Bunker Read Free Page A

ride is bumpy now. There are deep ruts in the ground, a space that rises higher between them. I avoid large stones to keep the undercarriage of the car from coming down on them. The further the track leads into the forest, the more the undergrowth and bushes encroach on it. Branches brush against the car, I let it move forward very slowly. I stop at the big fir-tree root. No motor vehicles can get any further along the track.
    I switch off the engine, climb out of the car and go round to the rear door. The bloody boot is stuck again, won’t open. The jolting and the unmade surface of the track have tilted the old chassis out of true. I hit it with the palm of my hand. No good. I need a tool to lever the catch open. There’s a screwdriver in the car. I get it out of the glove compartment, insert it under the catch of the rear door to the boot, and it springs open.
    Now that it’s open I take the plastic bags and my backpack out. A bag in each hand and the backpack over my shoulders, I trudge along the overgrown forest path. Thethorns of the brambles catch in my trouser legs. I take no notice, pull myself free as I walk on, try to avoid them. The path runs slightly downhill here; I go down it to the pond. Wet leaves and mossy stones make the path slippery. The pond is an artificial one, laid out long ago as a fishpond, fed by damming and diverting water from the little stream. It was supplied through a wooden spillway, but over the years that has rotted, and the pond has turned to swampy, brackish mud. It only fills up occasionally after long, heavy rainfall. In hot summers it stinks to high heaven. Then the mud turns leathery and dull, and broad cracks appear in it, scaly and smelly.
    I follow the path on along the bank and over to the old mill. The millwheel is stuck in the mud of what used to be the supply to the pond, with reeds growing around it. Only a few wooden ribs still hang in the metal frame of the wheel. The house itself is still in good condition, except for the roof. Every strong wind does more damage, and soon a storm will take the whole thing off. I ought to repair it.
    At some time the old wooden front door was replaced by an iron one. The old door lies outside in the mud, bridging a marshy patch of ground. I raise the iron door slightly to open it, bracing my whole weight against it. The hinges are rusty, and it’s difficult to open. The room beyond is dark,the air musty and heavy with the damp. No electricity, only paraffin lamps in the house. I put the bags down on the floor and take off my backpack. I light the lamps with my cigarette lighter. I close the door.

He tied a blindfold round my eyes before pushing me into the car. I lie there with my hands bound behind my back. The toes of my shoes just touch the floor of the car. As he drove over the bumpy road the blindfold slipped. Through the narrow space, I can see the back of a car seat. The drive seems endless. But then the car stops and the door is opened.
    â€˜Come on, stand up!’
    The man takes hold of my arms and legs, tries to pull me out of the car. I’m scared. What’s he going to do to me? I can’t get out of the car fast enough for him. He pulls my hair. Hands behind my back, legs gone to sleep. He couldn’t care less, the bastard. He goes on pulling me out. I stumble, can’tfind my footing, try to get my hands in front of me, can’t. I scream. I fall forward, can’t support myself on anything, I land on my face. As I fall I turn over on my side. Leaves, fir needles, earth in my mouth, in my nose. I cough, spit stuff out, I stay lying there. Everything hurts. The cord round my hands is cutting into my flesh worse than ever. My head hurts so badly.
    â€˜Stand up!’
    The bastard is shouting at me. Why doesn’t he understand that I can’t, not with my hands tied? I just want to stay lying on the forest floor. The ground smells good, smells of mushrooms, earth, moss. All of a sudden I