But as Martin kept his silence, the bitter truth hit him – his brother cared nothing for him. He had an idea – it was risky, but he needed to force the issue, to test his brother’s loyalty. ‘Headmaster, sir,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, Peter?’
‘It was me.’
Mr Manstein raised an eyebrow. For what seemed an age, he said nothing; Peter could sense his disappointment. Martin, not able to prevent himself, shot him a look. Finally, Mr Manstein spoke. ‘Martin, have you anything to say?’
Please, thought Peter, say something. Prove yourself to me.
‘Well?’
‘Headmaster, sir, all I can say is that I am ashamed of my brother’s behaviour.’
*
Half an hour later, Peter walked slowly home by himself, his hand down the back of his trousers, trying to ease the throbbing pain across his backside where the cane had done its brutal work. He was crying. But it wasn’t the pain that was causing him to cry.