The Dark Room (9 page)

Lore nods, though they make no sense to her, the words her mother says.

—We should all be brave now.

They stand with the scrap of paper on the wide table between them.

—Are you going to prison?

—You mustn’t worry.

—I won’t.

—It’s a camp.

—Yes.

—Not a prison. Prisons are for criminals.

—Yes.

—Everything is changing now.

Mutti kisses Peter, who is lying asleep on the big bed; she kisses Lore and her skin smells of soap; she opens the door and the sun smell of outside comes in as she goes out.

Lore is alone for an hour or so while Peter sleeps. She counts the money and looks at the bits of paper on the table in front of her. She thinks,
Everything is changing
, and works out how many eggs the money will buy, how many loaves of bread. She tries to calculate how long it will take to get to Hamburg. Twenty minutes to get to school from the village and that was about four kilometers. And forty minutes to the market in the next town.
Nine kilometers.
But Lore knows the big trains are faster. She thinks back to the journey south from Hamburg. She was younger then, can’t remember.
A day, two days. Probably three.
Peter wakes up and she gives him a bread crust and a drink of water. It is time to make dinner for the children: it will be getting dark soon, and they will be home and hungry. When Peter cries, she dips his fingers in the sugar pot and puts them in his mouth.

Lore pulls the beds together so they can all be close in the dark. The twins don’t remember their grandmother. Lore lights candles, shows them some of the photos which Mutti didn’t burn: Oma holding a coffee cup on the veranda; and long ago, a young woman with Opa, who died in another war. Lore describes the house, all the separate rooms leading off the long, cool hallways with their wide, dark wood floors. She whispers to them late into the night.

They don’t ask about the camp, don’t seem worried at all, and only Peter cries. Lore cradles him in the dark, thinks that perhaps it does make sense.
The war is lost. The Americans have camps, not prisons. For people like Mutti who haven’t committed crimes.

She thinks of her father, wonders what he is doing now the fighting is over. Peter dozes against her chest, and Lore looks through the photos again, wants to see a picture of Vati before she sleeps. But the pictures she finds are more confusing than comforting. All taken long ago, long before the war. They don’t look like her father; more like an older brother; an anonymous young man in civilian clothes. Lore is tired, hungry again, her eyelids heavy.

The children sleep and Lore dreams that the Americans come and search through the bushes by the stream, the ashes in the stove. They take Peter away from her, throw him into the back of the jeep and drive off over the fields.

The farmer comes early, and with his wife this time. The children stand behind Lore at the door. The wife speaks first.

—Do you have somewhere to go?

—They can’t stay here.

—We are going to Hamburg.

—To Hamburg?

—To our Oma. Mutti told her we are coming.

—They can’t stay here.

—She knows you’re coming?

—Mutti wrote to her.

—But there’s no post, child.

—She is expecting us.

—How will you get there?

—By train.

—They want to go to Hamburg, let them go.

—But there are no trains, Sepp. No post and no trains, child.

—Do you want them to stay here?

—I’ve started packing already.

Lore leaves the children to look after Peter. She walks to the road, picks up a lift from a farmer into the town. He takes her to the railway station, but tells her: there are no trains.

—How do we get to Hamburg?

The man in the office says she will have to get permission from the Americans; that the last official transport went over two weeks ago. Lore pushes through the turnstile onto the platform. The station is deserted. She crouches down next to the tracks and looks along the line, past the long curve of the station, northward, away from the town. Lore doesn’t know what lies beyond. Another valley, perhaps a city. The weeds have already grown tall between the railroad ties.

Through the station window she can see a tank parked down the street. There are soldiers who carry their guns slung over their backs; they stand and smoke and talk in the sun. Lore’s scalp prickles. She doesn’t want to ask permission. Mutti said they should go to Hamburg. She didn’t say anything about asking Americans.

