Alexander Altmann A10567 (23 page)

“You don’t need to save it.” The kapo drew Alexander’s hand from his pocket. “There’s plenty to eat.”

Alexander pulled a shovel from the wall and, clutching it like a weapon, crept to the barn door. “Maybe we should go. We don’t know this man. He could be alerting the Nazis right now.”

“Alex,” the kapo said softly. “You can leave whenever you want. The Russians have stormed Auschwitz. You’re free.”

The shovel slipped from Alexander’s hand and clattered to the floor.

“You can go home, Alex.” The kapo smiled. “We can both go home.”

Alexander stood in the middle of Gregor Lane under his dripping cap, his knees trembling. He’d swung the gate open to number six more times than he could remember, and yet he was scared. He’d got through the war by telling himself his parents would be waiting for him. But what if they weren’t? What if he walked down the rutted path to his home and found it empty? He’d dreamed of this street, of the fields that stretched out to forever and the endless sky. Alexander lifted his eyes to the gabled house, and it was just as he remembered it, just as he’d hoped. He sensed his family’s footsteps nearby, their dark silhouettes and the echo of their voices. He pushed the gate open and stepped into the sinking mud.
I’m home.
He smiled, then said it out loud, “I’m home.”

He ran across the soggy front lawn, past the pole for tethering horses and the towering birch tree with its empty swing, until he reached the front door. He stepped inside, kicking Isidor’s muddy shoes from his feet. The house was just as he’d left it the night the Hungarian police ordered his family into the ghetto: the pots hanging from hooks on the wall, the ladles beside them, his mother’s lace tablecloth on the dining table, four chairs clustered around it and Spitz’s small, round bowl in a corner on the floor. Alexander listened for the patter of dog feet but the house was silent. The clock on the wall had stopped at one fifty-two, its thin black hands raised in surrender.

Alexander walked along the quiet corridor and peered into each of the rooms. He opened the cupboards and the drawers and pulled back the drapes, searching for spaces where a father might be or a mother might hide, but the house was empty. He tiptoed into Lili’s room and stood at the end of her bed, afraid to wake her ghost. Her soft toys lay in a jumble on her bed, and on her wooden dresser, the jewellery box he’d made her in carpentry class lay open, its drawers emptied. He remembered clamping his hand over her mouth the night the police tore through her room, and how she’d howled when she discovered her jewellery box upside down on the floor. The police left that night with Lili’s silver bangle, his mother’s pearl earrings, his father’s camera and their sewing machine.
Be happy they’re taking things, not people
, his mother had whispered into Lili’s hair.
You can always get a new bracelet. You can’t get a new brother
.

Alexander bent in half and wept into his cupped hands.

He wasn’t angry any more. He wasn’t angry at Lili for dying or angry with himself for letting her. He just missed her. “I miss you,” he cried. “I miss you lying on my bed with your nose in one of my books. I miss you tugging at my sleeve to come push you on the swing. I miss your piano recitals and the endless games of hide and seek. I miss the sound of your spoon scraping the last of the porridge from your bowl.” Alexander closed his eyes and tried to picture his sister’s face, tried to recall her freckles and the dimples either side of her mouth. He’d fought so hard not to think of her, fearing her face would bring him undone, not realising, as he did now, that the memories might warm him.

The room was too quiet and he felt himself drifting away, untethered from his family. “I’m alone,” he said, fighting the silence. He thought he heard the fireplace sputter and ran to the kitchen, his heart thumping, but the room was empty and the brick pit dark. He pulled on Isidor’s battered shoes then froze, hunched over the laces. A sound slipped through the walls: a muffled padding then the sound of running water.
It’s not in my head.
Alexander’s eyes widened.
It’s real. And it’s coming from outside.
“Mother?” he called, hope galloping towards him. He flung the back door open and stumbled to the barn, running between the stalls to find, in the very last stall, a woman smaller than his mother, older too, with thinner skin and bloodshot eyes.

The woman stared up at him. “Alex?”

Alexander stared into the woman’s round eyes.

“Alex. You’re alive?” Her rake fell to the ground. “You’re alive!” she shouted, taking his hands in hers and propelling him backwards to get a better look.

“Mother?”

The woman smiled.

“Mother, is it really you?” The woman’s front teeth were chipped, but she had his mother’s pale lips and her smile, like a crescent moon. Alexander’s stomach turned inside out.

“You came back.” She squeezed his hands. “I knew you would.”

He had a mountain of questions for her but she didn’t want to talk about the camp, it hurt too much. “We’re together and that’s all that matters,” she said, drawing him into her. “You’re so thin. Are you hungry?”

Alexander shook his head. He hadn’t eaten for hours but he didn’t want to let her go, couldn’t let her walk away, even if it were only to leave the barn. He wanted to ask about his father but he didn’t know how. His mother was so brittle; he didn’t want her to break. They stood, collapsed into each other, the silence loud between them, until, finally, it was too much for him and he had to know.

“Tell me about father,” he said, pulling away to look at her.

“He hasn’t come back yet,” she said. “But he will.” Her eyes were dry, her lips set tight. “You’ve travelled a long way.” She reached for the rake and set it against a wall. “You must be exhausted, come inside. I’ll fix you something to eat.” She didn’t want him to ask about his father or Lili. She wanted to feed him and pretend they were still a family, and do what she could to make him whole. She could prepare him a meal. She couldn’t bring back his sister.

Alexander nodded. “I will,” he said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

His mother watched him scan the empty stalls, looking for Sari. “Of course,” she whispered, resting a hand on his cheek. “Come when you’re ready.”

