Transgression E-Book

Kerstin Trimble

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Deutsch

Seitenzahl: 325

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

World War II veteran Sam Harris enlists again and is deployed to the newly desegregated 2nd Dragoons in Nürnberg’s Merrell Barracks, where he finds love, faces hatred and gets mixed up in treacherous Cold War intrigues. Eigentlich will Bauernwitwe Mathilde dem schwarzen GI Sam Harris nur eine alte Verbundenheit vergelten, dabei gerät ihr stilles Leben jedoch völlig aus den Fugen. Mathildes kleine Tochter Brigitte und ihr Freund Wolfi sind waschechte Nürnberger Nachkriegsschlingel, die kein Abenteuer auslassen. Als ihre Freundschaft mit den Amis und ihre unbändige Neugier sie allerdings in eine Spionageaffäre verwickeln, wird die Sache gefährlich.

Leseprobe

Transatlantic Passages 2015

Für meine Großmütter

INHALTSVERZEICHNIS

T

HANK YOU

, S

AMUEL

H

ARRIS

J

ANUARNACHT

D

ECISION

E

NTSCHEIDUNG

W

EIRD

T

ALES

M

ITTSOMMERABENDS

D

EAL

S

ACHSCHÄDEN

B

AMBERG

B

EGEGNUNG

G

NÄDIGE

H

ERREN

D

ER

H

OF

N

EW

H

IRE

G

ESCHÄFTE

T

HE

R

OAD TO

A

UGSBURG

K

UMMER

T

HE

W

HITE

L

ITTLE

D

RESS

K

OMMUNION

B

OOK CLUB

E

IN

F

REMDER

P

URSUIT

D

IEBSTAHL

N

EW MEMBER

K

ÄRWA

R

EVELATIONS

D

IE

S

EIDENROSE

E

NGAGEMENT

N

IGHT

V

ERHÖR

F

ALL

-

OUT

ÜBERGABE

T

HE

N

OTE

A R

USS

R

OZVADOV

E

HRUNG

R

ETURN

N

EUTOR

C

NOPFSCHE

N

ACH DEM

S

TURM

B

ACK HOME

F

ELSENKELLER

D

ELAYED

H

EIM

S

MALL

R

EDEMPTION

V

ORMUND

?

V

ISITOR

R

ÜCKKEHR

THANK YOU, SAMUEL HARRIS

“Thank you, Samuel Harris. Samuel Harris.”

The older one tapped his forehead with his index finger, as if to say: Won't ever forget that name. Bud was shifting around, getting nervous, inching backwards to signal his urgent desire to get this over with and the hell out of here. The Brits were looking at them in a funny way, but did not comment on the curious presence of two black American soldiers, with two Kraut in tow, yet without a superior officer, a warrant or a transfer order. Their British captain gave a simple nod to two of his soldiers, who then tapped the Germans on the shoulders and escorted them to the old factory building where new prisoners were being registered and processed. On their way into the factory hall, the older one of the Krauts turned around once more. Sam could see the expression in his intelligent, short-sighted eyes behind dirty, blackrimmed glasses: He understood very well what had just happened. He bid his American captors farewell with another tap on his forehead. Samuel Harris, his lips mouthed soundlessly. Sam stood and watched them go, hands in his pockets. He felt the little piece of paper the German had slipped to Sam as he was ushering him out of the Jeep. He had not looked at it yet.

When their Jeep returned to the country bakery that served as their makeshift quarters, Sergeant Rhees came lumbering out of the front door, his face speckled with officious anger:

“There you are. What the hell is going on? I was about ready to report you as deserted!”

“No, sir, we're right here,” said Sam in a casualness that was meant to take the wind out of Rhees' sails, but had the opposite effect.

“Fuck it, Harris. Where are the fucking prisoners?”

“Gone, as ya tole us, sir.”

Rhees stared past Sam's eyes straight into his mind and knew that Sam had not gotten rid of the prisoners in the fashion that Rhees had suggested.

“You set them loose, didn't you.”

“Why would I wanna do that, sir?”

“You set the fucking enemy loose.”

“No, sir.”

“How are they ‘gone’, then?”

Sam made no reply.

“You stay right here 'till I have time to deal with your shit,” Rhees ordered, confining them to the same flourdusty backroom that had contained the two German prisoners just a couple of hours ago.

“Thanks. Thanks a million,” gnarled Bud between his teeth. He was sitting on the flour chest, avoiding eye contact with the man who dragged him into this mess.

“Ya saw the pictures of those women. They need their men to cum home.”

“My woman needs me to cum home, too. Five minutes later and Rhees woulda reported us as fuckin deserters.”

A pause.

“Damn. At least gimme a cigarette.”

“Ain got none left.”

“You had half a pack this afternoon.”

“Ain got none left now.”

Bud finally raised his eyes at him, in slow realization: “Ya gave'm to them Krauts! To them bloody Krauts! Ya insane. Ya headed to the nuthouse. That is, if ya doan get yaself killed before that.”

