My Brother the Enemy Read online

  Two rows in front of the twins sat Monika. She hadn’t turned round to say hello as she normally did. Peter knew, without having to see her face, that she was still furious with him for having supposedly ruined the play. No one else knew – the Head had elected to keep it a secret. But Martin, compounding his malevolence, had told Monika. Thankfully, she’d kept it to herself. In turn, Peter still hadn’t forgiven her since the incident at the lake. Would Monika have told on them if she realised what punishment they had to endure? But what had frightened Peter most was his father’s hitting of their mother. Punished one day for working for a Nazi, punished the next for not earning enough; each beating a reflection of Father’s own inadequacies.

  But it wasn’t his father’s beating that had occupied Peter’s mind but the expression on Monika’s face after Martin had punched him in the forest. Peter had saved her from Martin’s assault, taking the brunt of his anger. And each time he thought of it, he saw the look in her sea-green eyes, her hand clamped over her mouth, and hard as he might he could not decipher what the look meant. During his more fanciful moments, he saw himself as her brave knight, her eyes wide with admiration and gratitude. But now, instead, he knew she hated him for having sabotaged the rail. If only she knew.

  As for Martin, the extent of his brother’s baseness had left Peter reeling. His brother’s betrayal had left him gaping in wonderment – he could not comprehend Martin’s motivation and when he tried to reason it, his stomach tightened.

  The morning’s lesson was political studies, something that always made Peter feel anxious. His father's politics was not something he gave any thought to but he never felt so conscious of being the son of a commie as during Mr Rich’s classes. He hated being labelled a communist, hated being reminded of it. He, himself, was not a communist – he wasn't entirely sure what it meant but, as he was often reminded, an apple never falls far from its tree. On the desk in front of him lay a school textbook on politics, containing chapters on the Social Democrats, the communists, Marxists and more. Flipping through the pages, Peter noticed the usual blank spaces – paragraphs and sections now politically out of favour hastily removed.

  ‘Tomi, if you’re quite ready.’ Tomi, sitting on the far left of the class, leant back in his chair, his whole posture one of arrogance. Mr Rich raised an eyebrow as if thanking him for his ready obedience. Peter secretly admired Tomi. It was Tomi who had stuck the sticker on the blackboard that read: Down with reactionary teachers and none of the teachers had the nerve to remove it. He had suffered no long-term consequences of his fall. Next to Tomi sat Albert, the boy who had done the narration, a tall, good-looking fair boy, quite the perfect Aryan. The leader and his henchman. No teacher dared separate them.

  Mr Rich cleared his throat. ‘Right, today, children, we shall be following on from our discussion last week and asking how the Bolshevik swine managed to weedle their way into power in Russia...’ An audible groan came from the left. Mr Rich tried to ignore it. ‘And the events leading up to the so-called Russian Revolution. But first...’ he paused for effect. ‘I have to ask Martin and Peter to leave the room.’ He grinned as he said it, pleased to have gained a degree of credibility with the children at the twins’ expense. Peter felt the colour rise in his cheeks as the whole class (except Monika) turned to look at them.

  ‘Martin? Peter, if you don’t mind?’

  Of course they minded but what choice did they have? Brothers together, communists together; a curse to be worn and endured thanks to their father. They rose and started gathering their papers. ‘You can leave them there; you can come back after the break.’

  Peter, closest to the door, led the way, Martin behind him. Peter kept his eyes fixed to the floor, not wanting to catch the sea of contemptuous grins as he made his way through the rows of desks. Someone threw a ball of paper, hitting Peter on the back of the head.

  ‘Albert, stop that,’ said the teacher with little conviction.

  As Peter passed Monika, she coughed, a delicate, apologetic cough. Was it a coincidence or a signal?

