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Peter and his brother had returned to the city as seventeen-year olds in the spring of ’40, six months after the war had broken out. While German troops were asserting the nation’s right over the Poles, the twins settled down to enjoy the delights of city life. Their mother remained in the village, accustomed to rural life and her more subdued husband. The shooting accident may have tamed their father, as Martin had wanted, but the twins didn’t miss him, not for an instant. They had hugged each other as they re-entered the city of their birth. As brothers, they’d never been closer as they soaked up the thrill of urban life. Doomsayers predicted that bombs would fall on the city, but no, they’d be safe – Hermann Goring had given his assurance, and that was good enough for them. "If one enemy bomb falls on Germany,” the head of the Luftwaffe had said, “you can call me Meyer." Two months later, Monika joined them and started a course on dance, far more glamorous than their own engineering courses. Peter was elated to welcome her back into his arms while aware that at the same time, something disappeared in his new-found relationship with his brother.
And together they shared an apartment in a down-to-heel suburb in the eastern part of the city. Things were going well – too well. They knew it couldn’t last, their lives were simply too frivolous at a time of war. Sure enough, four years ago, the summer of ’40, the twins received their call-up papers, ordering them to report at the recruiting battalion headquarters at a specified time. They duly turned up, only for Peter to be sent home almost immediately. His father’s shooting rifle had left him with a permanent limp. He returned home unsure whether to be relieved or ashamed. Monika’s reaction didn’t help. ‘Surely, they could have found you something to do,’ she’d said. Meanwhile, Martin passed his physical and mental examinations with ease – after all, a former Hitler Youth boy, he’d done his two years’ conscription; he was a fit young man of 18; there’d be no reason for him not to. Monika’s dancing school had closed down; now she worked as a teacher of primary school kids while Peter now worked as an assistant to the manager of a state-run munitions factory.
A bright autumnal Sunday morning, Peter and Oskar were returning home with a loaf of bread each and a few vegetables and a lemon – their fruits of having queued for hours. ‘Chin-up,’ said Oskar. ‘Could be worse.’
Peter frowned. ‘Don’t see how.’
Oskar wore, as usual, his woolly hat with its earflaps tied over the head and a long burgundy-coloured coat. Like an urban scarecrow, his six-foot-five frame marked him out from the crowds milling about.
They made their way home through the wrecked streets, gazing vaguely at the now familiar sights of destruction – facades blasted away, lampposts bent, fallen timbers, trailing tramlines, broken glass littering the ground, fragments of brick and stone strewn around. Two elderly men sat on an upturned crate at the roadside, leaning on their walking sticks, their coats filthy and torn, their shoes caked in dust. Oskar laughed. ‘Look at them,’ he said. ‘That’ll be you and your brother in a few years’ time.’ Near them, a burnt out car, covered in soot.
Their apartment block on Kaiserstrasse had largely been spared the bombs – again. It always amazed Peter how it could survive such attacks, but apart from some damage to the roof, superficial stuff, Jünger had described it, it remained standing while neighbouring blocks had been pulverised.
Peter invited his friend in. Oskar declined, saying he had things to do.
‘Like what exactly?’ asked Peter.
‘Sleep.’
Peter returned to an empty apartment and had a wash. The bath was full of water – a ready supply in case their water was cut off. Taking Oskar’s lead, he lay on the settee and dozed off.
There was a loud knock on the apartment door. It wouldn’t be Monika, who’d gone out to use her meat rations, she had her own key. Groggily, he rose to his feet, rubbing his left thigh, just above the knee, a constant reminder of the shooting accident. Another knock. ‘Coming,’ he shouted. How long he’d been asleep, he didn’t know. It was not yet lunchtime, the sun, streaming through the shattered windows, exposed the layers of dust everywhere.
He went to open the door, fully expecting to see Mr Jünger who, as block warden, made not infrequent calls on all his tenants.
It took him a few moments to register – a soldier on his threshold, a great coat, a hefty rucksack over his shoulder, a finger hooked round the strap of a helmet knocking against his leg. His mind momentarily clouded. ‘Is that–?’
‘Hello, Peter.’
His heart thumped. That was his voice alright. ‘Christ, I didn’t recognise you.’
‘Good to see you too,’ he said quietly.
‘My God, what... what are you doing here?’
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘What? Yes, yes, of course. C-come in.’
Peter stood at the door, his hand on its knob, watching as his brother traipsed into the apartment, dropping his helmet, letting his rucksack slip off his shoulder, yanking off his coat, leaving them all heaped on the floor, and almost falling onto the settee. ‘Christ, I’m knackered. Any chance of some coffee?’
‘Ersatz?’
‘That’ll do,’ he muttered, his hand, on the side of the armchair, propping up his head.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, aware of his brother’s presence, Peter filled a pan with water and lit the gas. Waiting for the water to boil, he picked up his brothers things from the floor and hung them all on the coatrack. The coat, crusted with dried mud and dirt, felt heavy. It all stunk; even the rucksack stunk. Then, hoping his brother wouldn’t notice, he washed his hands. Martin had aged; his eyes seemed almost lifeless, lacking in any expression except perhaps resignation and a deep weariness.
‘I didn’t think you’d still be here,’ said Martin without looking up. ‘I see the whole street’s gone up in smoke. Whole fucking city has.’
‘Are you on leave?’ asked Peter, fearing it sounded more like an accusation than a question. He realised he hadn’t seen his brother for over three years, not since the day in ’42 when he left for the Eastern Front. A couple years before that, he and Monika had seen Martin off to France in his new uniform of the Wehrmacht.
