Winter's End (10 page)

That voice . . . Just for a second Catharina felt she would be able to put a name to the woman any moment now; it would spring to her lips. She had it on the tip of her tongue, deep in her heart. But as soon as the door closed again, she knew the name had escaped her and she couldn’t remember it. She had confused dreams. They were full of fires, the sound of keys turning, swarms of insects, and the Tank shouting, “I beg your pardon?” She searched for the matchbox in her hair for at least an hour before remembering that it had been in her coat pocket since the first evening.

On the seventh day, she couldn’t get up when her tray was brought in. The woman came over to her, put her flashlight down on the bunk, and
helped her to sit up. “You must eat, Miss Pancek,” she said.

Catharina sat there with her teeth chattering. The little woman helped her to drink, then put the spoon in her right hand, but her fingers were trembling so badly that the entire contents fell on her lap. Then the woman took the spoon and fed her like a baby.

Once she had swallowed the first mouthful, they stayed sitting there side by side. The woman appeared to be hesitating.

“Don’t you recognize me?” she murmured at last.

“I recognize your voice,” said Catharina, hardly surprised to hear the gentle tone in which the woman spoke. “But it’s so long ago. . . .”

The woman picked up the flashlight and shone its faint beam on her own face. “Can you see me better now?”

Catharina raised her head and narrowed her eyes. But the sad, heavy face meant nothing to her.

“I knew your father well,” the woman went on, and her voice was unsteady. “His name was Oskar Pancek. I worked for him as a maid.”

“My father?”

“Ah yes, your father. He was a fine man. He was very good to me.”

“I don’t remember anything. . . .”

“Or look at me this way,” said the woman, turning her face to show her right cheek. “Do you remember me better now?”

The whole right side of her face was covered
by a birthmark, a large port-wine stain. It ran from the middle of her forehead all down her cheek, covering half her mouth and jaw.

“Theresa,” Catharina murmured. The three syllables escaping her mouth spread an instant gentle softness through the cell. “Theresa,” she repeated. It was like a door opening or a veil being lifted. She saw herself in a large drawing room with a sweet tobacco smell in the air. The curtain of the open bay window was moving in the breeze. Someone was playing the piano, a bearded man wearing a velvet jacket. His fingers caressed the piano keys. She could see him only in profile and came closer to climb up on his knees. “Oh, Cathia, leave your father in peace!” said a voice, and Theresa was bending over her to pick her up.

“My father . . . did he play the piano?” Catharina ventured. Her heart was racing.

“Yes, yes, he did,” replied the woman, rising to her feet.

At the door she stopped again, and added, in a voice full of sadness, “Yes, he played the piano, but only for his own pleasure. Most of all he was a great mathematician. And a great figure in the Resistance. I’m not allowed to talk to you. Here are your glasses, your watch, and your hairbrush. I’ll put them down beside the jug of water.”

Catharina thought she was about to leave now, but the woman hadn’t quite finished yet. “There’s no one watching the place tonight. After one in the
morning, there’ll be no one on supervision duty in the school.”

Catharina sat there for a long time, feeling stunned as she took in what the woman had just told her in those few words, and above all realizing that the key had not turned in the lock. She staggered over to the door, ran her fingers over the inside of it, and pulled it toward her. It opened easily. Emotion made her fall on all fours. She groped for the jug of water, found her hairbrush, her watch, and her glasses, and put the glasses on at once.

I’m free,
she told herself as her thoughts raced through her head.
I’m free. I have my glasses and my watch back. . . . There’s no one on supervision duty tonight. . . . My father was a great mathematician and a great figure in the Resistance. . . . I still have one match left for a look at the Sky.

Trembling all over in spite of her coat and the blanket, she lay down on the bunk. She fell asleep and woke up again more than five times before she thought the right amount of time might have passed. As best she could, she pulled the bunk over to stand under the beam, climbed on it, and struck the eighth and last match. Her watch said nearly two o’clock. For the first time she was seeing the Sky with her glasses on, and she was amazed to find what a vivid blue it was. The white cloud was like a huge feather bed.

