Lore (11 page)

—You don’t talk about that. You know that. Do it again and you’ll get it from me, understand?

Liesel’s face crumples and Peter screams when Lore lifts him.

The woman comes back with food hidden in the baby carriage. It doesn’t seem a lot to Lore, fitting easily under the mattress. Her stomach contracts.

—My mother’s ring was gold.

The woman shrugs. A little later she says she is sorry. The woman cooks and eats with them, and her son is quiet, watching Liesel and the twins as he chews. When he has finished, the woman pours him the remaining soup from her own bowl, and when he has eaten that, she pulls him into her lap. She hums quietly to herself, watching him settle his head against her arm.

Lore is tired. She closes her eyes and eats more slowly, holding the food on her tongue before she swallows. She wants to ask about the photos on the tree. If the woman knows where to get food, she might know what happened to those people, too. But when Lore speaks, the woman smiles, puts her finger to her lips, points down at her sleeping son.

Lore clears the table, and the woman lays blankets on the kitchen floor, picks up her son and leaves the room. When she doesn’t come back, Lore presumes she has gone to bed and tells the children to lie down, too.

Lore gathers the food together in a too-small pile on the kitchen table. She leaves half a loaf aside for the morning, and chooses the bag of flour to leave behind. Lore thinks a moment, and then decides to leave a bit of the meat, too. The woman was gentle, asked no questions, gave her the milk she must have been saving for her son. Lore divides the remaining food between their bundles, sits down at the table while the children sleep, works out a ration. If she is strict, the food could last three days.

She blows out the candle and rests her forehead on the table. She dreams about the Americans again. The soldiers eat all the bread, throw the rest of the food into the jeep. They leave Peter with her this time, but nothing to feed him with. He is light and thin in her arms. She lays him down gently on the ground, next to the other children. They are all naked. Their bones brittle as bird wings.

.  .  .

The children are subdued, tired. Lore has to decide which direction to walk in every morning, which fork to take in the road, where they should stop at night, when they should eat. They stand silently waiting while Lore makes decisions. Move when she tells them, stop when she says so. Only Peter cries and laughs at will.

They sleep in barns, haylofts, outhouses. Sometimes with permission, mostly without. Lore tries to keep the children clean, rubbing earth off their boots with handfuls of grass, scrubbing their clothes in cold streams without soap. She pops their blisters, pads their boots with leaves, walks off the pain with marching songs. Lore repacks the bags every time they stop. Redistributing weight, clothes, belongings. She checks her apron pocket as she walks, feeling for the smooth fold of notes, the hard coins, her mother’s brooch, and no ring.

Evening, and the twins have been asking all day about the war. Is it really over? Did we really lose? Why? Lore tries to explain, but her half-answers only lead to more questions, and Lore is exhausted now, and shouts at them to shut up. Liesel cries; Jochen frowns and Jüri yawns, both very tired.

—Is there anything to eat, Lore? We’re hungry.

—There’s bread, but that’s for the morning.

—Please?

—No.

Liesel asks where Vati is now, and Lore tells her he is on his way to Hamburg and will be with Oma by the time they arrive. The lie slips out before she has time to think, and she is shocked at herself. The boys crawl under the blankets to sleep, but Liesel is excited now. Her tears have gone, replaced by smiles, and more things to ask about Vati.

—Lie down, Liesel.

—Lore!

—I’m tired, Liesel. I mean it.

Lore ignores her sister’s tears. Liesel sleeps with her head under the blanket; Peter lies quiet in the baby carriage; the boys are curled together under their coats.

Lore is woken by dreams of Mutti. The wedding ring is at the bottom of the stream and her mother won’t look at her. Crying, buttoning her coat, closing the door as she leaves. Lore buries herself deep into the stiff oilskin folds, but her eyes won’t close, and sleep won’t come, and her stomach turns to ice. She can’t keep pace with the questions, can’t keep track of her lies.

Liesel throws up three or four times in the afternoon. They stop for a rest each time, find water for her to drink. Making slow progress, passing above a village, leaving it gradually behind, the church spire still visible over Lore’s shoulder. Liesel shivers and complains of the cold despite the afternoon sun. There is a forest up ahead. Lore decides to stop.

