Angel of Oblivion by Maja Haderlap

into the forest or came out of it revealed everything about him, it was said. Was he carrying a gun, did he have a red star on his cap, was he wearing two pairs of trousers at once and two coats so he wouldn’t freeze, was his shirt unbuttoned, his trousers torn and stained with pitch, was he carrying a dead deer in his backpack or bringing bacon to the Green cadres up near the highest fir trees? Was he carrying a basket of mushrooms, a bucket filled with berries, or courier letters in his pockets? Was his shirt clean, did he smell of pitch and bark, or did he stink, rank and unwashed, of dirt and cold sweat, of blood and scabs?
    My father’s hunting friends wear ironed trousers and jackets the color of trees, they carry the smell of moss in their hair and put fir twigs in theirhat bands when they’ve bagged their prey. The heads of horned game dangle from their backpacks. A gun was trained on each animal, then they were felled. Blood and sweat still drip from their muzzles, the dew of the last breaths they took. The dark gleam of their eyes will continue to shine a while from their delicate heads. Their skulls stripped of pelt and fur will simmer in peroxide baths until they are bleached and lifted from the cauldron like trophies.
    Hunting is part of the family myth, every hunting day is a celebration, that’s how it has always been, Father says. He still goes deerstalking at dawn and at dusk, oils his rifles and shotguns, cleans the scope, counts the cartridges. The game is still boiled and braised in the kitchen, the smell of chamois stew whets our appetite. His hunting friends still come in and out of our house telling their stories. He still looks forward to the annual hunt and to the drive he will take me on since I am such a good walker.
    When the day comes, the hunt is discussed early in the morning, the hunters are served doughnuts and hot tea. The area is divided up, sections of the forest assigned, positions designated. I’m to go with old Pop, whom I know well. Pop’s face looks like a coarse-grained desert landscape. He is the oldest in the group and, it is said, the one with the worst eyes. Once they wanted to test him and his eyesight, the story goes, and they stuck a house cat in a rabbit’s pelt. They wrapped the fur around the cat and tied it on with string. Hissing and scratching, the cat fled up the nearest tree and Pop couldn’t believe his eyes because he could have sworn he saw the first rabbit that ever climbed a tree.
    Grandmother pulls me aside. She has heard that the hunt will end at the Gregoričs’ farm. She wants me to say hello to old Gregorička for her. She carried me out of the camp when the camp was being evacuated and I was too weak to walk, Grandmother says. For three whole days, Gregorička carried me, helped me walk, and pushed me in a wheelbarrow until the SS had disappeared. Gregorička lost her mind in Auschwitz, even before she was transferred to Ravensbrück, and from that point on, she swore that the devil who put her in the camp would lead her out again. When she was younger, she was a strong woman who could take on any man, Grandmother recalls. I nod and say that I’ll give Gregorička her best.
    Pop holds my hand as we walk towards our section of the forest, beating our sticks against the trees and bushes. Shotguns over their shoulders, the hunters have hurried on ahead of us. The dogs drive hares and foxes in their direction, we hear only a few isolated shots and see only a few animals take flight.
    The line of game laid out in front of the Gregoričs’ farm that afternoon is as short as a wake, and the schnapps is soon drunk. We’re invited into the farmhouse. They say they’ve cooked up some goulash for the
Schüsseltrieb
, the closing feast. Old Gregorička is sitting on the bench at the table. I go up to her to pass on Grandmother’s greeting and give her my hand. Hers is cold and moist. She smells of urine. Gregorička does not understand who is sending their