I have brought Manfred’s interpreter, the tall Hiwi. I am driving. He takes a pouch from his jacket, crumbles some black tobacco in his hand, mahorka. He finds a scrap of newspaper in his pocket, Das Reich, smoothes it between his fingers and lays the tobacco out across the print. I watch him from the corner of my eye, tapping my fingers against the wheel as he rolls the paper tight. He licks Hitler’s sleeve, stops in mid-movement, and sits there with his half-rolled cigarette.
He looks at me.
‘I …’ he says. ‘Gospodin …’
‘Have one of my Efkas,’ I tell him.
I fumble in my breast pocket and pull out the packet. He takes one and lights up. The road is clear. We are going to Minsk, to the main archive. If our man with the cockerel on his shoulder is from the western Soviet Union he will be there. All we need is to find the J in his passport, Jevrej, Jew, a prison sentence for homosexuality – a perversion, a category. And they are good at categories, the Reds. Providing the documentation has not been destroyed, burned or rolled into mahorka. Providing the witnesses are not decomposing in some mass grave, theirs or ours.
‘So …’ I say.
‘Gospodin?’ says the Hiwi and lifts his hand.
‘What’s your name exactly?’
Something strikes me hard behind the ear, the front wing flies through the air.
I wrench the wheel.
_ _ _
They have got me by the legs, and pull me through the wet grass, my arms trailing limply behind. I try to kick out and receive a blow to the head. They roll me over, I find my pistol, sit up and pull the trigger, only it won’t fire. I rack the slide, and then he is on top of me, knees in the grass, striking me with the flat of his hand.
‘Gospodin, it’s me! Semjon!’
‘What?’
He snatches the pistol from my hand and puts a finger to his lips.
‘Gospodin, we will look after you. Wait here.’
He hands me back the gun and gets to his feet, nods to another Hiwi, they release the safety catches on their own weapons. He points towards the road, our Kübelwagen is on fire. They vanish into the darkness.
My pulse is racing.
The woods are silent.
Only the roar of the fire.
My mind churns.
_ _ _
Shadows.
I check my weapon, my hands are shaking, I am unable to hold it.
It is between my legs.
Shadows.
I thrust out the magazine – it is empty. I find some loose cartridges in the grass, press them in, pushing down the spring. I pull back the slide, hear the round deploy into the chamber.
Etke.
I must have dropped my cigarettes.
I am shaking with cold.
_ _ _
He sits on his haunches, the tall Hiwi. His hand is on my shoulder.
He turns to someone I cannot see, and says something in Belorussian. He looks at me again.
‘It was a mine. You are all right.’
When I fail to reply he takes a cigarette from his breast pocket. The paper has absorbed blood. He turns it between his fingers, then puts it between my lips. He lights it for me; I hold on to his hands.
It tastes of blood; blood and smoke.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Semjon, gospodin.’
‘Why do you call me gospodin?’
‘It means master …’
‘Master?’
‘Yes.’
‘Semjon, do you have any children?’
‘They are gone. Three chicks, gospodin. Three chicks that ran into the forest. Now they cannot find their way home.’
‘Etke.’
‘Etke, gospodin?’
‘The girl from Belize. Could you take her?’
‘Take her, gospodin?’
‘Yes. Take care of her … let her live with … your family. Or …’
Semjon gets to his feet, picks up his rifle and slings it over his shoulder. He reaches his hand out to me.
‘Come, gospodin.’
Minsk
The central hospital, Minsk. Reception. Early morning.
The nurse holds safety pins between her lips, she presses my shoulder wound together and leads the roll of gauze under my arm, making a tight bandage and fastening it with the pins.
‘We’ve run out of fasteners. Would you believe it?’ she says and straightens up.
‘Are you from Hamburg?’ I ask.
‘Why?’
She is over at the sink, rinsing her hands. She’s a redhead – the knee stockings don’t suit her – her hands are red too, her arms freckled.
‘No reason,’ I say. ‘You sound Hamburgisch, that’s all … and I haven’t been back in Hamm in, what … eleven months now.’
‘You’re from Hamm?’ she says, turning round to face me. ‘You’re joking?’
‘No, I’m not. Deadly serious.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘By the park, Süder … or rather, that’s where I grew up. My mother lived there … she’s dead now. What’s it called …’
‘Can’t you remember where you live?’
‘No … it’s gone. A white building … five floors …’
‘There are lots like that in Hamm.’
‘Yes, but next to the park, what on earth is it called! By the sports fields … you must know.’
‘Sievekings …?’
‘No, the other side.’
‘Horner?’
‘No. No, in the other direction.’
‘Oh, that would be Hammer Steindamm …’
‘Er … no.’
‘Hammerhof …’
‘No, that’s not it either. Rumpffstrasse!’
‘Rumpffstrasse?’
‘Yes, number three, second floor … that was quite a job, wasn’t it? Can you remember where you live?’
‘I think so,’ she says, and giggles.
‘Did I hit my head?’
She produces a little torch from the pocket of her apron, holds it up to my eye, keeping the eye open with her fingers while she shines light into the pupil.
‘Watch my finger,’ she says, and moves it from side to side in front of my nose. My eyes follow, but the finger confuses me, my nose moves with it, only it doesn’t, it stays put – it’s my head that is swimming.
‘My name’s Gertrud,’ she says. ‘Gertrud Engeler. I live on Claudiusstrasse,
