Alexander Altmann A10567 (5 page)

“The Commander of the Horse Platoon!” the kapo announced, straightening his shoulders. “Commander Ziegler.” Alexander looked up at the officer sitting elegantly on his horse, the creases in his uniform razor sharp, his jodhpurs tucked into black riding boots. He had a gun at his side and a whip in his hand. His iron legs gripped the horse, but he didn’t reach down to pat the animal. He slid off the horse and dropped the reins. The kapo shoved one of the new boys to pick the straps up off the ground.

Alexander looked up into the commander’s face. His eyes were the colour of grey slate, his nose small and straight, his jaw hard. Alexander had watched officers like the commander ride their steeds past his farm. When he was eight, the Hungarian military marched past on their way to the city, to claim it from the Czechs. He remembered his sister’s fascination with the Hungarian uniforms, how she’d admired the curved cockerel feathers pinned to the officers’ tall, pointed hats. Alexander hadn’t cared that the Hungarians were taking Košice; he’d been mesmerised by the cavalry as they galloped by. Six years later, when the German army occupied the country, Alexander barely registered their horses. All he saw were the columns of foot soldiers passing in front of his gate and the tanks and canons barrelling after them.

By then, Alexander knew that the SS were tearing through Europe, burning down synagogues and looting shops. They’d emptied whole cities of Jews, sending them away by train or forcing them into ghettos. His mother had begged him to escape before the Hungarian police came to take him, but he’d refused. With his father gone he was the man of the house. His mother and Lili needed him. He wouldn’t desert them – or the horses.

The commander’s horse had imperious grey eyes like its master. It was a purebred and Alexander would have bet the commander had chosen him for his fine breeding, refined head and arched neck. He would have checked that the horse’s feet were sound and his bones strong. He would have been pleased by the stallion’s perfect white coat.

The Arabian stamped its feet and shook its mane, demanding attention.

“Take Serafin inside and strip his tack,” the commander ordered the boy who had taken the reins. He turned to face the inmates. “I want all the horses rubbed down, fed and watered. Now get moving.” He cracked his whip against the side of his boot. The snapping sound made Alexander jump. He’d handled lots of riding crops, but none as long or mean as the commander’s. The whip had a wooden handle and a single thick black leather strap, and Alexander wondered whether the commander used it to tame animals or men.

The stablehands collected their horses from the paddock and followed the commander into the stable, leaving Alexander, Isidor and the other new stablehand standing outside.

“
Mach Schnell!
” the kapo yelled, pointing at the stable. “Don’t keep the commander waiting.”

Alexander hurried into the barn.

“You!” The commander pointed to the man on Alexander’s right. “Take that horse. The black filly.” He pointed to a stall. “And you.” He brought his whip down next to Isidor’s feet, sending dust flurrying around the boy’s ankles. “You get the last horse, the Hungarian thoroughbred over there.”

“How old are you?” The commander took a step towards Alexander.

“Sixteen,” Alexander said. It was a lie, but a lie that would keep him alive and besides, he felt older than fourteen. Much older. The war – and this place – had aged him.

“Follow me.” The commander led Alexander to the stall next to Isidor’s. “You claim you have experience with horses, tell me about this one.” The commander slid the bolt from the stall door and swung it open to reveal a miniature pony. It looked just like Lili’s pony, Strudel, a Hucul with a reddish brown coat.

“It’s a pony,” Alexander began, and the commander folded his arms against his chest and waited. “A Hucul. They’re hardy animals, used to working in rugged terrain, but they’re gentle so they’re good with children.” He wondered if the animal had a name. He scratched the pony behind her ears and smoothed its nose. He had only one chance to make a good impression.

“I’m not interested in the breed. Tell me about this particular pony.” The commander stepped back and invited Alexander to examine the animal.

“Well …” Alexander began, not sure what the commander wanted to hear. “She’s a chestnut so she has black skin under her coppery coat.” The commander nodded. “She’s about thirteen-hands high and her feet look sound. Strong hooves,” Alexander continued, lifting each of the pony’s legs, before opening her mouth to examine her teeth. “I’d guess she’s three years old.” The commander remained silent. “Her ribs are well sprung.” Alexander ran his hand over the pony’s coat and tried to still his shaking hands. Horses sensed if you were tense and it made them anxious.

