THE KEY

46 pages from 223

Southern France. The Département of the Hérault. Winter. 1985.

Coming out of the wood he took the path down through the field where the vines were stumps in the dark, red earth. The soil was stony here and he slipped several times on the slope. The wind blew in squalls, catching him now, pulling and pushing and he had to hold onto his hat. Halfway down, when he finally saw the lake, it was steely grey in the distance, its surface choppy and hostile. Perhaps he should have returned for the car, he thought, stopping for a moment. From where he stood the world was a desolate place, the only noise, the moaning of the trees behind him. The storm clouds that early February afternoon raked the barren, rounded hills, blocking out the sun and he could feel the dampness in the air. It would rain soon. He had just gone to the top of the hill to look but once there he realised he had forgotten how close the place was ...
He reached the road and crossed over to the open wrought-iron gates of the courtyard. Further along the gates to the Cave were closed and there was a new sign up, a large one, bottle shaped, "Le Gourdou - Producteur - Vente Directe - Degustation," he read. No guard dog in sight though, nothing to guard against, he thought, as he went up to the main door. The house facade was a blank wall. The first floor windows were shuttered, the terrace bushes and plants sparse and leafless. He turned to the barn; her car was not there, or perhaps she parked somewhere else now? The opening in the wall to the Cave gaped, bare of climbing plants and flowers. The place appeared deserted. He knocked on the door then took off his hat. The old lady would surely remember him?

He was about to knock again when the door opened slightly.
"Isabelle? It's Walter Becker." The wind whistled into the house, someone was watching him, then the door was shut. He heard the rattle of a chain and the door opened again.
"Monsieur Becker. Come in. I'll tell Madame Vacquière that you're here," the girl said with a smile.
Some leaves followed him as he went in after her and a dog padded up the hallway as he waited.
"Felix ..?" he said, patting the dog.
"He recognises you," he heard.
He stood up and went to the old woman at the kitchen door, shaking hands with her, her hand dry and light in his.
"Madame Vacquière ..."
"... Come inside. There's a fire," she indicated across the hall.
The girl followed them into the room and went over to the windows and opened the shutters to the courtyard. When she was finished she watched them from the hallway for a few seconds then closed the door behind her.
"I'm sorry to arrive so unannounced. I should have phoned really. I read about ..."
"... About Vincent, yes."
"I was at the cemetery."
"The day before ... I know. I was told. Colette is out. Gone to town. She took Roland to the airport. She'll be back soon. Take your coat off."
He walked up to the open fire.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Oh. Well I suppose for my age. I keep indoors in weather like this though."
They both sat down near the fire.
"I read it in the paper. I get one sent to me. We have an office in town now. We've started importing from the region ... I stopped at the village and walked over the hill. It's different in the winter though. It's not too far, thank goodness. It was quite cold up there ... Not like the summer ... I had been planning to come, to see you."
The old woman said nothing and he wondered if she had heard him. She was smaller, frailer and had aged in the last, what was it, two and half years, he thought.
"How is Paul?" he asked.
"Oh. He's fine. He goes off on these coach trips all over the place now. He's not here. ... Won't be back for another week. He missed it all."
"… And your, your daughter?"
"Colette. She works hard. Roland is coming down finally. Now that Vincent is no longer here."
The room was unfamiliar to him and it was dark inside. The fire gave it colour and warmth. He could hear a radio playing somewhere in the house and the ticking of a clock.
“And you Monsieur Becker?"
“I went back. You remember, my brother? ..."
"... Yes. He was ill, you said. You wanted to see him. You told me about him ... when you left."
"Yes. I went to see him."
That strange, old man. A broken man, but with his convictions, hardly ever expressed. It was in his manner ... A man from another world, so changed he had had difficulties recognising him. He did eventually but it had taken a few days. Then those long, rambling conversations. It had been an extraordinary experience, letting the past slip away. Because of him, Gustav had recovered sufficiently to travel up to Bremen last summer. He hoped he had been able to offer some sort of solace, if he could call it that, for those bitter, lost years his brother had lived through. He did not know. He doubted it.
"... I travelled a lot. Then went back home. I went back to the company."
A small proportion of the business passed through his hands now. There were the occasional trips which he saved for the winter months, his doctor had recommended that, but he had not wanted any powers of decision. It had been evident when he had returned that everything was well under control. He had kept discreetly in touch with the domaine through a subsidiary office in the nearby town and among the newspapers he had delivered to him in Bremen was a regional one. The death of Vincent Bouyse had been mentioned in a short local news article. He had asked himself several times over the last two years if it had not become an obsession. There had been times when he had thought of dropping it, finishing with it or distancing himself but that stubborn core in him had resisted and pushed him on. Perhaps he would be able to resolve it now, today?
"... She shouldn't be long."
"... Did you ever read the note I gave you? Remember? When I left. Which explained or at least tried to ..."
"... Oh yes that. The note. The letter. No. No. I didn't open it. But it didn't matter. I knew. I gave it back to him ..."
He wasn't sure what she meant.
"Gave it back?"
"Put it in his hands just before they closed him in ..."
"I see."
"... You needn't worry about Genyiès. He won’t say anything," she said, turning to him.
"You've spoken to him?"
"After you left. I told him it was ... It was all over. Best forgotten. I never spoke to Colette about it."
"No. I don't suppose there was any point. It had never been my intention to tell her either. I ... Well. I just came to see if ...," his voice trailed off. So Genyiès did not know. He wondered how he had reacted. The man had been committed to finding out who had killed the hostages.
Madame Vacquière looked up at him. She appeared to have been thinking something over. "I want you to have it back," she said. "I'll just go and get it."
She stood up and went out of the room. He heard her moving through the house then, just when he began to notice the music again, the radio was switched off leaving the howl of the wind and the logs snapping in the fire the only sound in the room. Becker settled back in the chair and stretched himself out to wait.
When she came back she went to stand by the fire.
"I don't want to keep this any longer," she said, handing Becker the key. It was heavy in his hands, large and old fashioned. "We don't need it any more. Do we? I would like to forget. I can't really but I'll try. Those things they found in the wall, I put them back as well, amongst the flowers. I've put the photos away. Lay the ghosts to rest. Leave them in peace, Monsieur Becker."
She turned back to the fire and stared at it then went to sit down. He slipped the key into his pocket.
"I've been thinking about it and when Isabelle told me that you had been there I thought you might come round."
"I didn't realise ... There were so many people there."
"It's not a big village. Everybody was there. People remember you."
He wondered if she was referring to Vincent or to himself.
"I didn't want to intrude ... I thought I would come and see you after ..."
"... He was born in that house you know. That used to be his mother's bedroom. The summer bedroom. She would bring everything down when it was too hot upstairs and then when she was old she just stayed there. He was born in that room ... and died there."
"How? What happened ...?"
"... He was supposed to be going out in the afternoon. Colette came round to get him. She found him."
"It was very sudden. He wasn't ill?"
She appeared not to have heard him and was looking into the fire when she said, "Vincent had been ill a long time. My husband treated him. Nobody knew. Not even Colette ... When you left ... We had a long talk and he told me everything. About Ernest and the other one. About ... Well everything. About Jean. What happened in the cellar. Jean never knew who it was ... And Jean disappeared ... All these people. Such a long time ago now. I can hardly remember what they looked like. I had to take the photos out ... He said he was going to write and leave it for when he was gone but he was never one for letters. And we were both getting old. He wasn't sure how much to tell Colette after all this time. And she never knew Henrietta or Jean, her father. So he talked to me. He said that you knew everything. And he told me what you had done. That you had found out for me ... But I never opened your note ... There was no need after ... I put it aside. As you get older you tend to keep things. I'm glad he told me ..."
He waited for her to continue.
"... There were a lot of people there. Weddings and funerals. Brings them all together ... There was no need to open your note. So I gave it back to him ..."
Becker was looking into the flames of the fire. A car passed the gates and he turned to the window. He wondered if he had done the right thing coming back like this. But that had been the purpose of his trip down. To try and settle the matter once and for all. At the cemetery there had been so many people he had not wanted to intrude and he had watched from the edges of the crowd. He had been sure that someone had recognised him. The old woman was lost in thoughts of her own, he saw. As she had said, it was such a long time ago ...

1
WALTER BECKER

Two and a half years previously.

