Gretel and the Dark (36 page)
Read Gretel and the Dark Online
Authors: Eliza Granville
I stop dead. ‘How can you be sure it isn’t one of the other sorts of buses? The ones that took sick, old people to the –’
‘Because,’ she says, with exaggerated patience, ‘it’s got a bright-red cross painted on each side. You know what the Red
Cross is, surely? Anyway, Lilie, it’s not one of ours. It’s Swedish. There were several – all the rest have loaded up and gone home – this last one had some sort of engine trouble. It’s held them up for three days.’
I hang back, waiting for Daniel, who’s looking worse than ever. In addition to everything else, he’s now what Greet called ‘green around the gills’. His teeth are chattering but his skin feels as if it’s on fire. ‘Did you throw up?’ He nods miserably and falls in beside me, dragging his feet, walking so slowly that in the end I put my arm through his. ‘Just don’t puke over me, right?’
The witch is stamping her feet with impatience at the end of the garden. She’s got a lumpy cloth bag tucked under one arm and I don’t need to ask what it contains. Maybe my own story can’t end properly and everything will stay the same, but at least in this one I won’t do any worse than Gretel.
‘Let me.’ The witch takes Daniel’s weight. ‘Straighten up, boy.’ She’s smiling but her tone’s sharp. ‘Make an effort now.’ After a few moments of trying to make him move more quickly, she stops walking altogether and a peculiar expression crosses her pudding face. ‘Benjamin, in case we get separated, tell me again how to say, “My name is Agnieszka.” ’
‘
Nazywam si
Agnieszka
,’ says Daniel, and groans. He sways as the witch loosens her hold and steps away. I’m so afraid he’ll fall that I put both my arms around him as she walks to and fro memorizing the phrase.
‘One last thing,’ she says softly. ‘What about “I am a nurse”?’ I feel Daniel tense. When I look at him, his expression is almost as strange as hers. ‘Such a useful skill might make all the difference,’ she adds.
Daniel nods. ‘
Jestem zabójc
dzieci
,’ he says, very clearly.
Something’s not right: his hand searches for mine, holding it so tightly I’m getting pins and needles in my fingers, and he’s never taken so much trouble making sure her pronunciation is correct. ‘
Jestem zabójc
dziecka.
’ He says it a dozen times.
‘Good.’ The witch pushes me aside and takes Daniel’s arm again. ‘Best foot forward, Benjamin. Not long now.’ She smiles, but her eyes look hard and mean. ‘Lilie, my dear, why don’t you run ahead and make sure they wait for us.’
Icy fingers pluck at my spine. The witch is planning something bad. Daniel feels it too. His eyes plead with me and he shakes his head.
‘But I don’t know how to find them,’ I whine.
She clicks her tongue with annoyance. ‘I told you once already –’
‘I’m too scared to go on my own.’
We’re approaching the tower. My heart begins to pound as I get myself ready. One more step and another –
now!
I snatch the bag from the witch’s hand, run to the door and fling it inside. The doves rise. The witch screeches. Letting Daniel fall, she rushes after her treasure, scrabbling among the ripe droppings for the scattered jewels and golden teeth. Quick as a flash, I turn the key in the lock. Already she’s pounding on the door and roaring threats. She can’t escape, but try as I might there’s no getting Daniel up again, and now I’m afraid the rescuers will leave without us.
‘Go,’ he breathes, closing his eyes. I drop to my knees, hating how peaceful he suddenly looks.
‘I’ll come back,’ I promise, putting my cheek against his. ‘I’ll find these people, tell them to wait and come straight back for you.’
Through the yard I race, along the side of an old stable block, dodging broken carts and rusty farm machinery, running until my bare feet stumble on to the weed-stippled gravel that once marked the sweep of a grand driveway. Before me loom massive iron gates, so overgrown they can’t have been opened in years. It’s only by luck that I spot the witch’s secret trail through the undergrowth. Nettles unleash their stings, brambles seize my wrists and ankles, painting my legs with strings of scarlet beads, but my spells are stronger than those of the witch and her path leads me to a narrow stone stile at the edge of the road.
Although I can feel cold air rising from the lake, the water’s invisible, completely hidden by trees and bushes. There’s no sign of any bus either. The witch said we should head for the village but, though I remember seeing its distant buildings as we descended the hill, I’ve no idea whether to follow the road to the left or the right. I run to the right for a count of two hundred, turn and run the other way. I’m up to one hundred and ninety-nine when I hear voices, plunge through the bushes and almost crash into a white bus, so well is it concealed by broken branches and armfuls of ferns. It’s almost definitely the one we jumped into that ditch to avoid. There’s no sign of whoever was speaking. I inch forward, flattening myself against the vehicle’s side, stop to look at the blood-red cross … and trip over someone’s outstretched legs.
