CRUSHED
Ilse Valley, Germany
February 1928
Eating in front of Papa had always made me nervous. It often
made him mad, so mad that he would curse out loud and
slap me across the face. Sometimes it seemed he wanted to kill
me. He hated the sound of it, you see. An often-congested
nose meant I struggled to keep my mouth shut as I chewed.
Despite my hunger, those salty pretzels Mama had packed for
me would have to wait. Papa had beaten me for years. I had
thought it was his way of showing me love. Punishment could
be love, I’d thought, although I wasn’t so sure now I was older.
Gazing up, we stood side by side watching Papa’s pride
and joy, a Stahlwerk Mark III model plane, soar across the
cold, clear skies of the Harz. Glancing across at him, I noticed
how big the bald spot on the back of his head had become. I
matched him for height now. He did not like that either.
Flying model aeroplanes was the only time I connected
with Papa. I loved aeroplanes, and so did he. Mostly, we had
nothing in common. He seldom spoke to me, other than about
politics and how Adolf Hitler would make the country great
again, if only the Communists could be defeated. He often
quoted from Hitler’s speech at the Nuremberg Rally. Papa
thought Germany was too small for its population too. Gazing
from the window of the Deutsche Reichsbahn-Gesellschaft
passenger locomotive on our long journey here, it had seemed
obvious to me there was more than enough space for everyone.
Papa often got angry about the smallest things, sometimes
about nothing at all. I remembered reading to him once, in
the early spring, when it was warm enough to wear knee pants.
Mama had given me a newly published book, Bambi, A Life in
the Woods, as a Christmas present. I sat on Papa’s lap to read,
the familiar smell on his breath hanging around my head. He
fidgeted in the chair beneath me, muttering unfamiliar words.
Then, as I whispered of Bambi snuggling up to the ‘comforting
presence’ of his mother in the woods, the manly force of Papa’s
arms and legs threw me from my resting place. Ejected like a
sick chick thrown from its nest, my baby teeth crashed into the
stone hearth, leaving blood and enamel upon it.
Mama told me something happened to Papa during
the Great War. He had never been the same since. I did not
understand, as this version was the only father I had ever
known. I still admired him though and thought there must
have been some way I could change him. After all, he liked my
brother Emil well enough.
I held my breath captive in my chest as the Stahlwerk’s
wings shaved through the canopy of a nearby Ilse Valley pine,
sending needles raining down like miniature arrows. Papa
glared at me, his thick eyebrows pulled down, nostrils flared.
I trembled, praying no harm had come to the plane. He found
reason to punish me every week. Something I had said, the way
I had looked at him, or just because he felt like it. This time, I
could release my steamy breath long and steady, as our ‘knight
of the sky’ veered hard right, swooping back safely towards us
in a seamless arc and landing on the makeshift runway.
We had flown in many locations around the Spreewald
since he introduced me to our shared hobby. Strange he had
brought me here, so far from our home in Halbe, just south
of Berlin, but it felt like an honour. I worried though. Papa
seldom had spare money, and the train tickets and our chalet
must have cost many Marks.
The Ilse Valley had a deep carpet of frost, and icicles hung
like swords from the trees, products of the coldest February
in a decade. The river gurgled through the centre of a dense
woodland that covered the primary valley, carrying frying
pan-sized sheets of ice that bumped and ground together,
accumulating like morning trams in Potsdamer Platz. We had
passed an old derelict warehouse on our way here, part of an
old copper mine, according to Papa.
Papa knew an ideal spot to fly, in a perfectly flat basin. After
working for weeks on the Stahlwerk—a gift from Papa’s old
research partner—I prayed it flew well. We had twice launched
it this afternoon, carefully monitoring its flight paths as it
glided through the darkening sky. Papa strode towards it, eager
to make use of the remaining time. Holding it aloft, he rotated
it in his stubby fingers, examining every part.
“You’re lucky. Any lower, that pine would’ve taken the
wings clean off.”
As he moved it back to the take-off position, I reached
for my handkerchief and blew my nose clear. Cautiously
crouching beside him, my legs twitched as he took a petrol
canister and fuel pump from his rucksack.