The TGV, which had left the Gare de Lyon three hours earlier, cut an arrow clean swathe through the green, rolling hills its tinted windows reflecting the contours of the countryside. At nearly 200 km's an hour the train's passage was brief at any fixed point on its trajectory. It arrived with a sonic boom leaving behind it a fleeting instance of its presence hovering above the silver rails.
Inside the first-class compartment the hostess was walking through the carriage glancing at her passengers but few took any notice of her. The air-conditioned silence and the smooth hiss of the rails had a soothing, blanketing effect and most of the bodies slumped in their seats appeared to be asleep. The train banked left gently and she halted, holding onto the back of a seat. As it came out of the bend the northbound TGV passed them and there was a blast of compressed air; the encounter lasting less than three seconds, loud enough to waken almost all the sleepers. Several were now peering round vacantly before slipping off again. Walter Becker had woken each time trains had passed but had gradually become used to the 'TGV effect'. It was the girl beside him who had startled him.
"I'm sorry Sir. Are you all right?"
He tried rising up from the position he had fallen asleep in. "Yes, yes."
"Can I get you anything, Sir?"
He had noticed the few passengers in the carriage at the beginning of the journey and the girl's apparent boredom. He hesitated to send her on a pointless errand but she seemed to be so willing, an air hostess in training, pert and uniformed. She carried herself like one, he thought, glancing round at the slouching, sleeping bodies and it did look like the interior of an aeroplane. He turned back to the girl.
"Alright. Maybe an orange juice then," he said. She smiled and went up the aisle, her arms outstretched, paddling from seat to seat, tilting with the train, looking about her for more orders. He watched her then something from his dreams infringed, ephemeral, an unconscious thought, forgotten now that he had woken and seen the girl. He remembered instead - and with creeping weariness - his age. It was in the stiffness of his bones as he tried to settle in a more comfortable position. He turned to the window and the speeding French countryside.
That was the problem, was it not? It had gone by too fast. All of it. Like the country they were passing through which had changed again - he glanced at his watch - in the last two hours. He moved about in his seat, uncomfortable now, remembering a late winter's day and his last check up.

Karl had said, "Take the trip. Go down the slow way, drive or take the train. You need to Walter. You need to get away ..."
The intention had lain dormant for how many years? Karl knew of it and he was certain later, when he finally decided, that what the doctor had said was a response to questions he had never been able to ask. And now that Magda was ... was gone he had only the doctor as confident. She, Magda ... Becker moved around in his seat turning away from the window and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back ... It had been beyond anything he could have imagined ...
The train leaned into curves then stretched itself out along the long straights, pulling to maximum speed, electric pylons on the edges of the track whipping by with hypnotising regularity. The brighter, outside world blurred and he let his mind drift as the train swept him along ...
... It had been catching him unawares recently, as if he had been cut loose, as if blocking out one part of his past opened doors to other episodes. It was about that time, in the last days of the war; in Berlin, amongst the rubble, that he had met Karl, he could not remember the precise circumstances. When it had all come to an end, when nothing had been left worth fighting for. And he had let himself be persuaded to return, to the beginning, to the place. Perhaps not so much persuaded for he had intended to. Someday? He wondered at the timing. Had the doctor waited for this particular moment? Did it really mean all that much to him? After all these years. If Magda had been alive, this trip would not have been possible. Ah no. No ... Not possible ... Christ! There had been no warning! Nothing! He had even prayed as she had just, just ceased to exist ...
His thoughts fled by, their cadence coupled to that of the train now; it propelled him forward as he probed backwards.
... He had functioned but he had little or no recollection of what he had done. There was a great, blank space where nothing had mattered. Others had taken over for him. He had not wanted to ...
"... Your drink, Sir."
Startled, he turned to the hostess who was handing him a glass. She was standing close to him in the aisle. The train swayed and she leant forward.
"Ah, thank you," he replied, trying to recover some of his composure, wiping his face and his eyes with his hands. He wondered if she had been there long, watching, but the girl continued to smile down at him as he paid for his drink. She was about to speak when someone else beckoned and she left him. He felt drowsy and disorientated for a second. His present mood would have to change, he thought as he looked around. No dwelling on the past for a start. There were practical things to occupy his mind with, for instance what was he to do after finding the hotel and checking in once he arrived? He held the drink before him then, as the train swayed, he placed it onto his table. The hostess passed down the aisle, the doorway swished open automatically in front of her and she left the carriage.

"It's not serious, Walter. You're tired and you've lost weight. I can see it in the way you hold yourself. Your clothes hang on you like on a washing line these days. You just need a change of climate. A warmer place, dryer, for that chest problem. Get away from the wet winters or summers or whatever it's supposed to be out there in this fair town of ours."
Karl, he remembered, had nodded in the direction of the window and he had looked out of the consultation room to the view he had come to know so very well. The low cloud and drizzle hid the roof tops of the city that day but over towards the harbour he could just make out a ship running hard against the tide, fighting its way into the Baltic.
He dressed as the doctor shuffled papers. Across the room he caught a glimpse of himself in the long mirror. Another man was staring out at him, someone who mimicked his movements. His hair was ruffled and he passed a hand through it. He began to button his shirt as he approached his double, an odd, elderly person who stooped in front of him, did the same. The deterioration caught him by surprise and he was startled by its evidence. Hair grey at the temples, face sunken with tired, blue eyes; he was glad his eyes were still good, it had been and still remained one of his vanities. He smiled unenthusiastically through thin lips at this thought, stretching his gums and pulled a face at his alter ego, who responded in kind.
"Everybody does that," the doctor said, turning back to his paper work. "You'd be amazed how therapeutic it is."
"I am amazed at everything these days, Karl. The world is a different place to what it might have been. It is not what I expected of it." Becker said, moving away from the mirror.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders but he was pleased that his patient was becoming more aware of his surroundings, more assertive, something of the person he had known these many years.
Becker looked over at him. There had been moments lately when he stood back and observed the world through what seemed a stranger's eyes. He noted the strong, upright bearing, accentuated by those unhurried, deliberate movements. The beard and the straight, square glasses gave him a solemn air. There was an impression of authority yet the doctor had always been someone who listened and tried to understand. They knew each other well. How many years? He was about to ask when the doctor said,
"You've had a good run, Walter. You and I don't know how many others. Quite a number of you though. Most have done well. You certainly have not been idle. There are several generations who owe you a lot even though they would rather not acknowledge it." He continued, pointing a finger at the mirror. "If you leave my office looking like that you'll frighten away my clients."
"There's no one there Karl, I'm the last one today. Everyone has gone. Petra was leaving when I arrived."
The doctor checked his watch. "Ah. That's right. Well then Hannah will be waiting for us. You haven't seen her in, let's see, must be ..."
"... Three days ..."
"... She has prepared something special tonight ..."
He smiled, Karl's ebullient wife would cheer him, there was no doubt.
"And the business?" the doctor asked as he wrote out a prescription.
"Wolken is handling things, he's competent enough. I think I upset the fine workings of his Bavarian mind. He has enough to put up with here in Bremen amongst this northern crowd. The accent for one thing. I've taken extended leave, I was thinking of going down south, down to Dinkelsbühl."
"Do you think that's a good idea?"
Becker knotted his tie and did not reply.
"You need a complete break, Walter. Abroad somewhere. You don't have to go far," the doctor insisted.
Becker continued dressing, his face turned to the window.
"Away from places you have been to with Magda."
At the mention of his wife's name Becker looked up.
"Any more news of your brother?" the doctor asked quietly. He had put down his pen, his attention on his patient.
"No, nothing. He hasn't phoned. And he won't give me his number but I should have it soon along with the address. He doesn't want us to meet. He's an old man, Karl. My brother. An old man, only 4 years older than me. I'm trying to persuade him that it is necessary that we meet ..." Becker paused, moving his hands, it was a habit, it gave him time to think ... "He said he preferred to be remembered as he had been the last time we met ... 42 years ago. I can't remember what he was like. Perhaps that's not true. I suppose I can imagine him, I mean someone like him, the uniform ... I remember the feeling though ... I thought that one day I would be like him. I was so, so proud ... Proud. Can you believe that? He was already a, what was it again, Untersturmführer or whatever. I've forgotten all those ranks. I was just starting. Six weeks training. Bad Tolz, the mountains. How stupid I must have been," he finished with a whisper.
He looked up at the doctor, embarrassed at this outpouring. It was not the first one in the last two months. He waited for a comment. When none came, except for a nod of the head indicating an understanding, a certain complicity even, he went on quietly.
"Nothing remains of that time, does it? Nothing for me, nothing for you ... You know I can't see their faces anymore. I remember certain things, occasions ..."
The doctor stood slowly and came round from his desk. He wanted to lay a hand on the man's shoulder as he would have done with a child but there was too much pain in his patient's eyes.
"Let's go," he said. "Come. I'll get my coat and shut up the office. You can get a taxi back from our place. Or stay the night."
"... I'm sorry Karl, this is really being very ..."
"... Don't say anything," the doctor said, guiding him through into the waiting room. The building appeared empty, then voices came up the stairwell outside as other people left offices. They were putting on their coats when Becker said,
"I asked him how he survived, where he worked, how he lived from day to day, if he wanted any ... any money or help from me."
The doctor waited holding the door. He had heard most of the story and his patient kept him up to date after each call. From below came the hiss of traffic as the main door was opened and closed. A faint, musty smell permeated the stairwell along with a cold draught of air. Becker coughed flatly several times and the doctor watching him said,
"Walter. Listen, I think you should try the south of France for this cure that I've been talking about. It's dryer down there and warmer ... I was thinking of the south east towards the Spanish border. It's not far to go, to travel. You'd get down there in a day or so."
Becker stopped adjusting his coat.
"Why down there? You know what happened down there. You know I was stationed ... I ... Don't you remember ..?"
"... Yes ..."
"... Why can't it be the Atlantic coast then? Magda and I were down there, ages ago now."
"About 3 years, Walter. It would do you no good to go down there yourself."
"I suppose so. You're probably right."
They were standing at the top of the stairs which curved down three flights to the main hall and the street. Becker's eyes were caught by the intricate carvings and details where his hand rested on the wooden banister but his thoughts were elsewhere.
"That was over forty years ago," he said. "I've never been back."
"Forty-two years," the doctor corrected him. He went on in a business-like way, explaining as he started walking down.
"The reason I'm suggesting that area is quite simple really. It's the climate. I was down there not so long ago for that three-day conference. You remember? The time you went over to America. You have no problem with the language ... would be quite at ease ... climate's excellent for you ... find a quiet spot ... or the town."
They were turning down the stairwell and the doctor kept glancing back, speaking over his shoulder.
"Charming place, plenty to do ... people friendly ... interesting area to visit. You'd like it. I did a year there a long time ago now ... the place has certainly changed since I was there." For a moment he felt like the tour guide he remembered their party had hired who, using the same phraseology and in his accented German, had vaunted the area.
Becker followed slowly, his hand on the banister. Through the high windows on each landing he could see the town and its rooftops coming up to him. He did not seem to be listening and to be far off in some private thought.
The doctor looked at him once or twice as they made their way downwards.
"It's alright. It was a long time ago. It must be forgotten about by now," Becker finally said, with a smile.
In the spacious hallway of the old building, people, bundled in coats, were hurrying out, squeezing past them, taking little notice of the two elderly men who seemed undecided whether to venture outside or not.
The main door opened onto the street noise. Over it the doctor asked, "You'll go then?"
Becker glanced out at the traffic, at the evening rain and the umbrellas going by, but he was not thinking of Bremen.
"Yes. Yes, of course. Of course I'll go."