On the wall is a map of Germany, and Lore traces a line north with her finger from
Ingolstadt
, to
Nuremberg
, and all the way up to
Kassel, Göttingen
, then
Hannover
, and after that,
Hamburg.
She memorizes the place names, and some towns in between. Lore steps back from the map, looks up at the ceiling and recites them silently to herself.
Ingolstadt, Nuremberg
, past
Frankfurt
to
Kassel, Göttingen
, then
Hannover.
And then
Hamburg.

She walks on into the town for food, but the shops are closed: already sold out for the day. She finds her way back to the main road and starts the long walk back to the farm.

Lore goes back to the town in the morning. She leaves early so she can get to the bakery while they still have bread, queues in silence
with the women, and buys all she can. She goes on to the neighboring farms; leaving the village by the path behind the mill to avoid the soldiers; hiding her bags of food in the hedgerows before knocking on the doors. There is no meat and no fat, but she manages two more half-loaves of bread, four eggs and a jar of milk, a small sack of meal, and also a bag each of carrots and apples.

Back at the farm, she packs a bag for each child and puts Peter’s things in the baby carriage. A blanket each, plus socks and stockings, shoes, underwear, a change of clothing, and three handkerchiefs. They will wear their boots and summer coats, and they have the oilskins in case it rains. She divides the twins’ chessmen between their two bags, chooses a doll for Liesel and a book for herself. She also packs the bundle of photos from the drawer in her own bag. The money and map and the jewelry which Mutti gave her are wrapped up in more handkerchiefs and sewn into the underside of her apron.

The children come back hungry around midday, and Lore makes them try their bags for weight. They are excited, skipping in the yard with knapsacks and suitcases, dancing on the beds, impatient to leave. Lore knows the bags are heavy. She takes out the shoes and ties them to the sides of Peter’s carriage. While they eat, Lore realizes that they should take knives and plates and cups with them. She slips crockery and cutlery into a clean pillowcase and knots it to the carriage handle.

—What will we say if the Americans ask us?

—We are going to Hamburg.

—And who is in Hamburg?

—Mutti and Oma!

The children sit on the big bed and Lore tests them. They chorus their answers happily, munching the apples meant for the journey.

—And will we say anything about camps?

—No.

—Why not?

—Because the Americans will put us in prison.

—Good.

Liesel frowns, twists her plaits together under her chin.

—Won’t we be with Mutti then, Lore?

—Mutti is in a camp, silly.

Jochen pokes her and Jüri laughs.

—They have special prisons for children, horrible places.

—I don’t want to go to prison, Lore.

—If you’re good, you won’t have to.

They are all too hot in their coats, and their bags are too heavy. Their shoes dangle crazily from Peter’s carriage and the crockery rattles in the pillowcase over every stone. Lore feels sick, hot, unprepared; her hair sticks to her face. She leads the children across the fields, onto the track over the hill and out of the valley. It is already getting late, and she knows they won’t get far before dark, but she wants to put some distance between themselves and the farm. Get away from the Americans, the stream, and the badges in the bushes.

Peter doesn’t like the noise and the bumping. He glares angrily at Lore, gripping the sides of his carriage with chubby fingers. His face crumples. Lore calls the children to a stop. Peter cries and she takes off their coats, repacks their bags.
Start again.

Lore and Liesel take turns carrying Peter now, and he chatters with his sisters as they walk. The boys push the baby carriage, piled high with the bags. Lore starts a song and Liesel joins in. The twins march ahead, their voices drifting back through the hot air. They pass another farm, then a series of outbuildings, and a little later a barn, where they rest in the shade for a while. When they walk on, Lore promises the children they will pick up a lift when they get to the road.

Lore watches the twins, giggling and panting their way up the rise in the road. They stop at the top to rest. Lore knows that the slope
down is far steeper and longer than the slope up. When she and Liesel are halfway up the rise, the twins start on their descent. They give the baby carriage a shove and break into a run. The carriage bounces over stones and the crockery clatters. Lore shouts at the twins to slow down but they don’t listen. She hands Peter to Liesel and trots up to the top of the hill.

