Any Survivors (2008) by Freud Martin

Author:Freud, Martin [Freud, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical/Fiction
Published: 2008-04-04T23:00:00+00:00

9

THE NIGHTMARE

The previous night I had managed to fall asleep with no problem. Tonight, after all the visits, it was proving difficult to find peace and quiet. I tossed and turned, uncomfortable, and with an agonising feeling as though my head was in a steam heater, my feet in a refrigerator, a piano on my breast and a crystal chandelier under the sheet. Even in a nightmare I showed my newly acquired expensive tastes. Where in my previous life would I have encountered posh items such as a chandelier, piano or fridge? My lips felt so chapped, I was sure I could have lit a match on them if I had felt inclined to practise such tricks.

My breath was rasping and laboured. My nose, up until recently a fairly benevolent organ, trustworthy in carrying out its duty, was equally useless in its two purposes: breathing and smelling. It was reduced to a painful red instrument of hellfire. At last I fell into a semi-conscious state, hovering between sleep and waking. I tortured myself with harmful musings. Last night I fell asleep calmed by the thoughts that my fair and dangerous adversary would not be able to follow me all the way to Berchtesgaden. Tonight the voices were taunting me. Did I really think she would be so easily put off? If she had the task of following me, would she not find her way whether it be through oceans and deserts? She would have no trouble making her way to a peaceful health resort … one that could be reached by train, especially if the Gestapo was footing the bill and easing her passage. It was difficult to foresee what role she would play and how she would disguise herself, but the diversity of the German people offered many options and the Gestapo would have the means to provide anything she required. I would have to prepare to bump into her at every step of the way. There was no escape – So jagen sie ohn’ ermatten, they hunt him without tiring, as the poet had put it.1

Stop! I said to my iron bed … it had begun to roll away and was circling around the room. Not so quick, you are making me dizzy. Please come back to the ground and don't take the corners so quickly! But the bed showed no mercy. If you insist on this movement please don't go in circles but move in a straight line. This was the extent of my technical knowledge. The speed at which the bed was going around corners defied all sense of centrifugal force. The sensation was so unnatural that it could only be a dream. But please dear bed; refrain from any further tricks such as bucking or trying to throw me off. I'm already feeling very nauseous. I felt that even in a dream I deserved consideration. The bed obliged and forged straight ahead but it was no longer a bed … it was a compartment in a first-class luxury train that was hurtling through the darkness.

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