‘
Hej!
’ The man lying beneath the engine eases himself out and lumbers to his feet, brandishing a large spanner. He’s a giant of a man with a dirty face and short blond hair exactly like Hraben’s. Even so, I don’t run far before remembering to be brave. ‘
Vänta, lilla!
’ he bellows, but then lowers his voice and
reaches out an oily black hand. ‘Wait, little one. Olaf not hurt you.’ He turns away, roaring even louder. ‘Lotten! Sigrid!
Var finns dessa kvinnor när du behöver dem?
’
Someone laughs. ‘
Du behöver inte svära
,
Olaf. Här är vi, tillbaka från vår simtur.
’ The woman has come from behind the bus. And I can see others following behind her. She looks at my funny clothes with the bloodstains, the rips and tears, my bare feet. Her eyes flicker, but all she says is: ‘Hello. Never mind Olaf and his cursing. You must be from the camp at Ravensbrück. How did you manage to get away?’
‘Daniel –’ I want to say more, but the words stay stuck in my throat.
‘Are you from Ravensbrück?’
I nod.
‘All right, child. There’s no need to be frightened. You’re safe now.’ She calmly finishes tying her damp hair back with a length of blue ribbon. ‘None of us will hurt you. We’ve come a long way to help.’
I
am
frightened, but there’s no one else left to trust, so I examine her carefully. She’s tall, wearing men’s clothes. Her eyes are the same colour as the ribbon and where her hair’s dried it’s turned red-gold. There are freckles on her nose and along the tops of her cheeks. She reminds me of someone. When she puts her arm around me it feels nice.
‘Daniel –’ I say again, and point towards the house. The woman nods.
‘Is Daniel hurt?’
I nod furiously. ‘He can’t stand up.’
‘All right,’ she repeats, and reaches inside the bus for a doctor’s bag almost exactly like the one Papa had, ‘you’d better show us where he is.’
I
start off immediately, glancing back to check they’re following. When we get to the nettles, Olaf wipes his black hands on an even blacker rag before carrying me over them. He still leaves oily prints on my sleeves.
The doctor woman laughs when he apologizes. ‘We’ll soon find her something better to wear.’ She lengthens her stride, easily keeping pace with me, even though I’m walking faster now, nearly running, because I’m afraid that Daniel might have … ‘By the way,’ she says, ‘everyone calls me Lotten. It’s short for Charlotte.’
‘I had a Charlotte. We buried her in the aviary.’
‘That’s very sad.’
‘She took all my stories with her.’
‘I see.’ Lotten walks in silence for a moment. ‘There will be more stories. There always are. Are you going to tell me your name?’
‘I’m Krysta.’ We’ve reached the tower and Daniel’s lying where I left him. He smells really bad but he’s still breathing. His eyelids flicker as I sit on the ground next to him, holding his hand. Lotten kneels, too, and gently opens his jacket. Her face changes; I see her swallow hard.
‘All right,’ she says, reaching in her bag for a stethoscope. ‘All right.’
‘
Hallå
,’ says another voice. ‘
Här är vi
.’
‘Yes, here we are. Sorry we took so long.’
Two other women, one dark, the other as fair as Lotten but with a wide, calm face, have caught up with us, and it’s now I see Olaf has tears streaming down his face. I didn’t think giants could cry. He must have hurt himself quite badly. When I ask Lotten about this, she shouts at him. Olaf scrubs his eyes and shambles off, lighting a cigarette. There’s still a lot of noise
coming from inside the tower and he’s unlocked the door before I can stop him.
‘Witch,’ I whisper.
Lotten is too busy flicking at a big syringe. ‘This is for the pain, Daniel.’
Agnieszka bursts from the tower, hands covered in shit, jaws stretched open to spit toads and vipers at me. On seeing the others, she tries looking small and pitiful. One of the other women, Sigrid, I think, starts talking to her, but the witch opens her eyes wide and stares straight in front of her, pretending to be like one of those poor people on the march who no longer knew where they were or what was happening. ‘
Nazywam siAgnieszka
,’ she mutters. ‘
Nazywam siAgnieszka.
’
‘Witch,’ I say, loudly enough for everyone to hear. But the women are too busy comforting her and Daniel chooses this moment to squawk a protest at the prick of the needle. The witch’s eye alights on him.
‘
Mój syn!
’ she shrieks. ‘Benjamin.’
‘His name’s Daniel,’ I remind Lotten.
Lotten sighs. ‘The poor woman.’
