Authors: Rachel Seiffert
In the late afternoon they pass more small groups of people on the road. Lore sits in the cart, watching as they go by. Some have wooden handcarts piled high with belongings, most have big bundles tied to their backs. Others join the road from the fields. The people don’t greet each other; eyes on the ground ahead as they walk, parting silently to let the oxcart through. Jochen sleeps against Lore’s legs, Peter against her chest. Liesel gives Jüri a piggyback to rest his ankle. Houses grow more frequent along the sides of the road.
The woman pulls the cart up at a stream outside the town to let the ox drink. Lore and Jochen swap places with Liesel and Jüri and they walk on, Jochen’s face still blank with sleep. The woman stops the cart at a crossroads.
—Off. They have a soup kitchen here, and places to sleep. We’re going further on tonight, so you’ll need to walk into town.
She watches while Lore pulls the suitcases off the cart, handing them down to the twins.
—Do you have blankets?
Lore nods. The woman opens their suitcases and spreads two blankets on the ground. Next she empties the contents of the suitcases into the blankets and tells Liesel to crouch down. She shows Lore how to tie the blanket around Liesel’s shoulders to form a bundle.
—Much easier to carry. And you can use your oilskins if it rains.
The woman smiles while she speaks, but Lore feels she is being mocked. The old man throws the twins’ empty cases onto the cart and his young wife climbs up after them with Liesel’s bag. The children watch them go while Lore ties the second bundle to her back.
—I think it’s better if we don’t talk to anybody about Mutti and Vati.
—Not anybody?
—Even people who aren’t Americans?
—Yes.
—Why?
—It’s just safer that way, Jochen.
There are other people with bundles and handcarts walking into the town. They cast long shadows on the road behind them in the evening sun. Lore is glad to be away from the young woman and her critical eyes. She searches for a better reason to lie about Mutti and Vati, but the children don’t ask her for one. Jüri limps, Peter yawns in Liesel’s arms, and Jochen skips ahead. Lore relaxes, trusts in their silence.
• • •
Lore has lost her bearings. She doesn’t want to ask directions, worries about inviting questions, but also worries that they are going the wrong way. They run out of food after three days. On the fourth they walk on without breakfast. By early afternoon their silent hunger forces Lore to find doors to knock on.
She asks the woman about the road north while she buys milk and bread. The woman sees the large coins and gives a fist-sized piece of bacon instead of change. Lore doesn’t argue.
—How far north do you want to go?
—Not far.
—Well? Nuremberg? Frankfurt? Berlin?
—Near Nuremberg. Not very far.
—Well, that’s quite far. Do you have a cart?
—No.
—You are walking?
She nods.
—Well, you are walking in the wrong direction. You are heading for Stuttgart on this road. Over to the French, if you go too far.
She nods.
—Across that field, the second one, walk along the brook, you’ll see the railway tracks. They cross a road going north after a few miles. You’ll get back on course for Nuremberg there, and be sure to give the milk to the baby.
Lore divides the food and it is gone within minutes. They struggle across the fields with the baby carriage. By evening they have reached the railway tracks and are hungry. There are no houses in sight.
Lore doesn’t sleep. Lies next to the children, huddled under their oilskins. The night is dark and endless, cold, and the ground is hard
under her hips, against her shoulder blades. Peter cries. The other children shift, sit up. Jochen stands, wrapped in coats and blankets, teeth clattering. He is crying too.
They don’t wait for morning, walk on before it gets light.
They make their way into the town together, but the children are tired and slow, so Lore leaves them by the empty railway station, promises to be back soon with food. Her shoulders ache from pushing the baby carriage and her stomach hurts. Peter has been crying for hours, and she is relieved to get away from the noise. The morning is hot, and by the time she gets to the town center, her throat is dry.
She drinks from the fountain on the main square; stands under the shade of a tree and looks for a place to buy food. None of the shops are open, but a group has gathered by another tree about twenty meters away. Lore watches them across the glare of the flagstones. They stand quietly for a while and then drift away as other people arrive and take their place. A hush hangs over the group, heavy as the hot air, pulling Lore across the bright square. Two elderly ladies in mourning stand on the left, nearest the tree, and Lore slips into the space between them.
