Stile Maus (5 page)

‘Tell me private,’ he said, ‘what have become of the staff who served at last night’s ball?’

‘I believe that they have been detained within the chambers for questioning, major.’ 

‘Very good,’ Major Anaheim started.

‘Let us catch our mouse
.’

Private Schulze was still shrugging into his trench coat when two guards lead the Gestapo Major and himself into the courtyard.  His nose became red in an instant and tingled when he sniffed.  The headquarters looked large and dark as Schulze glanced back at the closing doors.  Through the winds of sweeping white he could make little sense of where the first guard had left them.  The second carried on ahead and came to a standstill when the Major reached the centre of the yard.  An eagle, tall and mighty with huge stone wings and a beak half ajar loomed over the three, shivering figures.  Schulze watched it curiously.  Major Anaheim turned to the guard.

‘
This is fine.  Fetch the staff, all of them.’

The guard
heard him through the wind and trudged back towards the headquarters, his head bowed.  Schulze followed his footprints until they were no more, filled and blanketed by the cascading blizzard.  A door snatched in the distance and then clanged to a close.  Schulze cupped his hands and treated each palm to a blast of hot air.  The heat did nothing but inflame his agony and he compensated each ghostlike hand with two extra huffs, wincing straight after.  Beside him, the Major stood still beneath the winged spread of the eagle, his shoulders kept from the snow.  Schulze marvelled at his unruffled stillness.  There was something strangely anomalous about the man standing beside him and it seemed, as extraordinary as it were, that the snow wished to have nothing to do with him.  Voices came from the mist, sudden and shallow and weak.  Then the young private saw them, stumbling through the snow like lost souls, children and women and men, clawing at the flakes, crying whimpers of fear.  Two guards led them, their eyes black in the morning darkness.  The Major breathed in a deep, long sigh and traipsed forwards, kicking at the snow with sharp steps.  He met with the guards and watched alongside them as the wind spat and howled, shepherding the silhouettes into a muddled gathering which no longer spread across the eagle’s yard.  Schulze edged closer.  He saw silver eyes, tall and short.  He heard the sobs, the snivels of the young.  Major Anaheim appeared to nod and then whisper something in response to both soldiers.  Then, with a sharp sweep of his trench coat, he headed back towards private Schulze and the eagle.  His breath came as shards, gracing the air in cold bursts of icy white.  The guards had followed him a short distance but now stood with their backs to Schulze, rifles clasped to their quaking chests.  The Major came to a halt.  An orchestra of folding shadows rippled beyond the peak of his hat.  Schulze felt his eyes widen.  Even the downpour could not make him blink.  The Major lifted a hand and the two guards arched their shoulders, raising each rifle.  A girl, not the age of eleven broke away from the fog and bawled, her tears frozen against purple cheeks.  Letting his eyelids fall, Schulze bowed his chin, allowing a ladder of blondish hair to latch against his rime covered brow.  There came a click, then another.  The echo lasted and the triggers of each rifle groaned.  After that the courtyard fell silent.  The prayers of the doomed were kept from the cold and held inside those who so desperately sought its mercy.  The Major strained his gloved fingers and the leather grew tight against his palm.  His clenched fist managed to entrap a handful of swaying flakes.  And then it fell, flailing down with a hurried swing.  The blasts were deafening.  Private Schulze heard them fall, one gentle slump after another.  The smell of hot cinder filled his nose.  A rustle pricked at his ears, beyond the memory of gunfire.  In that moment, the Private risked a painfully curious glance.  With difficultly, Major Anaheim had thumbed open a packet of cigarettes and then ushered the thin stick of finely wrapped tobacco onto his bottom lip.  Anaheim waited for one of the guards to clip open a lighter and pulled sharply at the cigarette as the ember birth blazed alight, flicking rays of brilliant orange into the coldness of his eyes.  Schulze could feel the blood rush from his face and he felt uneasy, suddenly praying that his legs wouldn’t abandon him and buckle.  Turning into the wind, his breath now black and full of smoke, the Major slogged steadily towards the young private and stopped, allowing a yard or two.  Carefully he looked Schulze up and down.