'"It wasn't the climate or the places to visit that persuaded me, Karl. Oh no. The world is full of these delights. No. In a way it was Gustav, the things he said, the way he had of explaining, even the way he talked."'

Becker rose from his seat, adjusted his jacket and headed for the bar, more in an attempt to move around and stretch himself, than for any refreshment there. The train lurched as he entered the bar and he grabbed for the hand rail at the window. It was more spacious here he noticed and the windows were larger and less heavily tinted. The young girl at the bar said, "Bonjour, Monsieur," as he pulled himself along and he smiled and nodded his head at her like most foreigners do when too embarrassed to speak. He felt slightly stupid at his lack of manners and looked away towards the distant, slow moving landscape on the horizon, then down to the rails. It gave him an uneasy feeling watching them pass so closely and he turned back to the interior. At one of the tables two legionnaires were standing hunched over beers, swapping secrets. Above them a television played unnoticed. A couple at another table were pulling at cigarettes as if their lives depended on the smoke they were inhaling. They laughed and joked but Becker could not hear what they were saying. To his left an elderly man stood staring out of the window with a weary air, tired by the long trip and boredom perhaps, Becker wondered briefly. He wasn't the only one, he thought. '"Dammit, you live with someone for thirty-five years then in six months she's gone ... And you have to travel alone ... Live alone as if, as if Christ ... As if nothing had happened ... Goddamit! Goddamit! Some had said to try and forget. But all he wanted was ... Was to remember."' For a space of a few seconds he closed his eyes, closed them hard. '"I should have just stayed at home. Not ready for this sort of thing. It's not so easy is it? No ... No. Maybe for those who 'leave' ... If it's quick. Goddamit! Not now! Not here! Have to stop this. Stop it!"' His hand was clutching the window rail and hurting. The older man was watching him. Becker regained most of his self control and the tension dropped away from him. A passenger squeezed by as the girl behind the bar counter indicated the pay phone in the corridor. The door at one end of the carriage slid aside and a crowd of younger people entered noisily. He turned away from the rowdy group and gazed out of the window. The country had changed again. It was arid and flat now and he wondered where they were. As the gently tilting room began to fill with people and smoke he moved to the exit and down the narrow corridor to the first class carriage. He passed the telephoning passenger who was shouting into the phone. "Arriving at five thirty, five, thirty. Seventeen thirty. Bloody answering machine." Becker smiled at him, at his exasperation with modern technology. It was supposed to make life simpler. Gustav had phoned, not written. Becker had no answering machine. There were messages that could not be divulged to a machine, he thought.
Sitting down he could not help thinking how easy it had been to slip into the language, when not embarrassed into a tongue-tied silence, as had happened in the train-bar. He had not heard properly and was still not used to the customs of the country which were often automatic and could be lip read in noisy trains. On their trips, he remembered, Magda had done most of the talking; she had insisted that her French and English needed the practice and he had been quite happy just to listen ...
Outside, when he looked up, fields of green vines were streaming by and the sun appeared to have brightened in a bluer sky. He felt a cool current of air and moved away from the window and the pulsed-air conditioning which blew out of its ledge. Closing his eyes his thoughts went back to the first time he had heard his brother's voice.

2

The phone had rung as he had been clearing away; he sat before the fire and the television now and ate his meals there. The main phone was in the hall but he had put in several extensions. He had grown used to wandering around, taking or passing messages to his people at the office; from his bed, once or twice. It kept people away, kept their condolences at bay and he handled some of the workload from home, letting Wolken and his staff do the rest down at the docks.
He remembered feeling content with himself that evening. For the first time in months he was in control and less prone to those lapses of depression which had sometimes numbed and cut him off from the outside world.