“Take this.”
Savouring the smell, I held the tiny pump and attached it to
the canister. To save my own skin from punishment, I had long
since mastered the technique. Disconnecting the fuel line from
the engine and joining the tubes together, Papa turned the
handle until the kerosene crept up the exhaust line. I watched
him carefully adjust the ailerons and elevators, preparing for a
high-elevation flight.
Papa stood quietly in thought for a moment, then looked
me in the eye.
“Did you know I flew reconnaissance missions over
Belgium in the Great War, in an Albatros C.VII?”
I bounced from one foot to the other, excited in the
knowledge that Papa had been a real pilot, and even more
thrilled he had told me first rather than my brother.
“That’s incredible, Papa! The C.VII was an enormous
improvement on the C.V. They did away with the Mercedes
eight cylinder and refined the control surfaces. I read it—”
He cut me short, raising his voice to a boom.
“You sound so pretentious. Why do you always over elaborate? Too much time with your head in books.”
My heart shrank. I had read extensively about our Great
War air fleet and could not help talking about it. I had to do
something with my knowledge.
“Sorry, Papa. What was it like to fly?”
The corners of his mouth flickered upward for a moment
before he returned his focus to the Stahlwerk.
“We should get this in the air while we can.”
As the light of afternoon faded, Papa stooped to study the
plane up close, examining wings and tail once more, before
stepping away and turning to me. He smiled, a smile I had
seen too many times, broad, lips tight at the corners, his eyes
pointing at the stationary Stahlwerk.
“Always remember: lift, thrust, drag, and weight. Your
turn.”
He had told me many times about the four features of
flight, as if they held some mystical importance for him. This
time, his words carried more challenge than invitation. I
could not let him down. My frozen hands gripped the tail, or
empennage as I should call it, as Papa positioned the propellor
at two o’clock and pushed down. The engine whizzed to life,
lurching forward. I ran a few steps to help it on its way but
pushed too hard, making it take off unevenly. It headed up
steeply and to the left. I froze, holding my stomach tight, as it
careered out of control, but it caught a breeze and corrected,
sweeping back low across the grass. Rather than land, it swept
across into the woods at the end of the valley and momentarily
out of sight. I sensed, more than spotted, a murder of hooded
crows sweeping across the sky and down into the trees. They
showed me where the Stahlwerk sat, trapped high between tree
trunk and branch or, worse, smashed to smithereens on the
ground.
“I’m sure it came down near that tall tree, Papa. Where the
crows are.”
“I didn’t see any crows. Run. Find it, boy. It will be dark
soon.”
I shook off my coat and removed my bow tie. I had worn
one every day since Mama told me it made me look like Mark
Twain, whose dusty books I borrowed from the community
library near the Kaiser Bahnhof. Running breathlessly across
the icy valley, I slipped on a hidden frozen pool, twisting my
ankle. Letting out a shriek of pain, I slowed as I reached the
trees, peering back towards Papa. From here, he appeared tiny,
insignificant.
My first obstacle was the dense and entwined branches at
the edge. They resisted me, withholding their secrets. Moving
with a breaststroke motion, I made slow progress, trying to
keep the weight off my left ankle. Peering up through the trees,
I could see the first pinpricks of starlight dotted across the sky.
As I struggled into an open clearing, an elevated spruce
beckoned from a hundred metres away. I knew our plane was
nestled near its bottom. My thin arms were tiring from their
battle with the dense undergrowth, and I considered defeat.
But the thought of Papa’s wrath at my giving up, and the
rapidly descending cloak of dark, spurred me on.
I clenched my jaw down hard. My teeth ached, legs moving
independently of my brain now, as I clambered over a maze
of roots and rounded flint stones into clearer space. Startled
by a shuffling movement in the trees ahead, I stopped again,
landing in a deep, boggy pool, its freezing-cold water rising
over my ankle-high boots and soaking my woollen socks. The
spruce had disappeared. To my right, the open ground of
the valley. Why was it not on my left? At the end of the deep
basin, the sharp line of the hill eclipsed the sun, leaving a mean
sliver of light to keep me illuminated. I had to find my father.
