The Road Between Us Read Online Free Page B

in Aachen, giving them his temporary address, but he had not told them about his deportation from England, or the reason for it. As the weeks went by, he had allowed himself to think that he had fallen through the Reich’s bureaucratic net. Then, as August drew to a close, a Blockleiter arrived to apply crosses of tape to his windows to prevent shattering. In the gaps between them, Anselm had been able to watch trenches being dug near the bandstand in the Tiergarten. The Berliners who walked with urgent steps over the cobbles below had started carrying gas masks. But he could still hear a barrel organ being played somewhere nearby and, occasionally, the heavy flapping of wings as a swan took flight. One day, on the cusp of autumn, war was declared through the loudspeakers. Soon afterwards an air-raid siren was tested. Then they came for him.
    Now, as he hears the rattle of the heavy keys again, he looks towards the cell door. The lock turns with a solid clunk as before and the door yawns open with a squeak of unoiled hinges. While the man with the kind eyes remains outside the cell, another policeman stoops to enter, even though he is not especially tall, certainly not as tall as Anselm.
    ‘Arms out,’ he barks.
    Anselm raises his arms, bent at the elbows. The policeman’s touch is icy, his skin forged from the same steel as the handcuffs. Once outside the cell, Anselm stands between the two guards. He is half a foot taller than both of them and, with the prisoner wearing a white shirt buttoned to the throat as if he is a priest, the three of them look like a scene from a stained glass window, an unholy triptych. As Anselm follows the first policeman up a spiralling metalstaircase, he has to grip the waistband of his trousers to stop them falling down.
    The iron-barred gate at the top of the stairs opens into a narrow white corridor that smells of fresh paint. At the end of this another prisoner, about Anselm’s age, is sitting head down, leaning forward, on a bench. His handcuffed wrists are resting on his knees. He has his own escorts. Anselm is about to walk towards them when he feels a restraining hand on his shoulder.
    The prisoner is breathing quickly and, as Anselm tunes in to the sounds coming from the other side of the black wooden door he is facing, he appreciates why. Shouting can be heard. He cannot make out the exact words, but it is clear that someone is being cursed in there. Anselm feels a chill in his stomach. His scrotum tightens.
    After a minute, the ranting stops. A minute after this, the black door opens, the policemen stand and the prisoner is escorted inside. The door closes and Anselm is nudged forward to sit on the bench. It is still warm. His police escort remains standing either side of him, as the others had done, and, after two minutes of silence, the ranting starts again. This time Anselm tries to block the words out. He searches for a song to sing in his head instead, but all he can think of is the Horst-Wessel-Lied . His bowels are turning to water.
    After ten minutes the shouting stops. As if operating by clockwork, the black door opens a minute later. Anselm’s guards stand up and steer him through the door. He has a dozen yards to walk to where there are two chairs. His shoes echo hollowly on the waxed parquet floor, then comes a silence that is so deep it terrifies him.
    The policemen sit in the chairs and Anselm remains standing between them. He looks up. Above him is a high, vaulted ceiling. To his right there is a table around which sit five clerks of the court wearing black gowns and white wing collars. Some of them are writing, others consulting notes. Behind him there is a public gallery of some sort, but it is empty. The side of the room he entered from has a raised seating area, presumably where the jury sits. This too is empty. Ahead there is a witness stand. Again, empty.No jury. No witnesses. The courtroom smells of disinfectant.
    Only now does he look at that which he has