Alexander padded through the empty barn to Sari’s stall, wondering who his neighbour had sold her to. He scooped a handful of straw from the ground and held it to his nose. He could still smell her, still make out the outline of her sleeping body on the straw. He wet his lips, stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled, just for the hell of it. Just to remember how it felt to call a horse and have it come.

He imagined hooves churning through the muddy ground, the clink of metal stirrups and the slapping sound of leather. He felt the ground shudder and realised it wasn’t his imagination, the sound and movement were real.

“Whoa! Slow down girl!”

Alexander swung around to face the barn door. He didn’t recognise his neighbour’s voice until he saw Radomir Hudak run through the door clutching Sari’s reins, his heels fighting the dirt in a vain attempt to stop her.

Alexander’s mouth dropped open as Sari flew through the stable, dragging Radomir after her.

“Sari!” Alexander found his voice. The mare ground to a halt with her ears pricked forwards and her tail held high.

“You’re still here!” He took a step forwards and Sari walked towards him.

“Alex, it’s good to see you!” Radomir extended his hand. Alexander didn’t take it. He stood nose to nose with his horse and swept his hand over her dripping neck. She sniffed his shoes, then his pants, lifted her wet nose to his chest and leaned into him.

“Sari,” he croaked, looking into the horse’s brown eyes. He swept the raindrops from her forelock and ran his fingers through her wet mane. Sari nickered gently and hung her head over his shoulder.

“She missed you.” Radomir lifted the saddle from Sari’s back and pulled the bit from her mouth. Alexander watched him tend to the mare as if she was his own, and realised, she was. His father had signed the farm over to the Hudaks when the government decreed that Jews couldn’t own property. The farmhouse, the ten acres, and every animal on it was his. Alexander’s insides felt bruised.

“Radomir, you’re back.” Alexander’s mother slipped into the barn, carrying a plate of biscuits. Alexander took the plate from her and set it on a stool, away from their thieving neighbour. His mother’s face flushed.

“Alex!” she scolded.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Altmann,” Radomir said, passing her the lead rope. “I was leaving anyway. You have a lot to catch up on.”

Alexander bristled.
You might own the farm
, he wanted to shout at the pink-cheeked farmer,
but she doesn’t work for you. And neither do I.

“Thank you, Radomir.” His mother half bowed and Alexander felt a burning in the pit of his stomach. “You don’t know how much it means,” she continued, “to have a home to come back to. To be here when my husband walks through the gate.” She turned from Radomir to look at her son. “Radomir signed the papers last week. The farm is ours again.”

Alexander’s mouth fell open.

“It was never mine to keep.” Radomir blushed. “It’s yours. It always was.”

He bowed to Alexander’s mother, nodded to Alexander, and left.

“The farm is ours? He can’t take it off us?” Alexander waited for the door to swing closed. “It’s in your name?”

“He can’t take it from us,” Alexander’s mother said, taking her son’s hands in hers. “But the papers aren’t in my name. Not any more.” She handed Alexander Sari’s rope, the hint of a smile on her lips. “It’s yours now. Six Gregor Lane belongs to you.”

The table was set with his mother’s best silver.

“Is Radomir joining us?” Alexander asked when he saw the table was set for three. His mother shook her head and pulled an apron from the cupboard. It was Lili’s, a red-and-white checked apron with an embroidered hem.

“Mother, Lili’s not coming back.” Alexander’s voice broke.

“I know,” his mother answered, tying the apron around her waist. “I like to wear it when I cook. It feels like she’s with me in the kitchen.” She spooned soup into a bowl. “The spare table setting is for your father.”

They broke bread and ate two bowls of cauliflower soup and a plate of stuffed cabbages swimming in sauce. Alexander licked the plate clean and asked for another.

“I want to show you something,” his mother said, as he mopped up the last of the sauce with a slab of bread. She opened the pantry door, scraped a chair from the table and climbed onto it, reaching up to the highest shelf to pull a battered cardboard box from behind a fruit bowl.

“I hid a few things before we left for the ghetto,” she said, peeling the lid open, and Alexander remembered waking the night after the police stole Lili’s bracelet to find his mother in his room, holding a torch. She’d put a finger to her lips and told him to go back to sleep.

“I kept Rabbit for Lili.” His mother pulled a cloth rabbit from the box. “And my wedding ring.” Her voice trailed away. She pulled a gold band from its velvet bag and slipped it onto her finger. “It’s too big,” she said, surprised by her thin fingers. She slipped the ring back into its pouch. “We kept your father’s prayer book too and a set of candlesticks.” She rummaged through the box. “And this,” she said pulling a splintered wooden sign from the battered carton.

The Galloping Stallion Equestrian Park
. Alexander read the letters carved into the wood. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

He took the sign from his mother and tucked it under his arm.

“And one last thing.” His mother pulled a wad of blue banknotes from the leather pouch. “It’s not a lot, but it’s a start, enough to buy a few foals to train, and make a reputation for yourself.” Tears hung on her lids. “They shaved your head and stole your name but you’re still Alexander Altmann.” His mother pressed the notes into his hand. “You’re still entitled to the same dreams.”

Alexander kissed his mother’s cheek. “You were here waiting for me, so they’re coming true already.” He tucked the money she had given him into the pocket of Lili’s apron. “Can you keep it for me, until I’m ready?” Alexander’s mother nodded and took his hands in hers. He looked down at her crepe paper hands, mottled with age, and then at his own, surprised by the smooth skin. His palms were unpuckered, the scars faded. No longer an angry red, they were now a pale pink.