  The corridor was short. The whole school was small, a rectangular building with a corrugated roof, consisting of only five classrooms and a couple of offices. Each day, the twins walked the four kilometres to school, their rucksacks, containing books and lunch, strapped to their backs. Each day they arrived, tired, followed a minute or two later by Monika who walked the same path but kept a respectable distance behind them. The boys hated the hike while their parents envied their freedom to walk so far without question. Posters adorned the length of the corridor, proclaiming the National Socialist struggle, or the vitriolic lambasting of their enemies – Britain and France – the hated imperialists, or the despicable, unpatriotic Jews. Germany is a strong bastion in the camp of freedom; For us work is a matter of honour and glory.

  ‘We’re going to have to do something about him, you know.’

  ‘Who?’ Peter had been idly staring out of the window, gazing over the walled compound of their school and across at the thatched roofs of the nearby village; a much nicer village than their own. An old peasant woman dressed in black trudged across the field, bent almost double. Old King Wenceslas came to mind.

  ‘Father, of course, stupid.’

  Peter knew whom Martin had meant. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we need to tame him before he kills Mother or one of us. We could denounce him in some way.’

  ‘Denounce him? That would mean...’

  ‘Exactly. We’d be safe.’

  Peter hated it when Martin spoke like this, as if only he had the right to decide things; that Peter’s own opinions counted for nothing. His only way out was to defeat his brother on a practical level, for once Martin had decided on something there was no shifting him from his belief that he was in the right. ‘What would we denounce him for?’ asked Peter, realising that by saying we, he was already allying himself with Martin’s scheme.

  Martin squinted, his mind turning over the possibilities, ‘Tell them that he loves Stalin or something, or that he’d walked further than the four kilometres.’

  ‘They notice if anyone breaks their curfew.’

  ‘That he gets drunk and says anti-Nazi things. No one would doubt that.’

  Peter felt the butterflies in his stomach. The peasant woman had disappeared from view. Martin was serious, he could see that, and perhaps what he said made sense, but he didn’t like it. Yes, life with his father could be frightening; never knowing when the next beating may come, but he was still their father, and he couldn’t imagine life without him.

  ‘No, we can’t.’

  ‘Oh yes, we can.’ Martin looked at him directly in the eye. ‘We must.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He might get better, he might get a job, he might–’

  ‘He might fly to the moon,’ said Martin, throwing his arms up in the air. ‘Grow up, Peter.’

  Peter was desperately trying to think of another retort, when their classroom door swung open, and the first of their classmates appeared. ‘You can go back in after break,’ said one, as the group amassed in the corridor. ‘He’s finished now,’ said another.

  Peter was suddenly aware of Monika leaning against the corridor wall opposite him, her head lowered, her eyes peering out from under her fringe. His stomach lurched. Martin had started chatting to the group of boys. Peter wanted to say something to her, wanted her to say something to him. Instead, they stood silently opposite each other while others passed between them, a blur of featureless beings. Then a face blocked Peter’s vision, the cropped hair, the aggressive eyes. It was Tomi.

  ‘So, you bastard; you killed our Horst.’ Behind him, stood Albert and others.

  ‘I... I didn’t kill anyone,’ said Peter, stepping back. Tomi and his small gathering burst out into laughter, a threatening, accusing laugh.

  ‘You’re communists, aren’t you?’ said Albert.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tomi. ‘So you killed
Horst Wessel, you Jew-lovers.’

  ‘Fuck you, Tomi.’ Martin had stepped forward where Peter had stepped back.

  ‘You commies killed Horst Wessel.’

  ‘And you peasant boys have got shit for brains–’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ said a shrill female voice.

  ‘Nothing, Miss Hoffman,’ said Tomi.

  ‘Well, what are you hanging round here for then? Get along.’ The boys lingered a moment. ‘Get along with you, I say. Martin, a word, please. You too, Peter.’

  ‘It wasn’t the twins’ fault, Miss,’ said Monika. Peter had forgotten about her and felt inexplicably pleased that she was still there. ‘It was Tomi and the others. They were being rude.’ Peter knew that it had taken courage for her to say the words.

