Bunker (2 page)

‘The key, or else…'

I'm kneeling in front of him, my hands tied behind my back. He's walking nervously around in front of me, his upper body moving back and forth. I try not to look at him, keep my eyes fixed on his shoes. Trainers. He's trying to be cool. Arsehole. Just don't look at him, look at his shoes, don't look him in the eye. Don't look at his face. Keep looking at his shoes. His shoes.

He grabs my hair with one hand and wrenches my head far back. Swings his arm. I feel a deep, penetrating pain, my skull seems to be splitting. That bastard, he hit me in the face! I hurt all over. My head, my shoulders, my hands and knees. That bastard, that filthy, bloody bastard! The key, or else… the key… I don't have the key!

He swings his arm back again, hits me in the face a second time. Bright lightning flashes in front of my eyes. My left eye is throbbing. I can hardly stand the pain. Like a long, sharp needle running through my skull. Going deeper every time my heart beats, deeper and deeper. I try opening my eyes. Open your eyes! For God's sake open your eyes! It's no good. I can't open them. The pain! Open your eyes! Pull yourself together, open them! The light's so bright, incredibly glaring. I can't keep my eyes open. Can't. I try again. My left eye stays closed, my right eye opens just a crack. Everything's all blurred. The hand in my hair jerks my head back. Pain again, my head is bursting.

The key…the key…I feel as if the ground's giving way under me. Heat rises in me, running up over my back, the nape of my neck, it takes hold of my head from behind, breaks over my forehead like a wave. I slowly sag and collapse, let myself fall…just let myself fall…

I fall through a never-ending black void. Suddenly there's something shining – I feel drawn to that light, it's like swimming through the void towards the light. The brightness pushes the dark away. I'm in a room. I know the room, I've been here before, I've been here countless times. Don't know when. Don't know why. I'm turning around myself, turning on my own axis. Seeing the room through my eyes, seeing
myself at the same time, watching myself turning and looking around. The little boy appears as if out of nowhere, standing in front of me, small and skinny. I go towards him, I don't recognize him, yet he's somehow familiar to me, like the room where I find myself now. The boy's face changes, it looks more familiar with every step that I take closer to him. Joachim? Joachim, it's Joachim, it must be Joachim! My doubts change to certainty. With a girl beside him, maybe thirteen years old, dark-blonde hair in plaits. Closer, closer still. Where did that girl come from all of a sudden? She's standing in the room beside me, no, she's not beside me… I'm inside her. I'm the girl. I'm the girl, I'm a child again. The images flow into each other, each emerging from the one before it. The boy, Joachim, turns to me. I can't understand what he's saying. He's babbling away much too fast. I can't understand him, it makes no sense. Slowly, words form.

I'm beginning to understand him. ‘Piggy bank.' I look at the floor. There are bits of broken earthenware all over it. Coins among the broken bits. Pfennigs, ten-pfennig pieces. Joachim bends down, kneels in front of me. He's wearing short trousers, kneeling on the broken piggy bank with his legs bare, his knees bleeding. He looks down at the coins. My hand takes hold of his soft hair, shakes his head, hauls it up to me, his face wet with tears. Snot running out of his nose.
‘You lousy little thief!' I feel the rage in me, I feel incredible rage. My free hand keeps hitting his little head, won't stop. He's bleeding, I keep on hitting him, again and again…until his head, his body go slack, hanging from my hand. I watch myself with indifference as I let go of him. His body sags, now he's lying on the floor without moving, lying on the broken piggy bank. Blood slowly trickles from his ear in a thin red line. Curious, I put out my hand to touch the trickle of blood. See it shining on my fingertip. I bend down, feel my lips touching his cheek; I kiss his hair, all smeared with blood. Even as my lips touch him I want him to disappear. His body has to go! I must get it away! I fetch the wheelbarrow, try to heave the body into it. Even though he's so small and thin, he feels incredibly heavy. As soon as I've done it and he's in the wheelbarrow, he slips out again the other side.

‘Hello, Monika, want to take me for a walk?' I stop in surprise, I turn around. I'm in a meadow, not inside a room any more. Joachim is standing there, leaning against a willow tree. Joachim who was lying on the floor like a dead body just now. He's holding one hand to his ear, grinning.