"I would like to speak with Herr Walter Becker," the voice had said.
"Becker speaking."
"Herr Becker of Becker Trade and Transport." There was an accent that could not be placed, mixed with a hint of, was it doubt? Becker thought. An older man's voice certainly.
"Yes," he replied, cautiously.
"Herr Walter Becker, born Düsseldorf the twenty-sixth of February 1928."
"Who is this?"
"Mother's name Marthe Schaub."
"My mother's name was Marthe. Who are you?"
"Sister's name Helene."
"I do not have any family."
"Dresden, February, 1945."
"Yes ... What is this? Who are you?
"Your father was Control Inspector Engineer, Roads and Bridges Construction Unit, Todt Industries, Gustav Alphons Becker."
"Anyone could have found that out. I cannot answer any more questions without knowing who you are." Becker stood up as if to give more authority to what he said.
"Please bear with me. I know it is difficult. For you and for me, believe me." The voice sounded distant and tired.
"Who are you?"
"Does the name von Pohl, Eric von Pohl, mean anything to you?"
"No. No why should it?"
"Obersturmführer von Pohl ..."
"No, I said no ..."
"Your mother spoke French. As you do."
"So. So what does this all mean?"
"Prudhelstrasse 45, Düsseldorf? It no longer exists."
"I know that."
"You were stationed in the south of France when it was bombed, when your home was bombed, but your parents, your sister had moved to Dresden, you did not know that at the time. Your first posting was near the Spanish border. 19th Army. Waffen SS."
"Yes."
"But you didn't stay long, did you? Was it a week in the area? And there was the execution at the farm."
"You seem to be well informed. How ..?"
"Von Pohl told me, he was your Section commanding officer. There were seven of you. He was wounded later at the Ardennes push. Then sent to the eastern front, or what was left of it."
"Yes ...Yes. Pohl. So ... Yes I remember Pohl. I remember them all. Not their faces. No. No. One I do. I saw him several years ago, by chance it was. The others I can't, I can't remember their names. And you? Were you with us? Which of them are you?" Becker said.
There was a long pause, Becker could hear the hum of other calls and above that the sound of breathing. He decided to wait for an answer and not ask any more questions. He passed the phone to his other hand and walked round the room. The voice interrupted firmly.
"My name is Gustav Muller ... I was born Gustav Becker ... I am your brother."
It was some moments before Becker could reply.
"What?! What are you talking about man?! My brother! That is not possible! My brother Gustav is dead! In Russia. In 1943."
Becker had entered the darkened kitchen, the phone clutched to his ear, the telephone chord trailing behind him. He had grown attentive to the voice. He leaned against the wall a hand on his brow and listened.
"No. He disappeared. He was presumed dead," was the clear reply.
"I don't believe it. This is a very bad joke. I do not appreciate it at all. My family is all dead!"
"Walter, please ... I will call you Walter. I spent 20 years in Russian camps. Remember what I was. The Elite. We were over 5000 at the beginning, I can account for 17 now." There was a long pause, other conversations intruded in the distance as the line hummed.
"... I don't understand this. Who are you? Where are you speaking from?" Becker finally asked.
"I live in Austria."
"Austria? Why Austria?"
"I left the east three years ago. You could say escaped, but I don't think they really wanted me any more. I served no purpose. The only people I knew were here. I have been looking for you since. It was not possible before."
"How can you prove all this? How am I to believe you?"
"I have no proof, I only remember things that you and I would know."
Becker hesitated then said, "You seem certain ... That I'm the person you've been looking for."
"Yes. Yes, I know who you are. I know that you lost your wife not long ago. I know your place of business, your position, where you live. I found you 6 months ago but heard you were ill ... so I waited." The voice was firmer now, the words better rehearsed.
"This is not possible. I can't believe this ... That after all these years anyone would come back, like that. I have to think about it. You cannot expect me to, to accept this ..." Becker answered.
The hiss of the open line increased then the voice broke it.
"When Helene was 3 or 4 she had an accident." There was a cough and a pause and the voice continued softly. "She was flung from a swing and cut her chin. The doctor came to stitch her up at the house. Remember? When father came back from his trips he always brought us a gift. His car was the Mercedes Benz 600, open top. He had a driver called Herst. Mother sang in French, we had distant cousins in Alsace. I had a scar on my left hand, on the edge of the hand, a combat wound, from Poland, remember? Do you remember Susie, the girl I was engaged to? Susanne Muller? A tall, blond girl. Do you remember Düsseldorf, your visits? I left a dagger and pictures, photos of me and my Gruppe on your last visit, when you left the Hitler Jugend for the SS. You had the top room in the house in Düsseldorf. Then you went to Bad Toelz for training and I came to see you before you left ... In my full dress uniform ..."
"Yes. Yes, it is all as you say," Becker said quickly.
"I was going to the Front, the East, I never saw you again."
"That part of my life is over, you have no right to disturb those memories!"
"I know ... I know. But you have to understand. During all those years ... in those camps in Russia, in the East, it was the only thing that kept me alive, the only ... sanity I had left."
"I don't ... I don't understand." Becker hesitated.
"No. No, you don't. Few people do. I hoped that one day I would see you all again. It was the only thing that kept me going, Walter. There were years of emptiness, of silence ... When I even forgot who I was, what I was. I heard about you from von Pohl. We were in a camp together and just by chance we spoke, there weren't many of us left by then. I hoped it was you. He told me what happened. He was ill then one day he was no longer there. But it gave me new life. I searched in Dresden. After. After I was released. I had hoped that they had survived the bombing, that they would want to see me. I looked for you ..."
"Enough! I don't want to hear anymore!" Becker said. Not an appeal, an order.
"I am sorry ... it is also difficult for me, you have no idea how ..."
"Why are you doing this ..?" Becker asked, his tone detached now.
"I had to speak with you."
"Why ..? The brother I had is dead. I don't even remember what he looked like."
"You don't believe me?"
"Believe you. Why should I? I don't know you. You would not make this up, no one would, but ... No one could. There would be no point in it. Would there?" Becker was uncertain where all this was taking him. He listened as the voice started slowly to explain.
"I had to try, Walter. At the beginning I wasn't even sure that when I found you I would want to talk to you. These past years have not been easy. I have been living precariously but rest assured all is in order now ..."
"... And your wife?"
"I never married. Understand, Walter, a man after 20 years of prison camps, an arm missing, is no great catch for any woman."
"You did not say you had been wounded?"
"It was in the camps, not in the war, an accident."
"You have financial worries, problems of that kind?"
"No, not that. We have stayed together, some of those who survived. We helped one another at the beginning and I live a modest life. My knowledge of Russian has helped me and the State, the West, has helped."
"It helped you?" Becker queried, on more familiar ground now.
"Yes, I was considered an expert on the other side's political detention camp system and other subjects. My first-hand experience was, I was told, useful to them. And they have remunerated me for my troubles, my knowledge. I have a pension ..."
Becker thought he heard a bitterness in the other man's voice but could not be sure for the interference on the line garbled the sound at times. He waited then asked,
"You did not write?"
"I tried, I started to, but a man does not come back from the dead just like that then sit down and write an explanation of his absence. It was more important to hear the voice, to be believed and to hear that. Perhaps you understand some of what I am saying?"
"Understand? How am to understand? And how am I to believe all this?"
"I, I can help you." The voice rallied.
"I don't know ..." Becker was hesitant. He walked out of the kitchen and went to the window in the lounge, unravelling the telephone chord behind him. He casually drew back the curtain to the darkened street not quite sure what he might see. It could just be a hoax, he was thinking. Elaborate and in bad taste.
"Walter ..." The voice whispered in his ear.
"I find it hard to believe ... all this, from the past ..." He let the curtain drop back. The street was empty. Rain had been falling all day.
"You have a right to know. It would not have been correct of me to withhold the truth from you."
"Sometimes it is better to let the past remain where we left it."
"You have had a good life, successful ..."
"It wasn't easy ..."
"Easier than mine."
"I worked long years for it, paid for it. I did not know that you were alive ..." Becker said, as he sat down in front of the fire. His arm was growing stiff from holding the telephone.
"Then you believe what I'm saying?"
"Would it alter anything if I did or did not? We cannot bring back the past."
"If we had won ... Walter. We would have been the heroes. We gave everything, everything. Do you understand that, Walter?"
It had took Becker a moment to register what had been said. "You cannot mean that!?"
"We lost it all. I lost everything. You must remember what I was like. I had committed myself ..."
"You were one of those crazy fanatics!" Becker answered forcefully.
"No. No. It wasn't fanaticism. I had chosen, that's all. And I remained firm to the end. And beyond. I did not break. I don't ... I don't regret it. No. Even imprisoned, they had a respect for me and the others, those of us that had survived. They could not kill us. They kept us alive, just. Watched us. Tried to turn us. It was from our own, those who had changed masters, that the greatest hate and fear came. Some, who like me, had served another ideal, another leader."
"It was wrong ..!" Becker nearly shouted.
"Because we lost. And you were young, Walter."
"It was evil ..!" Becker's voice rose.
"... I am tired now, Walter. I will ring you again tomorrow."
The line went dead and Becker was left holding his telephone, the hiss of wires in his ears.

That had been the first call, he remembered, and the first of many, long, what could he call them? Conversations? Confessions? There was to be no meeting. It was too late for that type of reconciliation, the other man insisted at first. Over forty years too late. They would never recognise one another. There had been misunderstandings and he had wanted to stop it all but had accepted the other man finally ... And it had taken him a long time to convince him that a meeting was possible, he wanted it, it was necessary.

3

As the train traced its path further south he dozed lightly and at Nîmes, coming into the station, knowing his destination was not far, he sat up, stretching his cramped legs. He watched the platform fill with passengers. A group of young soldiers, round faces shining, their heads shorn, clutching their kepis to their brown dress uniforms, jostled and laughed as they pushed onto the train. People were walking the platform, one or two peered in through his dark carriage window. It appeared to be warmer outside, clothing was lighter, he noticed. At his feet he felt a jolt and the train moved forward a few meters as half of it was uncoupled for the run to Marseilles, then whistles blew and the automatic doors slid shut and they pulled out of the dimness of the station into the bright, Mediterranean sunlight. He turned to the window as the train picked up speed through vine fields laid out under a vast, blue sky which merged with the horizon somewhere at an uncertain distance. The first class carriage remained quiet, deserted by its hostess, probably off ministering to the soldier boys, he thought, as he settled down for the last few kilometres.

