The Dark Room (15 page)

—Our mother is with the Americans.

Tomas nods. The children lag behind. Lore can feel the stones in the road through her boots.

—It’s a camp. Run by the Americans.

—The Americans.

—It’s not a prison for criminals.

—No.

—Please don’t tell anyone, just in case.

Tomas nods again. They pass through two villages. Beg for food,
are given milk for Peter, hot water to wash with. Lore finds a bright rag to wrap around Liesel’s head, and Tomas shaves. He and Lore walk ahead again.

—I was in a prison.

—When?

—For a long time.

—Will they keep Mutti for a long time?

—I don’t know. I don’t know about American prisons.

—It’s a camp.

They rest briefly in the third village, drinking water from the well. One of Jochen’s soles has worn loose, flapping as he walks. Lore tears a diaper into strips and binds his boot together again. They walk on.

—Were you in a Russian prison?

—No, I was in a German prison. I was moved around. Different prisons. Places they took us to work.

—One of our prisons?

—Yes, until the Americans came.

It is hot again. They are silent for a while, each absorbing what has been said. The sweat runs down Lore’s back under the bundle. Tomas keeps his jacket on. His face is damp under his hat.

—Are you a criminal?

Tomas puts his head to one side, doesn’t answer.

—What did you do?

His jaws work into what looks like a smile.

—Before I went to prison?

Lore shrugs. She doesn’t want to know now. She turns around to look at the children, straggling far behind, knows she has said too much.

—I stole from people. Money. Names, too.

Lore keeps pace with Tomas. She doesn’t speak, hopes he won’t say any more.

—What about your father?

Lore drops back. Tomas keeps walking, doesn’t look around, but he slows down, too. The children’s footsteps are louder now, closer, and Lore can hear Peter’s chatter. She falls into step behind Tomas, watching his heels, keeping a gap between him and the family as they walk.

—If I call you over, don’t say anything, let me talk. I am your brother. Your mother and father are dead. Our mother and father. Just agree with me. We can say we are going to Hamburg this time, but it’s better if I speak. Pretend you don’t understand if they ask you something; I will answer. I am your brother, remember.

Tomas walks ahead to the border control. They stand and wait, watch him talk, gesture, shift, talk. He gets papers out of his pockets, rolls up his sleeves. The soldiers look at them while he speaks, points, shrugs. They give him back his papers. He walks back to the children. He looks at Lore, shakes his head, apologizes. He leads them back down the road the way they came. Once they are out of sight of the checkpoint, they cut across country, parallel with the border.

They keep moving through the evening, along the edges of a forest. When the moon rises, Tomas leads them into the trees. He shows no sign of wanting to stop. Lore loses sight of him, his black suit melting into the thick dark ahead. She calls for him, hurries forward. The children are too tired to hurry with her. Lore strains her eyes for movement in the undergrowth, stops, shouts Tomas’s name again. She stands still, hears twigs cracking, leaves shifting underfoot.

Lore calls, Tomas calls back. They meet in the trees.

They walk back together to find the children and decide to stop for the night. Lore lies next to Peter and lets him cry himself to sleep.

•  •  •  

On the other side of the forest they find railway tracks and follow them. They see no trains all day, but toward evening they find a small railway station. It has been bombed. Rabbits run through the craters; the buildings are shells; but the tracks have been repaired.

There are men gathered on the platform. They are thin, like Tomas. Lore watches as he speaks with them. They have teeth missing and hollow cheeks: heavy wrists and ankles on long, slow limbs. Some of them say they will wait for a train. Others want to try walking over the border. A few have already tried it. They say most of the time you get sent back, but you can be lucky. They say as long as you stick to the roads, you won’t get shot. Peter wakes up and starts crying, Lore stops listening. She goes to sit with the children, helps Jochen retie the rags around his boots.

Tomas hurries over, agitated.

—We’ve come into the Russian zone, over the border. We must have crossed it in the forest. Maybe in the night.

He holds Lore’s arm tight.

—We should go back to the forest. We should go now, keep walking. We can sleep when it gets light, walk on again tomorrow night.

—We can’t walk now, we’ve been walking all day. We can sleep here, Tomas. Please. I don’t want to sleep outside again.

