Restitution (4 page)

The children looked at one another.

‘Are you all here?’

‘Yes,’ called Anton.

‘Are you all here?’ Kasperl called yet again.

‘Yes
!’ shouted Lena and Marie. And something was happening to Marie, she
was . . .
here, wherever
here
was. Already the sounds and smells of the church square
were fading. This little man in his funny cap was pulling her away from the town and the women in their mourning, the men with their missing legs, the empty shops, the shadow that passed over
people’s faces when they talked about the province passing to the Italians.

Kasperl boasted about his bravery. He wasn’t afraid of the monster, oh no, not he! And he wasn’t just a piece of wood and cloth now, he was . . . himself, someone other, someone
different, tugging her into his own world.

She was crossing the river with him, and it wasn’t made of blue and black cloth, pulled backwards and forwards by the puppet-master’s assistant, it was an African river, deep and
deadly. She jumped when the crocodile appeared, even though the creature looked as though the moths must have eaten part of his tail, and clutched her knees, wide-eyed. The crocodile taunted
Kasperl and Kasperl responded with more bragging, beating the crocodile with his stick to the cheers of the crowd. After he’d won his duel with the crocodile he met a pretty girl who kissed
him, a robber who stole his money and chased the girl away and a policeman who helped him retrieve both money and girl. Marie sat on the hard ground in silence and watched the glove puppets in
their faded costumes. Only a small part of her was still aware of the hard stones beneath her, of the stale smell of the black dresses. She had drifted away into the world on the little stage.

When they’d finished clapping and the old man and woman were putting away the puppets into the box Marie still sat silent. ‘Come on.’ Anton tugged at her sleeve. ‘Your
father said we had to go straight back home.’

She stood mechanically as though she were a puppet herself, her mind still in the forest, beside the river, in the prison cell. The familiar outline of the parish church came slowly into
focus.

As they walked across the cobbles Lena cried out.

‘What?’ Anton and Marie turned to her. The girl put a hand to her back.

‘Something hit me.’

Anton picked up a stone. ‘This.’

Two boys sprinted past them. ‘Dirty Italian,’ one of them hissed.

Anton threw the stone at the boys but missed.

A tear ran down Lena’s cheek. ‘I can’t help it.’

‘What did they mean?’ Marie put an arm around her. ‘You’re not an Italian.’

‘They mean my mother.’

Marie and Anton nodded.

‘The man she left with was an Italian. Now they say we’re all dirty Italian-lovers and we should leave too.’

‘But that’s so unfair!’ Marie tightened her embrace.

‘It’s illogical,’ Anton said.

‘I’m going to have a word with them.’ Marie spoke with a resolution that amazed even her. She let go of Lena, brushed away Anton’s restraining arm and marched across the
square. The four boys were loitering beside a shop window. She approached them, anger driving out the fear she’d normally feel at confronting lads three years older than her – and from
the rough side of town.

‘Don’t you dare say that about Lena!’ She put her hands on her hips.

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ The largest of them put his hands on his hips, mimicking her pose.

‘She can’t help what happened with her mother. You leave her alone.’

‘Or else?’

She thought quickly. ‘I’ll tell the police I saw you breaking windows.’ She’d never seen them doing such a thing but their quick exchange of looks told her that the guess
had been a good one. ‘My father’s school has lots of broken windows and I’ll tell him I saw you doing it. He’ll call the police. So leave Lena alone.’

Another of the four tugged at the largest boy’s shirt. ‘Let’s go,’ he muttered.

Marie returned to her friends. Anton stared at her with wide eyes. ‘I was just about to go over and help you.’

‘You were like a lioness.’ Lena blinked slowly. ‘Nobody’s ever done that for me before.’

‘What do you mean?’ Marie felt tired suddenly. While she’d been talking to the boys some internal energy had driven her; she’d felt no fear. Now she felt as though her
legs might give way.

‘Stood up for me.’ Lena’s eyes were bright with an emotion Marie couldn’t interpret.

They turned up another cobbled street, the shops shuttered in the arcades on each side. The nights were lighter now spring had come and the cherry blossom would be out soon.
‘They used to sell doughnuts and gingerbread when the puppet man came,’ Anton said. ‘But they don’t any more. Because of the war, my father says.’