An announcement was made over the train's intercom as they entered the suburbs of the town and it reminded him vaguely of a strong, southern accent he had heard long ago. Its rolling twang and the way it was sung sometimes, and the trouble understanding it when it was spoken too fast. When the train stopped he left the carriage following two conductors onto the gloomy and noisy platform. He listened to them but could hardly understand what they said.
He came out of the darker interior of the station building and for a second the sunlight blinded him. He put his bag down, searched for his dark glasses and took off his jacket feeling warm after the air-conditioned train interior.
'"It's only a five-minute walk. With the park in front of you take the right hand street, or go through the park. Then first right. Five minutes on foot"'. He remembered the instructions. It had sounded simple in Bremen. Here he felt disorientated, distracted by the voices of the people around him. The sudden contrast between the six-hour voyage behind tinted windows to this now sharper Mediterranean light made him slit his eyes behind his dark lenses. He looked about him, getting his bearings, the taxi rank, the park and the two streets leading away from the station towards the centre of the town. He picked up his bag and crossed over the road with a group of people, evading the buses which seemed intent on running them down, and entered the park. A lively place, he thought, as he walked. And the air was dryer. He could feel that already. The sky through the trees was a bright blue something that was rare in Bremen except perhaps for a few weeks during a good summer. He smiled to himself at these thoughts. He was comparing the incomparable. And first impressions were always, well, just that. Very important, but inevitably false.
Out of the park, on the pavement, waiting for the lights to change his attention was caught momentarily by a car as it pulled up across from him on the opposite side of the road to stop at the kerbside. A woman got out and went to a parking ticket machine. When she returned she helped an elderly man out of the car onto the street then offered him her arm as they walked away. Becker watched them, then with no other thought, except that the car was very much like his doctor's one, he turned up the avenue to the central square of the town. He crossed the road searching for street names stopping outside a cafe where the aroma of coffee and cigarette smoke drifted out onto the pavement. The interior was dark and noisy, a television played in a corner, a football match weaving across the screen. He hesitated, wondering whether to go in but decided to carry on. Two women passed him and he was about to ask them directions when, at a corner he found a shaded, narrower street leading away from the avenue and into what looked like a quieter part of the town and half way down the hotel sign. Below it, steps led up to a well lit, wide entrance; just as it had been explained in Bremen. He mounted the stairway and at the top, where it was cooler, he slipped on his jacket and took off his sunglasses. Lifting up his small, light bag he crossed the foyer to the reception desk.
"Good afternoon, Monsieur Becker. Yes of course," the receptionist said to her ledger when he had given his name. "We have been expecting you."
It was rather grand and expensive, he thought, looking around. But a little self-indulgence would do no harm. And he could afford it. He would have preferred a place less ostentatious. When she was free Magda had accompanied him, he was thinking as he stood waiting for his key. It had been an arrangement which had worked well. He closed his eyes for a second. If she had been here she would have managed to contain things. Of course that was no longer possible, he reminded himself. Again. It was the trip, it had been tiring. How else could he explain this sudden nervousness and irritability. Perhaps it had been premature of him, of Karl, to send him out like this? This had been Karl's idea. But his decision nevertheless. His thoughts were interrupted by the receptionist.
"Room 301, with private bathroom. Your luggage will be arriving tomorrow by carrier, Monsieur. I will have it transferred to your room when it gets here. Your room is on the third floor. If there is anything you need please do not hesitate," she said and indicated the lift.
"Thank you," Becker replied and turned to where the porter carrying his small bag was holding the lift door open.
When he entered his room, Becker went over to the window which overlooked the square he had just crossed. Street sounds filtered up to him and he tried opening the window, but it was doubled glazed and appeared complicated. When he turned back to the room the porter was gone and his bag was on the table. It appeared comfortable, he thought, going through to the bathroom and would probably do. As he was washing his hands at the basin he looked up to the mirror. His eyes slipped from the face before him to the room behind. He waited for some movement there. He stopped washing and listened to the water running over his fingers, to the sounds coming into his room from the hotel, from this strange new town, waiting for the silence to be filled, a word, a sigh, a rustle of clothing. He glanced back at himself in the mirror then grabbed the towel and rubbed his hands vigorously.
"Christ, Christ ... Stop it ..." he murmured, and buried his face in the towel.
He went back to the bedroom and taking off his jacket and pulling off his shoes lay down on the bed. He looked at his watch but could not focus on it. Across the room the television screen reflected his movements and he stared at it as it receded slowly, taking the room with it.
He knew that if he remained on the bed he would fall asleep. It would just be a nap to get over the trip. He wasn't as young as he wanted to be, as he had been ... Someone would waken him, surely someone...
He slept fitfully. His dreams strayed, sometimes the deep past, sometimes the shallower waters of the present intruded. It was like a great sorting out of events but subconscious with no memory of the arrangements. It was the dream of an older man, disjointed, mangled by time, altered by his will. He held parts of it in the opalescence of his wandering mind, viewing and repeating the same disjointed scenes. When he managed to fix onto one of them his sleep was uneasy.
He woke to the evening hush of the town. Through the window he could see the sky, a darkened blue fusing to black, tinged with the orange street lighting of a false night and he lay quietly trying to make some sense of what he had just dreamt. But it was an unequal chase, not worth the trouble and it depressed him, he finally concluded, something he did not need at this stage in his ... His what? In fact, what did he want? What was he doing here? For his doctor it was his health. For him? An escape? No. No escape. Where would his old legs take him to anyway, he wondered as he sat at the edge of the bed. No regrets then? But old men, they had regrets. And as they grew older more of them. Those who did not were fools and had not lived their lives to the full. He laughed and stood up stiffly looking around for the lights. Wait and see what the day brings, each one now that little bit more precious, not to be misused ...
'"Get a grip on yourself man, enough of this, this ... this shuffling about. And in any case you're not that old. Years ahead of you yet."'
He wandered around the room, exploring it. He took his overnight case and emptied its toiletry contents onto the shelves in the bathroom, the two shirts he hung in the wardrobe along with the light pants. He rummaged around for his books, pills and underwear. In a matter of minutes he had managed to settle in and take possession of the place. All done automatically. He liked order and since ... Well he had to do everything himself now. It was a form of occupation ... Only on the surface ... Deeper down there was a ... a blank space. It was like filling in time, waiting for something to happen. It was also very foreign to his nature. He coughed into the silence.
There was just this final tidying up to organise. The loose ends, the old and frayed loose ends of life. Karl was right, the time had come ... He had thought that someday there might be a ... A confrontation perhaps, but he had never been sure if he had the courage or even the imagination to take it on.
"What?" he asked out loud. "You know, you always have." He straightened himself, faced the mirror, checked his clothing, his tie and jacket.
"Out Walter. No moping about here."
He had been assured in Bremen that his hotel was a 2-minute walk from the centre of the town and he was feeling revived enough after his rest to go out and explore. Nothing simpler or more straight forward, he told himself, as he walked through the narrow, winding streets. Just as he was beginning to worry that he had become lost he came to a much wider, more animated avenue which took him down to the illuminated central square. After comparing several restaurants there he decided on a table at a terrace and when the waitress had gone with his order he sat back to study the square.
The facades around him were picked out under a blaze of lighting which had transformed the night into orange coloured day. What appeared to be the Opera House or theatre dominated one end of the square; people were congregating then going through its brightly lit entrance. In front of this building the three Graces were entwined on the summit of a large, dribbling fountain. Further off, to his right, the open area merged with a plane tree-lined esplanade in the middle of which a fountain spouted jets of churning water. People came and went, stopped at cafes, or crossed the square, met in haphazard groups, joined the cinema queues, talked, gesticulated, and moved on, with no apparent order. It was like watching a grand theatrical performance the plot of which was open to all and any kind of interpretation. There was an incessant flow, a filling and emptying, yet it felt so ephemeral and unreal that he wondered what would happen if the lights were suddenly switched off. Did it all vanish? He smiled to himself. The square was aptly named. Or was the wine he was drinking this first night stronger than he was used to?
When he had finished his meal he asked for his bill, paid it and left the terrace for a last, evening stroll. There was that call to make, he remembered as he went out onto the plaza. He found a telephone box and waiting for his connection he watched the fountain nearby splash down on group of young people. Dogs were barking and prancing around the rowdy and drunken group. He wondered if they felt the cold water. Probably not, but it would certainly sober them.
The phone rang several times and he checked his watch. He was on time and he could imagine the scene. The outskirts of the town, the rather grand but comfortable villa, the study. With the log fire burning no doubt.
"Karl?"
"So how are you, my friend?" The voice came over clearly; his call had been expected, that had been the arrangement.
"Rested and fed and now exploring, not too much, before turning in," he answered.
"And how is the town?"
"Beautiful. Really. I see now why you sent me. Of course I've only seen it at night."
"Yes. And the air?"
"Ah that. What a change. It's dry and warm."
"Good. Good. You should stay on as long as you like. Everything is under control here."
"I hope so, I haven't been gone very long." Becker laughed. He had resigned most of his functions as President of Becker Industries for a year and had left the company in good hands. In four days nothing much could happen surely, he wondered. In his ear he could hear the doctor laughing with him.
"And the hotel?"
"Well. A bit luxurious for me, you know how I am. Comfortable. Quite near the centre. I'm just on my way back now. It's not very far. If you don't get lost."
"Don't get lost, Walter. Get some rest. Go down to the sea," the doctor said from Bremen.
"Yes, I'll do that, I'm off now. Change of air, you know and the meal. It's tiring. The trip down must have caught up with me as well. I'll ring later. Give me a few days."
"Very good, Walter. Goodnight."
"Yes. Goodnight to you and Hannah, goodnight."
The fountain had cleared, the young people and their dogs had moved on, he noticed, as he left the phone box. Several of the cafes were shutting, the night air had cooled perceptibly and people were drifting off. He had been told that the town would be quiet as it was not yet the summer season when late night revellers would parade until the early hours of the morning. He glanced up as he walked but there were no stars in the black sky. The town blazing below had wiped out their feeble glow. Two policemen were standing on the steps of the Opera surveying the square. One lifted a walky-talky to his mouth as Becker passed and for a second he wondered what he could be saying.
In his room he prepared himself for bed, arranging his pills, glass of water and books by his bedside. He switched on the television hoping to catch a late news bulletin but all there seemed to be were films or chat shows. He switched it off when he climbed into bed. Breakfast at 8.00 he had said to the night desk clerk when he had come in. Downstairs, in the dining room. A call half an hour before. He reached for his book, thumbed through its pages and thought of Gustav. Strange Gustav, strange man to lock himself away like that. There was no doubt he was his brother. Discreet checks had been made in Berlin, Moscow and Vienna, unfortunately no photographs had been available of the 'old man'. He lived the life of a recluse in the apartment he rented and from the report it had been clear that he had no visitors, the doctor, the nurse and the woman who cooked and cleaned for him were the only ones he tolerated. All this was paid for through an Austrian Bank. Where they received the funds, apart from his pension, he had been unable to find out. The patient was ill though not bedridden. What from had not been specified, more than likely the consequence of years in camps and prisons, but he was receiving treatment. In the confidential report Becker had obtained, in the summary, it had been mentioned that the 'patient' should be hospitalised, for better care. But 'Herr X' would not have it. He preferred his own home to that of a hospital ward.
He had left him his hotel number the last time they had spoken and he wondered whether there would be a call. If not he would ring himself. His own investigation in Vienna - he had tracked Gustav that far, into the suburbs of the city, through his company offices there - had come up with the telephone number and address. Gustav did not know this. Then, even if his brother forbade it, perhaps later when he felt better, he could still go and see him. It was the only option he had. But not yet. He did not feel he had the strength for such a confrontation. The last time they had spoken Gustav had been insistent that they should not meet. What had he said just before he had left for France? "I don't want you to see me like this, Walter. I bear no resemblance to the brother you last saw. I have told you before. It would serve no purpose."
"Stubborn, to the end," Becker had said.
"Yes ... I see no reason for it now. I just wanted to speak like this."
"There is no disgrace ..."
"There is. ... And we are strangers."
"So why did you phone in the first place?" Becker asked, exasperated now by this recurring obstinacy.
"I had to. I live in the past not in the present anymore ... I thought there might have been a chance of ... Of finding the others."
"After Dresden there was no one but me."
"Yes. It was terrible. I ... I had hoped ..."
"... I seem to be getting to know you," Becker said. It wasn't true. This other man, whoever he was, was still a mystery to him. Brother maybe. He was right. They were strangers. Sharing an identical past.
"Not everything."
"Then what are you hiding?"
"Maybe nothing ... Myself?"
What was he, Walter Becker, hiding? What had been forgotten?... Put aside ... Better that way ...
The book fell from his hands. He woke sufficiently to turn over and switch out the bed side light. He was asleep again as soon as his head touched the pillow.

