My Brother the Enemy Read online

  My Brother the Enemy

  Rupert Colley

  Text copyright © 2013 Rupert Colley

  Ebook Edition

  Rupertcolley.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: The Forest

  Chapter 2: The Sisters

  Chapter 3: The Bottle

  Chapter 4: Liars

  Chapter 5: The Play

  Chapter 6: The School

  Chapter 7: The Head

  Chapter 8: The Announcement

  Chapter 9: The Hunt

  Chapter 10: Call For Help

  Chapter 11: Birthday

  Chapter 12: The Cellar

  Chapter 13: The Prodigal Return

  Chapter 14: Wounded City

  Chapter 15: The Hospital

  Chapter 16: Reassurance

  Chapter 17: The Park

  Chapter 18: Café Von Bismarck

  Chapter 19: Not Going Back

  Chapter 20: Sirens

  Chapter 21: Passes

  Chapter 22: The Border

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  This Time Tomorrow, Part One of the Searight Saga

  Part One

  A village near Berlin, June 1936

  Chapter 1: The Forest

  Stumbling into the forest was like entering a cool room. With their hair damp with sweat and their shirts sticking to their backs, the thirteen-year-old twins blinked as their eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. What a relief to be out of the sun and the suffocating heat of the heavy morning.

  The boys sat down on their familiar resting place, a weathered tree stump, and shared a bottle of water, their chests heaving, having walked two kilometres in the heat across the exposed expanses of the wheat fields.

  ‘She might not be there,’ said Peter, his words coming between short breaths.

  Martin gave him one of his withering looks that always caused Peter to regret speaking his mind. ‘Course she will,’ he said, taking another swig of water.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Of course. She was there yesterday, wasn’t she? So the chances are she’ll be back today. Especially on a day like this. You don’t have to come. Go home now; I don’t care.’

  ‘No, I want to.’ Having come this far, Peter wasn’t going back and Martin, of course, knew that. Pushing the cork back into place, Martin put the bottle into the sack and, handing the sack to Peter, rose to his feet. Peter would have preferred a couple of minutes more but knew there was little point in protesting.

  Martin led the way purposefully along the dry muddied path, zigzagging past the oaks and maples, his head bowed in concentration. He was eager to get there, Peter knew, eager to relive the excitement of the previous day. White rocks broke through the earth; the sun poured through the leaves making mottled patterns on the ground. Even the forest seemed quiet, too exhausted by the heat to come to life, but somewhere a magpie squawked. Peter followed, relieved to be out of the sun, focussing on the boots in front of him and the small clouds of dust billowing up in the wake of his brother’s feet.

  Martin was the eldest of the two, as his brother frequently reminded him – born a whole thirty minutes earlier. And for the sake of that half hour, Martin had claimed the role as the older brother. Forever domineering, forever scornful, Martin was the leader. Where Peter hesitated, Martin jumped. This morning’s expedition was typical – Peter didn’t want to go; either it’d be a waste of time because she wouldn’t be there, or somehow their father would find out, and then there’d be hell to pay. But Martin, always believing lightning could strike twice, was determined. And Peter, more worried about what he might miss than the possible consequences, followed suit. As always.

  They started on the gentle incline down towards the lake where the forest thinned out and the mud-impacted ground was potholed with small stones. Solitary bushes of thistles sprung from the ground. ‘God sake, hurry up,’ said Martin without turning. ‘She could be there by now.’

  Somehow, Peter doubted it but kept his reservations to himself. The slope became steeper as they approached the clearing. As the path evened out, Martin began running, heading for the fallen tree, just yards away.

  The twins lay on their stomachs, their heads against the crumbling wood of the hefty trunk, catching their breaths, relieved to have reached their destination. They peered over and scanned their eyes across the silvery lake shimmering in front of them, its waters reflecting the sky. A kingfisher swooped down and skirted across, disturbing the glass-like surface. Whether it caught anything, the boys didn’t notice. They were too busy looking for her.

