see the animals’ eyes are widened with terror. Another photo is of a destroyed Russian tank with sacks of flour strewn around it. I read a bit of the caption: ‘note the enemy dead in the immediate vicinity of the armoured vehicle’. Not sacks of flour. I lick my finger, spinning forwards quickly to the index. I find the ‘M’s and glance at the list. And there it is. ‘Meyer, Gefreiter, page 150.’
I shut the book. It must be a coincidence. It can’t be him. Meyer is a common name. But I have to look. My heart bumps against my ribs as I turn the pages. There’s a picture of three German soldiers pointing guns at unarmed people in ordinary clothes. One of them, I see with a shock, is a woman. She’s thin, young. Her blank expression is pinned before the barrel of a gun. I understand that I’m seeing her in the instant before she dies. Something else about the image jags, catches in my mind. The soldier nearest the camera is in profile. And despite the grainy black and white, I know that nose; that jut of chin. My hands begin to shake. My heart is crawling through my throat. I scan down, blinking, searching the caption. ‘Execution of Jewish partisans. Gefreiter Ohler, Gefreiter Krenz, Gefreiter Meyer. 1943, Russia.’
My father stands before me, legs planted firmly in the barren white that must be snow. He stares over his gun into the face of the woman. His lips are set, jaw clenched in an expression he wears a lot: that cold anger of his I’m so familiar with. Gefreiter Meyer.
The mother’s reading voice carries on behind me, a soft blur. I hear her child asking something and her answering hush, hush; the quiet click of shoes moving across the floor; rub and flicker of pages turning in the mild, bookish air. But in my head there is the crack of a gun; the crumple and thud of a woman falling into white, a single sigh as breath leaves her body.
I shove the book across the table and put my head between my knees. The floor lurches. My insides twist. Is this what he got his medals for? I can’t get the photograph out of my head. I think the girl will always be there now. Fixed inside my skull.
1993
September
Mum keeps patting powder onto her cheeks, but more shiny tracks appear as she dabs at her eyes with a screwed-up hankie. I squeeze her hand. ‘It’s only three years, Mum. It’ll go so fast.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s your time to get out into the world. You won’t be coming home. It’s all right, love. I understand. But remember your bedroom will always be here for you.’ She pats my arm. ‘I’ll be here. In case you need me.’
I swallow. Saliva catching in my throat. She won’t let me speak. She puts a finger on my lips. ‘Run upstairs and say goodbye to your dad.’
I go slowly through the sitting room, trailing up the stairs, looking around me as if this really is the last time I’ll see it: the framed words from Scripture; surfaces cluttered with wooden statues; the umbrella stand and the clock in the hall.
Their bedroom door is ajar. I see him through the slender opening. He’s standing in front of the mirror doing up his tie. He finishes, adjusting the knot. He looks at himself, blue eyes and expressionless mouth. I take a breath, preparing to enter, not knowing if he will hug me this time, or just shake my hand as he usually does. But before I can take a step, or push at the door, he raises his right arm. He lifts it in a line, saluting his reflection with slow gravity, his arm rigid, standing straight and tall. Like the soldiers in films; the boys at school.
I put my hand over my mouth, beginning to back away, soundless over the carpet, but his voice reaches me.
‘Come in, Klaudia.’
I edge into the room, my cheeks burning. We both know what I saw.
He doesn’t blink. ‘Well, you’re off. Remember where you come from; don’t let university life go to your head.’ His face is a mask. ‘Work hard. Find the nearest chapel. Jesus will help you to stay on the
I shut the book. It must be a coincidence. It can’t be him. Meyer is a common name. But I have to look. My heart bumps against my ribs as I turn the pages. There’s a picture of three German soldiers pointing guns at unarmed people in ordinary clothes. One of them, I see with a shock, is a woman. She’s thin, young. Her blank expression is pinned before the barrel of a gun. I understand that I’m seeing her in the instant before she dies. Something else about the image jags, catches in my mind. The soldier nearest the camera is in profile. And despite the grainy black and white, I know that nose; that jut of chin. My hands begin to shake. My heart is crawling through my throat. I scan down, blinking, searching the caption. ‘Execution of Jewish partisans. Gefreiter Ohler, Gefreiter Krenz, Gefreiter Meyer. 1943, Russia.’
My father stands before me, legs planted firmly in the barren white that must be snow. He stares over his gun into the face of the woman. His lips are set, jaw clenched in an expression he wears a lot: that cold anger of his I’m so familiar with. Gefreiter Meyer.
The mother’s reading voice carries on behind me, a soft blur. I hear her child asking something and her answering hush, hush; the quiet click of shoes moving across the floor; rub and flicker of pages turning in the mild, bookish air. But in my head there is the crack of a gun; the crumple and thud of a woman falling into white, a single sigh as breath leaves her body.
I shove the book across the table and put my head between my knees. The floor lurches. My insides twist. Is this what he got his medals for? I can’t get the photograph out of my head. I think the girl will always be there now. Fixed inside my skull.
1993
September
Mum keeps patting powder onto her cheeks, but more shiny tracks appear as she dabs at her eyes with a screwed-up hankie. I squeeze her hand. ‘It’s only three years, Mum. It’ll go so fast.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s your time to get out into the world. You won’t be coming home. It’s all right, love. I understand. But remember your bedroom will always be here for you.’ She pats my arm. ‘I’ll be here. In case you need me.’
I swallow. Saliva catching in my throat. She won’t let me speak. She puts a finger on my lips. ‘Run upstairs and say goodbye to your dad.’
I go slowly through the sitting room, trailing up the stairs, looking around me as if this really is the last time I’ll see it: the framed words from Scripture; surfaces cluttered with wooden statues; the umbrella stand and the clock in the hall.
Their bedroom door is ajar. I see him through the slender opening. He’s standing in front of the mirror doing up his tie. He finishes, adjusting the knot. He looks at himself, blue eyes and expressionless mouth. I take a breath, preparing to enter, not knowing if he will hug me this time, or just shake my hand as he usually does. But before I can take a step, or push at the door, he raises his right arm. He lifts it in a line, saluting his reflection with slow gravity, his arm rigid, standing straight and tall. Like the soldiers in films; the boys at school.
I put my hand over my mouth, beginning to back away, soundless over the carpet, but his voice reaches me.
‘Come in, Klaudia.’
I edge into the room, my cheeks burning. We both know what I saw.
He doesn’t blink. ‘Well, you’re off. Remember where you come from; don’t let university life go to your head.’ His face is a mask. ‘Work hard. Find the nearest chapel. Jesus will help you to stay on the
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