 

 

4

The soldier's face was ashen and unrecognisable, his uniform black and dirty. He was standing against the sky. A washed out blue sky which shimmered and shook. There was no sound. The soldier extended his hand. "Take it!"
Something was put in his hand. He was lying on the hard, stony ground. He was tired, exhausted. The heat poured over him, drowning him. A young woman materialised dressed in white, her shape blurred. As she turned away from him she beckoned with a long, blood covered, arm. He tried to rise but the freezing air had stiffened his limbs.

The Tiger gave a long roar and lunged forward out of the forest. Others poked their long snouts out of the trees and rolled towards him. The silence was shattered and hurtled into the trees. He clambered up onto the Tiger's back. Figures swept by him, clinging to other the cold, black tanks. All in white, like frosting on a cake. The turret swing round to the left, searching, the hatch opened and the commander, a boy like himself, pushed himself out, shouted at him and grinned. The forest edge was a mass of Panzers and tiny white men. It started to snow and the tanks icy body was so cold he wanted to jump down but they were hurtling along too fast. The wind drove into his face and he hunched down for some cover. He sensed other bodies near him. He grabbed at the tank's slippery hull as it bounced and thrashed.
You never forget the cold. There was nowhere to hide from it ...
He had seen some of them. The Russian front ones. Marked men, recognisable. Most of them had been wounded. They hated the cold. They didn't speak about it. They didn't talk, hardly spoke at all. They had seen too much, done things to others that was best forgotten.
The tank shook, spun, then its tracks gripped the mud again. Overhead, shells flew; 108's he recognised from their whistle song. They exploded up ahead, fountains of earth and black smoke. Not enough of them but they cleared a path. The tanks ran forward unopposed, smashing through a stone wall, bounding over it and he saw the 'Amis' running. He jumped off and fired at will. The Schmeisser jarred in his hands, figures flopped into the snow. There was a blast of air and dirt beside him and he was flung aside, covered in earth, branches, rocks and bits of men. The noise was deafening. His ears sang bloodily. Lying on the ground he watched two, strange black shapes, wings swept back at an impossible angle, fly straight at him, then low, he felt their rushing wind, over, fast, firing. He reached out to touch them and a hand pulled him up. He was on his feet, winded, deafened, unhurt. Someone spoke to him, he knew who it was. Known him for a long, long time.
He watched the scene from what felt a great distance. It kept repeating itself. There were two of him, the one who participated and the one who watched. The watcher was as he was now. The other was a boy who went on blindly repeating the same action.
The tank next to him fired a round. There was a blast of cordite, a cloud of diesel smoke as the tank churned at the mud and up ahead went the 'woof' of an explosion and crimson fire. The boy watched the building burn and remembered another ...
Becker turned over in his bed and woke into the darkness, the memory of the flames still behind his eyes. He sat up then pulled himself out of the bed and groped his way to the toilet.
"Too much wine," he mumbled, half asleep as he relieved the strain on his bladder. He had not forgotten what he had dreamt. They had been frequent since Magda had ... It was the same sequence, the same places revisited. He hoped they would not bother him too much this night.

The telephone alarm woke him at seven thirty. Lying in the silence he tried to plan his day. He had passed a relatively untroubled night but there was an after-image which nagged at him. He got out of bed and took a shower. By the time he was dressed he had practically forgotten what had troubled him during the night.
After breakfast he asked for a map of the town at the reception desk and with this and his guide book he went out into the quiet streets. The morning was spent following the guide book with pauses in cafes to rest and read the local paper he had bought. He found a square in the medieval quarter of the town and there to a scarcely audible fountain he had lunch. The restaurant and the small square had remained practically empty for the hour or more he spent there. He idled through his meal, he had nothing planned, the weather was perfect, an instance of pure relaxation. The temperature in the afternoon rose a few degrees, the light grew brighter and the shadows more severe and he became tired of exploring the winding, narrow streets and returned to the hotel.
His cases had been delivered whilst he had been out and he emptied them putting his clothes on the bed, sorting them out then away in the room's closets. When he was finished he lay down on the bed, several guide books out beside him but within minutes of starting to read he fell asleep. Half an hour later, rising stiffly from the bed, he went into the bathroom. The nap had done him no good and as an alternative and to waken himself, he decided to take a walk around the streets close to the hotel. He put on his jacket but left the map and guide books in his room; there was only so much he could absorb in one day, he told himself. The details and the history could come later. For the time being he just wanted to wander freely and not be burdened by too many explications.
When he returned to the hotel, he had not stayed out long but even in such a short time without his map he had managed to loose himself in the narrow labyrinth of streets around the hotel, he picked up a car hire brochure at the front desk and went to his room. The map of the region spread out on the bed, he read the guidebook, following the roads, noting the places of interest and planned an itinerary for the next few days. When his concentration started to wander he pushed the map aside and lay down on the bed. He had been thinking of how unusual the day had turned out. Beyond a few simple and polite words he had scarcely spoken to anybody. He had played the spectator and what he had seen had been sufficiently interesting to keep him from growing bored with his own company. It had been the first time in many years that he had felt so cut off from his surroundings. How long he could put up with this type of isolation, he thought, would perhaps depend on how much he discovered to distract him.
It was certainly a change from Bremen and his work there, he smiled ruefully as he prepared for bed later. He remembered the reshuffle at the top which he had instigated to keep his mind off what was happening at the beginning of the illness.
Had the others seen through his show? Of course they had. Everyone had been aware of the strain he had been under. And the breakdown that was inevitable. They had seen that coming, and had been there to, to protect him. And the modest company he had built and directed for the last 25 years. He had been conscious of what he had been doing but in a distant, uninterested way. He could remember trivial things, sometimes unimportant events, certain days, sometimes hours but not all of it. There still remained a blank of nearly two months where he was not sure what had happened.
He could never have imagined how painful the ordeal was to be. It must have been the suddenness? The period so short, he had had no time to prepare, even understand why she was being taken from him...
He went over to the window. The town was quiet, the streets virtually empty but he hardly noticed. He could turn to many people, he was thinking, good friends but the one he really wanted beside him was gone. He bowed his head. He had been through this before, a hundred times. It served no purpose any more. It would be the last time, he promised himself, angry at this weakness which he thought he had overcome. Now he was feeling sorry for himself. He had to stop ... He had to forget. His fist clenched at his side, one hand went to his face. All those years together ... No one could explain why.
As he lay down a deep sensation of peace came over him and when he finally slept it was to fall into a dreamless, shadowy world of relief and escape. It seemed to last a great deal longer than his usual seven hours and when he finally woke in the middle of the morning he remembered that he had not asked for a morning call. He rose quickly, showered, ordered breakfast in his room and within an hour was ready to leave.
With the hiring formalities completed at the front desk he picked the car up in the hotel's parking area and left the town driving eastwards along the coast towards the meandering estuary of the Rhone.
A cloudless sky was reflected in the shallow lakes on both sides of the single rutted track he found by chance later that day. He stopped the car and got out as three riders drove a herd of white horses before them, churning up a spray as they galloped by and he watched them until they dissolved into the heat wave on the horizon. Taking a bottle of water from the car he took a long drink then went to sit down at the edge of the track. Birds circled overhead and in the distant blue landscape flamingos strolled about daintily but otherwise the scene was as still as if it had been fixed on canvas.
The sun was high in the sky when he arrived at a village at the end of the track he had been driving on. From a store he bought apples, cheese and fruit juice, in the boulangerie, bread and cakes and he went down to the edge of the great, flat plain of shimmering water to sit on a bench. He removed his dark glasses to wipe the perspiration from his brow and he peered around but the light hurt his eyes and he put them back on again. "Saintes-Mairies-de-la-Mer, of course," he said out loud, remembering the name. He had wandered into the place from a side road he had followed without really knowing where he was going. He had seen the sign but he had paid no attention then. He shook his head at his absentmindedness, his daydreaming.
He was wondering whether to take a walk towards the town's centre, to a cafe, when a car pulled up at the edge of the beach and a young couple got out and ran down to the water. After cautiously jumping around in the shallows, they both stripped off and plunged into the sea. Their cries, the woman's shrieks, came to him over the sand. He hesitated then slipped off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers and went down to the water. It was cold and he retreated at first then stepped out deeper. Further along the couple cavorted enthusiastically. It was probably their first experience of the Mediterranean, just like his, he thought, or they were just trying to warm themselves. He turned his back to them and walked along the beach. In front of him the sea merged with the sky, a vague band on the horizon which dispersed to hazy blues and greens further inland. '"Tomorrow maybe. Yes, tomorrow I'll try the hills,"' he thought.
His feet gripped the sand as a lazy wave washing up higher wet his trousers. The sun warmed his back and for a moment he felt a certain contentment with his lot.
At the edge of the beach he brushed the sand of his feet as they dried in the sun then put his shoes on and went back to the car. He drove out of the village in the direction of the walled town he had passed close to earlier that morning. Several kilometres further, the road had passed through tall marsh grasses and there had been nothing to see, his route was cut by a narrow canal and he waited as the tiny ferry pulled itself across to his side. It took him and the two cars which had appeared behind him over the water in splendid silence, the crossing so quick the other passengers remained in their cars.
He followed the road signs, occasionally stopping and consulting his map, till he saw the fort in the distance and a half hour later drove into the parking under the walls of the fortified town. Leaving the car he went through the main gate and walked down to the square. Under the plain tree canopy opposite the church and near the statue of the founder of this once important sea port, he read from the inscription on the pedestal, he sat down on a bench. The cafes were doing a good trade, the tourist shops had swamped the pavements with their merchandise and the air was filled with the babel of voices as people moved around him. A bee-hive of activity. The basic social arrangement, he wondered. Trade was what brought mankind together, he thought as he watched. Reasonably satisfied with this notion and with the change of mood it had brought about in him he went off for a stroll around the town.
He walked for half an hour, bought some postcards, investigated the numerous side streets and by chance found himself at the main gate. He went out through the walls to his car and giving the citadel walls a last look he drove out of the car park and headed back down the coast. Some kilometres later the sea blue horizon was broken by pyramids of more recent construction then just as quickly the dunes reclaimed the long shoreline. As the road curved away from the sea he passed close to the shallow waters of an inland lake where pink flamingos were delicately stalking their own reflections. Slowing down for a better view he lowered his window and the wind blowing in, ruffled his hair, sending his map flying into the back seat.
It was unfortunate, at the end of such a satisfying day, he thought, to arrive in town during the rush hour. In the struggle to extricate himself no quarter was given and he had to fight it out with the rest of the populace. His mood was revived over the small victory he gained in finding the hotel and its car park without too much trouble and he was more effusive than normal when answering the desk clerk's, "Bonjour Monsieur. Did you have a good day?" In his room he showered, found a change of clothing and in better spirits went out to the town.