For a second Marie thought she could smell the sweetness of the sugar on the frying doughnuts and the spices in the gingerbread. A woman was talking to her in a low voice and wiping crumbs off
her mouth with a white handkerchief. Then the scents and the woman’s gentle touch were gone. Perhaps her mother had taken her to the puppet show when she was a little girl, long before the
war.

Lena was watching her. ‘What were you thinking about?’

‘I’m going to be an actress when I grow up,’ Marie told them.

‘Of course you will be.’ Lena sounded matter-of-fact. ‘One day you’ll stand on a stage and people will clap and cheer you. And I . . .’

‘You’ll what?’

‘I will make your costumes. I will make sure you always look perfect.’

And something like a shiver ran down Marie’s spine at the tone in Lena’s voice.

Alix

Pomerania, February 1945

Alix forced her legs to keep moving, pushing damp strands of hair off her face and refusing to look back. The house was further away than she’d imagined. Her legs shook
underneath her and the backs of her eyes seemed to be filled with sand. She longed to stop and close them for a moment but she trudged on, finally emerging from the forest and seeing the house
ahead of her, a grey silhouette in the gloom. It was the only time in its history that it had ever been abandoned. Even when the family had gone off to their apartment in Berlin or to take the
waters at Baden Baden, there’d been family or retainers to keep fires and lights burning.

Snow was starting to fall, clinging to her crimson coat and scarf. She stopped and listened. Nothing except the whine of the wind in the pine trees. The house was barely visible from the road
and Mami had taken down the sign at the end of the drive before leaving for Berlin. A vain hope, thinking they could fool the Red Army.

Alix trudged across the fields. The snow had now settled thickly enough to produce a scrunching sound at each step, something she would normally have found satisfactory, almost enjoyable. Now
each scrunch was a reminder that the temperature was dropping further. The quickest route required her to scale the ha-ha and cross the lawns. She hauled herself up, willing the weary muscles in
her arms not to fail her. The stable yard was in sight. Only this morning she’d harnessed the two Haflingers to the wagon. When they’d first made plans for the exodus Alix had assumed
that Papi’s old horse, Piper, would make the journey, too. But Mami had taken the bay out into the field a few evenings ago and one of the Poles had shot the animal. He’d done it very
cleanly, he said. For the best, Mami had said. Piper’s weary legs would hardly get him to the front gates, and even the Russians wouldn’t want such an old horse – except for
meat.

Kinder to shoot him.

Alix listened and heard nothing except the mice scrabbling in what remained of the straw. Lena’s cat Mischi should be here, too. He’d bolted out of the house when they’d taken
the boxes out of the attic to pack for the journey. ‘Mischi?’ Her whisper sounded too loud. She sprang round.

Nobody behind her. A few snowflakes fell onto her hand.

She mustn’t be a coward. The von Matkes were always brave: in battle, in politics, in everything.

Alix crept to the back of the house. The key to the room they called the boot room was kept under a terracotta flowerpot which had once contained geraniums. She forced her numb hand to remove
the key and insert it in the lock. The door was already open.

She slumped on the low bench running across the room to remove her boots; old habits died hard, even in wartime, even when the end had come. She could no more have entered the house in such
sodden footwear than she could have sworn in front of her father or eaten with her mouth open.

Something rustled inside the house. Like a rabbit she froze. One boot was half undone, its laces dangling. The thing moved again. She ducked behind the coats smelling of Mami’s Jean Patou.
Mackintoshes, dog leads, whistles and riding crops dangled round her, symbols of that old life of hacks in the forest, shooting parties, picnics and croquet on the lawn. Alix hadn’t hidden
here for years, not since she and Gregor had played hide and seek as children. If Papi caught them he would tickle them until they squealed for mercy. If these people caught her there would be no
mercy. Papi had impressed that thought on her and Mami:
Expect no quarter because we gave them none.
And what had happened to Lena proved how right he’d been.

The door leading into the house opened. Papi. Her heart missed a beat. Idiot, of course it wasn’t.

‘I’m armed.’ Fluent German from a Bolshevik maniac? She shook underneath the coats, feeling simultaneously as though icy water were trickling down her neck and hot towels
suffocating her.

‘Come out slowly,’ the voice continued, ‘with your hands where I can see them.’

