Chris Bohjalian - Skeletons at the Feast

She turned toward him, alarmed, her eyebrows collapsing down around her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“He told me when we were rounding up Ragnit.”

“What did he say?”

He recounted for her the conversation he had had with the soldier over the remains of poor Labiau, occasionally pausing to listen, almost curiously, to the way the Hitler Youth lad was continuing to scream at no one in particular. The boy was behind them now, and as they had passed him it had grown clear to Callum how very much he was reveling in this role he had been given. He wondered why the boy was having so much fun. Did he really not understand that the end was near? Good Lord, he shouldn't be wearing that ridiculous uniform, Callum thought, he should be burying the damn thing.

“What do you think the corporal's going to do?” Anna asked him, her voice buoyed by little eddies of worry, when he had finished telling her about Manfred. She looked beautiful to him, despite the small, dark bags that had grown beneath her eyes. There were wisps of her lovely yellow hair emerging from underneath her scarf near her ears, and the cold had given her cheeks a rosy flush.

“I don't think he's going to do anything.”

“He doesn't care?” She sounded more incredulous than comforted.

“What? Does that seem irresponsible to you?” he asked her, smiling. “Do you want him to shoot me? Turn me in?”

“I'm just surprised. I'm relieved. But I'm also surprised.”

“I think he has perspective.”

She seemed to consider this. He knew how hard it was even for her to contemplate the end. Then: “Can we trust him? Can we trust him completely?”

“Well, I don't think we have a choice. And, as you observed, his helping me rescue the horses was a rather thankless task. It would certainly suggest he's a good egg.”

“Sometimes…”

“Yes?”

“Sometimes I wish you were German. Or I were English.”

“I know.”

“Everything would be easier.”

He thought of the first time they had kissed by one of her family's apple trees. And then of the time they had kissed beside a horse chestnut. And, once, near a beech. Always the air had been crisp because they had fallen in love in the autumn. “In weeks or months,” he said, “it won't matter.”

“But it will.”

“No. It's-”

“It's the truth,” she corrected him. “Where could we even live, if…”

“Go on.”

“If we even live through this?”

He saw Mutti and the soldier were engrossed in a conversation of their own and Theo was quietly singing one of his folk songs to himself. And so he took the liberty of actually reaching out his free hand and taking Anna's fingers in his as they walked. Instantly Anna glanced at Theo, saw her brother was oblivious of them, and allowed him to hold on to her.

“We'll live in Elgin,” he reassured her. “I've told you, we've plenty of castles in Scotland. You'll think you've never left home.” He had thought often about what would happen to them when the war ended. He had even imagined introducing Anna to his mother-his chic, stylish, well-traveled mother who, these days, didn't have a particular fondness for Germans. Nevertheless, he continued to believe that eventually they would all do well together: Although Anna viewed herself as a country girl, the reality was that by any standards but her own she was a bloody aristocrat. A horsewoman par excellence. Even her gloved fingers seemed elegant to him right now.

Still, he understood her fears. He knew she still didn't want to believe the rumors that were spreading fast now about what the Germans had done-for all he knew, were still doing-to the Jews. But he also knew she was beginning to realize there might be some truth to even the most horrifying stories. And so, like many of her neighbors, she had begun to wonder about what sort of retribution might be awaiting her. Not just from the Russians. But, perhaps, from the Yankees, the Brits, and the French, too. He could almost hear in his head his uncle's quiet but intense interrogation of this young German girl he had brought home from the war like a souvenir. Well, then, tell me, Anna: Precisely where did you think the Jews were going? Oh? What about the Poles, then-you know, your help? And what's this about your mother and the führer? She really seems to have been quite enamored of the old boy.

And yet Anna really didn't know much, did she? Insinuation. Hearsay. Stories. It was he who had first told her that the Jews were being sent to the camps. And what in the name of heaven was she supposed to do about it-about any of it? She had only just turned eighteen. She had led a life that was at once sheltered and isolated. It wasn't as if she had grown up in a city where she could see the discrimination that was occurring on a daily basis: watch the SA smash the glass windows of the Jewish businesses, round up whole families and send them away. Make them wear those bloody stars. It was more like naïveté, wasn't it? He almost stopped where he was and shook his head, as if he were trying to shed the idea from his mind like chill rain from his hair. Naïveté, indifference. What did that really mean?

He felt her fingers massaging his and exhaled. He told himself that right now he should be focusing on nothing but survival: his survival, and this family's.

Behind them, his hoarse voice finally disappearing into the clamor of the wagons and the animals and the general murmur of the refugees, the Hitler Youth squad leader continued his shouting, despite the fact that no one was listening.

MUTTI COULDN'T RECALL when she had ever been more tired. Her legs felt like giant blocks of granite she was trying to lift with her thighs, and her back was aching in a way it hadn't since she had been thrown from a horse when she was a child and been laid up in bed for six weeks. She remembered the slicing pain well. Then, however, she hadn't had to trudge westward all day long, leading the remnants of her family through the cold, the wind always pricking at their faces and wanting to freeze any exposed flesh.

She half-heard the horse behind her snort in the chill winter air and was vaguely aware of the animal as he shook his long winter mane. Mostly, however, she was focused on this handsome corporal who, like a guardian angel, had appeared out of nowhere and helped to salvage three of their horses and was now leading Ragnit so she could rest her arms. She had been telling him stories of her own sons, of Werner and young Helmut, to pass the time, and he had been telling her about some of his own experiences in the war. She was aware that he was consciously shying away from whatever he had endured in battle, and she surmised this was both because he was such a modest young man and because he wanted to spare her any images that might cause her to worry even more about her husband and her boys. Besides, as Rolf had said on more than one occasion, real soldiers didn't talk about war. It was only the cowards who felt the need to tell people stories about what they had done. And clearly this Manfred was a real hero of the Reich.

Now he was helping to buoy her spirits with his conversation, and to ensure that the Emmerichs kept their place in the stream. There had been rumors that Cossacks-not merely Russians, but Cossacks!-had been sighted nearby.

“Where are your parents?” she asked him. “Are they still in Schweinfurt?”

“They are.”

“Have they lost much in the bombing? Until recently, we've been spared this far east. But I know that the western cities are a frightful mess.”

“I haven't been home in a while. But my sense is I wouldn't recognize my old neighborhood.”

“My cousin said Stettin is largely unscathed.”

“Good. You and your family should be safe there for a while.”