It must have been the sea air that made him feel tired shortly after leaving the hotel. It had been bracing and certainly good for his lungs but now that he thought about it, this early in what was supposed to be treatment and a rest, too much in one day. He stopped at the edge of the plaza, watching the late shoppers, wondering what to do with himself then turned and retraced his steps, this time with less of the spring he had an hour before. He paused before a cinema but the long queues put him off waiting for a film.

Back at the hotel it was evidently too early for dinner, not that he wanted anything elaborate but he was hungry so he asked for a salad to be sent up to him. In his room he prepared himself a whisky and soda from the drinks bar, then switched on the television and waited for his order to arrive. It was not long in coming but the room service waiter found him asleep in front of the television. He was not sure whether it had been the fresh sea air that day, the whisky or the program he had been watching which had been responsible for sending him off so quickly but he thanked the waiter for wakening him and ate the salad which had come accompanied by a half bottle of cool, white wine. At nine o'clock he was in bed, just managing to switch off the television before dropping off into deep, dreamless sleep.

5

The next morning, revived by a long night of undisturbed rest he was awake early. Half an hour later, map and guide book in hand he was standing in the street outside the hotel wondering where he would find a cafe for his petit déjeûner. He felt 'good', he told himself and it looked like another clear, warm day.

He drove out of the town, going west, across the arid scrub land of the garrigue into hills and valleys, far from the Mediterranean littoral, to where the slopes were spread with ordered rows of vines ripening under the sun. He left the main roads eventually, preferring the twisting side lanes that took him deep into the country, where often, and by chance, he discovered a quiet village. There he parked the car and walked the narrow, cool streets, stopping at a fountain or on the edges of a sand-strewn esplanade, in a shaded square, to watch a game of pétanques. Then moving on again, down a turn in the road, he would come upon a field of vines and except for the buzzing of insects as they woke to the heat no sign of life anywhere.

He found a café-restaurant around midday and was served a more than adequate lunch which took him a leisurely two hours to finish, his pace that of the other customers, who sat inside and whom he could not help overhearing. Outside, in the shade of the parasol which had been put up for him, he watched the light move across the village, touching the Mairie opposite then lighting the fountain at the foot of the war memorial. Even from this peaceful spot, he read, they had gone out to fight for their country against the Boches, the Nazis, the Germanic invader. The First War and then the Second as if one horror had not been enough. And those whose names were cut into the stone had not come back. How many of his comrades had not survived? No memorial for them.
Forty-two years, yet there appeared to have been little or no changes in the places he had seen that day. The villages, tranquil under the sun, much as they had been when he had passed through as a boy. And what about the people? The men, the older ones at the table at the back of the restaurant. Had they been there? It must have been the sight of all these vines and the heat, though this wasn't the fierce sun of the summer, that had brought all this on, he thought. And where had all those years gone? He smiled to himself. He had asked that question often enough. It was somehow more pertinent today. It seemed as if he was the only one left to remember, though. And Gustav? He had forgotten Gustav. He had forgotten this link, this brother who refused to show himself. Did he really want to see him? he wondered. For what purpose? Shake hands with a stranger, a ghost. The interruption surprised him,
"Monsieur would like a dessert?"
"Yes. The mousse au chocolate, thank you." His reply hardly broke his train thought.
The stranger in Vienna, a dark apartment no doubt, a cloying smell of medication. He imagined lofty ceilings in silent room. It made him feel cold thinking about it here in the sun. Someone laughed behind him, masculine and gruff, other voices answered as the joke went round the table. The party was becoming lively, he thought. He could not join in, his accent gave him away. Alsace, he said to anyone who questioned him. Not that many did, but sometimes in those older he had seen a look of, of something. He could not put a name to it. Perhaps it was just his imagination? Maybe his conscience wasn't clear? It was quite possible that was why his brother didn't want to see him? After all these years? It depended what had happened, what had been done, by whom, against whom, for what reason, who had suffered? He surely had. Was not all his family gone? What wrong had they done?

He paid for the meal and left the table and went to sit on a bench beside his car. What had brought on all this outpouring, this nostalgia? Could he call it that? He looked around. All this of course. He closed his eyes. But that was supposed to have been forgotten. No. When a man has nothing left, no one around him, he still has his ... He did not know what to call it now, where to situate it. His remorse? At what? It was too long ago to feel remorse. Guilt then? What was there to feel guilty about? He had only been following orders? Doing his duty? To his country. As they had done. Was that not the answer? No shame in that.
He stood up and went over to the fountain. Some children watched him as he bathed his face then, shouting to each other, ran off. He had the feeling that other people were there but as he turned, water running down his neck plastering his shirt to his chest, he saw no one looking his way. The wine had been stronger than he was used to, that was all. He had drunk strong wines, stronger drinks, before. But this was an entirely different situation, he reminded himself.
A mobylette went by shattering the silence, the child revving high, uncaring, un-helmeted. A car pulled in close to where he stood beside the fountain, the driver, a young woman, hopping out, slamming the door. People appeared, the village was wakening from its midday pause. Shops were opening, and no one had time for him any longer.
He decided that he had had enough for the day and to return earlier to miss the traffic and he went back to the car to study the map. He worked out the route and with a quick glance around the square drove out of the village. To distract his mind he switched on the car radio but had to fiddle through layers of raucous music or non-stop advertising before he found what he wanted. He arrived at the hotel his mind slightly befuddled by the music he had listened to and tired from all the kilometres he had driven.

His stomach grumbled as he lay uncomfortably on his bed. The wine had been too acidic. Yet he had drunk it all, he reminded himself. Now his stomach was upset. He wanted to sleep and took a tablet to soothe the indigestion. The afternoon sun flooded his room and he could hear off at a distance the noise of the town. He propped himself up with the pillows. His shirt was open to the waist his pants undone. The room felt hot, un-aired and stuffy but it was also his condition. Alcohol, fatigue, the residue of that long depression still hovering about him. He closed his eyes and the scene formed slowly, filling out, drawing him in.

'The soldier dipped his head under the fountain and let the water pour over him. He had the feeling that other people were watching him but when he raised his head, water running down his black tunic plastering it to his chest, there was no one in the square. It was always the same when they entered a village, the people just vanished. He turned to where the others stood in the shade, picked up his Schmeisser, adjusted his tunic and went over to hear what the Unterscharführer had to say.'
He woke into the evening light. From the bedside clock he saw he had slept more than four hours. He was stiff from the position he had lain in and he heaved himself off the bed. His mouth felt furry from the wine and he went into the bathroom for a drink. He washed his face and noticed in the mirror a colour there that was not usual. His bland, Bremen complexion was giving way to a mild sun tan. But it was not that that held his attention as he watched his other self, remembering the dream. He had done the same thing at the fountain and felt the same emotion as had the soldier, forty-two years ago. It had been the one and same person, the movements the same, nearly identical ... The place, the square and the fountain resembled the last village they had ... they had taken over. But all those places just looked the same, he argued. Even the vines and that stony soil, the same type could be found all over the region. After such a time? It would be impossible to find the exact location. "What for?" he asked out loud. In the mirror his face altered. There were doubts and anger playing across it now. Anger at what? At himself. At the situation he had found himself in. He threw down the towel that he had been twisting in his hands and went back to the bedroom.