They sat in silence, and the cigarettes that would have occupied their idle hands and wordless mouths were sorely missing. Bud picked up a piece of straw from the floor and started chewing it, hard, as if it required concentration.

“Ya know, we coulda just not seen them Krauts in the first place.”

Yes, Sam had actually considered this for a moment, yesterday, as they were being slow-cooked in their sweltering, reeking armored truck in the mid-day heat. When Sam squinted towards the horizon and instantly wished he hadn't seen… what he had just seen. Yes, he had wondered if he could just ignore them. But Bud had been squinting at them, too:

“Was that a person?”

“Hm. Two o'em.”

“Dadgummit.”

“What we spose to do?”

“Ya reckon it's Krauts?”

“They was runnin, so I guess so.”

“They still behind that bush?”

“Where else would they be?”

The meadow was wide and plain, therefore, the frantic figures who had just scurried behind a bush had to still be there. When they reached the bush, Sam stopped the truck, ever so slowly.

“Ya goin out?” asked Bud.

“What the fuck else is there to do? Ya got ma back?”

“Sure.”

Sam pushed his glasses back up the sweaty bridge of his nose, opened the door, and emerged very slowly, gunpoint first.

The men were not trying very hard to hide. Neither of them had a shirt on, and as far as Sam could see, they were unarmed. One was soaking wet. Sam relaxed somewhat. There was nothing menacing about these two halfclad men squatting under snowhite elder blossoms.

One of them had to be around forty, with silverrimmed glasses that suggested scholarship, unlike Sam's horn-rimmed glasses, which merely suggested he had bad eyesight. His look was melancholic, with little fear in it, considering the fact that an American halftrack had just pulled up right next to him. The most intriguing thing about him was the way he was looking at Sam. He was looking at him – well, casually. Most Germans met Sam with almost childlike bewilderment. The younger man right here being a case in point: Crouching slightly behind his older companion, he was in a state of wide- eyed astonishment. It was the mesmerized look of a Nazi-bred youngster who had never been face-to-face with a black man before, much less expected to ever be vanquished or captured by one. Sam had grown used to this look, and therefore found it quite intriguing that the older German exhibited no visible reaction to the fact who was capturing him.

“Are ya guys alone?” Sam asked, while trying think of German words that would convey the same point. „Mehr Soldat hier?“

“No. Just me and my friend here.”

“Cum on out. Hands on ya head.”

They emerged from the bush. The younger, dripping wet one had problems with his balance. He was wearing nothing but his drawers. The other one was shirtless, but at least he had his pants on.

We're taking prisoners, Sam realized gravely.

“Can we…? Our clothes?” asked the older one, with a gesture towards the elder bush.

Sam nodded awkwardly. As the man scrambled back under the dense branches, Sam realized, in a fit of panic, that he might have just allowed the enemy to whip a hidden gun out of the bush. He hastily raised his weapon. Yet the German merely retrieved his companion's pants and their tunics. Sam exhaled slowly.

“Bud. Cum on out and check that bush while I watch them.”

Bud clumsily tried to emerge from the truck while simultaneously keeping his weapon pointed at the prisoners.

“Bud.”

“Hm?”

“I got them. Lower ya gun and look in that bush.”

Bud hopped down and started poking around the elder.

“Check their clothes, too.”

Bud found a nice watch in one of the pockets, and put it on his own wrist with a grin. He also took a pocket watch from one of the jackets.

“What ya doin there, Bud?”

“That's what ya spose to do.”

Disarm them, not steal their valuables, thought Sam, but in light of the fact that one of the Krauts understood English, he preferred not to have a discussion in front of him. The older man now helped the younger one into his pants with much circumstance. The younger one's foot was bleeding profusely. As he was trying to maneuver it into the pant leg, his face twisted in obvious pain. Sam climbed back into the driver's cabin and found their first-aid kit. He gave it to the older prisoner, who immediately used it with obvious skill. He nimbly dressed his comrade's wound and returned the kit with a nod of thanks.

“Where's all ya stuff? Ya gotta have some stuff.”

“Yes, we have a car. Over there.”

“There?”

“Yes, in the woods. It's camouflaged.”

“Sit on the hood.”

They drove the short distance to the place the German soldier had indicated, both prisoners perched on the large hood of their vehicle. They found the German Kübelwagen with the Krauts' equipment and belongings. Sam piled it all up in two separate heaps; one with the prisoners' military gear, one with their personal effects. He slid a side-glance at Bud, who was inspecting the items with the eyes of a scavenger. Sam began to slide important-looking objects into his own pockets before Bud could get them, a fine tobacco tin, a silver cigarette case. Next, he found their wallets. One contained the picture of a middle-aged woman, dirty-blonde, serene, confident. The photograph was in the same immaculate condition as the woman in it. The older German kept it carefully tucked in a perfectly-sized pocket in his wallet. Out of the younger man's wallet tumbled a tattered, dogeared, love-worn photograph. It showed a rustic young woman with blonde, firmly braided hair, in a plain dress and blouse that had been pressed with great care. She had the somewhat apprehensive, flustered expression of someone who hardly ever gets her photograph taken. Her mouth was sweet and soft like a child's. The deplorable condition of the photograph was clearly the result of countless caresses and kisses.