‘I’m parched,’ he said coldly, ‘and that bottle of bourbon sits atop my desk, unscathed.’

He then leaned into the private’s quivering breath.  Without at all meaning to, Private Schulze retreated, tucking his chin into the olive neck of his uniform. With a cough, Gestapo Major Heinrich Anaheim swallowed a cloud of smoke and tossed the cigarette out onto the carpet of tainted white.  Then he walked away, leaving Private Schulze alone in the yard, standing beneath a bridge of broad wings, fearing that today may be day he would never forget.  He would pass the bodies with closed eyes.  But still he knew they lay in a heap, twisted and atop one another, drinking from the red snow. 

TAKING IN STRAYS

Part I

Emile was daydreaming.  The jungle grew all around her, tall and dark and damp.  With her trusty sword,  Grey Thorn, in hand she swiped and swatted her way through the forest, catching drops of dew against her skin as she went on, reckless and wild.  The smell of rain had already befallen the dank clearing where she stood and by now, the echoes of her pursuers were only whispers in the distance.  She risked a moment’s breath, knowing that a footbridge sat somewhere beyond the clearing.  Emile sheathed Grey Thorn, thinking the sword may slow her down, and headed onto the glade.  She rushed and found herself panting over the birth of bridge in no time and with a careful step, Emile edged onto the rickety overpass, testing the first plank before committing her full weight.  It was getting dark and the last remains of the sun began to splinter.  Emile clinched at the banisters of hanging rope and pondered a look down the way.  The bridge narrowed and finished beneath an arch of gathered leaves and vines and she hoped that the way across was shorter than she remembered.  A flock of birds suddenly burst away from a nearby tree and passed overhead, black and fast against the pink sky.  Emile glanced up and forced a frown.  Something had disturbed them.  With a hand on Grey Thorn she turned down her chin and listened to the crackles and splits coming from the undergrowth.  The arch beyond the bridge became full in an instant.  Emile needn’t have turned.   She knew what lay behind her shoulder, beyond the flow of her red hair.  Settling the rise of her stomach, Emile faced the crowds of savage apes with a smirk.  It was the same pack that had found her on the hillside this morning, stroking Grey Thorn at the heads of dandelions, minding her own business.  They had chased her since, and she had done well to elude them, but now, stranded atop the swinging channel of a rickety old bridge, Emile felt trapped and found.  They snapped and scratched at the air, their eyes red and smoky with rage.  Grey Thorn emerged from his scab.  And the armoured apes took to the bridge in their hordes, twisting and tearing towards Emile with gritted yellow teeth and sharp, straying claws.  She readied herself and took stance.  The bridge rumbled beneath her boot heels.

The chat of dinner came back to her like a warm breeze and she set down her bread knife before nursing the grumble of a hungry belly.  Her dreamy absence had gone unnoticed.  And the stolen escapades of her most adored explorer, Rupert Montjoy, disappeared with each blink of cloudy realisation.  Emile lifted a spoon and dug a hole in the lukewarm puddle of red and black peppered soup, swishing the paste round and around boorishly before saying,

‘What is this?’ she said, poking out her tongue.

‘It’s the tail of a dragon,’ joked her uncle Pierre, sniggering from across the table. 

‘You know, like the one
s in your book.’ 

He had a kind face, her uncle.  But there was a pain behind his eyes.  It always looked as though they were ready to unleash a fall of streaming te
ars.  Emile knew there was a story behind that welled stare of his.

‘Don’t encourage her, Pierre,’ said
Emile’s mother with a half smile and a shake of her head, ‘she’ll be climbing the treetops tomorrow morning in search of them.’

‘I’m not silly
mama I
know
they’re not real,’ Emile huffed, ‘monsters don’t exist.’

‘I wouldn’t
be so sure,’ Uncle Pierre said bitterly.

Ignoring his brother’s loose tongue, Emile’s Father, Francis leaned forwards and poured himself another glass of wine. 

‘Can I have some?’ squeaked Emile’s youngest sister, Sophie, holding up an empty glass. 