During the following days there were times, when he stopped the car, when all of a sudden the scene appeared familiar, then, as he waited at the side of the road or amongst the vines, the feeling would be dispelled slowly. The sky was too blue, the colours around him too brilliant and not as he remembered them. What he did remember existed in his mind's eye in black and white or in a washed-out hue, mute and odourless. He remembered confused events in places which even then had no name. He drove up onto several of the plateaux in the area to try and spot at a distance anything that might jolt his memory. This confused him even more. He had never been this high. His view had been immediate, closer and detailed. He went back down into the valleys and stopping in an out of the way place would leave his car to follow faint, animal tracks, through fields, through the vines. He became aware around the fourth or fifth day that his search was becoming an obsession and he decided to break it off. He returned to explore the town, then the coast, but from the empty beaches he could make out the hinterland and he would turn his back to the calm sea and look for the hills that were just visible through the haze.

"Karl? This is Walter." It was late and he was worried that at half past eleven the doctor would not be in a very receptive mood.
"Walter, Walter. How are you? Good to hear you. We were just talking about you last night, wondering how you were. Manfred was asking. I explained that the change of climate was doing you a power of good. Is that not so, Walter?"
"Yes, true, I have a tan to prove it. I feel years younger. I've been tramping the hills ..."
"Don't overdo it, Walter. We don't want you dropping down in an isolated spot."
"I don't think so, I take it easy, you know."
"Good, good. So what have you to tell me? Is the food good? The wine? Anything else ... of interest?"
"I'm looking, you know Karl, for the place."
"And ..?"
"I haven't found it, yet."
"Ah. Well there was that possibility of course. We understood that. Do you think you will? Do you think it's wise? I can't judge from here."
"I thought that was why you, why I came down here?"
"For your health."
"And to clear things up."
"And that too of course. Though we had no specific plan, remember? To straighten things out. But that is finished with. It's over. You were only to look. From a distance as it were."
"It intrigues me more and more each day down here, you know."
"I thought it might. You have taken no one into your confidence?"
"No, no. I don't know any one here. I don't ask questions. I have dreams though, I should say had them. And once in a village I did something I had already done there. It was so vivid. It quite disturbed me."
"How do you feel about this, Walter? Will you be able to cope by yourself?"
"Yes, I think so. It's very real for me. Very intense at times if you see what I mean. I've taken a couple of days off actually. I've been on the coast by the sea. A few days. For a break."
"Good, good. Walter, I cannot advise at this distance if only to say keep in touch, keep me informed."
"You know I will ... Gustav? Has he phoned? He hasn't been in touch with you, his doctor that is, what was his name, has he?"
"No, I've had no word."
"... Karl, I'm thinking of moving, to the country, a smaller hotel out of the town."
"You seem to have made up your mind."
"Yes. I go tomorrow."
"Where is this new place?"
"It's in the village of Saint-Giraud-du-Champ, a small place. I doubt if you would find it on a map. It's in the west, on the road to ... I've forgotten the name. The hotel is the Hotel de la Paix. I go tomorrow morning. I have the car for another week, then I'll take on a longer lease or buy perhaps ... I don't know. Karl?"
"I'm here."
"So what do you think?"
"A very good idea."
"No, I mean, well I'm moving out to be closer to the place. I might be able to pin point it quicker."
"You seem determined. You're not becoming too involved in this 'quest', are you? There are other things you could be doing instead. It could be harmful, you know, depending on how far you succeed. One never knows what will come up after all these years ..."
"... You know what happened then. What I did."
"Walter, I have always told you that it was an act of war. It happened in countless places. You were not responsible, there were others with you. You followed your orders. You were very young, Walter, remember that ..."
"... I had a part in the responsibility and ... It was the first time I ..."
"That was a long time ago, Walter. You can't keep blaming yourself ... Do you have any idea what you will do if you find the place, and perhaps the people?"
"I don't know. Honestly I don't know ... I just want to see. Find out if she was alright. Taken care off. It's so close to me here. Is that possible, Karl?"
"Yes, yes. You're not the only one that it's happened to. We have been through this together. There were times when you forgot ..."
"... When I was content, when I was ... occupied. Happy. When my ... When Magda was with me."
"Yes ... Your life has been a full one, Walter."
"Perhaps, perhaps, I'm not so sure. Of late, some years now, I have been wondering of what use I was these days. I seem to be living in the past. The future is ... is somewhat in ... indistinct ... For a long time now Karl I haven't had much to do with this present generation. I do not understand it. I have always had this impression that those who did not know the times we lived through, have ... have, wiped out that period, as if it had never been. You have heard all this before, Karl. You've seen the changes in me, in others. I have nothing in common with this ... these people. I did what I had to do ... I now want to deal with what ever is left of my life my own way. I have the means and I'm sure, the strength ..."
"What can I say, Walter? You have a great many years ahead of you. Your health will return."
"I feel much better ..."
"Yes I know, the change for the better can be radical. You are not the first one I've sent down there. You need one or two months, the ones during the summer are the best. You will stay?"
"I intend to."
"And keep in touch!"

Becker stretched himself out on his bed. They had spoken for nearly an hour and he hoped vindicated any of his future action. Not that he had to answer to anyone for his conduct; as if anybody really cared what he did. Whatever the case he knew that the doctor had been practically certain that he would take this course. So he was merely confirming what they had discussed might happen.
He undressed slowly, this would be his last night in these comfortable rooms and he was going to lose these amenities for more simpler, Spartan ones. He remembered the hotel he was moving to, and the village. Isolated and peaceful during the day, at night everything would probably shut down.

6

Southern France. The Département of the Hérault. August 22nd 1944.

The sky appears vast and seamless, a great dome of pure blue veering to ashen grey on the horizon, the dry and stony land below it quivering in the burning air. The sun bleeds heat, any movement is stifled until a slight wind, more of a breath or sigh, disturbs the panoply of leaves and branches that each tree rooted far below has achieved this high from the ground ...
... Cigales and a multitude of other disparate insects rasp and saw, sometimes a roaring volume when all are joined in chorus, when the heat is unbearable ...
... The village is small and humble, one of many planted solidly in the soil, as ancient as the stone it has been built from. Without any particular history, not recorded at least, nothing of consequence really. Just people, modest, hard working ...
... The war might have passed them by but wars are ruled by hazard and hazard knows no favourites.

... The truck pulled into the square and stopped. The engine coughed roughly and was switched off and the clattering noise which had preceded it through the village ceased abruptly. The soldier climbed down from the truck and squinted around in the glare. He saw two or three dark figures in the shade of the trees at the edge of the square but they seemed uninterested in his arrival. He put on his helmet, gathered up his pack and turned to the steps of the building and started up towards the sentry who was standing in the shaded entrance above which the words Mairie, Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, were cut into the light stone.
The soldier was stiff and bruised from hanging onto the sides of the bumping vehicle as provisions and men had been dropped off in villages they passed through until he was the only one left in the back of the truck. On the road out of the last village, at times nothing but a trail between rocks, the driver had shouted back at him, grinning, head stuck out of the window, to watch out for bandits. The countryside had looked so empty, more of a desert than the green pastures he was used he had not been sure if the driver had been joking. He had kept watch, gripping his machine gun, and they had passed spots where there might have been enough cover but nothing had happened. They had bowled along in a cloud of dust, the driver shouting words that he could not hear and he had watched their destination appear out of the shimmering heat haze.
The soldier reached the top of the steps. The sun was beginning to heat his head under his helmet and he could feel a trickle of sweat running down his back. Burdened down with his equipment he felt clumsy, dirty and insignificant, and not so sure of himself. The plane trees in the square rustled a hushed applause as he straightened himself up.
"SS - Schutze Walter Becker reporting ..." he started to say to the sentry who looked him over and then pointed with his head.
"Inside, Obersturmführer von Pohl or Unterscharführer Rohrer."
Becker heard voices below him and turned to look back. It was the truck driver talking to another man, the Rottenführer, he recognised the stripes. There were provisions to unload and they were standing at the back of the vehicle. The Rottenführer shouted orders and several men, those who had watched him arrive, came out from under the trees as Becker went through the large wooden doors out of the sun into the darker building.

"So. So these are the reinforcements. One boy. At his first posting. The officer looked up at Becker then down to the papers in his hand, five day's rations and 200 rounds per man ... Letters and the truck. All they could spare I suppose. Least you made it here."
Becker was standing at attention as Obersturmführer von Pohl read the order papers Becker had brought with him. The Unterscharführer was at a desk in the corner of the small, cool room. He was smoking and glancing out of the window at the truck and the men unloading it. He appeared more concerned with that than the soldier who was standing in front of the officer.

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 Copyright Zygmunt NOWAK-SOLINSKI