Limping through a short avenue of trees, I was sure he would
be standing there, waiting for me.
My heart pounded hard in my chest, meeting the whisper
of the trees in my ears as the wind revealed its power.
“Papa! Papa! Where are you?”
My whimper was lost to nature. Gazing into the valley,
the remaining rays of sunlight lit a nearby outcrop of rocks.
Someone sat there, I was sure of it. Had Papa tired and looked
for shelter from the wind? As I neared, my heart sank. A pair of
stacked rocks and my imagination had created a human form.
I shook uncontrollably. My chances of navigating a route back
to our hut on my own were negligible. I could not even escape
the woods.
Then a sound, a murmur of humanity. Quiet at first,
steadily louder, fighting the wind. The voice, unmistakably
Papa’s, crept closer. I spun around, desperately scanning the
valley. No sign. His voice rang out again. Louder still. I looked
over to the woods and right, across the grass of the valley. Still
nothing.
“Oskar! Behind you.”
There, on top of the rocks, stood Papa, holding the
Stahlwerk triumphantly above his head, his face as dark and
unforgiving as the granite behind him. The crash had left its
propellors bent out of shape, its right wing partly detached.
He jumped to the ground, waiting. I felt weak, tears welling
behind my eyelids, and staggered towards him, longing for
his embrace. But he stood rigid, like Berolina, the iconic
Alexanderplatz statue he had been furious they removed last
year to build the U5 U-Bahn line in the capital.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I got lost in the woods.”
“This was a test and you failed it, as you always do.”
I hung my head, crushed, unsure how to reply.
“You must learn to navigate. Emil learned orienteering in
the Hitler Youth. We’ll speak to your mother about this.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. Cheeks burning, fighting back
my tears.
“Germany will have a great air force one day. When you’re
old enough, you’ll fly real aeroplanes. Do you think you could
do it?”
We stood in a vast open space, and yet I felt trapped,
cornered. So, I just nodded and gave a half-hearted answer.
“I’ll do my best, Papa.”
He handed me my jacket and shook his head, tutting.
Reaching into his worn leather rucksack, he pulled out a long
silver torch, pressing the rubber button on its handle, shooting
out a wide, powerful beam of light, like a limelight on a theatre
stage. A startled crow, perched on the rocks, let out a screech
and flew away towards the trees.
“Let’s start back. When we get home to Halbe, you’ll join
the Jungvolk.”
I nodded, desperately thinking of ways to avoid this fate.
Papa, despite his short legs, moved at a pace that almost tipped
me into a painful jog. Freezing air stung my eyes and throat.
Having cleared the grassy stretch of the valley, we started up
the hill, struggling to find firm footing on the rock-laden path.
“How’s our plane, Papa? Is it ruined?”
He ignored my question, walking even faster. How could
he not have seen my hurt ankle?
“Keep up. If we maintain this speed, we’ll be there in under
an hour. Take the plane. I need a spare hand.”
He pushed the Stahlwerk in my hand for me to carry. Such
was its length, I had to hold it with both hands at the base of
the wings, to keep the tail from dragging on the ground. After
a long climb, I fell at least thirty metres behind Papa. The path
before me darkened now as the moon and stars became cloaked
in blue-grey clouds.
I reached the brow of the hill breathless, my legs weary. He
had stopped on a narrow log bench, his head steaming a little
as he took sips from his hip flask. I sat beside him just as he
broke a hand-sized piece of gingerbread into an uneven two.
He handed me the smaller piece and stared silently ahead into
the distance, as if the hills and trees were visible through the
darkness. Snowflakes landed on my eyelashes like comforting
licks from Ralf, our Leonberger puppy. Papa switched his
torch back on and shone it across the valley, illuminating the
myriad of snowflakes, which seemed to collide and transform
as they fell.
“Weather’s coming in. We must hurry.”
He huffed, flicking his snow-capped head upwards,
covering his shoulders like dandruff, and marched away,
swigging from his flask. Remembering the pretzels, I reached
into my coat pocket. He could not hear me from here and
eating them would distract me from the throb of my ankle.