She bit her lip and parted the furs, stepping over the bench with one boot still on. Very slowly she lifted her eyes to stare at the enemy soldier. What she saw made her wonder for a second if
the exhaustion of the day had caused her to hallucinate.

Gregor Fischer, dressed in Red Army uniform, with what looked like Polish insignia on his tunic. She put a hand to her eyes and rubbed them. He still stood before her. Was she certain? It had
been such a long time ago that they’d last seen one another. And in that time he’d become . . .
this.

She tried to open her mouth but found herself rendered dumb. Her legs seemed to be beyond her control; they shook so much she was finding it hard to stay upright.

‘Alexandra von Matke?’ She heard hesitation in his voice. He sounded almost scared, too. He hadn’t seen her since she was a little girl. Now here she was – seventeen,
hair pulled back into a single plait with bits of it escaping and sticking to her face, which was probably still smeared with soot. She couldn’t say a word, just stood gazing at him while her
heart threatened to burst out of her chest. If only he’d put down that gun in his hand.

‘It
is
you, Alix, isn’t it?’

She forced her head to move in an approximation of a nod.

‘Hang on.’ He reached his spare hand into a pocket and pulled out a torch, which he shone onto her face. She tried not to flinch. ‘You still have those extraordinary-coloured
eyes. My God. I dared not hope . . .’ He broke off. ‘Let’s get inside to the kitchen before we both freeze. I’ve only just got here myself, I came on ahead.’

He’d taken a risk. For all he knew, the house could have been booby-trapped by the SS. Or have concealed a couple of Heimwehr soldiers threatened with hanging if they didn’t defend
every inch of German soil. Alix still couldn’t utter a word. Her legs still wanted to take her out of this room and into the snow. He had a gun . . . This could be a bluff, couldn’t it?
The Russians were skilled at intelligence. Perhaps they’d sent someone here pretending to be Gregor to fool her into doing or saying something incriminatory. She eyed him again. That long
narrow nose and the questioning eyes certainly looked like Gregor’s. But that uniform, that feared, dreaded, abhorred uniform . . . It seemed impossible that someone like Gregor would ever
wear a uniform like that. But then again, he’d been driven out of the country. Forced into exile. If this young man was Gregor he must surely hate all Germans. He must surely wish for
revenge.

She was a von Matke. She would try to be brave. Perhaps this person-who-might-be-Gregor would shoot her quickly and have done with it. Alix squared her shoulders and kicked off her remaining
boot. She nodded at the door, indicating the way to the kitchen. He walked behind her. She tried not to think about the gun.

Inside the kitchen she lit the lamps on the dresser and the candles on the table, then turned to the stove. That was always the first consideration in this house in winter – keeping the
stove alight. It still burned. Noting how her own mind attempted to distract her from the soldier’s presence, she riddled the stove and opened the valves for a few seconds to allow more
oxygen to fuel the fire. ‘This will need topping up shortly.’ How squeaky her voice sounded, like a schoolgirl’s or one of those silly creatures in the League of German
Maidens.

He drew back, removing his coat and cap, perhaps trying to look less threatening. ‘Why don’t we sit.’ He frowned. ‘Is there anything to eat here?’

Naturally. It was all his now, all
theirs.
Their house, their food. The Russians were entitled to everything.

‘You look so cold,’ he said. ‘Have you soup? Bread? Let’s see if we can warm ourselves up.’ She was watching him all the time. He limped slightly, but his movements
were still those of the old Gregor: quick and neat. Like an otter’s, her mother had once said, with approval, an otter hunting fish. But this grown-up Gregor couldn’t be the same as the
old Gregor she remembered, even if he had Gregor’s eyes and Gregor’s way of moving. War must have changed him. It changed everyone, some for better, some for worse.

‘What about your . . . comrades?’ Her voice came back to her at last but her words sounded squeaky.

He blushed. ‘I don’t think they’ll be here this evening.’

In Lena’s pantry she found brandy, a jug of milk, a basin of soup, sausage and bread. None of it touched. Gregor whistled. Now it was her turn to colour. Mami’d saved all this in
case, by some miracle, Papi was released or escaped and came back here after they’d left. Papi would be starving, Mami’d said, he’d need to build himself up. She didn’t know
if Gregor would understand.