Touching the Wire (3 page)

Guards
deposited the girl beside him. She knelt where they left her. She’d missed her
ration of coffee. Two women attempted to make her stand.

‘You
have to try, Miriam.’

‘You
must be at Zählappell.’

Miriam?
This
was the girl he’d urged to leave her baby daughter with her
grandmother? He hadn’t recognised her. Had she known his face on the guard
tower?  Did she curse him for saving her for this?  

The
older woman stroked the rain tenderly from Miriam’s face. ‘Miriam, please…’ She
turned to the younger woman. ‘Ilse, help me.’ They lifted her, and carried her
to the lines of waiting women, supporting her between them.

He
looked anxiously along the lines of shivering women in their thin dresses,
assessing their health. Another train had arrived in the night. This morning’s
selection would make room for fresh labour. As if God or Satan hadn’t yet
finished with them, it began to rain again.

Lips
moved in silent prayer. Did they pray for death or to live through the
selection and another day’s work… and another night’s exhausted sleep, only to
hear the dreaded
Aufstehen…
 
Wstać… Felkel… Get up
… Wake up…

‘Wake
up… wake up, Grandpa.’

He
dropped the burnt-out stub of cigarette and knuckled sleep from his eyes. Zählappell…

Walt locked the workshop door automatically,
noticing only the lack of the small brass key. By the time he reached the Post
Office in Northampton, and anonymity, it was raining heavily. The assistant
stuck on the stamps and dropped four of the parcels into a sack.

Carrying the last parcel, he
pushed open the door of the offices of Harris, Harris and Mason. The
woodpecker-like tap of a typewriter stopped abruptly.

He approached the desk. ‘I
have an appointment with Mr Harris, Senior. I’m early.’

The receptionist smiled,
showing too-perfect teeth. ‘Mr Blundell?’

He nodded.

 ‘I’ll tell him you’re
here.’ She showed him into a room with high windows: wet light spilled through
but lit nothing. The fluorescent strip above the desk blinked and buzzed.

Mr Harris greeted him with a
reassuring grip. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Blundell?’

He put his package on the
mahogany desk. ‘I need you to keep this safe for me.’

‘That’s easily done.’

He fiddled with the lone key
on the chain. ‘Four other packages will be forwarded to you in due course.’’

‘A similar size to this
one?’

‘Identical. How long are you
able to keep them all?’

‘How long did you have in
mind?’

‘Ninety-nine years. By then
all five should be in your possession.’

Mr Harris arched an eyebrow.
‘I can make arrangements for their future here. I can’t guarantee they’ll
arrive. The firm could change hands… move premises… close down.’

‘That needn’t concern you.’

‘May I ask what’s in the
packages?’

‘You can ask, Mr Harris.’

Mr Harris smiled and nodded.
‘Is there provision in your will regarding their disposal?’

He handed the solicitor an
envelope. ‘The instructions are clear. The packages are to be opened in 2077.
Auribus teneo lupum, Mr Harris. Call it an old man’s folly.’ In ninety-nine
years, long after Nemesis had brought him to account, all those he loved would
be dead.

***

Jane answered the door with a lighter heart.
She’d been concerned about Walt. She was used to disturbed nights, he rarely
slept well and never confided his worries, but recently he’d taken to locking
himself in his workshop. Only last week she’d had to send Charlotte to fetch
him for breakfast and she hadn’t been able to get in. Thankfully, whatever had
been troubling him seemed to have faded.

The postman handed her a
package, resealed and stuck over with official labels. ‘It’s come back
return
to sender
. The address must’ve been rained on... it’s illegible, look.’

All she could make out was
ornament
on the customs label and something-
land.
Ireland? Walt’s mother’s
family had originated in Ireland.

‘Non-waterproof ink. Good
job it had a sender’s address inside or it’d be rattling round in our
dead-letter department.’

She thanked him and put the
box on the hall table. Walt would know where to send it.

A wail rose to full volume.
‘Granny… Lucy’s broken it.’

‘I wanted it…’

Charlotte and Lucy
catapulted into the hall, one each end of a one-legged doll.

‘Now then, shush, both of
you. Whose poor doll is this?’

‘It’s mine. She’s broken
it.’

‘I’m sure Lucy didn’t mean
to, Charlotte. Lucy, where’s your doll?’