Sam's mind was flooded by the horrid insight that those two prisoners were actual people. That somewhere in Germany, the radiant middle-aged woman and the sweet fawn of a girl were sitting at kitchen tables across from empty chairs where these two men belonged.

Ever since he had waded from the landing craft into a blur of carnage, there had been only shadows on the other side of this war, dim outlines that had to be gunned down before they could gun you down.

Sam was not supposed to look into a wallet and discover a human being.

When he glanced back up at those men, Sam felt a little woozy. He smiled at them. Then he carefully reassembled their wallets.

He and Bud gathered the two piles in two bundles and loaded them onto the truck. Their prisoners climbed back onto the hood.

“Let's go.”

“What the fuck, Harris, is that?”

Lieutenant Rhees' pale face was speckled with red splotches, as always when he was either angry, in combat, or drunk.

“They were right in front of us, sir, we couldn…”

“What part of ‘no prisoners’ do you not understand?”

“They were right in front of us.”

“You've had Krauts right in front of you before, Harris, and you knew what to do then.”

“Yes, but these two were all by themselves and unarmed.”

“And what do we do now? How many men are we, Harris?”

“Twelve, sir.”

“A-huh. How many men can we afford to spare to guard, and feed, and take care of them?”

“We can spare no one, sir.”

“And yet, there you are, riding around, picking up Krauts. Injured Krauts, on top of that.”

“Only one ofem's injured, sir.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

The scarlet spots on Rhees' otherwise pasty face were dancing, and despite his discomfiture, Sam found this phenomenon mildly fascinating. He was wondering how exactly it worked, what strange condition made Rhees' blood hop rather than flow through his veins.

“Get rid of them.”

Rhees started to walk away.

“How, sir?”

Rhees stopped and turned, disdain in his look.

“What kind of a stupid question is that?”

“But sir…”

“Did I pick up those fuckers or did you? You get rid of them the way y'all should have gotten rid of them when you first saw them, and I wanna hear no more about it. Tomorrow at noon we move on, without any fucking additional baggage.”

He retired to his makeshift commander's office in what used to be the baker's living room. The other soldiers who happened to be in the parlor with Sam and Bud were staring at them, their expressions ranging from malicious glee to uneasy sympathy.

“What ya gonna do, Sam?” Bud asked.

“What ya aksin me for?” Sam snapped back. He left the parlor and wandered down the deserted village street, kicking dust, chewing on an unlit cigarette.

Rhees wanted him to kill those Germans.

Was there anyone he could appeal to? Their company commander, maybe? Nonsense. He didn't even know where Major Miles even was. Not to mention the fact that Normandy was a burning hell. This was not a good moment to inquire about the lawfulness of shooting two Germans whom he had picked up in their underwear.

Bud wouldn't be of any help. Nor anyone else.

Loneliness was clawing at Sam's chest. He had been ordered to kill two men. So what? How many Krauts had already sunk to the ground in the crosshairs of his gun sight? The problem was – he had looked into their wallets.

Sam returned to the bakery and entered the room that used to be the baker's office, and which now served as their clinic because there was slightly less flour dust in the air than anywhere else in the building. Ray, the medic, was taking care of the younger Kraut. Sam grunted. Ray probably did not know that he was wasting his time. He was extracting a pretty large, sharp object from the German soldier's foot. The prisoner clenched his teeth with a sharp inhale, in boyish stoicism. Man, how old was that kid? His girl in the photograph was almost a child, too.

“How did that happen?” Sam asked him. The prisoner scowled at him in dark rancor. He wouldn't answer even if he knew enough English to do so.

“Where's the other one?”

“Storage room,” said Ray.

Sam left the clinic, went to the cook and obtained his ration for the night. Those who were on good terms with the field cook, like himself, did not have to wait for the official meal times. Then Sam made for the storage room where they had taken the older German. Bud was guarding him. Their assignment to eliminate the German prisoners was written all over his miserable face.

“Really?” he asked when Sam made a move to enter, blocking his way.

“Jus wanna talk to him.”

“I doan think that's a good idea.”

Sam didn't budge. Neither did Bud.

“Doan talk to that Kraut any mo'e. Ya makin it harder.”

“What am I makin harder?”

Bud glowered. “What we gotta do.”

“We gonna do it?”

Bud's face was made of granite.

“We ain gonna do it, Bud. Now let me in.”

He shoved Bud aside and entered the storage room. Inside, the older prisoner was sitting in the dim light of a dying, hissing lightbulb. Sam's appearance lit up his face. Sam sat down across from him and pulled out his cigarettes.

“Want one?”

The German took one and put it in his mouth. As Sam leaned forward to light it, he introduced himself:

“Hannes Kröger.”

“Samuel Harris.”

Sam lit his own cigarette.

“That boy that's with ya, how old is he?”

“Nineteen.”

“Hm, not too bad. I thought he was younger n that.”

He paused.

“I mean, I seen some really young German kids out there.”

The man named Hannes Kröger just shrugged.