‘Yep, ten days. Ten whole days. Compassionate leave.’ He scratched his head.
‘For whom?’
‘I told them my mother had died.’
Peter managed to stop himself from saying something.
‘How’s Monika?’
‘Monika? She’s fine; she should be back soon. Gone shopping.’ How simple he made it sound – gone shopping as if it didn’t involve hours of queuing, arguments, elbows and the constant risk of an aerial attack, and all for a couple half-rotten potatoes or some beans.
‘Hmm, so she hasn’t run off with someone else then.’
You bastard, thought Peter. ‘So, how’s Russia?’ he asked.
‘Very welcoming,’ he said, scratching himself again.
‘Really?’ Too late he realised he’d fallen for his brother’s idea of irony. ‘I mean, what’s it like compared to Paris?’
His brother laughed without feeling. ‘Paris! Hell, that seems like a lifetime ago. Oh, Paris. It was like a holiday camp. Jesus, what I wouldn’t give to go back there.’ He shook his head, momentarily lost in the memory.
‘Here’s your coffee,’ said Peter, placing it on the table next to the settee.
Martin grabbed his arm, holding him still as he was bent down. God, he stank, thought Peter, sweat, dirt, unwashed clothes. ‘Papa did you a favour, shooting you. You know that now, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
Martin let go, took a sip of his coffee. He didn’t grimace at the taste of it; he’d probably had far worse, thought Peter. Closing his eyes, Martin leant back and very quickly fell asleep.
Peter sat at what Monika optimistically called the dining table and watched his brother. His face was heavily tanned but engraved with a deep fatigue; the first hints of grey were showing at his temples. In no time, his brother had fallen into a deep sleep, sprawled on the settee, his head thrown back, his mouth open. He looked weak, thought Peter – verging on skeletal, his fingers long and bony, his fingernails black with dirt. And inside – inside something had broken; that much was evident. War had changed him. It was obvious it would do – yet it still shocked Peter. Looking at him now, it occurred to him that he could go for days without giving his brother a single thought. He was happier without him but... but he was out there, fighting for the nation, seeing things Peter couldn’t even begin to imagine. Peter knew it, had always known it from that day in 1940 at the recruiting station, that he felt deeply emasculated. Being rejected from that place, being sent home as unfit for service in any capacity, had been a defining moment. Ever since, he’d lived under the label of being weak, of not being a man when his nation needed men more than ever. But being at home, at the mercy of the bombs, was no picnic either, but it didn’t count; at least he knew it wouldn’t in the eyes of Martin. And no, Monika hadn’t run off with someone else. They’d been together too long for that.
Ten days. He was back for ten days. It wasn’t so long; it’d soon be gone. Unless, of course, the British hadn’t blown them to smithereens by then.
Martin woke up. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he stretched his arms. The apartment door opened. A moment’s hesitation then she screamed on seeing him. Dropping her bag, Monika flew across the room, flinging her arms round him, repeating his name, too excited even to notice the stench. Martin staggered back, laughing, trying to keep his balance, batting off a whole fusillade of questions. When did you get back, how long you’re back for, why didn’t you tell us, is it really you; God, we’ve missed you; we’ve been so worried about you. Haven’t we, Peter?
Peter, reheating his brother’s coffee in the pan, replied in the affirmative.
‘I wrote to you, said I’d be back,’ said Martin once Monika had calmed down.
‘We didn’t get it,’ said Monika, sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning forward.
‘The post has gone a bit dodgy,’ added Peter.
‘Let’s celebrate,’ said Monika. ‘I got some eggs. I’ll bake us a cake. We’ve got a lemon. You need feeding up, Martin. Look at you; there’s nothing left of you.’
‘I managed to get a few days leave and then I’m back. I never thought I’d find you. Have you heard from mum and dad? I never thought... never knew it’d be like this. It never stops. The fighting, I mean, the killing. The killing, it just... It’s good to be back. Even if half the city is destroyed. Still good. God, Russia’s fucking horrible. There’s no end to it. You can walk for days. Days and days. You look at the map and realise you’re still on the outline. And the Russians, they even send their women to fight. People call them subhuman. I thought that harsh at first but it’s true – they bloody are, the whole lot of them – subhuman.’ His eyes kept flicking round the room, unable to hold anyone’s gaze for more than a second or two. ‘This place, the flat, it’s just as I remembered it to be. Bit dusty. We could do with a new carpet. And the doorbell – it needs fixing. I thought, once it’s all over, I mean really over, we could go on holiday somewhere. Somewhere faraway. The States, perhaps. Imagine going there. Hollywood, Empire State. Full of Jews, they tell me, Jews and Negroes. Doesn’t bother me. I’d go live on the moon with a bunch of fucking aliens if it meant not going back.’
‘Is it really as bad as people are saying?’ asked Monika.
‘We keep hearing reports about the where the Russians are.’
Martin nodded. Peter and Monika watched him as he lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been hearing but yeah, we’re being pushed back at a rate of knots. We can’t hold the front. I’m tired. I could sleep for a week.’
‘What about these new weapons we keep hearing about, these wonder weapons?’
Staring into his mug of coffee, he said, ‘Yeah, right. Wonder weapons. That should do it. You got anything to eat? Meat, soup, something like that?’
‘Yes, we can find something. Martin, have you got lice? You keep scratching yourself.’
‘Everyone gets lice.’
‘We’ll have to see to it. We’ve got some powder in the bathroom.’
During the course of the afternoon and the evening, Monika looked after him – running him a bath, helping him shave, washing his clothes while Peter, feeling redundant, wished he could simply vanish.