The Dark Room Read online

  When it gets dark, Jüri crawls into Tomas’s lap and sleeps with his head against his chest. Tomas has his eyes closed and doesn’t push Jüri away, but Lore knows he isn’t asleep. She dozes. Liesel leans against her shoulder and Peter sleeps on the bundle between their legs.

  She wakes with numb feet and shooting pains in her thighs. Tomas has shifted a little, but Jüri still lies sleeping in his lap. Lore takes off her boots and pinches at her feet, avoiding the sores and blisters. The train rocks and rattles. Her toes prickle with blood now, but she can’t ease the pains in her legs. She stands until the pins and needles subside, and then walks along the train. Over the sleeping bodies, her arms outstretched, palms on the walls to steady herself, Lore lurches along the swaying corridor, through the adjoining door into the next car. The window is open in the next compartment. Lore stops, lets her hair blow in the wind. She leans out and looks for the shrill wheels below in the dark, the rim of the window pressing against her hips. They pass flat, open fields and the cool, dark shapes of trees. The night is humid, and the air smells full and green.

  There are people talking in the compartment behind her. She leans away from the window, keeping her back to them, but listening.

  —If you’ve seen enough of those pictures, you can tell they are all in the same place.

  —But the newspaper said there were lots of camps, hundreds maybe.

  —I’m not saying these camps didn’t exist. Every country has its own prison system, after all. I’m just saying they didn’t kill people.

  —And the pictures of the bodies?

  —It’s all a set-up. The pictures are always out of focus, aren’t they? Or dark, or grainy. Anything to make them unclear. And the people in those photos are actors. The Americans have staged it all, maybe the Russians helped them, who knows.

  —Who told you this?

  —Fahning, for one, and Mohn. Torsten and his brother heard it, too.

  —Did they see it in the newspapers?

  —Listen, I’ve seen the photos. The same ones keep getting shown everywhere. Different angles on the same scene. Any fool can see that.

  Lore watches the young men out of the corners of her eyes. They are not much older than she. Their faces are smooth and thin and their eyes gleam. They sit on their bundles by the compartment door, smoking. A stub of candle is fixed to the floor between them, flickering in the draft from the open window. One is missing an arm. His sleeve is pinned to his shoulder and flaps as he speaks. He catches Lore’s eye, lifts the empty fold of cloth.

  —Grenade.

  He is smiling at her. Lore feels her cheeks burn, is glad of the dark.

  —I’ve seen those pictures, too.

  —There, you see, everyone has seen them. And the people were all thin and lying on the ground, right?

  —I thought they were dead.

  —They’re actors. Americans. Or some of them are dummies, models. The ones that look the most dead.

  His friend blows out the candle.

  —I’m going to sleep now.

  He ignores Lore. The young man with one arm winks at her in the dark. The end of his cigarette glows between his lips and Lore’s cheeks burn hot in the gloom. She closes the window and makes her way back down the corridor. She opens the carriage door and the screaming wheels fill her ears.

  They awake when the train stops. The soldiers open the doors, knock on the windows, tell everyone to get out and wait on the platform. Tomas pulls the bundles together, lifts Jüri down off the train. It is dark in the station, a few lamps casting a dim glow around the huge building. It is filled with noise. Crying children, shouting voices, slamming doors. Men stand by the walls in angry groups. They smell of unfamiliar food, murmur unfamiliar words.

  The next train is at dawn. Jüri holds on to the hem of Tomas’s jacket. Liesel lies on the bundles, one arm covering her eyes, the other her hair. Peter screams in Lore’s arms. She asks the people around them if they can spare any food, but they say nothing, turn their faces away.

  Peter’s fists are reddish-blue. Lore rubs them, blows on his fingers. She looks up and finds no roof above them, just a jagged hole and dark sky.

  They wait for trains, continue on foot when they don’t come. Walk on to the next town and the next, until their luck changes and they find a station with a train and a soup kitchen. Tomas holds a long discussion with a soldier while the children eat their watery meal. The soldier knocks at the window before their train moves off, hands in an egg. Tomas thanks him, shaking his hands through the open window as the train pulls away. He holds the egg out to Lore.

