My Brother's Secret (7 page)

‘Boy!’

Now everyone was looking at me. All the children had turned to see what was happening, and the man who had been instructing the boys was starting to come over, too. As the teachers marched towards me, and all the children
stared, an image came into my head. It was like the films we sometimes saw at the theatre, except Oma and Opa were the stars of this one. They were sad; shoulders hunched, hands in chains, as they shuffled to the truck to be taken away to a camp. All because of me.

I glanced at Lisa Herz, the girl who had waved, and noticed that she was doing something with her hands. It was hard to focus because so many things were going through my head, but she was doing
something
.

What is it? What is she trying to tell me?

She kept her hands low so no one would notice, but she was flicking them at me as if shooing away a cat.

‘Go,’ she mouthed. ‘Run.’

And that was it. The spell was broken.

I grabbed my bike and began wheeling it away as fast as I could, putting one foot on the pedal as the teachers came closer to the fence.

‘Stop!’ the man shouted.

I swung my other leg over and used the momentum to push down hard on the pedal.

‘Come back!’

I was rushing away now, the wind flying about me once again, my heart racing and thumping in my chest.

I pedalled hard and fast, but this time the excitement was long gone. Instead, I was filled with feelings I hardly understood as my thoughts twisted together; the fear of being caught; of Oma and Opa getting into trouble; the shame of imagining myself reporting them.

I put my head down, hunched over the handlebars and worked and worked and rode and rode and pedalled and
pedalled and went faster and faster and faster.

I raced away from the school without glancing back, turning this way and that, hurtling through the streets and rushing down a cobbled alley that shook the bike and rattled my bones. The walls flew past on either side but I hardly noticed them as I bumped and jostled and headed for the end of the alley and shot out into the road.

The blast of the horn snapped me out of my confusion.

A loud, sharp, long blast that was too late to warn me.

Then everything was slow motion.

To my right, I saw a black Mercedes car heading straight for me. It was shiny and sleek, with a glimmering silver bumper that reflected the morning sunshine.

The driver’s eyes opened wide in surprise and he leaned back in his seat, arms outstretched, fingers gripping the wheel as he jammed on the brakes.

The car screeched towards me and I closed my eyes and felt the shock of the bumper smashing into my bike.

Then I was in the air.

For what felt like a good ten seconds, I touched nothing and nothing touched me.

I was flying.

Floating.

Falling.

Hitting.

I landed on the road with a sickening crunch.

My hands touched the ground first, then my elbows and my knees as I skidded across the hard surface, scraping my skin and collecting tiny pieces of grit in my flesh. My chin cracked against the kerb, clattering my teeth
together, and I came to a stop with an ‘oof’ that shot the air out of my lungs.

‘… all right?’ someone was saying. ‘Boy?’

I opened my eyes to see a pair of shoes close to my face. Shiny black shoes.

‘… hear me?’

Someone put a hand on my shoulder and shook me. He seemed fuzzy, my head was a jumble and my vision was blurred.

‘Are – you – all – right?’ the smart-suited man asked as I turned onto my back and sat up.

There was blood on my palms and little black spots of grit under my skin. My knees were the same, and as soon as I looked at them, they started to throb with pain.

A few people had stopped on the opposite side of the road to see what had happened. Some had come to the windows of their houses when they heard the crash, or had ventured outside and waited by open doors, but none of them came to help. None of them came near except for the man in the suit.

‘Do you always rush out into the road without looking?’ Every word seemed to drip with poison.

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Well, I don’t think “sorry” is going to fix my car, is it?’ He waved a hand at the vehicle and I looked across to see a faint dent in the shiny bumper. Hardly much more than a scratch.

‘Or your bicycle,’ he said.

My bike was lying a few metres away, at the side of the road, the front wheel bent out of shape.

‘It can go for scrap,’ the man said. ‘To help the war effort.’ He turned around and looked at the people on the other side of the road. ‘Someone bring this boy a damp cloth and a glass of water.’

For a moment, no one moved. They stared at the man in the suit, then glanced at one another.

‘Come on then,’ he snapped. ‘One of you. Get on with it.’

It was as if the man in the suit had reached out and slapped them each on the face. Suddenly, they were breaking apart; some of them going back into the houses, others rushing towards the shop on the corner.

‘We haven’t met,’ he said, looking down at me. ‘So perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Gerhard Wolff.
Kriminalinspektor
Gerhard Wolff.’

The man from the Gestapo.

TRUTH AND LIES

K
riminalinspektor Wolff didn’t help me to the car so much as drag me to it. He took one of my arms, hauled me to my feet, and marched me towards the glimmering Mercedes.

‘Don’t get in until you’re clean,’ he said, opening the rear door and sitting me down on the edge of the rim. ‘This car was just washed this morning. Now, let me see your hands.’

I hesitated.

‘Your hands, boy, hold them out.’

I put them both out in front of me, palms to the road, but Wolff continued to stare at me.

His eyes were like steel. Hard and grey and cold. His
nose was slightly crooked as if it might have once been broken, and his lips were thin. He had a strong jaw and his forehead was lined with experience. His blond hair, flecked with grey, was neatly combed into a side parting. His suit was clean and well pressed, and he carried a strong sweet smell of aftershave.

When he looked down at my hands, he took a pair of black-rimmed spectacles from his pocket and put them on, leaning closer. ‘Turn them over.’

I did as I was told.

‘Tell me about this.’ He pointed at the white blobs on my fingertips. ‘Have you been painting?’ He looked at me as if he could see right inside me.

‘No, I …’

‘The truth,’ he said.

‘I touched the wall. In the alley. There was a flower.’