  ‘Were they indeed? No doubt whipped up by our good Mr Rich.’

  ‘He said the commies–’

  ‘Well, I expect Peter and Martin have heard worse in their time. Am I right?’

  Martin looked at Peter, and Peter knew that faraway look, when his eyes drifted back through the years of their short lives. It was one of the few times when the brothers felt sibling affinity. They never spoke about it, not even to each other, and certainly not to a teacher, however sympathetic. But when Martin’s expression drifted back to that uncertain past, it brought back for Peter that all-encompassing fear: the days with their mother waiting for Father to return from the concentration camp, fearful that they too, even as children, might get arrested, that they'd come for their mother. They were a family then. But a haunted one.

  Miss Hoffman seemed embarrassed by their silence. ‘Well, not to worry,' she said most quietly. 'We're safe with Hitler, our so-called saviour.’

  Peter’s heart quickened: her tone was insincere, the way she had emphasised so-called. He wasn’t sure whether he had heard her correctly.

  ‘One day,’ she continued, lowering her voice, ‘we’ll be free of this tyranny. One day we’ll be able to hold up our heads again.’

  No one knew what to say; they didn’t dare agree with her. It was Martin who broke the awkward silence. ‘We... we ought to go, Miss Hoffman, we don’t want to be late.’

  ‘That’s fine, off you go, and if you get any more trouble from Tomi and...’ But Martin was already half way down the corridor. Miss Hoffman looked at Peter, who forced a weak smile.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Hoffman,’ he said, following his brother, Monika behind him. They had no desire to stay in the presence of a woman so loose with her words.

  Chapter 7: The Head

  The subdued morning light shone through the threadbare curtains. Peter stirred, opening his eyes, wiping away the sleep. Lying on her side, facing him, was his mother, the outline of her shape shrouded by the sheet, her face enveloped into the pillow. A strand of hair fell across her cheek. He lifted his head to see if Martin was still asleep the other side of her. But his brother had gone, the indent of his head still visible on the pillow. He was probably out, thought Peter, taking one of his early morning strolls.

  Peter studied his mother’s face – the length of her eyelashes, the delicate arc of her eyebrow, the definition in her cupid’s bow, the faint hint of down on her upper lip. How it pained him to think that when she looked in the mirror, it wasn’t these delicate features she saw but the all-too-recent scars of violence – the shadow of blackened red under her left eye, the swollen lip, the fading bruise on her cheekbone. How can a man do this to the woman he purports to love?

  And sadly, things had gotten worse. His father had made a friend, a village loner called Otto. Otto’s presence in Adolphus’s life had, at least, stopped his father’s daytime drinking. Instead, Adolphus and Otto spent their days shooting the local wildlife in the nearby woods. But the evenings had become insufferable. The two of them went out drinking in the two village bars, returning to their respective homes inebriated. Each night, their father’s imminent return caused the twins and their mother evenings of fearful anticipation, awaiting his obstreperous entrance and the violent language – or worse.

  She opened her eyes and immediately focused on him. A drowsy smile spread across her lips. ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, her voice slow and husky. Her breath fell on his face, stale and sleepy, but it was his mother’s smell and he breathed it in.

  ‘School today?’

  He nodded. She turned onto her back and stretched, her hands reaching back and touching the wall behind the bed. Yawning, she winced and her finger went to her lip and daubed the swollen wound.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  He knew she was lying, trying to protect him, as she always did. ‘Why don’t you leave him?’

  ‘Oh, Peter, how can you ask that? He needs us – you, me and Martin. I can’t just up and leave. Anyway, where would we go? We couldn’t really lose ourselves in a village this small.’

  ‘Mama, you’re always making excuses for him, but he shouldn’t be doing these things to you – to us. It’s worse now with this... this man Otto.’