Lore hears the plates smash against each other. She shouts again. Jüri turns round and waves, carries on running with his brother. One of the dangling shoes gets caught in the wheel and the carriage veers to the left. Jüri loses his footing. His legs give way and he makes a grab for Jochen to steady himself. Jochen still has hold of the carriage. He falls under his brother’s weight, the baby carriage tips over, spilling its contents over the track and down the slope into the field.

Liesel has gotten to the top of the hill now, and she laughs at her brothers sprawled in the road. Peter giggles and grabs at her cheeks. Lore runs down the slope to the twins. The baby carriage lies on its side, wheels spinning. Jüri has twisted his ankle and is crying. Jochen is gathering up their things. The bag of meal has burst, its contents strewn in the stones and dust.

Lore rights the carriage and pulls her shoe out of the spokes. The leather is torn and the wheel is buckled. She throws her shoe at the twins. It falls short. She picks it up and hits the boys on the arms. The sun is hot and she is sweating. Jüri is crying again now, and Lore slaps Jochen’s legs until he screams. She shouts at them to stop crying, and Jüri lies down in the dust and sobs for Mutti. Lore takes off her coat and fights down her tears.

Liesel sings to Peter, her cheeks red and her eyes dark and wet. Lore wipes her own face on her apron and searches through Jüri’s bag. She tears one of his undershirts into strips and gently works his laces open and pulls off his boot. His ankle is swollen, but not too badly. Lore binds it tight and he limps up and down in front of her to try it out. He says he thinks he can walk on, but Lore says it
doesn’t matter. They will go back to the barn, stay for the night. Jüri sits down next to her. She pulls him close and he hides his face in his hands.

Lore carries Jüri down the road on her back. They eat the rest of the apples in the early-morning cool, Jüri munching loud in Lore’s ears. Her cheeks are raw from the cold night. They all slept badly under their coats and oilskins, too aware of the nighttime noises around them. Lore knows they won’t get far if they walk today. There is a cart up ahead and she tells the children to wait while she runs and asks for a ride.

The old man refuses payment and motions angrily to his wife.

—She wants to give us money!

His young wife sits high up on the trunks and crates and laughs at Lore.

—You’re from the north, aren’t you?

Lore smiles politely. The woman smiles too, but her eyes are sharp, critical.

—I heard it in your voice. Where are your parents? Your Vati in the army?

Lore nods, avoiding the woman’s searching eyes as she waits for the children to catch up. Jochen salutes the old man when he gets to the cart and his wife laughs again. Louder and harsher this time. Lore winces, and the young woman turns to her husband.

—They’re Nazi children from the north.

—Her husband shrugs. Jochen frowns, confused by the mocking laughter, turns to Lore, but she ignores him. She knows the young woman is watching her as she piles their bags onto the cart.

—Where is your mother, then?

Lore tells her Hamburg, but is sure the woman doesn’t believe her, busies herself with Peter who is crying in the baby carriage.

—Yes, well, you won’t all fit. You’ll have to take turns like we do.

Lore feels awkward, flustered by the young woman’s attentions, heat rising in her cheeks. She makes room for Jüri by shifting a large bundle of clothes and helps him into the cart, careful not to hurt his ankle.

The old man walks with the ox, facing the road ahead, and his young wife sits high on their belongings with her back to them. Liesel rides in the cart with Jüri and Peter. Lore walks with Jochen, pushing the baby carriage in front of her. It rolls unevenly on its buckled wheel, lurching in time with the ox’s hooves. After an hour or two Jochen starts to flag, but Lore doesn’t want to ask about swapping places with the children in the cart, would rather avoid conversation.

The valley broadens and flattens and farmhouses dot the fields. Lore fills their remaining cup from a well by the roadside. The children share the drink, and Jochen runs back to fill the cup again for later. He walks quickly to catch up, pressing his palm over the top of the cup, handing it up to his brother for safekeeping.

After midday the old man pulls the ox over to the side of the road to graze. The woman unwraps bread and boiled eggs from her pockets. She watches while Lore gives the children their food.

—Did you steal that?

Lore shakes her head, ears burning. She softens bread in the last of the water for Peter. The children rub the earth off the carrots with handfuls of grass, eat a whole loaf between them. Their food is already half gone.