  —For Peter. He’s too thin.

  A lift from a farmer brings them to the Elbe. They stand at the water, a day away from home. The riverbanks are lined with orchards, but none of the fruit is ripe. Thomas says he will get them to Hamburg. He lifts Jüri up onto his shoulders, promises to be quick, that they won’t have to walk. Lore takes Liesel and Peter and lines up for food at the Red Cross building. They wait for Tomas and Jüri under the broken clock. Children stand pressed into doorways, sell sour apples and tiny hard pears from sacks tied to their waists with string. They take flight at the first sight of a uniform.

  Lore feeds Peter the powdery bread and then hands him to Liesel. She is nervous, can’t sit still until Tomas comes back with a hungry Jüri and news of a boat.

  Hamburg sits on the horizon, a black shape torn out of the evening sky. It is a damp, cool dusk, misty after the heat of the day. Water slaps against the side of the boat, and inside the passengers are silent, watching the city approach. Lore gathers their bundles together, uneasy at the vast harbor and jagged city rising ahead on the far banks. There are no lights in the windows, no other boats on the water, no sounds of work or play. Lore shuts her eyes, concentrates on the tasks ahead.

  She pictures the tram journey to Oma’s. The leafy weekend streets and white buildings; sitting still in her good shoes in the sunny-outside, cold-inside house. Can’t fit the images into the dark city that crowds the shore. Tomas crouches down next to her. He looks at Lore, and in the half-dark she feels the smile, sees the crease in his cheek.

  —Ready?

  The sun dips below the horizon and they stand by the town hall with their bundles. No one waits with them for the trams.

  —There will be a curfew here. We shouldn’t be out so late.

  Tomas’s footsteps ring out across the empty marketplace.

  —How far is it to walk?

  Lore can’t remember, says they should wait another few minutes. Tomas frowns and Jüri takes his hand.

  —I don’t like the buildings.

  The city leans dark and hollow around the main square. Lore keeps her eyes on Peter, away from the charred walls.

  —How long did it take by tram?

  —Half an hour, I think.

  —That’s too far to walk, Lore. Not tonight.

  —Where can we go?

  —We’ll find somewhere. An empty building.

  —Not one of those, Tomas.

  —No, we’ll walk out of the center, Jüri. I’ll find us something.

  They walk north along the edge of the lake. Fog drifts in across the water, bringing with it the smell of salt and rust. It hides the outlines of the remaining buildings, fills in the empty spaces, a dirty gray blanket over the rubble.

  They lie down in the shell of a house. What was once a floor is now a roof, blocking off the night. Roosting birds shuffle in the beams above them, water seeps through the bricks. They make themselves small in the corner, hiding away from the broken walls. Tomas whispers with Lore after the children go to sleep.

  —Do you know if your Oma was bombed?

  —I don’t think so. Maybe. I don’t know.

  Lore lies next to him, not touching, but close enough to know when he moves. She closes her eyes and sees stones where the house used to be. No Oma, and no Vati, either.

  Jüri cries in his sleep, and Lore takes his hand, holds it to her cheek. The quiet of the ruins
settles around her on the cold floor. The rubble is bone and skin, and Jochen’s shirt is lost among the limbs.

  The sun shines again in the morning and burns off the mist while they pack their things together and hide them among the broken stones. Tomas fetches them soup with chunks of sausage. The meal tastes of meat and tears in the forest. Jüri cries again and Lore hides her face against her baby brother’s chest. If Jochen can die, then so can Oma. Peter screams, and pushes at her cheeks. Tomas whispers to Jüri. Liesel sits quietly and eats, and Lore is glad they don’t watch her.

  —Lore will find your Oma.

  —And Vati.

  —It might take a little while, Liesel, so we all have to be patient.

  —How long for?

  —Well, a few days. Maybe. I don’t know. The roads will be blocked and they may have moved, so we’ll just have to see.

  Tomas looks awkward, his thin neck flushed red. Lore smiles but he doesn’t look at her. They arrange to meet at the black church spire before sundown, and he clambers off over the rubble to the street with Liesel and Jüri behind him.