  She sighed and turned to face him, with a look in her eye and the knotted eyebrows that told him she was about to launch into something earnest. ‘I know you won’t ever forget what we went through when they took your father away, Peter, but you don’t realise the full extent of how he suffered. Everyday, they used to beat him. But he was brave – he never let them beat him down. It was they, the camp, that made him what he is now.’

  ‘I know all this, Mama.’ If his father had been so brave back then, he wondered, why did he lack the courage now to admit that what he was doing to his family was so damn wrong. He could see the shame in his father’s eyes when sober, as he waited for the headache to pass. Peter resolved never to show such weakness.

  ‘Do you, Peter? Do you really know it? The Jews and us communists have suffered at the hands of Hitler and his party.’

  ‘Our saviour; our so-called saviour,’ interrupted Peter, thinking of Miss Hoffman.

  ‘So-called? Peter, don’t ever use that expression. No, look at me, look at me. Promise me, don’t ever use that expression.’

  ‘But...’ He thought about telling her about Miss Hoffman but decided against it.

  ‘Promise me.’

  ‘They think we killed Horst Wessel.’

  ‘He was nothing more than a Nazi thug. So, who said that?’

  ‘The kids at school – they think we commies killed him.’

  ‘But you must know they didn’t banish us out here for that–’

  ‘It was because of Papa’s beliefs, yes, I know. And now he’s bitter and so he hits you and he hits us and you think you have this fantastic reason to forgive him every time he does it.’

  He expected her to react angrily but instead her face fell deeper into the pillow. Her arm stretched out and lay gently on his shoulder. ‘Yes, Peter, I do.’

  *

  On their hike to school, Martin talked further of denouncing their father, of ‘ridding the family of its cancer.’ Peter thought of his mother and her loyalty to her husband, and tried to work out whether her loyalty was misguided or heroic. But he said nothing.

  He turned round to see Monika following them only yards behind. Each day, she seemed to be closing in on them. He wanted to invite her to walk alongside them but, as always, allowed himself to be swayed by his prediction of Martin’s reaction.

  As soon as they arrived at school, the twins realised that something unusual was happening – the teachers seemed agitated, the atmosphere tense. But when they asked round, none of the children knew why and the teachers weren’t saying.

  They had to wait until mid-morning before they found out. The first lesson had been German literature with Miss Kretschmann, a dreadful old widow who lectured with such a shrill voice, Peter always came away from her lessons with a headache. It was rumoured her husband had committed suicide. Having to listen to a voice like that every day, Peter didn’t blame him.

  Mr Rich took the second lesson, pulling nervously on his
tie. His hair was so carefully parted, it made Peter think of a straight road running through a forest. The children settled down quickly hoping that Mr Rich would enlighten them as to why everything seemed out of the ordinary. They weren’t disappointed – what he said was both satisfying and intriguing at the same time. Mr Manstein, the headmaster, said Mr Rich, needed to speak to every child in the school – individually. When their name was called, they should report directly to his office, and when finished, come back to class. They were not permitted to speak to anyone about their conversation with the Head, and the severest of punishments would be meted out to those who were caught gossiping. Almost as soon as he’d finished, Miss Kippenberger, sometime teacher, sometime Headmaster’s secretary, knocked on the classroom door and entered without waiting for a reply. ‘Tomi Schücking,’ she said, without acknowledging the teacher.

  Tomi looked at Mr Rich, waiting for permission to leave – an unusual show of obedience, thought Peter. ‘Well go on, then, boy. Off you go.’

  Tomi rose from his desk and grinned at the rest of the class, but Peter could see the uncertainty under the bluster. He saw it because he was feeling it too. What on earth could Mr Manstein want with all of them? And to see each of them, one at a time, was unprecedented.

  Pulling again on his tie, Mr Rich launched into his lesson – the perfidiousness of Stalin on his route to power. He spoke in a low, rambling voice, his nerves on display, rendering it almost impossible to listen or take in what he was saying.

  ‘And there he reamins to this day – enscouned in the Kremlin, surrounded by sycophants.’