I delighted in pushing three or four at a time in my mouth,
crunching down on them with abandon. I could hear Papa
mutter criticisms of me and Mama out loud, so blocked out
my feelings, focusing my attention on the half-moon above.
Calling out loud the names of the visible lunar seas, craters
and basins—“Mare Imbrium, Oceanus Procellarum and Mare
Nubium”—I grinned as the half-eaten pretzel debris sprung
from my mouth.
We reached our hut weary and frost nipped. The rustic
cabin looked trapped and heavy, weighed down by a thick layer
of snow. It reminded me of Mama’s iced Christmas cake. I
reached up, knocking down a row of icicles hanging from the
gutter near the front door and hurling icy javelins through the
air, my hands red, raw and numb. Cupping them together, I
blew warm breath inside as Papa found the door key, opening
the lock with a single turn.
Stamping our feet in unison—the cold had seemed to
numb my injury—we stepped inside. Papa struck a match,
holding it to the wick of an old, rusty paraffin lamp. The steady
flame illuminated old rowing oars, milk churns and climbing
gear on the walls, creating dancing shadows as the warm light
flooded around them.
While Papa spent time opening the door of each room and
checking inside, I slouched down on the sofa, pulling a blanket
across my legs, struggling to untie the laces of my boots with
stiffened fingers. I hoped he might help, but he moved to load
the wood burner with logs from the basket on the hearth and
tidied the crocheted cushions on each chair. As the burner
crackled and hissed to life, I set about assessing the damage to
our plane and how I could fix it.
Papa sat on the chair opposite me, rubbing his thighs
furiously.
“Don’t just sit there. Make yourself useful. There’s a metal
jug out back with milk in it. Check if there’s any cocoa in the
kitchen. I need a warm drink.”
Taking a candle from the small dresser and lighting it, I
opened the door from the main living room and stepped into a
small wooden-framed lean-to. Ice made patterns on the inside
of the windows and the candle almost extinguished in the chill
air. In the far right-hand corner, a rough wooden shelf hung
from the ceiling joist on two thin pieces of rope. On it, a block
of butter on an old, chipped china plate and a blue and white
metal jug full of milk. I wondered how Papa knew it would
be there. We hadn’t come into the cabin earlier, other than to
drop a bag inside the front door.
Being careful not to spill any milk, I trudged back into the
living room, where Papa was combing his hair in the mirror
above the burner.
“I found the milk, Papa. I’ll make the drinks now.”
“Oskar. Come here.”
I hesitated, checking his face for signs of anger, before
balancing the milk on the dresser and turning to face him.
“Yes, sir?”
He sat rigid, brow lowered, his head down as he scoured a
set of papers. Without looking up, he spoke.
“You know the research work I’m involved in is very
important. Not just to me, but to Germany too.”
I nodded, unsure of what he meant.
“Yes, Papa.”
“In half an hour, a friend of mine will arrive. They’re
involved in similar research work at a nearby centre—the
Borchers’ factory in Goslar.”
“Okay, Papa. I look forward to meeting him.”
“It’s her, Oskar. Best you get to bed when you’ve had your
drink. You must be tired.”
His sugary words deflated me. Rather than chat about our
day in the mountains, he would entertain someone else. All at
once, I felt like an outsider.
Hunched over the jug, I headed to the kitchen, trawling
between old cans of tinned fish and soup to find a small tin
of cocoa at the back of the cupboard. Warming the milk in a
pan on the tiny kitchen stove, I prised open the cocoa tin with
a knife and peered inside: less than a spoonful. Filling the cups
with warm milk, with no hesitation I tipped all of the cocoa
into one of them.
Papa was warming his feet when I returned. I plonked the
cup down beside him.
“Here you are.”
He peered in, twisting his mouth.
“No cocoa?”