  ‘She’s not here,’ said Peter, not sure whether to be disappointed by her non-appearance or pleased that he’d been right after all.

  ‘She’ll come. We’ll just have to wait.’

  They’d been waiting for almost an hour in silence, lying on their backs. Peter would have dozed off after the exertion of having got there, but thoughts of his father kept troubling him. If their father knew what they were up to, he’d go mad. Not that he needed much of an excuse. Ever since the Nazis had exiled the family to this far-flung village, Father had been angry. Their father’s sense of humiliation, combined with his new-found love for alcohol, had changed him. If the twins weren’t the cause of this perpetual anger, then it was their mother. For Peter, he liked it out here, away from the city, having his brother all to himself, but given a choice, he’d go back to the old life where his father had self-respect and love for his children. The Nazis had achieved what even the Depression had failed to do – they’d broken him.

  *

  ‘She’s here!’ Martin’s excited whisper brought Peter back to the present.

  He twisted onto his belly, his heart beating, and looked over the trunk. Yes, there she was, laying out her blanket on the sandy ground at the edge of the lake. She was dressed the same as yesterday – a sky-blue skirt that fell to her knees and a lemon-yellow blouse; the light colours contrasting with the darkness of her hair.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Martin, perhaps a little too loudly, for she turned round and the twins ducked down beneath the trunk as if being fired upon.

  ‘She’s seen us,’ whispered Peter.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  A minute or two passed and nothing happened. With his hands resting against the trunk, Martin slowly lifted his head above the wooden parapet. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What?’ said Peter, fully knowing by the tremor in his brother’s voice that, at last, their efforts were being rewarded.

  She’d already slipped out of her skirt and was removing her blouse, the yellow fabric peeling away to reveal the whiteness of her skin. And so there she was, wearing nothing but her brassiere and large off-white knickers. Again, she looked round, making sure she was alone, and quickly removed her underwear. Peter’s breath quickened as he absorbed the sight of the naked woman, trying to commit the image to memory – the marble paleness of her skin, the forbidden triangle of black hair, the small, pointed breasts. She strolled to the lake’s edge, paused a moment, and then stepped into the water, which Peter knew, even on such a hot day as this, would be icy cold. With a sense of disappointment, he watched as the water took away her nakedness until finally, she dived gently in.

  ‘She can’t half swim,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not her swimming we’ve come to see,’ said his brother, turning away and lying against the trunk. ‘Keep watch and tell me when she comes out again.’

  The sun had moved and the boys found themselves under its direct glare. Peter kept watch, as ordered, but in no time she’d swum so far out, she’d disappeared from view. He rested his chin against the trunk and, like his brother, looked for
ward to her coming out again. Occasionally, he’d see a distant splash of water, each time further away. After a few minutes, he felt drowsy, the heat sapping his concentration and, eventually, his enthusiasm.

  *

  He’d no idea for how long he’d been asleep when he was woken up with a start by a familiar voice. ‘Hello boys, what are you doing here?’ Martin jumped too, both of them blinking against the sun.

  ‘Monika!’ squeaked Peter.

  ‘What are you up to?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Martin, recovering his composure.

  ‘So why do you both look so guilty?’

  ‘We were asleep, that’s all,’ said Martin. ‘Now go away.’

  ‘Shan’t. Why should I?’

  ‘Sod off or I’ll hit you.’

  ‘Try it.’

  Peter knew his brother was only making matters worse. He glanced back over the tree and could see the movement of water coming back towards them. They didn’t have much time. ‘We have to go now,’ he said, rising quickly to his feet.

  Fortunately, Martin took his cue. ‘Yeah, we were off anyway.’

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ said Monika.

  ‘So are you,’ retorted Martin.

  ‘I’ve come to find my sister.’

  ‘You have a sister?’

  ‘Yes. Is that someone in the lake?’

  ‘No,’ said Peter, perhaps too quickly.