Daniel opens his eyes a crack. ‘And she’s only pretending I’m her son.’
‘She’s confused,’ Lotten says, examining his broken skin. ‘Sigrid speaks some Polish. She’ll get to the bottom of it. Are these dog bites?’
‘You don’t understand,’ I insist. ‘That’s one of the bad nurses. They cut people up. I saw her. She’s only pretending to be one of us.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Lotten is hardly listening.
‘
Einer der Engel des Todes
,’ breathes Daniel. ‘She’s one of the angels of death.’
Lotten stands up. ‘You need proper care, young man. Don’t try to talk.’ She beckons Olaf, who stubs out his cigarette and lopes over to unroll the stretcher. He’s stopped weeping but his eyes are still very red. Together they lift Daniel, and I help slide the canvas underneath him. The witch swoops down on us, both hands clutching her bag of teeth.
‘
Jestem Polk ,’ she shrieks. ‘
Pochodzz Jedwabnego
.’
‘No, she doesn’t,’ says Daniel sleepily. He yawns. ‘And she isn’t Polish.’
The witch’s eyes flash as she draws herself up. ‘
Jestem zabójc
dziecka.
’ She speaks the words she’s memorized. The phrase is her trump card and I can see by her face that she doesn’t understand why Sigrid has recoiled. ‘
Jestem zabójc
dziecka.
’
‘She says –’ Sigrid frowns. She hesitates and her lips move as though she’s going over the words in her head, making sure she has understood correctly. ‘She says she’s a child killer.’
‘My little sister …’ mutters Daniel.
I touch his cheek. ‘Don’t.’ It’s still not the right time to speak of these things.
‘
Schmutziger betrügender Jude!
’ The witch’s face turns white and she shows her teeth like an angry dog. ‘Filthy double-crossing Jew – should have put you down while I had the chance.’ She screws up her bag as if it’s a wet dishcloth and a scatter of gold teeth falls on to the cobbles. Without another word she turns and runs towards the forest, into the clutches of the red bear, the bulldogs, or the Yanks. I try not to laugh. Now that the witch is dealt with there’s only one thing missing from this particular tale, but when we’re finally on the bus, I realize we’ve found something better than Gretel’s white duck to carry us over the water to safety.
All the stories, good and bad, are mixed up now. I went back
for Daniel, just like the girl in ‘The Pied Piper’, but in this one, too, I’m doing better than she did, because Lotten has promised me that we’re being taken from this place where they cried ‘Rats!’ to a beautiful land on the other side of mountains. It’s only my story that didn’t finish properly. I suppose Cecily was right when she said that some things just can’t be changed, however hard you imagine them … but only a
little
bit right because I know for sure that some things can. This morning I overheard Lotten telling Sigrid it was a miracle Daniel was still with us. They don’t understand it was my storytelling that kept him alive. And that’s why I’m staying at his bedside – even though they say he probably can’t hear me any more – whispering a new story into his ear about Lilie and Benjamin leaving Vienna to grow cherries and apricots in their little cottage garden.
And I was right – I usually am – for the scientists finally caught up with me and declared hearing to be the last sense that leaves us.
So here we are, two generations later, and once again I’m sitting at a bedside, holding Daniel’s hand, retelling the story of Lilie and Benjamin, the happy-ever-after fairy tale we made our own, willing my words to keep him anchored to the earth, to the life we have built together …
to me
. There have been many such times since we fled Ravensbrück, many night watches, many retellings: the results of the hardships we suffered did not lessen when the world grew weary of our pain, our grief and fears, our strangeness; and the worse the memory, the stronger its stranglehold on the present. We survived. We went on. It seemed enough. But this time I suspect my storytelling will not be enough to keep Daniel beside me. He feels too old, worn out by his search for answers.
‘For the first time in days,’ I whisper, ‘Josef managed to rouse himself from his apathy and plodded outside. He stood breathing in the frost-tinged autumn air. Gudrun’s comments were justified: the garden was unkempt. Docks and nettles were winning the eternal battle between Man and Nature in Mathilde’s herb patch. Even the bushes on which the weekly washerwoman spread laundry to dry had become leggy and looked dead at the crown. He nipped off a single remaining flower spray and breathed in its fragrance. “There’s rosemary,” he muttered, “that’s for remembrance.” The smell awoke in Josef a troubling sense of something too soon forgotten, but whatever it was continued to elude him. He wandered further along the path –’
I stop as the door is gently pushed ajar, knowing it will be Sara, our young granddaughter, bringing me coffee. She’s a beautiful child, delicate, almost elfin. Daniel opens his eyes as she comes into the room. The evening sunlight catches her hair, turning it gold.