‘Charlotte hid it.’

‘Shall we find Lucy’s doll,
Charlotte, and ask Grandpa if he can mend yours?’ She picked up the parcel, before
the twins hid or broke that as well, and stood on tiptoes to push it on the
shelf above the front door by the electricity meter. It would be safe there.
‘Now, where were we, you little minxes? You’ve got me all muxed up like a bowl
of flustered custard.’

***

Walt hurried into the garden at the sound of
crying, visions, never far from the edge of his mind, crowding centre stage.

‘Grandpa, Charlotte’s fallen
over.’

He brushed soil from Charlotte’s
knees. ‘You need some of Granny’s magic cream, little one.’ He held Charlotte
close and carried her into the kitchen.

Blue eyes looked into his.
‘Will the cream make it better, Grandpa?’

‘It will stop it becoming
infected.’

‘What’s infected?’

‘It’s when bad germs get
into a cut and make it swollen and red. We have poorly knees needing some of
your magic cream, Granny.’ He sat Charlotte on the draining board, and Jane
found cotton wool and a well-squeezed tube of antiseptic cream. He dabbed the grazes
gently with warm water and wrung the last spot of cream onto a finger.

Lucy watched from the door.
She considered the cream for a moment, serious for her six years. ‘Kerry’s
Grandpa says the only good germ is a dead germ.’

He examined the grazes for any
remaining grit. ‘I suppose he’s right, but some people might have considered
penicillin was a germ and that’s saved thousands of lives.’

Jane laughed. ‘I think Lucy
means Germans, Walt. Kerry’s Grandpa was a POW. He hates them and makes no
secret of it.’

He looked up. ‘You can’t
judge a people by the worst among them. Many innocents suffered… hatred is no
way to heal wounds.’ Jane gave him a meaningful glance and he smeared the
cream. He winced, anticipating the cold touch to sore flesh and softened his
voice; Lucy and Charlotte would never understand, thankfully. ‘Not
all
children are noisy, inquisitive and troublesome.’

‘Kerry says her grandpa is a
hero. He tells stories. You’re a hero too, aren’t you, Grandpa?’

‘No. But I knew men and
women who were.’

‘Tell us a story about
them.’

‘No.’

‘Please.’

‘Maybe, when you are older.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

He lifted Charlotte down but
she wrapped her arms around his neck and refused to let go. ‘My poorly knees do
need a story, Grandpa.’

‘Mmmm, do they indeed?’ He
laughed and ruffled her curls. ‘That’s what I call turning a disaster into an
opportunity.’

‘Tell us about the wolf who
got poisoned and went to sleep.’

‘Did he wake up and eat the
little girls?’ Lucy asked.

‘Ah, that wolf. Again?’ He’d
hoped they’d forgotten. It was his fault for beginning it. ‘You are horrible,
gory children.’ He sat at the kitchen table, facing Charlotte and her blonde
shadow, seeing the spectres of wolves of long ago and far away as if it were
yesterday. He shut them in a mental box and turned the key. ‘Well, let’s see.
The wolf slept and slept. His mate pushed her nose against his, and nipped an
ear, but still the wolf didn’t wake so she lay down beside him. Late in the
night, when the stars were shining and the moon was full she gave a long howl.’
He tilted his head back and gave a mournful impression of a wolf. ‘When the sun
rose next morning she had six cubs. She named the biggest and strongest
Wselfwulf.’

‘Weasel-wolf?’

‘Wee-self-wulf.’ He picked
up a discarded crayon and wrote the letters on the inside cover of a colouring
book, spelling it as he went, as if they would remember the shape of the word.
‘Wselfwulf grew tall as a man and strong as an ox, and was a fierce hunter. His
mother told him stories of the forest, and how the woodcutter hated wolves. She
knew her mate had been poisoned. Why else would he not wake?
The woodcutter
has done this to your father. You must not rest until he has paid the price,
she told him. He was a good and obedient son and as he grew so did the malice
in his heart.’

‘What’s malice, Grandpa?’

Jane tutted. ‘This tale
grows worse every time you tell it, Walt… why they enjoy it I shall never know.
Malice is nastiness, Charlotte, something you’ll never suffer from.’

Malice
… his grip tightened and the crayon snapped leaving red wax
on his fingers. Blood on his hands.