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘We’re going. You coming?’ said Martin.

  Peter looked back – the woman was emerging from the water, her wet skin glistening in the sun.

  Monika eyes widened. ‘It’s my sister. She’s not got any... You, you two were–’

  ‘No we weren’t.’

  ‘You were, too.’ Her voice rose with excitement. ‘Quickly, she’ll see us.’ She ran round the side of the slope towards the trees, the twins following. Once inside the density of shade, the three of them stopped. Monika began laughing. ‘I can’t wait to tell her.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Martin.

  ‘You peeping-toms,’ she screeched, pointing, her arm shaking as she laughed. ‘Just wait...’

  Martin’s face reddened. ‘Just wait till what?’

  ‘Your father–’

  Martin suddenly leapt towards her, an expression of ugly intent on his face, and slammed Monika against a tree. She squealed as her back scrapped against the jagged bark. Thrusting his face close to hers, their noses almost touching, he said, ‘Listen, you stupid little cow, one word, just one word–’

  ‘Martin, stop it, you’re hurting me.’

  ‘And I’ll hurt you some more if–’

  Gripping him by the shoulders, Peter pulled him off. Monika, free from Martin’s grasp, began crying as the twins stood facing each other, their eyes filled with mutual indignation. Peter had never before stood up to his brother and wasn’t sure what to do next – but, committed, he knew he couldn’t turn away. The shock of pain was sudden; he hadn’t even seen Martin move. But the ballooning sensation on his upper lip, the redness on his fingers was all too real. He hadn’t fallen but his knees buckled. Martin stood poised a few feet away, his fists clenched and suspended, ready to strike again.

  Behind his brother’s shoulder, Peter caught sight of Monika, her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. In the distance, they heard a voice, the woman’s voice coming from the lake, calling out Monika’s name. ‘I’ll get you back for this, Martin Fischbacher,’ she said quietly. Composing herself, she ran her fingers through her hair, ‘Coming, Helene,’ she cried out in return. Peter caught her eye and for a moment felt hypnotised by their sea-green intensity. For years to come, he would speculate on that look, on that split second, and wonder whether her expression was one of empathy, or of disdain.

  The twins watched her run away, back through the trees, towards the lake.

  When Martin looked at him, there was no mistaking his scorn. With his bag slung over his shoulder, Martin shrugged, turned on his heel and marched off towards home.

  ‘Martin,’ Peter called out. ‘Wait for me.’

  ‘Sod off.’

  ‘Martin, I didn’t mean to...’ But his brother was already disappearing into the trees. The leaves rustled. Peter wondered whether to try to catch up with his brother but decided to leave him alone. He’d be OK by the time he got back to the village. A cluster of white butterflies fluttered by. He ran his finger along his stinging lip and wished Martin hadn’t stormed off before they’d concocted a story to present to their father. How quickly the woman in the lake had become an inconsequential memory. Instead, his mind was filled with Monika’s expression; and, in his heart, a sorrow that his actions had caused Martin to hit him.

  As he wandered home slowly, he pondered how he would ever make it up to his brother.

  Chapter 2: The Sisters

  Monika took her shoes off and padded into the cold water of the lake. She was still shaking slightly from her altercation with Martin.

  ‘Going for a swim?’ asked her sister as she did her buttons.

  ‘No, just wanted to cool down a bit.’

  ‘It’ll cool you down all right – it’s icy. Lovely though.’

  ‘Mama said we had to hurry.’

  Helene rubbed her towel through her hair, her head cocked to one side. ‘OK, let’s go then.’

  Helene walked ahead briskly, as she always did, and Monika had to trot to keep up. ‘Those twins were here,’ she said. ‘They were watching you.’

  ‘I know. I saw them.’

  ‘Didn’t you mind?’

  ‘No, they’re only boys.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we tell Mama?’

  ‘You can if you want to.’

  She fully intended to. ‘One pushed me against a tree.’