  The city is full again and lively. People walk and talk and don’t look at the shattered, blackened buildings around them. They wear hats and raise them in greeting. Cars drive down the broken streets, slowing down for piles of rubble, driving around them if they can. Smoke rises from chimney pots on top of ruined apartment blocks. Cooking smells drift out from the shells of buildings, though Lore can’t imagine there are kitchens inside.

  She walks, shocked at the torn walls, the sudden open spaces. Peter cries all morning, a low and terrible noise. People look past her, avoiding eye contact. Lore searches the faces in the queues, recognizes hunger and looks away, too.

  She makes her way to the Alster and then walks along the lakeshore as far as she can, but the blocked roads force her farther and farther away from the water. She loses her bearings once she can’t see the water anymore, walks on for a while, but can’t tell what is street and what is not. She asks directions and is pointed back the way she came, but the woman isn’t certain either. She asks again, and after that the buildings become more familiar. The streets are wide, and the trees are mostly still standing, bright new green sprouting from the splintered limbs. Oma must be alive. Lore walks up and down the same street for a while, convinced she has found the right place.

  The photos are all burnt or buried now, so Lore works from memory. The garden filled with walnut trees; the drawing room with vases and heavy padded chairs. She stands in the driveways and stares. Some of the houses are damaged, others are whole, none of them match with her mind’s-eye images. She walks on, finds herself back at the water again.

  There are potatoes piled in the street. The man ties some into Lore’s apron and shoos her away. Farther on, she begs powdered milk, mixes up thick mouthfuls in her palm with water from a standpipe. Peter stares up at her face while she feeds him. The white mess dribbles over his cheeks and chin, but some of it finds his tongue. Peter stops crying and sleeps, and Lore sits with him in the late afternoon sun. She stares across the wide lake, whispers to him.

  —In summer, we took the ferry home, and Vati was always there on the other side.

  She remembers the boat, the jetty and the car, but her father’s face is unclear. Lore tells Peter the houses are still there, assures him that Oma has to be close by. She feels certain, light-headed, and uneasy, too, watching her brother doze, pale and small in her lap. The sun will set soon, and she knows she should go and find the others, but thoughts of finding her grandmother crowd her head. If Oma is alive, she will ask after Jochen. The children will want to know where Vati is. Oma will want to know who Tomas is, too.

  Everything has changed. She will have to lie again. Too much has happened to explain.

  It gets cool by the water, and Peter wakes. Lore gets up, holding him tight in her arms. She finds the black church spire on the skyline and walks away from the lake. Peter blinks silently up at his sister, his eyes dark in his narrow face.

  Lore is awakened by noises in the dark. English male voices, whispering. German female, coaxing. Shifting rubble, no more talking, only breathing.

  Lore knows Tomas is awake, too. She is uncomfortable under the blankets, shifts back against the cold grit of the bricks behind her. She doesn’t want to hear what they are doing under the ruined walls. She counts the beams in the floor above her to block it out, but her mind keeps forming pictures. Liesel turns over next to her. Lore fights the urge to cover her sister’s ears.

  Then there is whispering, and after that, walking.

  Lore wakes again later to more noise: stifled breath and sobs. She battles her straining ears, wills herself to sleep again. The sounds are closer, muffled by blankets, not rubble walls. Lore allows herself to listen to the dark around her. Tomas cries with his jacket over his face, arms wrapped over the top to keep the sound inside. He pulls in gasps of air, body a heaving shadow against the opposite wall. Lore doesn’t want to see it or hear it. She would cry, only his tears have taken over. She lies, awake and furious, until daylight seeps through the cracks in the brickwork over her face.

  In the morning Tomas builds a barrier of broken chairs and stolen wire across the open section of their shelter. He takes charcoal from the fire and makes a sign which Jüri hangs against the barricade: PRIVATE. Tomas whispers to Lore.

  —I will send people away if they come again.

  Lore decides to forgive him his tears.

  —Hannelore! Hannelore Dressler!

