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Over the next couple of days Monika stayed inside the flat, looking after Peter who drifted in and out of consciousness. He looked worse with each passing day, his skin greyer, flakier, his temperature dangerously high. Applying cold flannels to his brow made little difference. While Peter slept, she busied herself by cleaning the apartment. They still had running water, but she kept the bath full – just in case. Martin spent the days out, where, she had no idea, reappearing only to sleep.
One night, Monika was awoken by the sirens. Jumping out of bed, she grabbed her coat and went to the spare room to find Martin still asleep. She shook him awake. ‘Martin, listen, listen...’
He sat up on hearing the high-pitched drone of the sirens.
‘They’re coming back,’ said Monika.
Martin rubbed his eyes, it was still only one in the morning but as the noise registered, he leapt from the bed, his eyes wide with panic, and rushed to the window.
‘We’re going to have get Peter down to the cellar,’ said Monika.
Between them, they tried to lift Peter up as the sound of the sirens became steadily louder. ‘God, he’s heavy,’ said Martin breathlessly.
Peter opened his eyes. ‘What are you doing?’
Monika stroked his hair. ‘Peter, oh, my love. There’s going to be an air raid. We’ve got to get you down to the cellar.’
He heard the sirens. ‘No. You two go. Leave me here.’
‘Peter, we can’t do that, love.’
Martin, more brusquely, told him to get up.
‘No, I can’t move.’
‘Get up, you stupid bastard.’
But Peter, close to tears, his energy sapped, refused to.
They heard the anti-aircraft engage, like that of a rapid barking dog, and beneath it the drone of the planes. ‘For fuck’s sake, Peter. Look, this is your choice,’ shouted Martin. ‘Come,’ he said, offering Monika his hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘What? We can’t leave Peter here.’
Then came the horrendous noise of the bombs falling, detonating. The walls shook. The lights flickered, then went out. The air pressure intensified, pounding their ears. Martin dived under the table. Monika screamed, covering her ears. Ceiling plaster fell, the floor trembled. Another bomb. Shattered glass flew across the room. The block of apartments opposite collapsed, crashing down as if it’d been built of straw, leaving huge clouds of black smoke amongst the flames. Peter covered his face with his hands, his blanket covered in plaster and shards of glass.
Martin and Monika, grappling on the floor in the pitch dark, bumped into each other. Martin shouted something but what, Monika had no idea, the noise of the planes and the bombs and the explosions ear-splittingly loud. The utter sense of vulnerability reduced her to tears. Crying, she fell into his arms, curled up in his lap, shivering with fear. As more bombs fell, she gripped Martin’s arm, aware of her fingernails biting into his flesh. She felt the sudden stab of anger coarse through her – anger that, through his stubbornness, Peter should have exposed them to this; they were going to die here, in this blackness, their mouths and nostrils bunged up with dust, their ears deafened by the intensity of noise. Martin pressed her head against his chest, stroked her hair.
Then, almost as sudden as it had started, there came a lull. The ceiling light bulb flickered back into life exposing a room almost white with powdery dust.
‘Please, God, let there be no more,’ she whimpered.
‘I think they’ve gone,’ said Martin, his chin resting on her head. ‘You all right, Peter?’ he called out.
Peter, coughing, managed to splutter a ‘yes’.
They remained where they were, too frightened, too dazed to move. The minutes ticked by. The city outside, through the broken windows, remained eerily quiet, just the ominous sound of buildings on fire, of masonry and timber collapsing.
Eventually, came the sound of the all-clear. Disentangling themselves, Martin and Monika clambered to their feet, rustling their hair, wiping away the worse of the dirt and dust.
Monika attended to Peter, taking water from the bath in a pan, using a flannel to clean him, while Martin looked round the apartment, surveying the damage. ‘Could have been a lot worse,’ was his considered opinion.
‘Leave me next time,’ said Peter, his voice coarse and quiet. ‘I’m dying–’
‘Peter–’
‘I know I am. But you have to save yourself. Please, next time...’