Large, blurry photos have been stuck onto a long plank, which is nailed to the trunk. The group stands a pace back in silence, an orderly distance. In front of Lore is a picture of a trash dump, or it might be a heap of ashes. She leans in closer, thinks it could be shoes. Below each of the photos is a place name. One of them sounds German, but the other two don’t. All unfamiliar. The glue under the photos is still wet, the paper is wrinkled and the images confusing. Lore squints, frustrated, hot in the silent crush. She steps forward out of the group, smoothes out the damp creases with her palms. A whisper sets off behind her and makes its way around the group.
The pictures are of skeletons. Lore can see that now, pulling her
hands back, tugging her sleeves down over her glue-damp palms. Hundreds of skeletons: hips and arms and skulls in tangles. Some lying in an open railroad car, others in a shallow depression in the ground. Lore holds her breath, looks away, sees the next picture: hair and skin and breasts. She takes a step back, trapped by the wall of the crowd.
People. Lying naked in rows. Skin thin as paper over bone. Dead people in piles with no clothes on.
An old man next to Lore clears his throat. The group shifts, and Lore is pulled back and moved along as the people gather round. Enclosed by hot backs and sleeves and shoulders, the smell of cigarettes on wool.
The two old ladies are back alongside Lore. A gentle pressure under her arms, pushing her down the line of photos to the edge of the crowd. The last picture is clearer: a man lying against a wire fence. He is wearing pyjamas with the jacket open, and Lore can see his ribs. The trousers are knotted in folds around his narrow waist, and his ankles are huge fists of bone at the ends of his fleshless legs. The man’s eyes are black shadows. His mouth is open and his cheeks are hollow because he has no teeth.
The old women are still moving, gently pushing Lore away from the photos, away from the tree. One on either side, they take hold of her arms and propel her forward, off the main square, back to the road. Behind them, the group settles back into silence, closing over the gap they have left. Lore looks round. No one is watching them. The people have turned their wordless attention back to the photos on the board.
The old woman on Lore’s right has her handkerchief pressed over her mouth, and she doesn’t speak. The other is urging Lore along the road. She is thin, too. Her bony hand lets go of Lore’s elbow and pats her softly on the arm.
—Go home, child. Quickly now. There is nothing here for you to see.
Lore walks, doesn’t look round. She feels hot, faint, hasn’t eaten
since yesterday and it is already afternoon. She sits down at the side of the road, thinks she must have some bread, find the children, walk on again.
Something to eat.
She rests her forehead on her knees, squeezes her eyes closed. Behind her eyelids, she sees the photos on the tree. Perhaps the people had no food and they starved to death. She can’t remember the place names under the pictures, doesn’t even know the name of the town she is in now. Lore goes over their route north again, eyes closed, face tilted up to the sky. The sun burns at her cheeks and she tries to remember if the man in the last photo had his eyes open or closed. She wonders if he was dead, and if it is possible to die with your eyes open. She recites to herself, from
Ingolstadt
, to
Nuremberg
, then past
Frankfurt
to
Kassel, Göttingen
, and then
Hannover
and up to
Hamburg.
His photo was taken somewhere in Germany.
—Drink this.
There is a young woman standing over her with a small cup of milk.
—When was the last time you ate? Drink it, child.
Lore reaches for the cup and drinks. The woman presses a heel of bread into her hand, takes the empty cup and goes back into her house. Lore eats, swallowing the crust in painful chunks, sitting with her eyes closed until the ache in her stomach subsides. She thinks about the children, doesn’t know how long she has been away, knocks at the woman’s door.
—I need more food. For my brothers and sisters. One is a baby.
—I have no more.
—Please, we are hungry and we have nowhere to stay.
The woman looks afraid. Lore thinks she might close the door.
—We can pay.
Lore offers a coin, and the woman hesitates, flushing hot red when she finally speaks.
—Do you have anything else? Not money.