  A young woman calls from across the street. Lore holds her breath, eyes on the tram tracks under her feet. The young woman waves again. She wears a large black coat and heavy boots.

  —Don’t you remember me? It’s Wiebke. Wiebke Nadel. Oma’s maid. It’s not so long ago, you must remember!

  Wiebke Nadel crosses the street, takes Lore’s hand.

  —You are so thin. Have you come back from the south with your mother? Where is your lovely mother?

  The young woman holds tight to her hand and she cries and laughs while she speaks. Lore remembers Oma’s kitchen and Wiebke. Shelling peas with her on the back step. Long ago, when the twins were babies and there was no Peter yet. Does she really look like that? Lore gazes into the smiling freckled face. The house is dusty but Wiebke has a loyal heart. That’s what Oma always said.

  —She will be so happy to see you.

  —Oma?

  —Yes, yes. We were in the shelter, with the neighbors.

  Wiebke pulls her across the street, almost running.

  —The bombs got the house, but not the firestorm. Come on. Your Oma is at home. She will be so happy.

  The black iron gates are the same, the dark evergreen hedges, too, but the house is utterly changed. The upper stories are missing, and most of the ground floor. A single chimney stack juts up at the back, tiles still clinging to the fireplace at its base. The remaining windows are shattered and the walls blackened, but Lore recognizes the hallway. The sun comes in where it couldn’t reach before, lighting the patterns in the cracked tiling, the wide, dark wood floor.

  Wiebke makes Lore stand outside the door that was once inside and is now weather-worn. She sings as she goes in, calls to Oma. An old woman’s voice answers, quiet at first and then shrill. Lore pulls the wrinkles out of her stockings and Oma stands in the doorway, fingers outstretched. She touches Lore’s hair.

  —Hannelore, child. Where have you come from?

  —From Bavaria, Oma.

  —Where is my Asta? Hannelore? Where is your Mutti?

  There is only one chair in the room, but they insist that Lore sits down. Clothes are hung from nails in the wall. There is a stove, some bedding, and an empty cupboard. Their voices are crammed into the small interior. Lore can’t work out which room this used to be before the bombs. Wiebke closes the door and pulls the curtain away from the window for some air. She gives Lore bread, with slices of apple laid on top.

  —I got fruit today. You must have some.
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  All their food sits in a small crate on the floor. They are silent while Lore eats. The apple is sweet and sharp, stinging at her gums, the raw edges of her tongue. Oma says she has grown into a young woman. Wiebke takes a brush from the cupboard and loosens out Lore’s braids. Her hair crackles with static and stands out around her head. Lore feels its light touch against her cheeks, the lazy warmth of being cared for. Wiebke’s fingers stroke her scalp, dividing the hair into sections. Oma stands by the open window.

  —Mutti is with the Americans, isn’t she, child?

  Lore nods.

  —I knew it. As soon as I saw you, I knew it.

  Wiebke’s fingers feel strong and sure in Lore’s hair.

  —And Vati? Do they have him as well? He is with the Russians, then?

  —I don’t know.

  —Do you have Mutti’s address?

  —No, Omi.

  —So she doesn’t know you are here now?

  —No, but she told us to come.

  They are quiet for a while. Wiebke’s fingers brush against Lore’s neck as she plaits. Lore hears her grandmother’s breathing, soft and hoarse, smells the late summer sun on the stones outside, the musty damp of the cool walls inside. Her throat is too thick to speak. There is too much to tell.

  Oma steps across the room, pulls Lore to her feet and puts her arms around her. Lore shuffles to steady herself, catches the seat with her knees, chair legs scraping loud against the bare floor. She puts her hands on the old woman’s back, feels the spine beneath her blouse.

  —You mustn’t feel ashamed. You mustn’t feel ashamed of them.

  Her grip is angry. Lore breathes hard against the tight circle of her arms. Oma pushes her away, holds her at arm’s length. The old woman’s hair is dusty, the same color as her skin. Her eyes are gray and watery, fixed on Lore’s face. Lore feels her neck flush, itchy and hot. Wiebke sits down on the chair next to them with her brushes.