“Hungry?” Without awaiting a response, Sam handed him half of the bread he had gotten from the kitchen. Hannes Kröger halved the half he received and put it in his pocket.

“No, no, go 'head and eat it all. I got some for ya buddy, too.”

The door opened and Ray entered with the German kid. Sam could not give him his ration just yet, for Bud was standing in the door, keenly observant. So Sam left the room and walked back down the hall with Ray.

“Thanks, man.” Ray nodded, but Sam added: “Some folks here'd say he wasn worth ya time.”

“Like who?”

“Rhees wants me n Bud to kill them po' devils.”

“They not prisoners?”

“Yeah, they are.”

“I thought we spose to take care of prisoners.”

“Yeah, but Bud and me weren't spose to take prisoners in the first place. Ya shoot em righ when ya see em, then it's fine. Then it's called combat. But ya hesitate for jus one moment, then ya got prisoners on ya hands. Rhees is mad as hell.”

“Oh, screw him.” Sam arched an eyebrow at Ray for his explicit disagreement with their lieutenant. “Look, I'm a medic. And I know we're spose to follow rules. Like the Brits do. They got this whole big thing goin on with prisoners over there, ya know, on the road to Caen.”

“How d'ya know that?”

“Yesterday, when I's down there to pick up some meds, I saw that huge place where they coop em all up. Thousands of Krauts. Like cattle. They said they was gonna walk them all to some camp.”

“That so?” asked Sam keenly. “Where's that at?”

“Man,” Ray shook his head in resignation. “Ya better do what Rhees tole ya to. That's a good thirty-mile drive, ya gonna get in trouble if ya waste that much fuel.”

“Where's that at?” Sam insisted.

Ray looked into Sam's face and saw that it was undaunted by the prospect of trouble. So Ray shrugged:

“Fine. Let me show ya. I got a map in here.”

JANUARNACHT

Die raue Felswand schimmerte feucht. Wolfi konnte nicht wegsehen. Er hatte Durst. Er zog Max' Jacke aus, denn hier unten war es wärmer als in der eisigen Wohnung. Im Gegenteil, es war muffig und begann schon zu riechen. Wenn jetzt noch irgendein Baby seine Hosen voll schiss, oder jemand kotzte, dann würde die Luft in dem dicht gepackten Keller unerträglich, das wusste Wolfi. Und sein Mund war so trocken. Je länger er die Tropfen ansah, die zwischen den Furchen der bröckligen Wand hinunter krochen, desto ekelhafter fühlte sich seine Zunge an, die trocken an seinem Gaumen klebte. Die Leute waren recht still, weil man die Flieger schon hören konnte. Da war es immer ganz still. Oft saß man stundenlang hier unten, und hörte man keine Flieger, dann wurden die Leute gesprächig, und der dunkle Raum klang wie ein Kinosaal, bevor der Film losgeht. Aber die Flieger brummten jetzt schon, also flüsterte man nur. Man hörte nur ab und zu eine Mutter zischen, weil die Kleinsten nichts begriffen. Die wollten krabbeln, spielen, ihre Geschwister an den Haaren ziehen. Ein Tropfen perlte von der Wand ab und landete auf Wolfis Nase. Da hielt er es nicht mehr aus. Er lehnte sich nach hinten, verdrehte seinen Hals, und leckte. Schmeckte salzig.

Die anderen Mütter nahmen sich doch auch einen Moment Zeit, ein bisschen für die lange Nacht im Luftschutzkeller zu packen. Nur seine Mutter… Wenn die die Sirenen aufheulen hörte, wenn Onkel Baldrian mit noch so besonnener Stimme die Luftlagemeldungen im Radio verlas, verlor sie sofort die Nerven und zerrte blind, panisch, und völlig ungerüstet ihre Kinder mit sich in die Felsengänge. Den Onkel Friedrich hatte sie diesmal sogar oben in der Wohnung sitzen lassen. Dem ging nämlich das ständige Gerenne in den Schutzraum in der Zwischenzeit zu sehr auf die Nerven. Er würde warten, bis der Luftschutzwart kam und ihn holte, hatte er gesagt.

Und darum jedenfalls hatte Wolfis Mutter kein Wasser dabei und Wolfi einen Riesendurst.

„Lass des“, bremste ihn die Mutter.

„Ich hab an Durscht.“

„Des is bestimmt giftig.“

„Wieso, is doch bloß a Wasser.“

„Ja, Wasser voller Chemikalien“, belehrte ihn sein ältester Bruder Bernd, der immer alles wusste. „Wer weiß, was sich da alles löst, wenn das Regenwasser durch den Sandstein hier runter rinnt. Was hier in den Felsenkellern alles im Lauf der Jahrhunderte gebraut und gebeizt und fabriziert worden is.“

„Schlegg däi Wand ned“, fasste die Mutter Bernds Erklärung effizient zusammen.

„Aber mir ham ja nix zum Trinkn.“

„Da, Wolfi“, erbarmte sich Frau Kässler und reichte ihm eine Feldflasche.

