Page 69 of Besieger
Victor took a drag on the cigarette, inhaled, exhaled; his eyes flittered. He did not want to talk about this, but something was troubling his brother. He opened his mouth to answer, to say that maybe the firemen were late because they were putting out other fires—other places were burning, weren’t they?—or that the fire of this building was too strong, beyond saving anyway. The smoke rose from the cigarette between his fingers and the smell of tobacco filled his lungs, calling out the memory Tobias had hauled into the present.
He recalled seeing firemen that day. They had been there, pushing the crowd back, keeping a watch on the burning building, shouting instructions to one another. If the fire threatened to spread to the neighbouring houses, they were ready.
Yes, the firemenwerethere, doing nothing as they watched the synagogue burn. Victor had seen them clearly; the men stood out in the crowd with their uniforms and helmets. No one had come up to ask them to intervene, nor did they offer to help. The sight had been so strange that Victor mislaid the memory, too unsettled to question any of it once it was over.
His grandfather and father, the whole Fatherland, had that look in their eyes—watching a building burn, watching Victor bear witness to something unnameable. They followed him around, breathed down his neck like a beast, a foul-mouthed creature, waiting for Victor to falter, to stutter and tremble in the face ofhonourandduty. Even his brother Tobias—a broken, limping, rejected being—looked at him with eyes that carried no trust. The warmth had drained from his blue eyes like a sky choked with smoke.
The cigarette burned his knuckles, the ash had drifted over his fingers and the tablecloth. Victor flicked the butt into a plate and lit another. Five years ago, on the day schools brought children to watch the fires of all those shops, homes and places of worship, Victor had taken up smoking. He had not done it to spite his grandfather, nor because the men in his unit carried packets, and always smoked over cards. He did it because his throat was burning up from the stench and every time he inhaled, the air made him retch. The air in Berlin made him sick.
Victor did not feelhonourfighting for his country. He felt horror.
The howl of the siren cut through the air, like a saw hacking at a piece of bone. The skin on his forearms pebbled with gooseflesh and his fingers stilled on the row of punched tape feeding from the machine. The teleprinter tape pooled around hisfeet as the bodies in the room stood up like clockwork and filed out, down the stairs. Victor looked from the machine to the boy sitting on the desk, pencil frozen mid-sentence.
“Sir, the tele—”
“Evacuate to the cellar!” Victor dismissed him and began ripping the missive to shreds.
The sirens were still going on when he took his greatcoat from the rack and threw it over his shoulders, not bothering to button it. On the way home he saw no one, but there was light shining through the window of abierkeller[22]. Either the proprietor and patrons were too drunk to care for the blackout and the curfew, or they hoped the bombs would finally end it all.
As the weeks went by, Victor had witnessed men and women around him commit acts that had perplexed him. Everyone was getting drunk on life or trying to drown life. His own brother, he mused, was turning into one of them. Except Tobias was not drinking, he had simply stopped moving. Sometimes he would stand so still, he seemed to melt into the surroundings, and Victor would walk straight past him. Tobias continued to report to work day after day, but the light had left his eyes, whatever little had been there.
At first, Victor sought to go home rather than evacuate as an act of rebellion. If his country expected him to die, he would die, but on the grounds of his own choosing. He was going to meet his end on his own two feet, running or fighting, not skulking in a hole underground with some strangers.
“You are late,Brüderchen[23],” Tobias greeted him.
He was sitting on the staircase, a few steps from the landing, his crutch against the wall. Victor sat on the cold stone, and the two of them waited in silence for the pre-raid warning to pass, sharing a cigarette back and forth. At the all-clear Victor helpedhis brother to his feet and the two of them went into the dining room. They left the lights on in the hallway so their parents and Dietmar could find their way back more easily.
Not once did Victor think to run to the shelter and check on them. Nor did Tobias ask why his brother was eager to show up at their doorstep instead of following orders.
The next time the sirens sounded, Victor almost welcomed them. Spending time with Tobias helped him unburden himself, even if they did not speak. Tonight, fog nuzzled close above the city, casting a protecting veil over Berlin, which meant that the warning would be brief. People would still have to stay huddled indoors and in the dark, but the enemy bombers would struggle to find suitable targets and move on.
As Victor rounded the corner, he saw a shape a short distance ahead of him. A figure stood under a hooded streetlamp, a little wobbly and unsure how to place the weight on its feet. Hearing the click of Victor’s boots on the pavement, the figure lifted its head and looked his way. Again, it wobbled and reached out to hold on to the post.
When he got closer Victor was surprised to recognise the spectre as his brother. Tobias was wearing civilian clothes, an old winter coat warmer than the uniform, and Victor envied him for it. None of his civilian clothes fit him anymore: he had grown too big for them. His mother had offered to mend them or find new ones, but Victor had refused. This winter, and for as long as the war lasted, he would make do with his army kit. Nobody bothered him when he walked the streets in uniform: men either saluted him or scurried out of his way. When the military police or other officers stopped him, they were quick to check his papers and let him go.
A few paces away, Victor released a gruff snort and pushed his cap up, revealing his face.
“Papers for inspection, soldier!”
Victor had meant it as a joke, but Tobias’ whole body stiffened. He lurched back and nearly lost his balance. Hegrabbed at the post at the last moment and hoisted himself up, frowning.
Victor pretended not to notice as he searched for his matches and cigarettes, patting his pockets a little too briskly.
“Did the alarm catch you on the way to work? We got a telegram that Kurfürstenst—”
“I’m not going back there.” Tobias cut him off, but there was no edge in his voice.
Victor squinted in the darkness. There was no place to sit; the nearest wall to lean on was a store a few paces away. He remembered a little park nearby, a small patch of greenery between the houses, not far from here. Perhaps, if Tobias leaned on him, the two of them could go there, sit and talk, smoke and wait for the sunrise. Then, as the fog lifted, they would venture home and eat whatever leftovers their mother had managed to keep warm.
“Do you know what I did today?” Tobias did not wait for Victor to reply. He inhaled a shaky breath, waved away the offered cigarette, and tried to stand without gripping the post. His body swayed, but in the end he managed to stay upright, both feet pressed firmly to the ground.
Victor could not help but smile at the sight. That was why the crutch was gone: Tobias was getting better; he was walking unaided.
An absurd idea crept into his mind then. What if they packed what little they could find for supplies and left the city? Pick a road and walk for as long as their legs could carry them—stop, rest, and move on again. Their papers might see them through some of the checkpoints; maybe they could board a train or walk the remaining distance to the border, go to Frankfurt, then reach Rhine, cross it by some of its bridges and go on into France.
Throw away their papers and clothes, and become someone else. Someone withouthonour: braveless, fatherless brothers. The war had started without them—it could end without them.
What if…
