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Monika hadn’t been out for a couple of days, devoting her time and energy in caring for Peter, who lay motionless, slowly slipping away. She’d cried so much she had nothing left to cry. Martin went out frequently, bringing back bits of food or fuel. Finally, she could bear it no more; she needed air, to escape the suffocation inside that dingy room.
Together with Martin, Monika took a walk, gawking at the chaos that scarred the city, occasionally stopping to read one of the newspapers plastered up on walls or shop fronts. A weak sun filtered through the clouds; people were out on the streets, trying to fathom out what the future held for them. The few remaining optimists clapped each other on the back, saying that Germany wasn’t finished yet, that she would fight back and ultimate victory was still to be had; but most people shook their heads and spoke fearfully of the Russians but dared not speak too loud – defeatist talk could have dire consequences. They saw a queue of people outside a post office – people waiting to withdraw their life savings. Reluctantly, they joined the queue. Two hours later, they left, their pockets stuffed with what remained of their money, their accounts closed.
No street was free of corpses; bodies lay statuesque-like, covered in coats, some sprinkled with lime to lessen the pungent aroma. People strolled from one to another, their hands clasped over their mouths, lifting the coats, looking for a loved one.
Martin suggested a stroll in the park and Monika readily agreed, too tired to decide for herself. He spotted three young boys vacate a bench and ran to claim it. Monika joined him, pleased to sit down. They sat in silence and watched a father play football with his two young sons, allowing them to score at frequent intervals amid yelps of delight. Martin laughed and Monika tried to smile
‘He’s dying, you know.’
‘Peter?’ She noticed him cast his eyes down, fiddling with a button on his coat. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘I know.’
‘It’s only that...’
‘Go on.’
‘You act as if you don’t care.’
Martin sat up and half-turned to face her. ‘That’s not fair, I do care but...’ He slunk back on the bench. ‘I do care, Monika, I care a lot; he’s my brother and I miss him. But I feel so useless, I can’t help him, none of us can.’
One of the small boys fell awkwardly chasing the ball. He lay on the grass, motionless, stunned, before letting loose an ear-piercing scream. His father ran to him and scooped him up in his arms, pressing his face into his and smothering him with concern.
‘Do you really miss him?’
‘Yes.’
‘So do I.’
‘I want to say sorry to him, to say sorry for having been such a shit to him all these years.’ The words came quickly but he stopped abruptly and cast his eyes heavenwards, grappling with his thoughts. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it, how you don’t appreciate something until it’s too late?’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I mean, we grew up together, he was always there, we came back to Berlin together, we’ve always lived together. He’s always been part of my life. But God, it’s more than that; he’s part of me. I suppose they say that of twins and it’s true. I never really thought about it until now but it’s so obvious. Martin and Peter, the inseparable twins. And suddenly, he’s not there any more, he’s lying in that shit-hole with this fucking infection eating him up and I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing. But part of me is dying and whatever I do, I can’t escape it. So, yes, I miss him.’
Their arms intertwined, their faces touching cheek to cheek.
‘We talk of him as if he’s already gone.’
Martin laughed, a sorrowful laugh. ‘I know.’
Their foreheads touched as they whispered to one another within the privacy of their own shadows. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, I thought...’
‘You thought I didn’t care.’
‘I was wrong.’
‘Yes, but I understand why you thought it.’
‘I miss him too.’
‘I was always jealous, you know.’
‘Of us two?’
‘Yes.’
‘You should’ve beaten him on the tightrope then.’
He laughed again as her words immediately took his mind back six years to the village green, the taste of Coca-Cola on his tongue, the face of Tomi, the quartet of old men with their instruments, his feet poised on the tightrope. He lifted his head a fraction and his lips touched her cheek. He kissed it delicately, kissed the wetness of her face, the stain of tears on her skin. He left his lips there, not wanting to break the moment, not wanting to lose the warmth of her skin against his lips.
‘Martin. Martin? We ought to get back.’
‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh. ‘We ought to get back.’
Together, they stood up and the world returned into focus – the park, the bent trees, the craters. As they left, Martin glanced back. The father with his footballing sons had gone.