She drank from the jug again, trembling with fever, and went along the mud-brick tunnel,
stepping carefully.
My consoler,
she told herself.
I must go to her. I must get there somehow.
Every step she took echoed painfully in her head. She climbed the damp spiral staircase, groping her way up it. She had gone about halfway when the door above her creaked. The beam of a flashlight fell into the stairway. Someone was climbing down. Was it Theresa coming back? Someone else? In panic, she just had time to take refuge in the space to her left by the cellar entrance. Flattening herself against the wall, she held her breath.

“Careful, the steps are slippery!” a voice whispered.

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” another voice replied. “You said this place is underneath the cellar?”

“Yes. Keep going! We’ll have to go right to the bottom of the stairs.”

The two figures passed Catharina without seeing her. The way ahead was clear again. She started up the staircase again, but suddenly felt dizzy and thought she was about to fall into the void. Her fever was consuming her, draining all her strength. She knew she’d never get to the top of the steps alone. So she’d have to gamble that the two people down there might be on her side. They’d soon see that the detention cell was empty and turn back. They’d be here again in a few seconds. She sat down on a step to wait for them.

T
he wet slate shone sparkling black. Sitting on the roof ridge of the boarding school, Helen and Milos wrapped themselves in their coats and looked down at the little town. It was still sleeping between the steel-colored river and the dark northern hills.

“Isn’t it beautiful!” Helen gasped. “Have you ever walked in the town?”

“Yes, every time I’m companion to a friend visiting his consoler,” said Milos. “I never go to the library — I’m not all that big on reading. It sends me to sleep. So I go back down the hill, over the bridge, and into town. That’s what three-quarters of the boys do.”

“But what if you get caught?”

“I’ve told you already. I never get caught. Look down there, where the smoke is rising — it’s almost purple. That’s the slums; they’re full of bars and hoodlums. People go there to drink and fight.”

“You’re scaring me! Have you ever been there?”

Milos roared with laughter. “I’ve been through them, but don’t worry, I never drink and I don’t fight either. At least, not in bars.”

“That’s right, you said you’re a wrestler, didn’t you?”

“Greco-Roman wrestling.”

“What’s that like?”

“Same as freestyle wrestling except you’re not allowed to grab your opponent’s legs. Or punch or bite or put a stranglehold on him.”

“So what’s the idea of the sport?”

“You have to get the other man down on his back by attacking just his upper body and make his shoulders touch the ground. It’s called a fall.”

“It sounds primitive.”

“I am primitive.”

“I don’t believe you. Are you good at . . . at Greco-Roman wrestling?”

“I’m not bad.”

“The best in your school?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Milos said this without sounding arrogant. Helen had asked him a question and he was answering it truthfully, that was all. She was impressed. Once again, she felt she could be in no danger beside this boy with his large hands, even though she hardly knew him. They both looked up. The countless stars seemed to be blazing unusually brightly. Their sparkling, silent, distant light filled the frozen sky. Helen shivered.

“Are you cold? Do you want to go back?”

“Not until you’ve told me what you had to tell me, Milos. You promised.”

He hesitated for a moment. A cat put its head out from behind a chimney, watched them briefly, surprised to find two humans up here, and then moved gracefully away.

“We must look weird up here on the roof!”

“Come on, tell me, Milos!”

“OK. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Then let’s begin at the beginning. It was last spring. A new boy arrived at the school. Odd kind of guy, about our age, taller than average but sturdy too, shoulders like a furniture mover, long face, blunt features, right thumb very crooked, nose had been bashed in, scars on his arms and hands, hair standing up in tufts. In fact the sort of tough-looking character I’d be very wary of in the ring. Out in the yard his first evening he came over to us and spoke to Bart, hesitating a bit. ‘Seems like you’re Bartolomeo Casal?’ Bart looked him in the face and said yes, that was him. I wondered for a moment if the guy was going to throw himself at Bart and attack him. But no, he opened his huge mouth, buried his face in his hands and kept on saying, almost groaning, ‘I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!’ He seemed so shattered that we took him off into a corner of the yard where no one would see us. ‘You certainly kept me on the run!’ said the boy. ‘Three
years I’ve been looking for you! Three years I’ve been getting myself chucked out of every boarding school I could find on purpose, trying to track you down! The detention cells I’ve been in! The beatings I’ve taken! Look at my face, will you?’