He feigned a severe look.
‘Don’t interrupt. This is a long tale, as you know well enough. The old wolf
eventually died in his sleep, but the hatred in his heart lived on in that of
his son, and Wselfwulf desired vengeance.’ Charlotte opened her mouth to speak
but he raised a denying hand. ‘That means he wanted the woodcutter to pay for
his father’s death. He went into the deep forest and followed the smell of
chickens until he reached the cottage where the woodcutter lived. He saw the
two little girls playing in the garden and crept through the undergrowth,
closer and closer and closer…’

Lucy gripped Charlotte’s
hand, her wide eyes never leaving his face.

‘Walt…’

He reached out and tickled
Lucy’s tummy.

‘Grandpa…’

Jane laughed with them and
Wselfwulf slunk back into the undergrowth, his evil no match for the bright
laughter of innocence.

***

Walt clamped the joint of the Windsor chair in
iron jaws to set. If only he’d had some of Granny’s magic cream years ago. He
fetched a small package from the drawer where he kept his sandpaper. He
unwrapped it and breathed the musty smell of the pages of the small book
within. He should have sent it to the proper authorities years ago and kept his
promise or, failing that, destroyed it. While it existed it was a link to that
place and what he’d taken. It named the guilty and if the connection was made,
and the media spread the knowledge worldwide, none of them were safe.  

     He
rewrapped it and replaced it beneath the fine grits; it was a link to Miriam he
couldn’t bring himself to break. He reached instead for the worn wallet in his
back pocket but the photographs he’d cherished for so long were no longer
there. How had Miriam’s grandmother smuggled them into her luggage when all her
personal papers, books and memories had been seized, thrown on a pyre and
burned?

A familiar rush of helpless
rage hurled him back to the rows of silent women, standing motionless as the
sun danced on diamonds of rain on the strands of electrified barbed wire
surrounding the camp. Six hours they’d waited after their headlong rush to
assemble on time. At least the rain had stopped and their clothes had dried on
them. At least they’d stopped shivering and only a handful of the fourteen
hundred standing in front of the block had fainted.

The SS officer, who’d begun
his inspection of the blocks when the rain stopped, placed his cane on the head
of the first woman in each row. ‘F
ünf,
 
zehn
, fünfzehn,
 
zwanzig…’

He followed,
gesturing to the women behind the officer’s back. Stand straighter… Don’t lean
on the person next to you. One or two made the effort to obey. It was all he
could do. His strength in his position as a doctor lay in appearing to carry
out every command to the letter. Show compassion and he’d be replaced. Rebel
and he’d be executed. Dead, he was no use to anyone and there were other ways
to resist.

The count
completed, the officer went along the front row pointing to those too sick to
stand or too weak to work. They neared the place where Miriam slumped between
her friends. He hadn’t watched over her all night to let her die now. He
gestured urgently. Stand straight, stand straight. He moved alongside, putting
himself between her and the officer, and pointed to the row of prostrate women.
‘The sick need tending. They should be in the infirmary.’

The officer
stared where he pointed. ‘The sick will need nothing. I shall inspect the
women’s infirmary at two o’clock. We have a quota to fill.’ The uniformed
figure moved on, pointing randomly to several more women.

His
shoulders sagged. Three of them had been in the infirmary until yesterday. He’d
managed to allow them rest and a little extra soup and, despite them being too
weak to work, had discharged them because patients who’d been in the infirmary
more than three weeks would make up part of today’s selection. Their faces
showed no emotion. Maybe knowing the hour of their death was a relief, a
welcome release.

Orders rang
out and the chosen women were hustled naked to waiting trucks, the dead thrown
on top of the living. All that remained of them was a heap of divested rags and
a scatter of worn-out shoes.

A marching
band struck up a tune and the survivors of the selections, marching in time,
singing in tune, went out to work under guard. Somehow, Miriam marched with
them: she should be in the infirmary but she’d probably be safer out there
today. Later, the band would play them in, exhausted, beaten, and again they’d
be forced to stand waiting to be counted. Maybe then Miriam would be allowed
rest and her ration of bread and soup. Maybe tonight some of the women would
get a dress that fitted better, or a pair of shoes that didn’t chafe, and there
would be nothing to show that the women sent to the gas had ever existed. Soon,
there would be no-one to remember their names.