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‘I’m not going back.’
‘I’m sorry.’
They were in the apartment, in the kitchen with its dingy wallpaper, its linoleum floor, sitting at the table opposite each other, a couple empty dinner plates and mugs pushed to one side. Peter was asleep in the living room. Martin looked up at Monika, holding her gaze. ‘I said I’m not going back, back to my unit.’
She tried to speak, unable to comprehend what he was saying.
‘I don’t care what you think, what anyone thinks. Call me a traitor, a coward, whatever, I don’t care. I’ve done things, Monika, things I’m not proud of, things I know will haunt me for the rest of my life. Yet out there, in the middle of nowhere, the bleakest place you can imagine, snow everywhere, unbelievably cold, shooting a mother and her teenage girl between the eyes seemed... well, if not normal, then certainly acceptable.’
‘No, please, Martin. Why are you telling me these things? I don’t need to know.’
‘Because I thought I was doing it for you, for everyone, for the Fatherland, for the good of the nation. The boys in my unit – one by one I saw them get killed. I knew it was only a matter of time. We measure our lives in years. I was measuring mine by days, then, as we pushed further, by the hour. That’s then I knew. We weren’t Germany’s future; we were its cannon fodder. I saw lieutenants, majors, colonels getting the hell out. Yeah, OK, they pulled a few strings, got themselves transferred, but they knew what they were doing, we all did. If I go back, I’ll never see you again, Monika.’ He stopped, searching his pockets. With trembling fingers, he lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke, watching it disperse. ‘A year ago, I got hit; a bullet to the calf muscle. Nothing serious. But enough to get me transferred. Fantastic, I thought. I was sent to a camp – guard duty. Easy work while I recuperated. It was a camp for Jews. There were others there too but mainly Jews.’
‘Like the concentration camps?’
‘No. Worse. Much worse.’
‘Worse?’
He shook his head. Monika realised with a jolt that he was crying.
‘They were killing them. Hundreds, thousands, every day.’
‘The Jews?’
‘Gas. They use gas.’
‘Gas? How can they...? I don’t understand.’
‘I saw it with my own eyes, Monika. My own eyes.’
‘Why? Why would they... I don’t believe you.’
He slammed his fist on the table. The plates and mugs bounced. ‘You don’t believe me?’ he shouted. ‘You think I’m making it up?’
‘Please, Martin. Please tell me it’s not true.’
‘I’m not going back, Monika. I can’t.’
‘You can’t not go back; they’d shoot you.’
‘And I’d be shot if I go back. So either way, I’m fucked.’
‘You could escape.’
‘I know. And I know a man who can help.’