„Bidde, naa, Frau Kässler, sie ham doch selber bloß die ane Flaschn.“

„Eds drink ruhig an Schlugg, Bou“, beharrte die Kässlerin.

Mutter nahm Wolfi übel, mit seiner Wandleckerei die Nachbarin zu einem Almosen genötigt zu haben. Selbst solch einen kleinen Gefallen angemessen zu erwidern war dieser Tage schwierig.

„Wie viel Uhr isn?“, flüsterte Bernd.

„Fast acht“, konnte ein Nachbar Auskunft geben, weil der nämlich eine ganz moderne Uhr besaß, mit leuchtenden Phosphormarkierungen.

„Oh, kann mer die a im Dunkeln lesn?“, animierte sich Wolfi.

„Freili, da, schau's dir nur an.“

Der ältere Nachbar verdrehte sein Handgelenk, um Wolfi die Uhr genauer bestaunen zu lassen.

„Ham Sie so weit gute Feiertag ghabt, Frau Wächter?“ fragte nun Frau Kässler.

„So gut's halt geht“, gab Mutter zurück. „Ich bin ned amol bis Middernacht aufbliebn vorgestern.“

„Sylvester war a no nie meins“, bestätigte Frau Kässler. „Und a Feierwerch kriegn mer ja fast jede Wochn kostenlos von die Ami,“ sagte sie lakonisch.

„I bin fei bis Middernacht aufbliebn“, brüstete sich Wolfi.

„Wieso, du hast doch bei mir gschlafn“, wunderte sich Mutter.

„Der Maxi had mi aufgweckt!“

„Du, Mama?“, ertönte zaghaft die Stimme des mittleren Bruders.

„Ja, Maxi.“

„Des sin aber viel Fliecher heit.“

Die Wächters, Frau Kässler und der ältere Herr horchten. Das Gebrumm, wenn auch durch die meterdicke Felsendecke gedämpft, war bedenklich nahe.

„Aber Bombn falln ja no kane.“

„Des sin ja a no ned die Bomber. Die setzn erst amol die Tannabäum.“

Mutter horchte auf die Flieger. Wolfi nutzte den Moment, sich noch einmal zur Wand zu drehen und noch ein wenig von dem salzigen Nass zu lecken. Seine Zungenspitze berührte die Wand. Doch in dem Moment rückte die Wand von ihm weg. Als er es noch einmal versuchte, stieß der spröde Fels ihm gegen die Nasenspitze. Der Boden erzitterte. Wolfi purzelte auf den Schoß seiner Mutter. Eine Kinderstimme quietschte, Erwachsene stöhnten. Der ganze Keller rüttelte. Die Bilder vor Wolfis Augen bebten unscharf, wie ein wackeliger alter Film. Die Menschen, die dicht an dicht entlang der Wand aufgereiht waren, schüttelte es durcheinander, sie fielen auf die Knie, kauerten, hielten sich auf allen Vieren. Die Mütter griffen nach ihren Kindern, krümmten sich über sie wie menschliche Kokons. Wolfi bekam Angst. Heute Nacht war wie keine andere. Staub und Sandsteinbrösel rieselten von der Decke.

„Mama, bricht der Keller eds zam?“, schrie er, und wartete auf eine von Mutters üblichen beschwichtigenden Antworten im Getöse. Ein Freili ned oder ein Ach, Gschmarri. Aber diesmal sagte sie nichts dergleichen. Wolfi wimmerte. Mutter fasste ihn, presste ihn gegen ihren weichen Mamabusen, rollte sich über ihn, als ob sie eine einstürzende Felsendecke mit ihrem Rücken aufhalten könnte. Mit ihrem anderen Arm hielt sie den Max. Bernd kauerte ihr gegenüber, den Kopf eingezogen, seine Hand schützend auf dem Rücken seiner Mutter.

Dann stand der Boden wieder still, doch das Brummen der Flieger dröhnte weiter.

„Herrgott, steh uns bei!“, schrie Frau Kässler, ihre sonst so kratzbürstige Hausmeisterinnenstimme brüchig, außer sich.

Der nächste Treffer. Das Licht flackerte aus. Die Säuglinge schrien nun ohne Unterlass. Die Erwachsenen ächzten. Mutters Fingernägel kerbten sich in Wolfis Haut. Wolfi sah die Phosphorstriche auf der Armbanduhr des älteren Herrn. Bei jedem neuen Beben malten sie zittrige grünliche Streifen in die Schwärze.

„Eds is alles aus“, hörte er Frau Kässler.

„Wolfi“, schüttelte ihn Mutter. „Wolfi, bist du wach?“

War er wach? Wolfi wusste es nicht so recht. Das Licht war wieder an. Als die Bomber endlich von der Altstadt abließen und seine Mutter sich aufrappelte, blieb Wolfi einfach eingerollt wie ein Embryo auf dem Felsboden liegen.

„Es is vorbei.“

Wolfis Arme und Beine waren eingeschlafen und bitzelten, er konnte sich nicht regen.

„Bleib ruhig sitzn, wir könna eds eh no ned raus.“

„I will gar ned raus. I wills gar ned sehn“, machte Frau Kässler dumpf.