The twins find a spot not too far into the trees. They lay out the oilskins, try to light a fire, Lore wraps Liesel in blankets and she sleeps. The twins go to gather more kindling, but they still can’t get the wood to burn. Lore divides up the last of the apples from the morning and they rub the potatoes and eat them raw. Liesel wakes up as it gets dark and cries because she doesn’t want to spend the night in the forest. Peter cries, too, and refuses the chunks of potato which Lore has bitten off for him. Jochen watches her in the half-dark.

—We could go back to that village.

—And stay in a hotel?

—We could ask. We could knock on doors and ask for a room.

—You have money in your apron, Lore.

—We need to keep that for food.

—But you said Mutti left us money to go on the train. We must have saved money by walking all this way.

—It’s an hour down the road, more. It’s going backwards. It’s silly.

—Please, Lore.

They whisper in the bluish evening light. Peter cries. The trees are thick and silent around them. Lore folds up the oilskins with the twins, and they load up the baby carriage once again.

In the village the streets are empty. They are turned away at every house; too many faces, too many mouths. An old man gives them sour milk and swaps their potatoes for eggs. Liesel throws up again in the main square, by the church. Jüri fills the cups from the well, and Jochen finds the church door ajar.

Inside it is vast and dim, and smells of damp and dust. The twins scout for places to sleep while Lore unpacks the baby carriage.

—It’s all hard benches.

—And they’re too narrow.

Lore wheels the carriage along the rows of pews until she comes to an alcove. Two or three candles burn low on a shelf covered with dark stubs of wax. Above them stands a robed statue. The twins help Lore spread the oilskins on the floor and gather cushions from the pews for their heads. Liesel sits with Peter at the foot of the statue and yawns. They don’t speak, but every movement sets off hissing echoes under the high stone roof. Lore pours half the milk into a cup for Peter and gives Liesel the bottle. She and the twins eat an egg each, raw. The boys giggle, egg white glinting wet on their chins.

Peter won’t sleep in the baby carriage, so Lore lays him down on one of the cushions. Liesel sleeps and the twins whisper with each other while Lore sorts through their things again. Folding the clothes, tying the bundles neatly, lining them up next to her, ready for the morning. She blows out the candles and sleeps.

Liesel throws up once more in the night and helps Lore mop up the mess with her blouse. She says she feels a lot better and Lore strokes her little sister’s hair, tells her she is brave. Liesel didn’t once ask for Mutti, and Lore is glad, knows that must have been hard. They sleep on into the morning. When they wake up, the baby carriage is gone, with their spare shoes still tied to the sides.

They walk on a few more days, sometimes with people, but Lore still prefers it alone. They don’t ask for lifts and rest frequently, avoiding towns. Lore pays for butter to smear on their cracked lips. They dig turnips out of the fields and buy bread in the houses and villages along the way. Their bag of coins grows light.

They can carry less now, without the baby carriage. Lore trades Liesel’s doll for an empty bottle with a lid. No one wants the twins’ chessmen, or her book, so she throws them away. They wear both sets of clothes although it is still very hot. Lore’s coat buys them a night in a bed, and Liesel’s second skirt a wash in warm water in the morning. She puts what remains of their things in one bag and one bundle, which they share between them.

They reach Nuremberg within a week.

The schoolhouse is already filling up when they arrive. The old man at the door gives Lore two straw mattresses, and they make themselves a bed near the middle of the room. Lore would rather be by the wall, or even better in a corner, but all the spaces at the edges of the room have already been filled. Mothers with children, elderly ladies. No men are allowed in, although some come to the door and ask. It is dark outside now and two lamps burn by the long window. Lore spreads their blankets over the thin mattresses, and the children lay their coats on top. She cuts them a slice of bread each, and the twins fill the cup with water from the barrel outside the door. Lore tells them to chew slowly and take small sips. They are all very quiet.

More people come in as they eat, and gradually the floor fills up. There are no more mattresses left, so people make the best of it with their coats and bags on the floor. Lore puts Peter in the middle of their nest with the twins on either side, and she and Liesel take the two outer edges. Lore takes off the twins’ boots, but leaves their socks on. They shift and fidget under the blankets and coats while Lore packs away their shoes. She lies down with them, though she is not sleepy, with the bag by her head where she can keep an eye on it.

