Bunker by Andrea Maria Schenkel Page A

at me. I try a smile myself, stretching the corners of my mouth rather awkwardly.
    I have to be fed like a toddler. Forkful after forkful, now and then a sip of water to wash it down.
    â€˜Have some more?’
    â€˜No, I’ve had enough.’
    â€˜Right, then I’ll take the dishes down to the sink.’
    He stands up and begins clearing the table. I don’t want to be left alone again, I just don’t want it. All at once I’m scared of that, scared of being alone, afraid of my dreams.
    â€˜Can you stay here?’
    He doesn’t say anything, but he sits down again. So there we sit in silence. Each of us looking at the table top. After a while I hear myself speaking to him, very quietly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’
    He doesn’t say a word. Sits there in silence. I just go on talking, talking about anything. Talking so he’ll stay and I won’t be alone.
    â€˜Is this house yours?’
    â€˜Why do you want to know?’
    â€˜Only wondering.’
    A pause. Shit, that was the wrong question.
    â€˜What’s your name?’
    â€˜You can call me whatever you like.’
    â€˜But you must have a name! How about Hans? I’ll call you Hans.’
    â€˜It’s as good as any other name.’
    â€˜Do you like Hans? Is it all right if I call you that?’
    â€˜Go ahead, if you want to.’
    He sits there and doesn’t say any more. Just stares at hishands. I sit there and don’t say any more either. Damn it, this isn’t working, I can’t think of anything to say to him, can’t have a reasonable conversation with him. There’s a wall between us. Joachim, dead Joachim? All I know is that if I’m left alone again I’ll go crazy. I don’t want to be alone, can’t be alone. Everything revolves around that one idea: I don’t want to be alone.
    He stands up. Takes the tray. I stand up too, get in his way.
    â€˜I know where the key is. I can help you get the money, Hans.’
    He stops in surprise, looks at me. For the first time he looks me straight in the eye. It tumbles out of me. I just go on talking.
    â€˜I can help you, and then you’ll let me go, OK?’
    He looks at me suspiciously, tries to get past me with the tray. I step the wrong way, collide with the tray. Everything falls to the floor with a clatter.
    â€˜Sorry.’
    He looks at me, pushes a strand of hair out of my face with his hand. Almost tenderly. Holds my head between his big hands. I close my eyes. He kisses me right on the mouth. Then he picks the broken china up from the floor, takes the tray and goes. I’m just left standing there in the middle of the room.

    I wake up, and my hands are throbbing like crazy. Going wild. I’m beginning to go wild myself, I’m screaming. Turning this way and that in the bed.
    â€˜Hans, help me. I can’t stand this! Give me another injection! Help me! Oh, please help me!’
    A loud crashing and rumbling. He runs up the stairs, gets the plastic bag and shakes out the contents on the bed beside me. What’s he doing? Making a mixture of powder of some kind, water, lemon juice. Heats it all up in a spoon over his cigarette lighter. Draws it up into the syringe.
    â€˜Here we go. This won’t hurt.’
    He knows how to give an injection, I have to admit that. He sits on the bed beside me. Takes me in his arms, holds me tight.
    My toes and fingertips go hot, gradually my arms and feet warm up too. The heat races through my body, up to my breast, gathers in my head. I’m burning! I’m surprised, it doesn’t hurt, I’m not in pain, on the contrary, it’s a pleasant feeling. Like a wave building up in the water and then running in to shore faster and faster until it breaks. The warmth turns to a soft sensation, everything feels lighter, inside and outside.
    I feel as if I could take off from the ground, rise and hoverin the air, overcome gravity. I’ve