  ‘Really? Why did he do that?’ Helene asked, sweeping away strands of wet hair from her face.

  ‘Because I said I was going to tell on them.’

  ‘So he pushed you against a tree? You poor girl.’

  ‘Yes. And he was going to hit me but his brother stepped in.’

  ‘Oh. In that case, you should tell mother. Nasty boys.’

  They walked for a while in silence. Helene with her towel flung over her shoulder, surged ahead, the sun shining through her yellow blouse. The village came into view.

  ‘They come from Berlin,’ said Monika, running to catch up.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I want to live in Berlin one day.’

  ‘What’s wrong with here? Don’t you like it with us?’

  Monika knew her sister was teasing but still, she answered carefully. ‘Of course, and I would come back all the time but think, Helene, think of all that excitement – the dance halls and the theatres and all those shops.’

  ‘Only any good if you can afford to go in them. You’d have to get a job.’

  ‘I will. I want to be a dancer.’

  Helene laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny about that?’

  ‘Oh, Monika, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. If you want to be a dancer, you go ahead, go to Berlin. Become a dancer.’

  As they walked down through the village, they saw Mr Fischbacher. ‘That’s the twins’ father,’ said Monika.

  ‘I know. He’s going to the café.’

  ‘Should we tell him – you know, about the boys spying on you?’

  ‘God, no. Don’t talk to him; he looks horrible.’

  Chapter 3: The Bottle

  Having returned from his daily pointless trip to the café, Adolphus eyed the bottle on the top shelf. It sat there, a quarter full, tempting him with its clear liquid. He could taste it, feel the joyous burning sensation as it cascaded down his throat. Everyday he fought this battle; everyday he lost it. Annoyed with himself, Adolphus spun away and flung himself onto the chair, desperately trying to delay the inevitable. He hadn’t realised how much he was sweating. God, he wanted that drink – it’d make him feel better – and...
worse. A lot worse.

  He wished the twins would come back. Their presence, irritating as it was, took his mind off things, made him feel as if he was part of the present. Marta, his wife, would be ages yet. She’d got a job earning a degrading wage with Höch, a local farmer and Nazi-lover, the smarmy git. If only the communists had power – they’d have confiscated Höch’s farm in the spirit of collectivisation by now. That’d have taken the grin off his face. Pitiful though they were, Marta’s wages were a godsend but how it hurt, how he resented it – to be dependent on her income, to have to feel grateful for every scrap. How he hated this life – this prison of a hut with its primitive clay floor and rotting wood, this fucking squalid little village with its inbred inhabitants, suspicious and simple. He knew they were all Nazi accomplices, gleefully handing over their Jews, happy to wipe the shit off their boots. He grabbed for his cigarettes, his hand shaking as he lit one, the pale blue smoke dancing in the rays of fading sunlight. If only he could go back.

  The knock on the door was so quiet, he thought he’d imagined it. The second time, he realised he hadn’t. No one had ever knocked on their door before, no neighbours, no friends (for he had none), and for a few moments he felt that overly familiar surge of fear that they were coming for him – but then the Gestapo aren’t known for knocking gently. ‘Come in,’ he said, hesitantly.

  The door opened noisily and a woman’s face peeked round.

  ‘Mrs Emmerich?’ She didn’t come in, as if unwilling to commit herself to his hospitality. Monika’s mother was the only villager willing to bid him good day, and he accepted her greetings like a man starved. ‘Well, come in, come in,’ he said, conscious that his parched voice sounded like a growl. He cleared his throat. ‘I won’t bite,’ he added, trying to sound more congenial.

  She took a step in but remained at the door, her hands behind her back. A pretty thing, he thought, past her best but still attractive with her black hair tied in a bun and her green eyes. Her presence there, the way she looked at him, reminded him how unclean he was. But with no water beyond the dribbling tap at the back of the hut, what could he do, and the clothes he wore were his only set.