Even after the lamps are put out, more people arrive, black shapes shuffling in the dark. Lore keeps her eyes closed most of the time and hopes the children are asleep. The straw smells of cats, but she doesn’t feel the floor through it, and she is warm.

She is woken by Peter griping. Jüri passes him over to her and shifts closer to Jochen, into the warm center of the bed. Peter is hungry, so is Lore. She feels the people around them shifting, irritated at the noise. She searches through Liesel’s pockets for the last of a loaf, and tears a piece off for Peter to chew. He stops whimpering almost immediately, and Lore sits up with him while he eats his extra meal. The entire floor of the school hall is covered with sleeping shapes. Lore is thirsty, but she can’t see a path through the bodies in the dark, so she decides to wait until morning.

Peter has finished his bread and is whimpering again. He tugs at his raw cheeks and lips, balls his fists. Lore lays him down on the mattress and rubs his feet and his tummy to distract him. The woman lying next to them has her eyes open. Lore can see them, wet and blinking in the dark bundle of coats. She lies down and pulls Peter close under the blankets. He is sleeping again. The woman is still watching Lore. She whispers in the dark.

—My house is gone. Stones on the ground. I sleep every night next to strangers.

Lore nods and closes her eyes.

—He betrayed us. Like a coward. He sent our men to die and then abandoned us.

The people around them hiss in shocked whispers. Lore keeps her
eyes shut tight, doesn’t respond. She hopes the woman won’t think she is rude, that she goes to sleep soon and stops looking at her. They lie still for a while. Lore can hear the woman breathing in sighs. It is warm under the coats and blankets and Lore pulls them up to cover her ears. She is tired, doesn’t want to think now. The woman wakes her again a bit later, muttering, but Lore is too drowsy to make out what she says. Another voice, from somewhere near Lore’s feet, threatens the woman into silence.

They wait in shifts. Standing in the slow-moving, murmuring line. Sitting on the wall across the road from the shop, watching the bags. Swapping when the church bell sounds the quarter hour. When the twins aren’t in line, they throw stones from the road into the river below, dare each other to run along the top of the wall. The woman behind Lore gives Peter a couple of raisins from her ration and he holds out his hand for more. Lore pulls Peter’s hand away and thanks her, embarrassed, but the woman smiles.

At midday they are inside the shop.

—Nuremberg coupons?

Lore takes a coin from her apron pocket.

—No money. Only coupons here.

—But we’ve been waiting all morning.

Liesel can’t help herself, Lore jabs her in the back. The woman with the raisins steps forward.

—Give the children something to eat. There’s five of them. A baby, too.

—They don’t have coupons, Frau Holz.

—Look how thin they are.

The twins push their way into the shop and up to the counter next to Lore. An old man at the door grumbles loudly to himself.

—Why don’t you share your rations with them?

—You know I have children of my own.

The shopkeeper raises his voice.

—I am not running a black market here. Nuremberg coupons only.

—Why don’t you let them wait? Maybe you can give them what’s left at the end?

—And what do you think the Americans would say to that, Frau Holz?

—I suggest you don’t tell them, Herr Roeding.

Frau Holz gives them a slice of her bread before she leaves. The grumbling old man gives Liesel an egg. Lore isn’t sure if the shopkeeper will give them anything or not. They stand in silence by the counter and the people avoid eye contact as they collect their rations. Lore shares out the bread: one bite each. The street outside slides into shadow as the sun moves overhead. Peter cries and Liesel walks him up and down on the pavement until he falls asleep. The twins whisper with each other for a while and then lapse into restless silence: standing at the window, sitting on the bundles.

The queue dwindles, ends. Lore fixes her eyes on the shopkeeper as he wipes down the counter, sweeps the floor. She wonders if she should call Liesel in with Peter. There’s still at least one loaf, some butter, too. Also some sugar. She steps up to the counter.

—I’ll pack you what’s left, but not a word to anyone. Understand?

Lore nods. She sends the twins outside to sit on the wall with Liesel, unties their bundle, ready for the food. Behind the counter, with his back to the door, the shopkeeper wraps two loaves, butter, an egg. The door opens. The shopkeeper turns round, shields the parcel from view.