‘Krysta?’ His voice sounds faintly alarmed. Still cradled in our story of times past, he’s confused. It’s understandable: although Sara is named for the little sister who perished in the camp, Daniel swears she looks exactly as I did at her age.
I squeeze his hand. ‘I’m still here.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ he begs.
‘Why would I start now?’
He manages a weak smile. ‘It’s very dark in here.’ His eyelids droop. ‘Go on with the story. Tell me the bit about Lilie and Benjamin finding their cottage. The big apple tree … our vegetable garden, your books, my music, those long sunny evenings by the river …’
‘Still telling Grandpapa stories?’ Sara hooks her long hair behind her ears and places my steaming coffee within reach.
‘Not stories,’ I correct her, ‘
the
story.’
‘But it’s always the same one, over and over – don’t you both get bored? It’s been so long – you must have told it a thousand times. Doesn’t it ever change?’
I gently release Daniel’s hand and pick up the cup. In silence, I sip the bitter brew, feeling it rushing along my veins, giving me new strength. When I look at Sara her face has grown anxious. She’s biting her bottom lip and her eyes are suspiciously bright. It’s only the good looks she inherited from me: the child gets her tender heart from Daniel.
‘I didn’t mean …’ she mumbles. ‘I’m sorry, Grandmamma. I know it was terrible running away from the camp and the killings. I never meant …’
‘Come here.’ I rise, a trifle unsteadily, and hold her close for a moment. ‘I know. I know.’ She’s taller than I ever was. I have to stretch up to pat her cheek. It’s an additional torture that this generation, too, should suffer for our memories; almost impossible to find the point of balance between burdening them with the vile details and ensuring the truth is never forgotten. ‘As for your question, the story of what happened in the camp never changes. How could it? It’s a memory written into our blood and bones.’
I hesitate. Can that really be true? I decide to believe it is. Just as I also decide it’s impossible to pass such memories on fully. When it comes to recalling my years in Ravensbrück, every sense is involved: ravening hunger; the sweet sick smell of burning flesh on the wind; the cries of infants muffled by desperate mothers; the ringing of my ears after being dealt a blow in passing; the taste of blood in my mouth; the ache in my calves from standing hour after hour in the pouring rain, the
snow, or the harsh August sunshine; the dull flinch deep inside at what the eyes cannot avoid seeing, the pain, the loss, the –
‘Grandmamma?’ Sara is bending over me and I realize I’ve fallen back into my chair. ‘Are you sick? Shall I call my papa?’
I shake my head. Daniel’s hand is blindly searching for mine, a palely wrinkled starfish against the blue of our counterpane. I cling to it, unable to say in that moment which of us needs the other most. ‘I was about to add that the other story, that of Lilie and Benjamin, the one that saved our lives by leading us to our rescuers, is bound to change a little with each retelling. Not the essence of the story, just the details … and the
way
of telling it.’ I remember Greet telling me how proper stories change with the wind and the tide and the moon, and add: ‘It’s like a fairy tale, shifting around a little as time passes.’
‘Like a fairy tale. I see,’ Sara nods, her face comically solemn.
‘I was younger than you, Sara, when I first started making it up. Since then, I’ve learned so many new things, from life, from friends, from books …’
I pause, hearing a distant echo of Erika’s voice fiercely insisting that I attend the secret camp school.
‘Books,’ I repeat, for they’ve not only been a solace during the long years but also provided the keys to understanding other people’s ideas and achievements, their hopes and fears, quirks and foibles, their dreams … their demons. Dear Josef, I’ve read so much about his life that sometimes I think I must know him better than he knew himself. Others, too, though the actions of a few are still inexplicable … I give myself a little shake, turning from those grim memories and adding with a wry smile: ‘I’ve learned a little about myself, too! And so the story was bound to grow longer and – more complex, I
suppose – as time passed. At the same time, parts of real life and my story became intertwined. Benjamin and Lilie went on to have a happy and peaceful life, a son – and a beautiful granddaughter. So of course it’s changed.’
‘I’ve never heard it.’ Sara blushes. ‘Well, only bits and pieces.’
I smile again, knowing she listens at doors. It’s a family trait. ‘Sit down. I’m sure your grandfather won’t mind if I start again from the beginning.’ I take a deep breath, conscious that this may be the very last time this tale is told. ‘The town of Gmunden, with its placid lake surrounded by high mountains, was a peaceful summer retreat until the morning Mathilde observed that a certain General Pappenheim had brutally suppressed a peasant rebellion there in 1626. The name stirred up a hornets’ nest of resentments. Pappenheim was also the family name of that Bertha creature – the young patient Josef had been so preoccupied with …’