‘Was it you?’ he snapped. ‘Have you been painting walls?’

‘No, sir. I promise.’

‘Turn out your pockets.’

I dug into the pockets of my shorts and pulled them inside out to show him they were empty apart from my penknife with the broken handle.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twelve, sir.’

He stood straight and stared down at me, with his eyes narrowed and his thin lips held tight together as if he were deciding whether or not to eat me.

‘Stay where you are.’

Kriminalinspektor Wolff walked around to the front of
his car to inspect the damage. Standing with hands on his hips, he shook his head, distracted only when a woman approached him, carrying a glass of water and a damp cloth.

‘Over there, over there.’ He waved a hand in my direction, his voice thick with impatience.

The woman came and crouched beside me, offering the glass.

‘Thank you.’ The water was cold and refreshing.

‘Are you all right?’ She spoke quietly as she put the damp cloth to my knee and wiped away the blood with short, gentle strokes. ‘That was quite a bump.’ She had blonde hair tied back in a bun, and kind light-brown eyes. ‘Nothing hurts too much?’

I thought I would look weak if I allowed even one tear to fall, so I wiped my sleeve across my face and shook my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Fine.’

The woman nodded like she didn’t really believe me. ‘Don’t let him frighten you.’

‘I’m not frightened.’

She glanced across at Wolff who was bent at the waist, inspecting the front of his car, and as she watched him, her eyes flickered and her breathing quickened. The skin on her cheeks paled. It was the same thing I saw at school on the faces of boys who were singled out for punishment. It was a mixture of hatred and fear, and I wondered if she had done something wrong; perhaps she was hiding something from the authorities.

When she looked back at me, she forced a reassuring smile and finished cleaning one knee, moving on to the
other. ‘I’ll look after your bicycle for you,’ she said. ‘You can come back for it when you’re ready. You’ll be able to get back here? You know where you are?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Try not to—’

‘Enough of that,’ Wolff said as he came to stand behind her. ‘Give him the cloth and get out of the way.’

She started to get to her feet.

‘Well, come on.’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her up. ‘Out of the way. And you, boy, get in the car. Hurry up.’

The woman pushed the cloth into my hands and took the glass without saying anything else. She backed away, turned, and walked to her house without so much as looking over her shoulder. It was amazing that this man Wolff could have such an effect on someone and I was both impressed and afraid at the same time. I could only imagine what it would be like to have people obey your every command without question.

‘Get in,’ he said.

Wolff slammed the door shut behind me before settling into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked as we drove away.

‘Escherstrasse, sir.’

‘Speak up.’

I told him again.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Escherstrasse. It’s not far.’

I made no attempt to clean my elbows with the cloth. I just sat on the cold leather seats and stared at the back of Wolff’s head. His hair was very tidy and there was a difference in thickness where he’d had it almost shaved lower
down and left a little longer higher up.

‘Your name?’ he demanded.

‘Karl Friedmann, sir.’ The inside of the car smelled strongly of his aftershave and it made me feel sick.

He nodded. ‘Well, Karl Friedmann, I find myself wondering why I don’t know you. This is not a big town and I know all the faces. Especially the faces of young boys with silver medals pinned to their uniforms.’ He half turned his head, as if he were about to look over his shoulder. ‘You are, after all, the future of our great nation, are you not?’

I put a hand to the badge on my chest and a memory of better times flashed in my mind. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘So, why don’t I know you?’

‘I’m from Cologne, sir. Staying with my oma and opa.’

I had told the woman that I wasn’t scared of the Gestapo officer, and that was partly true. He made sure people didn’t betray our country, and kept Germany strong, so that was something to admire. Everyone was at least a little bit afraid of the Gestapo, though, and there was something about Gerhard Wolff in particular that made me uncomfortable.

‘And who is your grandfather?’ he asked.

‘Walther Brandt, sir.’

‘Ah. Herr Brandt.’ Kriminalinspektor Wolff nodded. ‘So your mother is …’ he thought for a moment. ‘Hannah. Hannah Friedmann.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you father is Oskar Friedmann, correct?’

I nodded.

‘So, tell me, Karl Friedmann, why are you not at school today? The school is open; you should be there. Even if you
are
just a visitor to our patriotic little town.’

‘I …’ This was my chance to report Oma and Opa, but all I could think about was them being taken away to a camp and punished.

‘Well?’ he pressed me. ‘What do you have to say for yourself? Speak up boy. Why weren’t you at school?’ He looked at me in the rear-view mirror of the car and when his eyes met mine, I saw a cruelty in his stare that made my insides turn to ice.

Now I felt afraid for Oma and Opa, but I had to tell the truth. What else could I do?

‘Oma and Opa wouldn’t let me. They said I needed time, sir, after what happened to Papa.’

‘And what was that?’ Wolff asked.

I looked down at my knees. ‘He was killed.’

‘Where?’

‘Russia, sir. He was in the army.’

‘Then you should be proud of him.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So tell me about this painting on the wall,’ Wolff said. ‘Do you remember where it was?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You don’t remember or you don’t want to tell me?’ He looked at me in the mirror once again.

‘I was lost,’ I said, watching out of the window.

‘I see. And what did it look like, this … work of art?’ He said that last part with heavy sarcasm.

‘It was words, sir. And a flower.’

‘What kind of words?’

‘I … well, I don’t want to say, sir.’

‘Something about the Hitler Youth? Or perhaps about our beloved Führer?’

‘Yes sir. Both of those.’

Kriminalinspektor Wolff sighed and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘It wasn’t you was it? You’re not one of those troublemakers, are you? Because, I should tell you, I don’t like troublemakers.’