„Und i hab ned amol unser Kartenheftla dabei“, bemerkte Mutter, was ihre Gedanken verriet: Sie zweifelte daran, ob ihre Wohnung noch stand. Und sie hatte noch nicht mal die Lebensmittelmarken mitgenommen. Ihre Augen flimmerten ins Leere, während sie weiter in Gedanken ihre Lage sondierte.

„Bernd!“, schluchzte sie in plötzlicher, grässlicher Verzweiflung. „Der Onkel!“ Mutters Körper versteifte sich, sie sprang auf die Füße, als könnte sie den Onkel im Keller ausmachen.

„Mama“, versuchte Bernd sie zu beruhigen. Er zog an ihrer Hand, bedeutete ihr, sich wieder zu setzen. „Der Luftschutzwart hat ihn bestimmt abgholt. Aber finden werden wir ihn eds ned, es sin ja Tausende von Menschen hier unten.“

Max suchte Bernds Blick. Der Angriff war dieses Mal rasch gekommen. Ob der Luftschutzwart überhaupt Zeit gehabt hatte, seine gewohnte Runde zu machen, und ob der sture Onkel dessen Anweisungen gefolgt war…

Ein ihnen unbekannter Luftschutzwart erschien. Er war schmutzig, benebelt, fassungslos.

„Könna mir raus?“ fragte eine Stimme, ohne Hoffnung auf eine positive Antwort.

„Naa, is alles dicht. Die Ausgänge sin alle verschüttet. Mir gehn durchn Stadtgraben raus, aber des dauert a weng. Sind ja an die zwanzigtausend Leut hier herunten, die müssn alle durch den einen Gang. I sag euch scho, wenn mir dran sind.“

Als ihre Sektion evakuiert wurde, musste Mutter Wolfi tragen, denn es graute schon der Morgen und Wolfi war zwar noch nicht eingeschlafen, aber völlig erschöpft. Außerdem traute Mutter der ermatteten Ruhe der anderen Menschen ringsum nicht. Bräche eine Panik aus, würde ihr Kleinster zertrampelt. Also trug sie ihn lieber.

„Gib mir den Wolfi, Mama“, bot Bernd an. Sie übergab den Jüngsten ihrem ältesten Sohn und hob dann den noch schwereren Max auf. Max, stolze neun Jahre alt, duldete normalerweise nicht mal eine flüchtige Berührung seiner Mutter. Nun aber ließ er sich tragen wie ein Kleinkind, schlang seine Arme um ihren Hals, schmiegte sein verstaubtes Gesicht an ihre Schulter.

Der Gang, der tief unter der Altstadt bis zum Stadtgraben führte, gehörte nicht zu den mittelalterlichen Felsengängen. Den hatten sie eigens für den Luftschutz gebaut. Statt des urigen Burgsandsteins waren die Wände hier aus banalem Backstein, weiß getüncht, und so niedrig, dass die Erwachsenen sich bücken mussten. So schmal, dass man nur im Gänsemarsch voranschlurfen konnte. Jedes Straucheln, jedes Zaudern verursachte einen Stau, der einen Lindwurm aus hunderten verstörten und übermüdeten Menschen in misslichen Körperhaltungen stecken bleiben ließ. Die Babies hatten das Weinen aufgegeben, blickten mit ihren großen Augen matt und starr in die Tiefe des Ganges.

Wolfi spürte einen eisigen Hauch, in dem sich frischer Sauerstoff mit kratzigem Rauch vermischte. Der Ausgang. Mutter und Bernd konnten sich endlich voll aufrichten, Wolfi und Max wurden auf den Boden herabgelassen. Der Stadtgraben war nachtschwarz, doch auf den Gesichtern schimmerte es rötlich. Der Schein kam von jenseits der Stadtmauer. Die Nacht war erfüllt von Knistern, Knacken, und dem Rauschen fallender Holzbalken. Heizkessel explodierten. Tausende Menschen standen hilflos, wortlos in der Januarnacht herum. Manche hatten Koffer. Andere trugen nicht einmal einen Mantel. Der übliche Drang, nach einem Luftangriff sofort nach Hause zu hasten, nach dem Rechten zu sehen, ließ alle unruhig umher watscheln. Doch war jedem klar: In die Altstadt kam heute Nacht keiner mehr rein.

Bernd übernahm das Ruder. Er begann nach Norden zu marschieren, bergan, von wo aus man vielleicht die Altstadt überblicken konnte. Seine Mutter und Brüder folgten ihm taub. Auch außerhalb des Mauerrings brannte es vielerorts.

„Bernd“, sagte Mutter.

„Ich will bloß schauen, ob man was sehn kann.“

Selbst die Kaiserburg loderte orangerot gegen den Nachthimmel.

„Bernd.“

Bernd ging rastlos weiter, reckte den Hals, wollte einen Blick über die Stadtmauern werfen, das Ausmaß der Zerstörung innerhalb des Mauerrings erfassen. Wo ihre Wohnung war. Wo der alte Onkel Friedrich vielleicht immer noch stur in seinem Ohrensessel saß.