The picture blurs, I wake up from the dream, I slip back into reality. I try opening my eyes. It works only with the right eye, and even that eye not properly. I blink, the light's
glaring, dazzling. I close my eye again. Try once more. This time I manage to keep it open a little longer, I'm getting used to the brightness. Where am I? Am I alone? I don't feel the hand in my hair any more. I'm lying on my side, hands still tied behind my back. My coat over me. On the fitted carpet with my back to the wall, in the corridor between the office door and the staff toilets. How is the coat arranged, where are the coat pockets? On the inside. He's put the coat over me lining side out. I try to get hold of the fabric with my fingers. Grope around as well as I can with my hands tied behind my back. My arms hurt, my hands feel as if they've gone to sleep. I have to wiggle my fingers for a little while to bring them back to life before they'll obey me. Somehow or other I manage to wedge the fabric between my fingers. I feel the edge of the coat pocket. Get hold of the inside-out edge of the fabric. Pull it towards me, little by little. The fabric slips out of my fingers. Shit! I try again. Once, twice. My pocket-knife is in there. I manage to get my fingers inside the pocket. I feel the cold metal. I must shake the knife out of the pocket. Somehow or other I must shake that damn knife out of my coat pocket. I've no idea how I'm going to do it, but I try. Again and again and again. Until I manage to get the knife wedged between my forefinger and middle finger. Slowly pull it out of the pocket. My fingers get stuck at
the fabric edge of the coat pocket; I press them more tightly around the handle of the knife. The pressure makes it slip out of my fingers again, back into the coat pocket. Bloody hell.

I hear sounds, footsteps coming closer, very close. I close my eyes, pretend I'm asleep. He's standing right in front of me. I don't need to open my eyes, I know who's standing there. The toe of one shoe is pushed under my face, turns my head suddenly from lying sideways to facing up. My heart is thudding. My breath stays steady. Slowly, I open my right eye. I try to look at him. The light is behind him, so I see only his outline. His body looks massive. He has very short hair. Have I ever seen him before? Does he look familiar to me? A customer? Damn it, I can't remember.

‘The key!'

Police cars, fire service vehicles, engines running, blue lights, noise, the narrow path through the forest is jam-packed with them. One after another, no way of getting through.

The forest is full of flashing light.

Outside the mill, the compressor roaring, thick cables running over to the house. Two large searchlights set up outside the metal door, lighting up the entrance to the mill. Unnaturally glaring light, the whole scene is improbable, like something on stage in a theatre. The area outside is brightly illuminated too. The old wooden door lying on the darkly gleaming swampy ground; the bushes along the path cast harsh shadows.

I got up early, packed my things, and now I'm on my way. There's no one else around yet. The newsreader on the car radio is talking about rioting and violence between neo-Nazis and police outside an immigrants' hostel in Hoyerswerda. I switch the thing off.

Mist lies above the forest. It is early morning, the mist is beginning to drift apart and dissolve until it's all disappeared. The ground is still moist with dew. The air smells of wet earth. I like it. I've wound the window down a little way, I can feel the airflow as I drive, I smell the forest.

Pine trees grow close together all the way up to the side of the road. The road divides the forest, cutting it in two. The tarmac is still wet in many places, the road surface looks dark, almost black.

Just before the sharp right bend I take my foot off the accelerator and turn left into the cart-track, reducing my speed. The place is hard to find. I drive on along the unmade track, reducing speed again. I continue almost at walking pace over gravel, avoiding the potholes left by the last heavy rain. The path gets narrower and narrower; the ride is bumpy now. There are deep ruts in the ground, a space that rises higher between them. I avoid large stones to keep the undercarriage of the car from coming down on them. The further the track leads into the forest, the more the undergrowth and bushes encroach on it. Branches brush against the car, I let it move forward very slowly. I stop at the big fir-tree root. No motor vehicles can get any further along the track.

I switch off the engine, climb out of the car and go round to the rear door. The bloody boot is stuck again, won't open. The jolting and the unmade surface of the track have tilted the old chassis out of true. I hit it with the palm of my hand. No good. I need a tool to lever the catch open. There's a screwdriver in the car. I get it out of the glove compartment, insert it under the catch of the rear door to the boot, and it springs open.

