‘Where people came to recover from tuberculosis. Or to die.’
‘Maybe they all died,’ said Anton. ‘That’s why it was abandoned.’
They walked slowly along the light-filled room. They began to notice other things: rusty oxygen cylinders clamped to the walls, coils of rubber tubing, oxygen masks, buckets, kidney bowls, stained mattresses, a nurse’s trolley still set out with brown glass bottles, a stethoscope lying in the rubble.
Anton picked up the stethoscope, dusted it against his Aertex shirt, and hung it round his neck.
‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘You’re my nurse, Gustav. Fetch the trolley.’
‘We haven’t got any patients,’ said Gustav.
‘Yes, we have. Can’t you see them?’
‘No.’
‘On the beds. We’re going to bring them alive again.’
So that was how it began, the game of choosing who, among the sufferers of Sankt Alban, lived or died. They gave the patients names: Hans, Margaret, Frau Merligen, Frau Bünden, Herr Mollis, Herr Weiss …
Hans and Margaret were children. Doctor Zwiebel and Nurse Perle were going to have to work especially hard to bring them back to the world. They found the best mattresses for them, those least eaten away by mould. They searched the rest of the building for things that might comfort them: pillows and torn blankets, chamber pots and hot-water bottles.
‘And,’ said Anton, ‘we can bring them toys from the box in the chalet.’
‘Yes,’ said Gustav, ‘except …’
‘Except what?’
‘Won’t your parents think this is odd? They might not want us to play here.’
‘We won’t tell them,’ said Anton.
‘Where will they think we are?’
‘Just “exploring”. On holidays, when she doesn’t want me around, my mother’s always saying “Why don’t you go
exploring
, Anton?” We’ll tell them we’re building a camp in the forest. And anyway, they’ll be fucking.’
‘What’s fucking?’
‘It’s what they like to do on holiday. They go to bed and take their clothes off and kiss and scream things out. It’s called fucking.’
Gustav thought about this. He said, ‘I don’t think my mother’s ever done that. She just goes to bed and reads magazines.’
They forgot about time. To get back to the chalet for lunch, when they heard a midday bell chiming in the village, they had to go racing through the sunlit rooms, down the steps and back onto the steep path. Not stopping, now, to collect strawberries, they ran fast under the canopy of sighing trees, down and down towards the slender pines, until they emerged behind the house and saw Monsieur in the meadow, scattering grain for the hens.
They found Armin and Adriana, sipping wine on the terrace, beside the trough of geraniums. On the table was a dish of meats and pickles and cheese.
‘You’re out of breath,’ said Adriana, as Anton and Gustav sat down. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Exploring,’ they both said together.
‘Exploring where?’ said Armin.
‘In the forest,’ said Anton. ‘We’re making a camp.’
‘A camp?’ said Adriana, frowning. ‘What kind of
camp
?’
‘Just a den. It’s not finished yet.’
‘Can your father and I come and see it?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not finished. And anyway, it’s ours.’
‘Good for you,’ said Armin with a smile. ‘Now have some meat.’
‘That time. That Sankt Alban time …’ they would say, later in their lives. ‘That was a thing we’ve never forgotten.’ And sometimes, they would add, ‘We’ve never forgotten it, because we thought we really had power over life and death.’
On the first day, they made sure that Frau Merligen, Frau Bünden, Herr Mollis and Herr Weiss were comfortable, while they took the pulses of Hans and Margaret and gave oxygen to Hans, who was dying faster than the others. They found some old bamboo and wickerwork recliners and pushed the sick children out onto the veranda, where the sun was strong and where there was shelter from the wind. From the chalet
‘Maybe they all died,’ said Anton. ‘That’s why it was abandoned.’
They walked slowly along the light-filled room. They began to notice other things: rusty oxygen cylinders clamped to the walls, coils of rubber tubing, oxygen masks, buckets, kidney bowls, stained mattresses, a nurse’s trolley still set out with brown glass bottles, a stethoscope lying in the rubble.
Anton picked up the stethoscope, dusted it against his Aertex shirt, and hung it round his neck.
‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘You’re my nurse, Gustav. Fetch the trolley.’
‘We haven’t got any patients,’ said Gustav.
‘Yes, we have. Can’t you see them?’
‘No.’
‘On the beds. We’re going to bring them alive again.’
So that was how it began, the game of choosing who, among the sufferers of Sankt Alban, lived or died. They gave the patients names: Hans, Margaret, Frau Merligen, Frau Bünden, Herr Mollis, Herr Weiss …
Hans and Margaret were children. Doctor Zwiebel and Nurse Perle were going to have to work especially hard to bring them back to the world. They found the best mattresses for them, those least eaten away by mould. They searched the rest of the building for things that might comfort them: pillows and torn blankets, chamber pots and hot-water bottles.
‘And,’ said Anton, ‘we can bring them toys from the box in the chalet.’
‘Yes,’ said Gustav, ‘except …’
‘Except what?’
‘Won’t your parents think this is odd? They might not want us to play here.’
‘We won’t tell them,’ said Anton.
‘Where will they think we are?’
‘Just “exploring”. On holidays, when she doesn’t want me around, my mother’s always saying “Why don’t you go
exploring
, Anton?” We’ll tell them we’re building a camp in the forest. And anyway, they’ll be fucking.’
‘What’s fucking?’
‘It’s what they like to do on holiday. They go to bed and take their clothes off and kiss and scream things out. It’s called fucking.’
Gustav thought about this. He said, ‘I don’t think my mother’s ever done that. She just goes to bed and reads magazines.’
They forgot about time. To get back to the chalet for lunch, when they heard a midday bell chiming in the village, they had to go racing through the sunlit rooms, down the steps and back onto the steep path. Not stopping, now, to collect strawberries, they ran fast under the canopy of sighing trees, down and down towards the slender pines, until they emerged behind the house and saw Monsieur in the meadow, scattering grain for the hens.
They found Armin and Adriana, sipping wine on the terrace, beside the trough of geraniums. On the table was a dish of meats and pickles and cheese.
‘You’re out of breath,’ said Adriana, as Anton and Gustav sat down. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Exploring,’ they both said together.
‘Exploring where?’ said Armin.
‘In the forest,’ said Anton. ‘We’re making a camp.’
‘A camp?’ said Adriana, frowning. ‘What kind of
camp
?’
‘Just a den. It’s not finished yet.’
‘Can your father and I come and see it?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not finished. And anyway, it’s ours.’
‘Good for you,’ said Armin with a smile. ‘Now have some meat.’
‘That time. That Sankt Alban time …’ they would say, later in their lives. ‘That was a thing we’ve never forgotten.’ And sometimes, they would add, ‘We’ve never forgotten it, because we thought we really had power over life and death.’
On the first day, they made sure that Frau Merligen, Frau Bünden, Herr Mollis and Herr Weiss were comfortable, while they took the pulses of Hans and Margaret and gave oxygen to Hans, who was dying faster than the others. They found some old bamboo and wickerwork recliners and pushed the sick children out onto the veranda, where the sun was strong and where there was shelter from the wind. From the chalet
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