„Bernd, da brauchmer ned schaun, es is alles kaputt. Die Altstadt is wech.“

Endlich blieb Bernd stehen, all seiner Kraft entleert. Ihm schwand die Männlichkeit, die ihn durch die Nacht getrieben hatte, er schrumpfte wieder zu einem der Kinder. Mutter hielt alle drei an sich gedrückt.

„Buam. Meine Buam. Was machmern eds?“

DECISION

The bell went, the shift was over. During the day, Sam worked like a machine, his mind abuzz, his body dull, mechanical, repetitive. The shrill sound brought him back to reality, and the first thing Sam became aware of was the thin layer of dry sawdust coating his throat. He left the work-hall and made towards the water fountain in the hallway. He bent down. No water came out.

“Damn it. Again?”

“Gotta push harder, and a lil to the left,” a fellow worker behind him advised. Everybody was familiar with the frequent malfunctions of the damned fountain and hence knew how to troubleshoot it.

The foreman came and bent his flaxen head down to the fountain for white people – which was the actual fountain, and not just a little bowl connected to the main plumbing with a rusty pipe. He drank and walked away again.

“Rattle it a lil,” recommended another voice. A line was forming behind Sam, everyone wanted to wash down the sawdust. No one as much as glanced over to the fully functional, idle main fountain right next to their problem.

“Ain workin,” Sam concluded, straightened up and walked away. To hell with it, it was only a ten-minute walk home. He heard the others launch into a keen analysis of the fountain failure.

When he arrived at his mother's house, he poured almost a whole pitcher full of water down his parched throat before he dropped onto his chair across from his mother. He had spent all day planning this conversation in his mind:

“I'm goin back to Europe, mother,” was all that came out.

The steady creak of her rocking chair squealed out of its rhythm.

“What was that, son?”

“I enlisted again. Got ma assignment in the mail las night. I'm headed back to Germany.”

There was a silence while her mind worked through his words. Jason was still, too.

“I considered maself lucky to get at leas one of my boys back whole. And now ya wantin to go back o'er there?”

She resumed rocking, and the moan of her chair matched her voice. Which was peculiar, Sam mused, because when she was cheerful, so was the squeaking of her chair on the old floor. Jason did not look at Sam, pretended to be completely absorbed by his task – threading a bit of tattered yarn into the eye of a needle with with his six and a half fingers. Why did Jason always have to attempt tasks that made his damn fingers stand out? He could be doing things that he was able to do as well as anybody else. For example, Hester could really use some help bringing in the firewood, and if Sam didn't have to break some important news to his mother, that's what he would be doing right now. But no, Jason was always doing things that made his mangled fingers stand out.

“Well, mother….”

“Close that doo', Hester, will ya?”

“I'm gonna be in an out the parlor at leas five mo'e times, Nana,” Hester justified his method, which consisted of slamming open the front door and letting the cold air whisk in while he was hauling in load after load of firewood. He did that on purpose. Whoever wasn't hauling wood should at least suffer the same frigid temperatures that he was exposed to.

“Dear Lord,” his mother continued her lament, “this one came home whole, and now he's wantin to go back o'er there.”

“Mother, look. The war is long over. There's no….”

“Ya got that needle threaded for me, Jason? I'd do it maself if I could see.”

“Ya see well 'nough to do ya needlework all day long.”

“The eye of that needle is jus gettin too small for ma ole eyes.”

“There it is, mother.”

“Bless ya heart. Havin to do that for ya ole blind mother with ya bad hand.”

His mother's habit of starting conversations and then not listening to the answer was a perpetual source of vexation for Sam, but on this particular night, it saved him the trouble of having to sustain a cohesive argument.

Jason was crippled by more than two mangled hands. In forty-five, he had been in Germany, just like Sam. Like Sam, he had rolled down those scarred German streets, horror just behind them, and triumph just ahead, under the dejected blue-eyed glances of the defeated – who perceived them as conquerors. As masters. Like Sam, he had handed out candy to throngs of disheveled freckled German moppets. Like Sam, he was free to walk into any place he wanted. Late in the war, very late, a pocket of German resistance in some remote village took his squadron by surprise and a few fingers off Jason's hands. But he had already tasted victory. The war had already clouded his judgement, had already emboldened him. So when he was back home, Jason left the house one afternoon to walk downtown with his Purple Heart on his uniformed chest. And the next time Sam saw his brother, he was in the hospital. His brain was concussed and his jaw broken, as was his spirit. Just as his attackers had intended.

Sam did not walk around town in his uniform. But that did not mean he hadn't also felt what Jason had felt. In fact, it was the main reason why Sam had enlisted again, why he volunteered to be deployed back to the place he had so luckily escaped from unscathed six years ago.

“Why, Sam? Why ya goin back over there?” his mother retrieved the thread of the conversation at the same time as that of her needlework.

Because I felt like a person over there.

“It's good money,” Sam offered, just to feed the conversation.

