Manfred skinned the rabbit and rubbed honey into its flesh. ‘Tomorrow’s the day,’ he said. ‘And you’ve not eaten in two …’
I turn the skewer, the tight, glazed body above the flame, the melting, rodent-like head.
I am beyond hunger, exhausted and sleepless.
Tomorrow the third phase commences: Clearing the cauldron, the last concentric attack.
I see no cauldron, only trees and darkness, trees and light.
I try to think of Eline, and close my eyes.
After a short while I open them again.
I take The Adventurous Heart from my inside pocket, the book I saved from the flames two days before. It is singed and reeks of smoke. Manfred has vandalised it with all his underlining, his exclamation marks and symbols that look like stenography, code or just helpless doodles, diagrams, little drawings of what, animals? One passage, Terror, is almost obliterated by his hand.
I read the final lines through his pencilled ornamentation:
Do you have any idea what goes on in
this space that we will perhaps some
day plunge through, the space that
extends between the recognition of the
downfall and the downfall itself?
Manfred has drawn an ugly triangle in the margin and written some figures at each angle. I turn the book in my hand, and now I see they are coordinates. I know them already. It is the triangle of Naliboki, Ivenets, Rubesjevitj. Operation Hermann.
It is here, in this space.
Now I hear him come creeping up behind me.
‘Psst …’
‘Manfred,’ I say, and hold the book up in my hand, turning my head to face him. ‘What is this shit …?’ But there is no one there. I am on my feet in an instant, in the midst of empty night.
‘Manfred?’
‘Psst …’
I turn towards the source, gripped by sudden panic, but in the darkness there is only the rush of wind in the trees, the pulsating glow of embers, the meagre little corpse on its rotating skewer.
I listen. Not a sound.
I bend down to pick up my pistol and stare into the vacancy of the rabbit head.
The fire snaps and sizzles as the animal is dislodged, the head coming to rest diagonally against the skewer.
‘Psst …’
‘What do you want?’ I say, taking my cigarettes from my breast pocket, pursing my lips as I light up. ‘What is it, bunny …? Something bothering you?’
‘Psst …’
Spitting fat as the belly opens, discharging its juices.
‘Psst …’
_ _ _
I wake up in the night, Manfred clinging to me from behind.
I try to extricate myself without waking him, but with each movement his arms and legs clamp tighter around my body.
‘Manfred, you’re strangling me …’
He fails to respond, his knee is in the small of my back, his chin dug against my shoulder blade.
I manage to get an arm free and begin to prise his fingers apart, but his joints are locked and cold, his nails blue.
‘Manfred, what’s the matter with you?’
I arch my back and try to push him away but end up rolling over, still in his grip, his face in mine.
I cannot hear him breathing.
‘Manfred, for crying out loud!’
His jaw opens, but no sound emerges.
‘Wake up!’
And then he opens his eyes.
His pupils are wide and stiff, a film of grey-blue.
_ _ _
I am inside his eye.
_ _ _
At first there is nothing, then I hear the clicking sound from the innermost darkness.
I glimpse something black, a hand with rings on its fingers, a neck. A woman, facing away, in a black velvet dress with puffed sleeves.
She lifts up her hem, and is wearing patent leather shoes.
They click against the floor, her movements pick up speed.
Is she tap-dancing?
She waves to me, turning her head slightly towards me.
She is Zarah Leander in Die grosse Liebe.
Now she is singing:
Ich weiss, es wird einmal ein Wunder geschehen
und dann werden tausend Märchen war.
Ich weiss, so schnell kann keine Liebe vergehen,
Die so gross ist und so wunderbar.
I know one day a miracle will happen
And a thousand dreams will come true,
I know love cannot be so fleeting,
That was so fine and wonderful.
Phase 3: The concentric attack
Early morning, day ten.
Manfred sits on his haunches beside my head, face daubed black and green.
‘Wake up …’ he says when I fail to respond.
‘Put this on your face,’ he says, handing me a tin.
I wriggle out of the sleeping bag and take it from his hand. It is shoe polish, black.
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’
‘We’ve run out of green,’ he says, and backs his way out of the tent. ‘Sorry.’
There is a net over his helmet, stuffed with straw and leaves.
‘There’ll be a lot of traffic over the radio today. Can you manage?’
‘I think so.’
‘Can you manage or not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve got the signal codes?’
‘Yes.’
‘The overview of all the units? The map?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what? Overview or map?’
‘I have done this before, Manfred.’
‘What then?’
‘Yes. Overview and map.’
_ _ _
‘They ran out of green,’ I tell the wireless operator and the driver as I climb into the already moving command vehicle.
They are tense and say nothing in reply. I sit myself down and look out over the sloping terrain, woodland and scrub here, the clatter of armoured caterpillar vehicles in the mud. The forest around us is alive, waves of camouflaged troops, black and green, proceeding through the landscape, silent and effective. Only the noise of the vehicles indicates our presence. Manfred comes up alongside and puts his hand on the steel plating.
‘It’s actually all rather beautiful, don’t you think?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say, and lean back into my seat when I accidentally place my hand on his.
I unfold the