Lore tears a hole in the handkerchief pouch in her apron, holds out her handful of Mutti’s things. The woman stares, and then picks
her way through the jewelry with bitten fingers. Pokes at Mutti’s brooch, her pearl earrings, finally selects her ring.
—I can buy you some food with this.
Lore winces.
—Not the earrings?
The woman shakes her head. She squints at Lore.
—If you share the food with me I will let you stay.
The woman is waiting for them when Lore arrives back with the children. She stands at the door and smiles at them all, her own young son hiding behind her skirts.
She gives them a bowl of steaming water from the stove and clean rags to wash with, apologizing that she hasn’t any soap. Lore scrubs the twins’ necks and combs out Liesel’s hair. The woman cuddles Peter and bathes him with her son. When it gets dark, she asks if she can take the baby carriage, says she will be back in about an hour.
—There’s a curfew here, you know that? You should all stay inside.
The twins are still angry that Lore left them alone for so long. They stare at her with hard eyes, and Liesel stands close, whispers, tugging at the ends of her braids.
—Why can’t we go and stay with Mutti in the camp?
The woman’s little boy watches them, quiet and shy. Lore is furious with Liesel, thinks he might have heard. She pulls her sister away to the window, hisses into her face.
—You don’t talk about that. You know that. Do it again and you’ll get it from me, understand?
Liesel’s face crumples and Peter screams when Lore lifts him.
The woman comes back with food hidden in the baby carriage. It doesn’t seem a lot to Lore, fitting easily under the mattress. Her stomach contracts.
—My mother’s ring was gold.
The woman shrugs. A little later she says she is sorry. The woman cooks and eats with them, and her son is quiet, watching Liesel and the twins as he chews. When he has finished, the woman pours him the remaining soup from her own bowl, and when he has eaten that, she pulls him into her lap. She hums quietly to herself, watching him settle his head against her arm.
Lore is tired. She closes her eyes and eats more slowly, holding the food on her tongue before she swallows. She wants to ask about the photos on the tree. If the woman knows where to get food, she might know what happened to those people, too. But when Lore speaks, the woman smiles, puts her finger to her lips, points down at her sleeping son.
Lore clears the table, and the woman lays blankets on the kitchen floor, picks up her son and leaves the room. When she doesn’t come back, Lore presumes she has gone to bed and tells the children to lie down, too.
Lore gathers the food together in a too-small pile on the kitchen table. She leaves half a loaf aside for the morning, and chooses the bag of flour to leave behind. Lore thinks a moment, and then decides to leave a bit of the meat, too. The woman was gentle, asked no questions, gave her the milk she must have been saving for her son. Lore divides the remaining food between their bundles, sits down at the table while the children sleep, works out a ration. If she is strict, the food could last three days.
She blows out the candle and rests her forehead on the table. She dreams about the Americans again. The soldiers eat all the bread, throw the rest of the food into the jeep. They leave Peter with her this time, but nothing to feed him with. He is light and thin in her arms. She lays him down gently on the ground, next to the other children. They are all naked. Their bones brittle as bird wings.
• • •
The children are subdued, tired. Lore has to decide which direction to walk in every morning, which fork to take in the road, where they should stop at night, when they should eat. They stand silently waiting while Lore makes decisions. Move when she tells them, stop when she says so. Only Peter cries and laughs at will.
They sleep in barns, haylofts, outhouses. Sometimes with permission, mostly without. Lore tries to keep the children clean, rubbing earth off their boots with handfuls of grass, scrubbing their clothes in cold streams without soap. She pops their blisters, pads their boots with leaves, walks off the pain with marching songs. Lore repacks the bags every time they stop. Redistributing weight, clothes, belongings. She checks her apron pocket as she walks, feeling for the smooth fold of notes, the hard coins, her mother’s brooch, and no ring.
Evening, and the twins have been asking all day about the war. Is it really over? Did we really lose? Why? Lore tries to explain, but her half-answers only lead to more questions, and Lore is exhausted now, and shouts at them to shut up. Liesel cries; Jochen frowns and Jüri yawns, both very tired.
—Is there anything to eat, Lore? We’re hungry.