“Let’s see if you know what to do with her.” The commander’s smile was ugly. He pointed to a row of shelves on the back wall and Alexander hurried from the stall to collect a currycomb and a thick-bristled brush. He found them crammed between a gleaming leather saddle and a bridle. The stable was well equipped. There were halters, lead lines, hoof picks, blankets, buckets for water and a metal trough for feed. There was protective cream for the pink skin around the horses’ noses and fly-fringes to keep the insects away. Alexander thought of all the things he’d left behind on the farm and the things he’d packed for the train but had to leave on the platform: his calfskin gloves – a present from his father – a black-and-white photo of Sari, and the miniature wooden horse his grandfather had carved out of oak. He grabbed a hoof pick and ran back to the stall.

He started with the currycomb, moving in broad circles over the pony’s back and hindquarters, soothing her with his voice until she relaxed under his touch. He skirted the sensitive skin on her legs and picked her feet out with the hoof pick, checking her shoes for damage. By the time he was finished his shirt was plastered to his back and his arms were streaked with dirt, but the pony looked beautiful. Alexander breathed in her horsey smell. It was wrong to say he was happy, but he found himself smiling.

“Tack her up,” the commander ordered, cracking his whip against his boot. “Heinz, show the boy where Chestnut’s tack is kept.”

Chestnut
, Alexander thought.
The pony has a name, not a number.

The kapo swung the door open and the commander left the stall.

“Her saddle is over there.” The kapo raised his giant hand and pointed to a saddle hanging from a peg on the back wall. It had a small seat with a leather horn – the type of saddle children used when they weren’t accustomed to riding. Alexander grabbed the saddle.

“Sure you can handle a horse that size?” Isidor walked up and grabbed a saddle blanket. “I’m in the stall next door to you, so if you need any help …” A smile split his face.

“She’s a pony, not a horse.” Alexander rolled his eyes.

“Either way,
you
should’ve got the commander’s horse,” Isidor whispered. “Do you reckon the commander knew he was giving his horse to a Nussbaum?”

“A Nussbaum?” Alexander shook his head, confused.

“The boy who got the commander’s horse.”

Alexander waited.

“I went to school with him. His father, Isak Nussbaum, is a breeder.
Was
a breeder,” Isidor corrected himself. “The boy’s family owned the biggest stud farm in Poland. That big white horse …”

“Stallion,” Alexander butted in. “A male horse is a stallion, unless he’s been castrated, then he’s a gelding.”

Isidor nodded.

“The commander’s stallion,” he said, “probably came from Nussbaum’s farm.”

Alexander grabbed a lead line and returned to his stall. There were guards in the stable, but if he crouched down behind the stall door, they couldn’t see him. He bent over the pony and breathed in her dusty smell. The last time he’d been this close to a horse, he’d been saying goodbye to Sari. He’d fallen asleep in the stall and woken at midnight to find his horse lying on her side with her neck pressed against his back. He hoped their neighbour, who now owned their farm, was looking after her. He hoped Radomir Hudak was feeding her twice a day and washing the mud from her hocks.

“Are you done?” The kapo swung the door open and Alexander jerked away from the pony, reminding himself that the animal was a means to survival, not a pet.
No getting soft
, he said to himself.
Soft is dangerous.
He swung the saddle blanket onto the pony, smoothed out the wrinkles and slid the saddle onto it.

“Bring her out,” the kapo ordered. Alexander slipped a halter over the pony’s nose and led Chestnut from the stall.

“The children like to ride her.” The kapo lowered his voice. “It’s a distraction from the gloominess.”

Children?
Something stirred in the pit of Alexander’s belly. What children? He dragged on the rope and hurried to the stable door. His legs felt rubbery. He knew it couldn’t be Lili – wouldn’t be Lili – but still the thought galloped towards him.

“Make sure they wear a helmet,” the kapo called after him. “It’s only once around the ring, then it’s the next child’s turn.”

Alexander took a deep breath and stepped into the yard.

Alexander’s shoulders slumped when he saw the children waiting in a neat line outside the enclosure. The girls wore pinafores and their hair was in curls. The boys’ socks were pulled up to their knees. None of them wore blue and white striped shirts. They waited with their fathers: SS men dressed in grey uniforms studded with skulls and swastikas. Nazi fathers smiling down at their rosy-cheeked children.