“Ya ain makin 'nough at the mill?” Jason's tone was reproachful, implying that he would be happy to work at the mill. Sam knew, however, that Jason had never even applied there. Sam was quite sure they would have hired Jason, even with a maimed hand. Business was booming, they always needed people for all kinds of jobs. But Jason did not want to work at the mill in any capacity. Before the war, he had aspired to be a professional pianist. He had landed some promising engagement in Charleston, had already bought a suit and a bus ticket – when he was drafted.

Sam sighed. He'd spent too many years in this house, in this town, at this mill. With his nit-picking mother, his wallowing brother, his abrasive brother-in-law. His life was slowly seeping away.

It was time to go.

ENTSCHEIDUNG

„Über so was redmer, wenn der Papa hamkommt“, wimmelte Mutter sie ab, ohne dabei von ihrer Wäsche abzulassen, die sie gerade nass und schwer aus dem Zuber hievte.

Auffordernd, und nur für seine Brüder sichtbar, drehte Bernd die Augen aus den Höhlen. Gerade vor ein paar Minuten hatten sie darüber einen brüderlichen Kriegsrat gehalten. Man müsse halt mal Klartext mit ihr reden, hatte Bernd verlangt. Bernd habe leicht reden, weil er ja nun nur noch am Wochenende zu Hause war, hatte Max gemeint. Aber Recht hatte Bernd schon, sie konnten nicht ihr ganzes Leben auf einen unbestimmten, in aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nie eintretenden Zeitpunkt vertrösten, an dem wie durch ein Wunder ihr in Russland vermisster Vater wieder auftauchte. Der Kleinste, Wolfi, fasste sich ein Herz:

„Du, Mama?“

„Mh.“

„Und wenn der Papa denn kommt, wird's dann recht viel anders?“

„Na freili. Alles wird anders.“

Sie walkte die Tücher noch fester und schaffte es tatsächlich, sie fast bis auf den letzten Tropfen auszuwringen. Ihre Fingerknöchel waren abwechselnd weiß von dem Druck und rot von der Anstrengung.

„Dann kehrt wieder a Ordnung ein. Und du kriegst die Hosen viel öfter stramm zogn, wenn wieder a Mo im Haus is.“

„Des kommt drauf an, in welchem Zustand er heim kommt“, bemerkte Max trocken.

Mutter ließ eines der Tücher pfeifend gegen das Holzbrett peitschen, um es aus dem Knoten zu lösen, den sie beim Auswringen gezwirbelt hatte. Ungeachtet dieses Warnsignals fuhr Max fort:

„Die ham ja alle an Padscher, die im Krieg warn. Und die im Krieg und in Gfangenschaft warn, die ham gleich an doppelten Hau.“

„Max“, bremste Bernd seinen Bruder ab. Weitere Handtücher peitschten scharf gegen das Brett und wurden dann rasch und stramm mit Holzklammern auf die Leine gespannt, die im Zickzack quer durch die Küche hing.

„Jeder. Brauchst bloß unsere Lehrer amol anschaun. Der Hölzl, zum Beispiel….“

„Dei Vadder is aber ned der Hölzl“, barst es aus Mutter. Ihre Stimme klang so hart wie die Tücher, die gegen das Brett pfiffen.

„Außerdem hat der Hölzl schon vor dem Krieg gesponnen“, lenkte Bernd das Gespräch.

„Langt amoi oaner mit her?“, mischte sich ein neuer, bayerischer Tonfall ins Gespräch, gemächlicher und unbekümmerter als das emotional geladene Raspeln der Exilfranken, weil Theresa gerade von draußen herein kam.

Die beiden jüngeren Brüder sprangen beflissen auf, um sowohl dem Gespräch als auch dem Mühsal des Waschtags zu entkommen. Die Aufgaben, die Theresa ihnen auftrug, lagen den Kindern viel mehr, denn sie verrichtete die ‚echten‘ Arbeiten hier auf ihrem Hof – nämlich die bäuerlichen Pflichten. Theresa herrschte über den Winklerischen Hof, seit ihr Mann Ludwig anno dreiundvierzig blutjung und frisch verheiratet an die Front musste und erst vier Jahre später von einem Kameraden heimgebracht wurde, und zwar in einer Urne.

Seit Waltraud im Januar 1945 mit noch drei weiteren hungrigen Mäulern hier erschienen war, nahm sie sich des Haushalts und Theresas neugeborener Tochter Brigitte an, damit Theresa sich ganz ihrem Hof und der Landwirtschaft widmen konnte. Die Buben gingen zur Hand, so gut jeder konnte. Sowie die bayerischen Städte in Schutt und Asche versanken, kamen noch mehr Frauen und Kinder auf den Hof, aus München, aus Ingolstadt. Wolfis umtriebiges Wesen machte ihn, damals sechs, zum natürlichen Rudelsführer aller noch kleineren Knirpse. Die kleine Brigitte schleppte er mit sich herum wie eine Puppe, bis sie laufen konnte und ihm wie ein Schatten auf Schritt und Tritt folgte. Wolfi war stolz auf sein gelehriges Mündel. Mit drei Jahren war sie schon eine brauchbare Steinschleuderschützin.