“None left. I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
My room was basic. Just a small iron bed. Putting on my
pyjamas, I climbed onto it and under the covers. By its side
was a table onto which I put my candle, reaching inside my
rucksack and opening Der Steppenwolf, which I had borrowed
from Mama. She encouraged me to read and learn at every
opportunity. At this very moment, I missed her so. Fanning
the pages, as I always did, the book released an old, decklededge photograph from its captivity.
Squinting in the flickering light, I held it close to my eyes,
studying the faces in the image. Nine people—four men, five
women—all well dressed, standing in what looked like a hotel
lobby. The woman at the end of the group, although younger,
was undoubtedly Mama. It fascinated me to see her so young
and pretty. So happy, without Papa. I closed my eyes to think
of her and drifted to sleep.
*
A fizzing female voice woke me. I pulled the sheets and itchy
woollen blankets around my ears, simultaneously wanting and
not wanting to hear the detail of the conversation she began
with Papa. I waited a while, so as not to appear an intrusion,
and contemplated the right time to introduce myself. In the
end, my bladder decided for me. Shuffling towards the thin,
three-quarter door, I put my ear against it. Silence. Grabbing
a blanket from the bed with one hand, I shaped the other to
knock on the door, but that was ridiculous. Instead, I cleared
my throat, slowly turning the door handle to find Papa and his
friend sitting next to each other on the sofa.
Papa shuffled in his seat.
“Oskar, what are you doing?”
“I need to use the toilet.”
He nodded, tipping his head in the direction of the
bathroom, before glancing towards his companion.
“This is Maria. My colleague. Be quick. Get back to bed.”
She leaned back on the couch, looking at me dismissively as I
wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, her thin lips sealed.
I had imagined, and dreaded, seeing someone glamorous. She
would wear an elegant dress and city shoes, wavy hair swept
off her face, all lipstick smiles and giggles. But this middle-aged
woman was dour. Dark, straight hair, glasses. She wore flat
shoes and what looked like a laboratory coat. Despite the dim
light, the small swastika pin on her lapel was unmistakable.
I nodded, heading for the bathroom, cheeks hot, jaw
clenched. Struggling to shut the door without pressing up
against the little sink on the wall, I wondered how Papa, with
his brandy barrel-sized torso, would fit in here. Tying a knot in
the blanket so that it hung around my neck like a cloak, I undid
my pyjama trousers and relieved myself.
I made my way back to bed and lay curled up like a baby,
rocking forward and back, as I always did before sleep. Lying
awake, I strained to hear the detail of Papa’s conversation.
Would she stay the night here? Who was she? Had Mama met
her? Would Papa spend the day with me tomorrow or put me
on the train home alone? As tiredness dulled my present mind,
I fell into a sleep, dreaming of Mother.
The sound of a door shutting brought me back sharply to
a breathless state of consciousness. I struggled to remember
where I was, my eyes blearily searching every corner of the
room for clues. The sudden scream of a lynx outside my
window reminded me of my mountain location. Then, the
sound of an automobile engine starting.
Gathering my blanket, I swung my legs off the bed, weak
with shock and a lack of food. I paused, listening for a sign of
Papa. The floor was freezing cold. I grabbed the thick, woollen
socks from my bed, pulling them on before opening the door
into the living room. It was eerily quiet and pitch black, other
than a faint orange glow from the wood burner’s embers.
Papa’s bedroom door was ajar. I peered inside, praying he was
in there alone on the bed, but the room was empty, the bed
perfectly made up. Blood pulsated in my ears as I flung myself
down, burying my face in the musty covers, forgetting how to
breathe.
“Papa!”
My feeble cry had no one to hear it. He had deserted me.
I stumbled towards the front door, wiping tears on
my pyjama sleeve and spotting a piece of paper lying on a
small heart-shaped table under the window. It had Papa’s
handwriting on it. Picking it up, my sleep-filled eyes danced
over the words, scrawled in large and untidy inky capital letters:
GONE TO GOSLAR RESEARCH CENTRE IN FRAU
DURCHDENWALD’S AUTOMOBILE TO CONDUCT
URGENT WORK. BACK BEFORE DAWN. FATHER
Light-headed, I sagged against the door, consoling myself that
at least he had written me a note.