Tomas pulls Lore away from the children, whispers. He is close to her, the brim of his hat pressed against her scalp, but his eyes look away. At the men on the platform, into the trees.

—It’s safer at night, much safer.

—Why can’t we wait for a train?

—We can get over to the British zone through the forest. Stay away from the soldiers.

—But the people said they shoot at you if you go off the road.

—They only meant if you run off the road when you’re crossing. We should just keep away from the soldiers, from the Russians.

—But won’t there be Russians everywhere?

—Not everywhere. We just have to be careful.

—I think we should maybe wait for the train, Tomas.

—You don’t have any papers. Only I have papers and that’s not enough. You can hide in a forest, you can’t hide on a road.

Tomas watches the men on the platform. Lore can see his lashes, a flickering pulse under his skin.

—Are they Russians?

—No, they are Germans, most of them.

—Why do they look like that?

—They were in a prison.

The skin around his eyes is fine, almost blue.

—The same prison as you?

—No. They were soldiers.

His eyes skim her face, look back into the forest.

—Not a word about that, understand?

Lore nods.

—It’s nearly dark.

He lets go of her arm. Lore calls the children, pulls the bundle higher onto her shoulders. They walk on along the tracks, passing the station on their way to the forest. The men lie side by side on the platform, sleeping under the remains of the roof. They make thin, wheezing noises as they breathe, mouths open to the night air. Lore watches them over the dark shape of Tomas’s shoulder. She stares hard at the man nearest her on the platform, his large head all hollows and loose skin. The station roof shields him from the moonlight, and Lore can’t see if his eyes are open or closed.

They are deep in the forest before Tomas lets them lie down. Half in dreams, Lore sees skeleton people crowded in the trees. Roots are limbs, half buried in the ground; twigs are fingers in her hair. She sees the moon above her through the black leaves, feels the tears wet in her ears. She lays Peter against her chest, presses her cold hands against his warm back. He stirs but doesn’t wake, and Lore sleeps.

A train comes to take them across the border. The tickets are in
their schoolbags, folded and refolded so they are soft and brittle. Lore hands them over to the conductor, who makes them lie down in the carriage. The people behind them in the queue lie down on top of them. Lore feels their bones against her skin.

Tomas moves them on before dawn, stopping again when it gets too light. The British zone is somewhere up ahead beyond the trees. Tomas is certain of it, keeps reassuring them as he spreads the oilskins, sits them down. He has found a small gully, thick with bushes: a place to hide until dark. Tomas makes them sit apart from one another, covered by the undergrowth. He walks around the top of the gully, checking to be sure they can’t be seen; unties the rag from Liesel’s head, because the red shows bright through the leaves.

Tomas says, We must be very quiet, all day. And we have to rest, ready for the night. Lore listens to his whispers, watches for the small dark movements in the bushes as he speaks. She can’t see Liesel or the twins, hidden by the dense growth between them. The birches are in full leaf, pale green fluttering in the light breeze. The forest floor is mossy, soft and moist. Peter sleeps on and on against Lore’s shoulder. His eyelids are puffy, gray-yellow, veins showing blue through the skin on his temples. Lore traces the fine line of his cheekbone, strokes his head, feels his scalp tight and dry under her fingers. She tries to remember how long ago she fed him, closing her eyes against the day. Birds sing, crowded high in the trees. She is sleepy. Cool and still. Her skirt soaks up the damp earth. A smell of cooking reaches them through the trees.

Liesel and the twins guess in whispers what it might be. They all agree on meat. Lore tells them be quiet, go to sleep, stomach lurching, saliva flooding painfully in her cheeks. Jochen crawls to her through the bushes, pulls at her clothes with hungry fingers.

Tomas has smelled it, too. He leans forward, head emerging out of the leaves. He turns his face toward the smell, locating the
source; withdraws slightly when the wind blows away the trail, waits for it to return. He moves, climbing past Lore out of the gully. He whispers to her to stay put, stay silent. Wait. She thinks, hopes: Food must be more important than the border now. Lore listens for his footfalls, snapping twigs. Lifts Peter onto her shoulder, follows Tomas up the gully toward the food. Liesel and the twins are close behind her. She can’t see Tomas. Stops, looks around.