The kapo strode past the children, swung the gate open and walked into the ring. Alexander followed him, rearranging his face to hide his disappointment.

“Call them one at a time.” The kapo leaned in to Alexander. “If the officers don’t want you to touch their children, don’t touch them. If they want you to lift their kid onto the saddle, do it. Don’t talk to the children unless they talk to you. Don’t smile at them unless they smile first. Don’t ask their parents for money or food. You’re invisible, unless they say otherwise.” The kapo’s voice was steely. “Got it?” He nodded at the first child waiting at the gate.

“Got it,” Alexander said, his disappointment spiralling into fear. He turned to his first customer, wondering what the little girl’s father had told her about the bald prisoner in the striped shirt.

She was four, maybe five, with red hair and lips that sat between dimples. She didn’t talk to Alexander, or smile at him, just tugged on her father’s arm until he hoisted her from the ground and settled her onto the pony. He stood beside her, his hand on her back, staring at Alexander. The helmet! Alexander had almost forgotten it. He lifted it from the fence post and passed it to the girl’s father, who stood thin-lipped and silent on the other side of the pony. Alexander fed the reins through the girl’s fingers with trembling hands.
You can lead a pony around a ring with your eyes closed, so quit shaking
, he berated himself. He squared his shoulders, lifted the lead rope and started to walk.

He didn’t break into a jog like he did with Strudel, forcing Lili to bounce up and down in the saddle and shriek with excitement. He walked at a dull, even pace, once around the ring, the only sound keeping his footsteps company was the huffy breath of the pony and the crunch of her hooves. The birds were too hot to sing; even the crickets were silent in the sticky heat. The little girl’s father lifted her off the pony, passed her a flask of water and carried her to a waiting car. Neither of them turned to thank Alexander.

A boy with buck teeth waited his turn by the gate. He was soft and round, his collared shirt stretched awkwardly over his belly, pink skin poking from between the buttons. Alexander wondered what he’d eaten for breakfast, a sausage perhaps or a runny fried egg with a thick wedge of bread to mop up the yolk. Alexander’s stomach growled.

The buck-toothed boy lunged at Chestnut. “I want to get on by myself.” He swatted his father’s hand away.

“You heard my son.” The officer turned on Alexander. “Help him.” Alexander did as he was told. He bent down, locked his fingers together and peered up at the boy.

“Face the back of the pony.” He softened his voice so it wouldn’t sound like a command. “Now hold onto the horn and step into my hands with your left foot,” he said, hoping the boy wouldn’t be too heavy for him. The boy grabbed the horn with his fat fingers, lifted a pudgy leg and slid his foot into Alexander’s cupped hands. Alexander braced himself. “Now spring off your right foot and swing your leg over the pony.” Alexander looked across at the boy’s father, saw the gun poking from its holster and the rubber baton hanging from his belt, and held his breath.

The boy settled into the saddle and Alexander breathed out. He picked up the lead rope and stepped forwards.

“My son wants to ride, not be led!” The officer stabbed Alexander’s shoulder with his baton.

“Close your legs against the pony’s sides.” Alexander tried to raise his voice above a whisper. The boy squeezed his tubby legs around Chestnut’s flanks and the pony began walking.

“I’m riding, Father. Look, I’m riding!” the boy shouted and Alexander felt relieved and angry at the same time.

“Well done!” he heard the father say. Alexander didn’t need to turn and look at the man to guess that he was probably smiling across at his son, and that the buck-toothed boy was probably swollen with pride and smiling too. Alexander hated them for it. Hated himself a little too.

“Hurry up!”

Alexander turned at the sound of a voice and saw a young boy step from the line.

“It’s hot and I’m thirsty and I’m tired of waiting.”

The girl in front of him reached out a hand and grabbed the boy’s shirt.

“We’re all tired of waiting but I’m before you and you better not push in front or I’ll tell my father.”

The boy grumbled and slunk back into line.

They’re tired of waiting, Alexander thought, returning to the gate with Chestnut. So am I. Seems all he’d done the last few years was wait. Wait for his father to return from his labour unit. Wait outside the synagogue to be marched into the ghetto. Wait to use the toilets, wait in line for meals, wait naked for the showers, wait to be tattooed. Alexander mopped his brow. Wait and hope that he’d be left alone so he could wait some more, because one day – Alexander bent low and clasped his fingers together – one day the Russians would come and the waiting would be over.