“He was all choked up with emotion. He took a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, cried into it for a bit, and blew his nose. ‘Explain yourself!’ Bart said. ‘We don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. First of all, who are you?’

“‘I’m a cart-horse,’ says this boy.

“‘A what?’

“‘A cart-horse! Don’t you know what that is? I’m the sort that wears themselves out chasing after clowns like your kind! We’re told there’s mail to be delivered; we deliver it, even if it means ten years searching and the person it’s for can’t be found. We’re ready to go through hell and high water to deliver it. Mind you, not for just anyone. Not for those Phalangist bastards! My dad never could stand them. Me neither. To think I’m the one who’s found you! I just can’t believe it! You swear you really are Bartolomeo Casal?’

“‘Yes, I swear it,’ says Bart, feeling more like laughing than anything else by now. ‘But why are you looking for me?’

“‘I just told you,’ says this boy, sounding annoyed. ‘Are you deaf or what? I have a letter for you! Sewn into the lining of my jacket, that’s where your stupid letter is. It’s been going around sewn into people’s linings for twelve years! I’m the fourth
cart-horse to carry it. Unpicking the lining and stitching it up again every time I change my jacket or coat, I’m sick of it. I’m a cart-horse, not a fashion designer! See my hands? Right, I’ll go off to the bathroom to fetch it out and then you can have it. Wait here.’

“Bart and I looked at each other, stunned. A minute or so later the guy was back. ‘Thanks,’ said Bart, slipping the worn envelope into his pocket. ‘What’s your name?’

“‘Basil, and you know what I’m going to do now?’

“‘No,’ we said.

“‘I’m going to watch my step, I am. I’m going to be an angel, a little lamb, that’s what. And most of all I’m going to get some rest, because I’ve done my job.’

“Then he shook hands with both of us and lumbered off like a bear. We could hear him snorting ten yards away.

“After that, Basil became friends with Bart and me. It was fascinating to hear his story. He’d been in over six boarding schools; he knew all kinds of secrets. You just had to ask him. The annual assembly, Van Vlyck, the rest of it — it’s through Basil I know about all that.”

“I see. And he must have read the letter too. No one can keep a letter in his pocket for three years without being tempted to read it.”

“Of course not. Unless that person can’t read.”

“You mean Basil can’t?”

“No, none of the horse-men can.”

“The what?”

“Horse-men. Basil was making fun of himself, saying he was a cart-horse; he’s really one of the horse-men. I’ll explain more about them another time, but it’s a fact; they can’t read. From the start, Basil sat in the back row in the classroom. Everyone caught on quickly, and the teachers left him alone.”

“Poor boy. And what was in the envelope?”

“A letter for Bart.”

“Yes, of course, but what was the letter about?”

“All in good time. Bart read it right away in the bathroom while I kept watch at the door. Like in your school, they never leave us in peace. When he came out, he was white as a sheet. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’ I asked. ‘Who was writing to you?’

“‘My father,’ he said. ‘It’s a letter from my father. . . . I never even knew I had one! He wrote it to me fifteen years ago.’

“Over the next few days, Bart changed. He’s not the talkative sort, but he started questioning lots of our friends one by one. And it was always the same question he asked. ‘Do you remember your parents?’ They’d have turned around and thumped anyone else, but somehow people don’t turn on Bartolomeo Casal. It was odd: he’d go up to boys he hadn’t said a word to in three years and ask them straight out: ‘Do you remember your parents?’ Most of the time the answer was no. But if someone did say yes, he’d go on asking questions for hours.”