Now that it's open I take the plastic bags and my backpack out. A bag in each hand and the backpack over my shoulders, I trudge along the overgrown forest path. The
thorns of the brambles catch in my trouser legs. I take no notice, pull myself free as I walk on, try to avoid them. The path runs slightly downhill here; I go down it to the pond. Wet leaves and mossy stones make the path slippery. The pond is an artificial one, laid out long ago as a fishpond, fed by damming and diverting water from the little stream. It was supplied through a wooden spillway, but over the years that has rotted, and the pond has turned to swampy, brackish mud. It only fills up occasionally after long, heavy rainfall. In hot summers it stinks to high heaven. Then the mud turns leathery and dull, and broad cracks appear in it, scaly and smelly.

I follow the path on along the bank and over to the old mill. The millwheel is stuck in the mud of what used to be the supply to the pond, with reeds growing around it. Only a few wooden ribs still hang in the metal frame of the wheel. The house itself is still in good condition, except for the roof. Every strong wind does more damage, and soon a storm will take the whole thing off. I ought to repair it.

At some time the old wooden front door was replaced by an iron one. The old door lies outside in the mud, bridging a marshy patch of ground. I raise the iron door slightly to open it, bracing my whole weight against it. The hinges are rusty, and it's difficult to open. The room beyond is dark,
the air musty and heavy with the damp. No electricity, only paraffin lamps in the house. I put the bags down on the floor and take off my backpack. I light the lamps with my cigarette lighter. I close the door.

He tied a blindfold round my eyes before pushing me into the car. I lie there with my hands bound behind my back. The toes of my shoes just touch the floor of the car. As he drove over the bumpy road the blindfold slipped. Through the narrow space, I can see the back of a car seat. The drive seems endless. But then the car stops and the door is opened.

‘Come on, stand up!'

The man takes hold of my arms and legs, tries to pull me out of the car. I'm scared. What's he going to do to me? I can't get out of the car fast enough for him. He pulls my hair. Hands behind my back, legs gone to sleep. He couldn't care less, the bastard. He goes on pulling me out. I stumble, can't
find my footing, try to get my hands in front of me, can't. I scream. I fall forward, can't support myself on anything, I land on my face. As I fall I turn over on my side. Leaves, fir needles, earth in my mouth, in my nose. I cough, spit stuff out, I stay lying there. Everything hurts. The cord round my hands is cutting into my flesh worse than ever. My head hurts so badly.

‘Stand up!'

The bastard is shouting at me. Why doesn't he understand that I can't, not with my hands tied? I just want to stay lying on the forest floor. The ground smells good, smells of mushrooms, earth, moss. All of a sudden I feel calm, I'm not afraid any more. Let him do whatever he likes! I'm staying here on the ground. If he wants to kill me he'll have to do it here. I'll just stay lying where I am, I won't move. My life might end here and now. There's something peaceful about the idea. I feel a strange wish for it: just to stay here for ever and ever.

His hand is tugging at my shoulder. He grabs me, hauls me up. Why can't he just leave me alone? I get a bit of purchase on the ground once I'm kneeling. He pushes me in the ribs until I stand up, then forces me back to the car.

‘Now, sit down! Wait!'

I try to sit down, but I slowly slip to the ground, my back against the car door. I stay squatting on the ground. I hear
quiet footsteps. The car doors are opened and closed. The slight sound of footsteps again, dry twigs snapping. Then silence. Nothing happens. I wait. Why should I wait here? Why isn't anything happening? Insects humming quietly around me, that's all, a lot of birds twittering. I sit there, breathing, calming down. Nothing happens.

Am I alone? I rub my head against the car, pushing the blindfold further up. It works loose and falls off. I open my eyes as far as I can with one of them so swollen, see the irregular outline of the treetops moving slightly back and forth, rays of light from the setting sun falling through them. I sit there leaning against the car, it's warm, my body relaxes. No sign of that guy, I'm alone.

As if by some miracle, I'm still holding the little pocketknife. I didn't drop it when I fell, I kept it clutched in my fist. I was trying to open it all through the drive. I didn't succeed. Now, sitting here with my back to the car, I try again. And this time it works. I can open the knife. A little way, then a little more. The knife jumps out of my hand and falls to the ground. Bloody hell! I grope about on the ground with my fingers. I can't find it, but I touch a squashed tin can. I rub the cords against the sharp lid of the can. I shift, it scratches my wrists, but never mind that now. Desperately I tug and pull at my bonds, until the cord comes apart and my hands are
free. I shake them, rub my sore wrists. Everything is still calm around me. I cautiously look in all directions. The forest, the woodland track, the car.