‘
Non,’ yelled her Mother, ‘ask your Father what wine is made from.  Go on.’  The youngest set of hopeful eyes latched onto the unready expression of Francis, who at first seemed to have no quick witted response. 

‘It... It is made from the drool o
f a particular type of dragon.’

Emile rolled her eyes at the unconfident
suggestion.

‘The Beaujolais dragon is an extremely rare breed, only found in certain parts of the world.’  Francis did well to conceal his lack of imagination, taking a large gulp of wine in triumph as his family
thought over his words.  Emile’s eyebrows arched in disbelief.

‘If it’s so rare then why is there so much wine?’ she replied hastily. 

‘Because,’ Francis began (he quickly slurped at the glass that was pressed against his lips hoping that the liquor would expand his imaginary knowledge of vineyard dragons) ‘have you ever seen a dragon?  They are enormous!  Do you know how many bottles of wine you can make by using the slime that lies across just one dragon tongue?’  Finding herself quite amazed at the string of lies her Father seemed to be telling Emile studied the expressions of everyone who sat around the table, searching for a baffled face that matched her own.  Her two sisters seemed enticed, their wide stares begging for more to be told.  Pierre’s wine glass hid an obvious grin and her Mother had been distracted as she attended to her younger brother Jeremy, who was now covered in a gingery coloured sauce that spilled messily across his pyjamas. 

‘So how does it end up on our farm?  Does the dragon deliver it itself?’  Francis’ smirk disappeared and Pierre bellowed a great laugh, slamming his hand down against the table top. 

‘Okay,’ Francis yelled, appearing to finally confirm his dishonesty, ‘bedtime.’  Emile opened her mouth in an attempt to argue only to notice that her siblings had already declared themselves defeated and had hopped down from their chairs and were now scuttling towards their bedrooms.  A sigh escaped her lips. 

‘Good night Emile,’ the adults sang as she followed suit, scowling as she disappeared into the gloomy living room.  Francis shot Pierre a heated look.

‘You might want to hide your disapproval a little better brother; they are children, not idiots.’ 

‘Don’t fret
Francis, I’ll be visiting the Beaujolais first thing tomorrow morning, just to let it know that its drool had me spilling secrets over dinner last night.’  A grin set across both of their candle glazed faces.

‘How can you both be so calm,’ hissed Isabelle as she pushed away her chair and began rounding the table, gathering each empty bowl and piling them into a steady heap.

‘Relax…’

‘Do NOT tell me to relax.’  Her pink hands plunged into the sink of hot water and she began scrubbing frantically at each dish.  Sighing, Francis got to his feet and came to her side, resting a hand on the neck of her knotted apron.

‘In a few days this will all be over,’ he said reassuringly, ‘please Isabelle, trust me, at least a little.’  A tear threatened to blossom across one of her cheeks. 

‘It’s only a matter of time before…the chil
dren Francis, our children.’

Francis kissed her blushing cheek and then
the curve of her neck followed by her shoulder,

‘Two days my dear, you have my word.’  The three adults continued to speak in hushed whispers, completely unaware that Emile now wore an excited yet nervous grin over her hidden face.     

Emile woke from a shy sleep.  The secret conversation at the dinner table had been replaying in her mind for most of the night and when she finally had drifted off in the early hours of the morning the words took centre stage, roaming her dreams until her eyelids felt the kind sun.  As she slowly opened her eyes she wondered at what point the thoughts had exhausted her and sent her into a deep sleep, glowering as she scrambled away from her bed sheets.  To an adventurer,
time asleep was time wasted and before she knew it she was standing at the foot of her wardrobe, rooting out a bundle of mismatched attire.  Her bare feet hit the warm wood of the corridor and she continued through to the living room, paying no attention to her younger siblings who were sat on the floor, eagerly awaiting their breakfast.  The smell of freshly sizzled rashers filled the air and a hot bout of steam lingered around the kitchen.  Her Uncle sat at the table, jabbing a fork into a heap of sausages while her Mother nursed the stove.