*
A framed document hung on the wall. In it, on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday, the German author Gotthardt Baron von Erztum-Lohmeyer declared that, in grateful thanks for the freedom of his native town now bestowed on him, he was leaving it his library and all his manuscripts after his death.
The museum curator, Heil Hitler, an old gentleman wearing pince-nez and a Party symbol, watched the building being cleared. He went from one man to another, wringing his hands. ‘For God’s sake go carefully!’ he cried. But there were no outbursts of anger; they could easily have been misinterpreted.
In one large hall — it had probably been a law court; iron yokes hung from the wall — glass showcases had already been emptied. They had held rare books on display, and, coins, seals and charters. Querns weighing several hundredweight each and dating from the pre-Germanic period were lined up along the corridors. After all, they bore witness to the meagre lives of our ancestors: grinding corn into flour, mixing gunpowder for firearms. They were to be left behind, however valuable they might be, because of their weight, but the round pestles used with them were taken away. If anyone looted the querns they wouldn’t be much good without the pestles.
The chandelier made of antlers hanging from the ceiling was left behind as well. It was probably seventeenth century; its day was past.
But the curator anxiously told the soldiers not to forget the majolica ware. ‘Go carefully with that!’
Paintings were carried out one by one, tiny flower pieces, small pictures on rural subjects, and The Battle of Tannenberg, a large battle scene that would probably have been described anywhere else as a frightful daub. It showed mounted messengers on rearing horses, soldiers in spiked helmets firing at the enemy, grenades exploding at regular intervals. Dead Russians and wounded Germans. Two field marshals could clearly be seen in the foreground, one pointing to a map on a table in front of him, the other agreeing with whatever he was saying. Rumpler-Taube aircraft flew against the background of a sky sprinkled with shrapnel, taking part in the battle whenever possible. You could tell which were the enemy planes because they were crashing to the ground. There was a tear in the canvas. ‘We didn’t do that,’ said the soldiers carrying the pictures out. ‘It was already there.’
To the left of the door hung the portrait of a plump princess in a sky-blue dress, a fur collar, and with many medals on her breast. She was to become the Tsarina Catherine the Great, insatiable in her thirst for love but a good friend of Prussia. She had travelled through this town on her way to St Petersburg, and the people were still telling risqué stories about her.
That portrait was also taken down, wrapped in a blanket and taken away, although it might have been advisable to carry it in procession to face the furious Russians: ‘Look at her, the German nation’s great friend!’
The snag there was that she had been German herself.
The soldiers left The Coming of the Holy Ghost where it was as well. It was a huge panel from the old parish church that had been demolished in the Middle Ages. The disciples had little flames on their heads and a dove hovering over them. ‘We might as well leave this thing,’ said the soldiers. The curator wasn’t so sure. It went against his instincts, but perhaps this or that could be retrieved later.
They left the stained-glass windows where they were, too; they would probably break in transit anyway.
*
Peter helped to carry things out. The documents in the town archives were to be preserved as well, in a whole series of folders, and with many boxes containing archaeological finds. Didn’t one of the boxes have the name Hesse on it? That country teacher with his Stone Age stuff had had the right idea. Wouldn’t those items help to show that East Prussia was an ancient German land?
The curator with the Party symbol stood at the exit from the museum, saying, ‘Careful, careful, all this is irreplaceable!’ every time the soldiers carried anything past him. He was holding a little box containing the municipal seal. ‘This is particularly valuable, don’t let it out of your sight.’
He didn’t even notice how cold he was. Why, he wondered, am I shivering like this?
‘I think that’s everything,’ he said in the end. ‘Now we can set out.’ He would just go to fetch his wife and daughter …
Wife and daughter? How old was his daughter?
‘Sixteen.’
‘Sure, we can find room for her.’
Peter was asked what he thought he was doing, hanging round here. And what was that box under his arm? A schoolboy’s microscope?
Why didn’t he say so before, for heaven’s sake? When at last they were ready, the curator of the museum got into the cab of the truck with his wife and daughter. ‘We’ll just have to squeeze up a bit,’ said the driver.
The soldiers jumped up on the load area, and Peter, coming to a quick decision, swung himself up too. Then they were off. The box containing the municipal seal was left behind on the museum steps, but Peter’s microscope was jammed under his arm.
Hooting, they drove past the farm carts standing in the streets. Peter looked back over the load area at the long line of carts.
I wonder, he thought, whether anyone will ever paint that?
Local police officers stood at the town gate, to check that everyone who wanted to go through it had the right papers. And to stop anyone trying to run away. Heil Hitler. They had heavy pistols in their belts, and badges on chains round their necks. They let vehicles through one by one. When the truck had finally been through this procedure and could go on, and the driver was putting it into first gear and accelerating, Dr Wagner came running along, gesticulating and shouting, ‘Stop, stop!’ Peter knocked at the driver’s cab, asking them to pick the gentleman up, but in vain; there was no time. With one last effort, Dr Wagner jumped up to the back hatch of the load area but missed it, slipped off and fell into the street, where a heavy vehicle ran over him.
‘Oh no!’ cried Peter, falling backwards on the load area.
Was that what Dr Wagner had meant by perfection?
Outside the town, going down the road lined with wrecked cars, corpses and looted luggage, they were driving past more carts trekking towards the town. When they went round a bend Peter threw his weight against the angle of the truck, to keep the pictures from falling over. The pestles belonging to the querns rolled about on the load area in semicircles, sometimes colliding with each other and setting off sparks.
For a while Peter counted the carts they were passing. Were there thousands of them? How long had they been on the road? It was always the same, everyone intent on getting away over the ice of the Haff to the spit of land that was the Nehrung, and from there home to the Reich.
Is Pomerania our fatherland?
Is Swabia our fatherland …
All Germany’s our fatherland.
And they would surely be welcome there.
After a few kilometres, an untidy column of prisoners joined the main road, soldiers guarding it left and right. The prisoners were dragging themselves unsteadily along with the last of their strength. They had wrapped themselves in blankets to keep off the cold.
‘Who are that lot?’ asked one of the soldiers in the truck.
‘The children of Israel,’ replied a guard.
‘They should be made a head shorter!’ And if the speaker had had stones he would have thrown them, but he couldn’t be bothered to pick up the pestles rolling about at his feet.
It took some time for Peter to understand what kind of prisoners these really were, and then it occurred to him that his mother might be with them. He looked more closely at the women. Her white fur cap … could he see it?