Free Bunker by Andrea Maria Schenkel Page A

quite still and concentrate on the bushes on the other side of the path, I seem to hear something splashing. A little stream? A spring of water? My exhaustion disappears. I jump up and force my way through the bushes, feeling the dusty ground. Nothing. I’ll have to stay thirsty.
    I go back through the bushes to the path. My eyes are used to the darkness now, so that’s no trouble. Disappointed and tired, I sit down on the path again. I’m finished. I can’t go on. I sit there with my legs drawn up and my arms around them, looking at the moon. The sky is clear and full of stars. Hundreds of sparkling points of light in the heavens. I don’t know how long I look up, I just sit there. My eyes fill with tears, and I begin crying helplessly. I scream and sob, I keep hammering my fists on the ground like a lunatic. I’m weeping with fear and rage. As time goes on my tears dry up and I just sit there, powerless, looking up and thinking of nothing. I have to get up, I have to go on – OK, I mean go back – before I actually give up the ghost. I have to go back to the house and try to find the right way from there. There’s no other option. Either I die of thirst or I go back to my point of departure and try again, but in the other direction. With difficulty, I get to my feet. There are a few berries on a bush right beside me. They look like little black globules in the moonlight. I pick a handful, not many. Quickly put four or five in my mouth at once. The flavour is slightly sweet, fruity. The berries are full of seeds. I swallow. They have a bitter aftertaste. I spit. Now my mouth feels even drier and my tongue more coated than before. I throw the rest of the berries away.
    If the bushes looked rather like dangerous animals earlier, now they seem to be human beings. I feel as if they’re eyeing me, sitting up above me as if they were in the front of the circle at the theatre. They’re staring at me. They sit there in old-fashioned garments. Some are staring at me, holding opera glasses up to their eyes, others are standing, nodding their heads, with glasses of champagne in their hands. I’m starting to have hallucinations, what with my thirst and my exhaustion. But I can see quite clearly how one of the theatre-goers leans far out over the front of the circle as I pass. I’m afraid. He’s leaning too far over, he’ll fall head first. He touches me, I can feel the breath of some of the spectators. They’re spurring me on. Their calls grow louder, most of them are calling out encouraging remarks, they sound cheerful and emotional. The rows fill up more and more, there’s pushing and shoving. The background sound grows louder. Glasses clink. First the restless spectators start whispering and murmuring, then they’re calling out, the sound rises to shouting. I put my hands over my ears, the noise is almost unbearable. My heart is racing.
    Go on. I’m gasping for breath. On and on, through the dense undergrowth. I see lights to my right, soon I’ll reach the place where the path branches and leads to the mill.
    Now they’re lining my way, I have to push through thecrowd. I see their heated faces, red cheeks, gleaming eyes, I see them laughing with their mouths wide open. They crowd towards me. Their hands reach out for me, touch my arms, my shoulders. I can feel the warmth of their bodies standing close, side by side. The air smells used, acrid. I see the house. The audience is crowded together in a semi-circle now. They give way before me and leave the path free. Now I’m standing on the edge of the stage, the spectators have closed in around me again. I look around; the stage shows a ruinous old mill, light coming through little windows. The door is slightly open. I look back at the audience. Not a sound now, the crowd stands still. The human wall moves slowly, soundlessly towards me. I run to the door of the mill. The metal door sticks, won’t