Across a clearing there is a house, set back into the trees. Lore can see no people, but smoke rises from the chimney. The clearing is maybe one hundred meters wide. The grass grows in long clumps and the berry bushes are covered in tiny green fruit. Tomas is a dark shape, deep in the forest, making his way slowly to the house.

—There he is!

Jochen points, his voice carries far into the quiet morning. Lore hisses at him to be quiet, makes a grab for his finger. But he is already gone, running through the forest. His shirt flashes gray-white as the sun reaches between the leaves.

Lore sits down on the mossy ground with Liesel and Jüri, pulse thumping in her ears. Tomas will be angry. Minutes pass in the cool leaves. Birds sing overhead. Peter is still asleep in her lap. Liesel shifts next to her, lies down. Lore dozes.

Jochen shouts from across the clearing, then Tomas. Jüri stands up. Lore hears metal and boots, running and branches snapping. Liesel lifts her head, eyelids heavy with sleep. Lore looks through the bushes and sees Jochen running toward them across the clearing. She hears the breath pushed out of his lungs like hiccups. A gun is fired, three, four times.

Lore sees the birds lift out of the trees into the air, but hears nothing. She ducks down, hits her chin on a tree root, teeth snapping in her ears. Her eyes water, the ground is cold, the leaves are wet, and noise returns. Jüri shouts for his brother. More bullets. Lore pulls him down on top of her, onto the ground.

—He fell over, Lore.

Jüri tries to stand up again. She holds on to him, fingers in his hair, looks for Liesel. Twigs scratch at her eyes, Jüri twists against her grip.

—Where is he?

Lore can see Jochen’s shirt in the long grass; a small flap of gray. Liesel is behind her on the ground. Lore can hear her breathing, short and high. A gun is fired again. Two Russian soldiers crawl out of the trees. They are fast on their bellies through the grass, making their way toward Jochen’s shirt.

—Jochen!

Jüri screams shrill in Lore’s ear. The soldiers flatten themselves against the grass; two short clicks and then gunfire in the trees. The leaves tremble, Liesel gasps on the ground next to Lore. Peter cries, briefly. Everything is still.

Lore watches the Russians crawl forward again. When the first one gets to Jochen’s shirt he shouts. The second one crawls on through the grass. The first one pulls Jochen’s shirt toward him. The gray flap disappears into the long grass. Both soldiers are shouting now, harsh voices cracking. Lore pulls her arms around Jüri and Peter and waits for the guns.

In the middle of the shouting come footsteps and snapping twigs, and then the food smell is back. Tomas pulls them up.

—Quickly. We have to go
now. Quickly.

His hand grips Lore’s wrist, twisting the skin. She makes herself heavy. He lets go, pulls Jüri to his feet, pushing him back into the trees, away from the clearing.

—Now.
Now.
Quick.

He is angry, eyes wide. Neck pulled tight like rope. They run through the trees.

The food is still hot. Tomas eats first, stuffing the bread into his mouth, ladling handfuls of the stew after it. He orders them to keep
watch and food falls out of his mouth onto his chin. He pushes it back again, chewing loudly, swallowing quickly, painfully. He passes the pot to Lore, stands up to keep watch. Lore takes a handful of the hot meat out of the pot and eats, Liesel eats and cries. Jüri tears chunks off the loaf and stuffs them into his cheeks. Lore pinches together soft pieces of bread and hot stew, presses them into Peter’s mouth. He wakes, chews slowly. Lore presses more against his lips to encourage him to swallow. Jüri and Liesel wipe out the sides of the pot with the last of the bread. Tomas throws the pot into the bushes and they run on.

Animal tracks lead them through the long ferns. They keep low to the ground, bending forward, crawling. Peter throws up the food but doesn’t cry. Lore holds him tight against her side, tries not to jar him too much as she pushes on through the undergrowth.

Lore follows Tomas’s back, looks behind her for Jüri and Liesel. For Jochen, too. The ferns smear the tears across her face and neck into her hair.

There is a sandy ditch, barbed wire, a little beyond that a metal post. Tomas tells them he thinks they are in the British zone. He breathes hard through his mouth, neck shining wet with sweat above his collar. Lore is still crying. Her throat is cold and her lungs are tight and raw. She can’t pull in enough air to fill them.