see the milk spilling seconds after I already knew it was going to happen. Otto is so predictable. Bettina knows that too and she delights in teasing him.
I hear Meyer’s heavy steps behind me. His hoarse shout makes me duck. Bettina and Agnes, meekly pulling their skirts about them, disappear around the corner. Otto is left, guilty, red-faced, puddles of milk around his boots, froth seeping into the mud. As he waits for Meyer, he sticks his milky hand in his mouth. He knows he won’t have any breakfast.
Meyer is pulling the leather belt from his waist, grabbing Otto’s ear with a twist to lead him back to the barn. I look away. I don’t want to see my brother’s humiliation. In the kitchen I eat my bread and cheese, munching on the dark rye tang, the sharp flavour of the cheese. I fill my mouth with milk, holding the softness on my tongue for a moment before I swallow. I slip a crust of bread into my pocket to give Otto later. Agnes sees me. But Agnes won’t say anything.
Otto and I walk to school. The narrow lane borders a black field. Somewhere in the middle is a flock of geese. We can’t see them – they’ve been swallowed up inside a low mist that hangs over the hollow – but their complaining voices come to us, loud as a gaggle of housewives. The red brick spire of the church rises above treetops in the distance. Otto walks ahead; he has marks on each leg, long livid stripes curving around his calves, over the backs of his knees. He stamps on icy puddles, snapping the brittle surface, splintering chunks that he kicks across the road, and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. It’s his habit to sniff; he hasn’t been weeping. We are used to the feel of the strap on our legs or backsides. We know how to hold the sharp sting inside us, breathing through the pain. We don’t cry. Not anymore.
‘He went on about the Bolsheviks again.’ Otto shoots a shard of ice against a tree, watching it shatter into a spray of crystals. ‘Always the same story.’
Meyer likes to boast about his soldiering days in the Great War, how evil the Bolsheviks are, what horrors they committed in the name of communism. ‘You boys don’t know you’re born,’ he tells us when he whips us. Panting out words between strokes. ‘Got it easy. You need to show more gratitude.’
Meyer beats us both, but Otto has it the worst. I’ve given up trying to comfort him. He likes it better if I ignore him; it was the same even when he was small. He hates to be pitied. People get a particular look when they find out that we’re foundlings. They feel sorry for us when they notice our torn clothes and the strap marks on our skin, the fact that we always have to share our school books and never have a packed meal to eat at break. Otto turns away from sympathy, bending over a scab on his knee, prising it loose, making it bleed. Or he’ll find a hapless ant crawling by and casually crush it with his thumb.
KLAUDIA
1987, London
Shane saunters up to me in the crowded canteen with his pelvis forward, and that smirk on his face. He’s got his hands around my waist, jerking me so close that I wince at his sharp hips. His breath is in my face. I see other people’s faces, the way they shake their heads, their looks of disgust or fear. He grabs at me as if he has the right, as if we’re girlfriend and boyfriend.
When I try to shove him away, he whispers, ‘Do that again and I’ll break your fingers.’
I stare up under my fringe, hating him. But he seems to find it amusing.
‘I like a bit of graffiti,’ he says. ‘So be careful, or your old man will find his name on walls with the rest of his mates.’ He puts on a teacherly voice. ‘You do know who I’m talking about, don’t you, Klaudia? My heroes.’
My mind is numb. Blank. But I nod.
‘Say their names for me.’ He licks his lips.
The smell of food is making me feel sick. Gravy. Mashed potatoes.
‘Hitler?’ I whisper.
‘Uhuh. Go on.’
I can’t think of another name
I hear Meyer’s heavy steps behind me. His hoarse shout makes me duck. Bettina and Agnes, meekly pulling their skirts about them, disappear around the corner. Otto is left, guilty, red-faced, puddles of milk around his boots, froth seeping into the mud. As he waits for Meyer, he sticks his milky hand in his mouth. He knows he won’t have any breakfast.
Meyer is pulling the leather belt from his waist, grabbing Otto’s ear with a twist to lead him back to the barn. I look away. I don’t want to see my brother’s humiliation. In the kitchen I eat my bread and cheese, munching on the dark rye tang, the sharp flavour of the cheese. I fill my mouth with milk, holding the softness on my tongue for a moment before I swallow. I slip a crust of bread into my pocket to give Otto later. Agnes sees me. But Agnes won’t say anything.
Otto and I walk to school. The narrow lane borders a black field. Somewhere in the middle is a flock of geese. We can’t see them – they’ve been swallowed up inside a low mist that hangs over the hollow – but their complaining voices come to us, loud as a gaggle of housewives. The red brick spire of the church rises above treetops in the distance. Otto walks ahead; he has marks on each leg, long livid stripes curving around his calves, over the backs of his knees. He stamps on icy puddles, snapping the brittle surface, splintering chunks that he kicks across the road, and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. It’s his habit to sniff; he hasn’t been weeping. We are used to the feel of the strap on our legs or backsides. We know how to hold the sharp sting inside us, breathing through the pain. We don’t cry. Not anymore.
‘He went on about the Bolsheviks again.’ Otto shoots a shard of ice against a tree, watching it shatter into a spray of crystals. ‘Always the same story.’
Meyer likes to boast about his soldiering days in the Great War, how evil the Bolsheviks are, what horrors they committed in the name of communism. ‘You boys don’t know you’re born,’ he tells us when he whips us. Panting out words between strokes. ‘Got it easy. You need to show more gratitude.’
Meyer beats us both, but Otto has it the worst. I’ve given up trying to comfort him. He likes it better if I ignore him; it was the same even when he was small. He hates to be pitied. People get a particular look when they find out that we’re foundlings. They feel sorry for us when they notice our torn clothes and the strap marks on our skin, the fact that we always have to share our school books and never have a packed meal to eat at break. Otto turns away from sympathy, bending over a scab on his knee, prising it loose, making it bleed. Or he’ll find a hapless ant crawling by and casually crush it with his thumb.
KLAUDIA
1987, London
Shane saunters up to me in the crowded canteen with his pelvis forward, and that smirk on his face. He’s got his hands around my waist, jerking me so close that I wince at his sharp hips. His breath is in my face. I see other people’s faces, the way they shake their heads, their looks of disgust or fear. He grabs at me as if he has the right, as if we’re girlfriend and boyfriend.
When I try to shove him away, he whispers, ‘Do that again and I’ll break your fingers.’
I stare up under my fringe, hating him. But he seems to find it amusing.
‘I like a bit of graffiti,’ he says. ‘So be careful, or your old man will find his name on walls with the rest of his mates.’ He puts on a teacherly voice. ‘You do know who I’m talking about, don’t you, Klaudia? My heroes.’
My mind is numb. Blank. But I nod.
‘Say their names for me.’ He licks his lips.
The smell of food is making me feel sick. Gravy. Mashed potatoes.
‘Hitler?’ I whisper.
‘Uhuh. Go on.’
I can’t think of another name
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