‘I think you are right. Come on.’ Sam took her arm. ‘We can stay here for the night and be gone by the time the workers return.’
Hand in hand, they ran across the barren patch of land to the main doors, bowing their heads against the driving rain. Sam hastily pulled at one of the doors and, to Elsa’s relief, it easily gave way, groaning only a little on its hinges. The cavernous sawmill greeted them in eerie silence, its sharp-toothed torturous blades standing vertical like soldiers, a stark contrast to the natural wood floor and machines covered in a film of fine wood dust. They had already become accustomed to the sweet fragrance of the pine forest, but the odour of wood was more intense now, as if bursting forth on a wave from newly sawn trunks.
Sam looked up at the ceiling. ‘It’s dry in here. If we sleep near a window or door, we can hear the workers arrive and beable to make our escape.’ He looked at her. ‘That’s if you want to continue with me.’
Elsa dragged her gaze away from the formidable blades of a saw. ‘We are in this together now. Where you go, we go.’
They wandered around the factory, finally deciding on a quiet corner on an upper mezzanine level, which had access to an outside door and steps. They concluded that it would be unlikely for the workers to arrive by such a narrow set of stairs that took them to the wrong level of the machines, and it would give them the advantage of a few precious minutes to leave before they were noticed.
Sam found several hessian sacks and lightly filled them with wood shavings. He dropped several at Elsa’s feet and handed her one.
‘It’s a mattress,’ he said, prodding the sacks on the floor. He indicated the one in her hands with a jerk of his head. ‘And a pillow.’ He gave one to Klara. ‘The hessian is a little rough, so you will need to put a coat or something on it or it might scratch your face.’ He looked at Elsa. ‘Will you tell her that?’
Elsa held the homemade pillow in her hands. It was rudimentary, basic and a little musky, but it was a thoughtful gift. She lifted her gaze to his and opened her mouth to tell him so, but all the words that she wanted to say threatened to crack and break as she said them. She watched him make a mattress for Klara.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘We will sleep well tonight.’
He glanced up and smiled back at her, his eyes glinting with renewed vigour. Time appeared to stall as they enjoyed the rare moment of shared hope and anticipation. ‘I hope so,’ he said.
They made a makeshift home in the corner of the mezzanine and quietly shared their meagre rations — a slice of bread from the shop and berries and cabbage leaves they’d gathered on their journey. They tore the bread into portions with suchconsideration and care that an onlooker might have believed that the meal was part of a sacred ritual. Food had become so precious that securing it, sharing it and eating it were moments to savour. They discussed at length what time of day it must be, and finally concluded it must be still several hours before sunset. Elsa found a first-aid box and treated Klara’s blisters. When that was done they set about remedying their own, but eventually gave up and, on Sam’s suggestion, began treating each other’s instead.
At first Elsa sat rigidly, a little embarrassed by the state of her feet. She bit her lip as she watched Sam tend to her wounds, but eventually her lips softened and she began to relax against her hastily made pillow. His microexpressions at first amused her — a lift of an eyebrow, a slight frown. They crossed his face like clouds passing across a summer sky. She exchanged glances with Klara, who had also noticed and was smiling. He turned her foot to inspect what he had done, before suddenly looking up.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, to her surprise.
That you would make a good husband and father one day.
She lifted her foot from his open hand as she thought of an answer. ‘I was thinking you would make a good vet.’ She began to examine his work with more intensity than was needed. ‘You’ve done a good job. You should start your training when the war is over.’When you are in England and I am in Bremen.‘Let me treat yours now.’ She knelt before him and took his foot into her care.
‘Klara is sleeping,’ Sam observed some minutes later. He turned his head away from the sleeping child and watched her as she began to tend to his wounds. ‘What will you do when the war is over?’
She rummaged in the first-aid box. ‘The same as I hope everyone else will do.’
Sam tilted his head as he looked at her. ‘What is that?’
‘Live in peace.’And some days I will think of you and wonder if you still remember me.
* * *
A high-pitched wail pierced the air like a dying animal. It was a distant air raid siren. As Klara continued to sleep, Elsa followed Sam to the nearest window. He cleaned the settled wood dust with his sleeve so that they could both peer out. Raindrops still clung to the glass, but the downpour had stopped some time ago. Now all seemed still, but for the growing distant drone of engines approaching from the horizon. They searched for the source.
‘Up there.’
The low hum grew louder. The building trembled as the dark silhouettes of multiple staggered formations appeared over the trees. A brief interlude as they approached, then suddenly they were upon them and roaring directly overhead. American bombers. Elsa reached for Sam’s hand.
If the crews released their bombs now, they would die before their next breath.
The sky darkened sinisterly, sucking the oxygen from the very room. Sam pulled her into his arms as they continued to stare upwards into the belly of the war birds flying above them. Better to die together than be separated in the rubble, she thought, but she could not watch the bombs that would kill them fall towards her. She closed her eyes and buried her face in Sam’s shoulder, hearing herself say a prayer she had not recited since she was a little girl. The roar of the engines sounded like the rumblings of imminent death. It filled her ears and drowned out her thoughts. Unable to bear it, she covered her ears with her hands in the hope of muffling it. There was nothing else to do but wait.
Was this how her life would end? Would she ever see her sister and mother again? How would they know what had happened to her? But there were things that she knew for certain if she did die tonight. She would never marry. She would never hold her child in her arms. The possibility of knowing Sam in peacetime, when there was no ‘side’ to divide them, no belief to cling to, no atrocity to defend, would never occur.
Sam mumbled something into the air, but it seemed too distant, too removed to be directed towards her. She felt her arm being touched, then shaken. The bombs must be falling! Every fibre, bone and tissue in her body stiffened in readiness to be blown apart.
Sam spoke again, his words unusually close as he whispered her name. He pulled her fists away from her ears, allowing cool air to seep between them and her cheeks. She listened. The noise of the planes had faded. She loosened her trembling, stiff hands to listen some more. She was right, the engines were quieter.
‘They’ve left,’ Sam was reassuring her over and over again. ‘It’s all right, Elsa. They have gone.’
She exhaled and straightened, relieved that it was not their time to die, yet immediately felt a wave of guilt wash over her. She eased herself from Sam’s arms and stepped to the window again, placing her hot cheek against its cooling pane to look out at the now peacefully silent sky. Other Germans would not live to see tomorrow. She knew she would not willingly take their place so that they might live.
