Winter's End (18 page)

She was about to step out of the woods when the doctor laid a hand on her shoulder. “Wait!”

“What is it?”

“Men — look!”

Three men with spades were standing close to the rock where Mills, Pastor, and Ramses lay buried. They could be heard cursing under their breath as they uncovered the bodies. A fourth man was busy with a sleigh standing outside the door of the refuge. They all wore leather coats and boots.

“Phalangists,” said the doctor in a low voice. “What are they doing here?”

The door of the refuge opened, and two more men emerged. They were carrying a limp body by the shoulders and feet, and threw it roughly down on the sleigh. One arm dangled over the side, looking half dislocated.

Helen felt ill. “Milos!”

She took a step back and sat down on the toboggan. Everything was reeling around her: the dazzling snow, the spruce trees, the gray sky.

“Milos,” she said, and wept.

“Shh!” the doctor ordered her. “Keep quiet.”

Outside the refuge, the men were putting on their snowshoes. The three of them pushed the sleigh toward the downward slope. “We’re on our way!” one of them called to the men by the rock.

A few seconds later, the sleigh was out of sight.

“They didn’t even put a blanket over him,” moaned Helen. “Is he dead?”

“I don’t know,” the doctor whispered. “We can’t stay here. Come on!”

Although the heater was on full blast, Helen was shivering as she sat in the car. The doctor stopped, took off his jacket, and gave it to her.

“Put that on and try to calm down. I don’t think your friend is dead. You saw what a hurry they were in to take him away. When someone’s dead, people can take their time, can’t they?”

Helen had to agree, but it wasn’t reassuring. They drove on in silence for some time, going far more slowly than on their way to the hut, and then the doctor turned and looked at her with a kindly expression.

“Now, tell me everything, please. What exactly happened in the refuge?” And as she still hesitated, he added, “You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you.”

She wanted to believe it. She began at the beginning, unable to keep back her tears. “We ran away from our boarding schools. . . .”

And she told him all about it: the flight of Bart and Milena, little Catharina Pancek in the detention cell. She told him about Basil’s death, the annual assembly, Van Vlyck, Mills, Pastor, and his Devils. She told him about their bus journey through the night, their exhausting climb up into the mountains, their wait near the rock, freezing; she told him about the dreadful fight between Pastor and Milos, his wound, the frenzy of the dog-men. She told him everything, and when she had finished,
she added to herself alone, in silence:
And what I’m not telling you, Doctor, is that Milos is my first love. I’m sure of that now . . . and I’ve already lost him.

He listened to the end of the story without interrupting her, and then simply asked, “Do you know anyone who could take you in?”

“My consoler would,” Helen murmured. “She’s the only person I know outside the school, but I can never go back to her now.”

When they reached the stone cottage, night was already falling. The doctor turned off the car engine but didn’t get out. In the sudden silence his voice was calm and full of certainty. “Listen, Helen. I’ve been thinking. This is what we’ll do. First we’ll have some supper here with my parents. It’ll be better than yesterday; don’t worry. I brought some good food up with me. Then I’ll take you home with me, to the little town where the bus took you, and you’ll meet my wife — and your fiancé, Hugo! But you can’t stay long. There’s going to be all hell to pay in this part of the country, as you can imagine. They don’t like losing their own men like that. You can’t go back to that school of yours either.

“So early tomorrow morning I shall put you on the bus going south, with the money for your fare and a little extra. You’ll arrive in the capital city the next night. Ask your way to the Wooden Bridge and go there. The Wooden Bridge, don’t forget, because there are a great many bridges in the city. This one is to the north, upstream of the river. People sleep under it; they may look alarming, but
don’t be afraid of them. They won’t hurt you. Ask for a man called Mitten. Remember that: Mitten. Tell him you come from me — Josef the doctor. He’ll help you and tell you where to find other people like us in the city. I’ve lost track of them all. The network’s always on the move.”

“People like us?”

“People who don’t go along with the Phalange. Is that enough of an explanation for you?”

“Quite enough. Thank you very much, doctor.”

“My name’s Josef.”

“Then thank you, Josef.”

“Don’t mention it, Helen. It’s the least I can do. May I give you one more piece of advice?”

“Of course.”

“Get rid of that jacket and knapsack very soon. They could mean bad trouble for you.”

She realized that she was still wearing Pastor’s sheepskin jacket and carrying the knapsack that had once belonged to Mills. “Oh, God, yes, of course! But what should I do with them? I’d hate them to be found in your parents’ house. I could bury them, I guess, or burn them. . . .”

“I have a better idea,” said the doctor. “There’ll be nothing left of them at all, not even ashes. And my wife will give you a coat to replace the jacket tomorrow.”

As they passed the pig’s enclosure, he threw the knapsack and jacket over the wooden fence. The huge boar snuffled at them for a moment with his vast snout, then opted for the knapsack. Within a few
seconds he had swallowed it, metal reinforcements and all. It took him a little longer to appreciate the interesting flavor of sheepskin mixed with mud.

At dawn next day, they went to the bus station together, Helen warmly wrapped in a woolen coat that the doctor’s wife had given her. Josef gave her the money he had promised, with some food and a book for the journey. First he shook hands, then he changed his mind and kissed her on both cheeks.

“The Wooden Bridge — and the man is known as Mitten. Whatever you do, don’t forget those names. Good luck.”

She got into the same bus that had brought her there four days ago — a century ago, in a distant time when Milos was still with her. As she watched the mountains move away in the dirty rectangle of the rear window, she felt her heart breaking. They’d caught Milos. Even though he’d told her he never got caught. What would they do to him? What would she do alone? They’d said they’d never leave each other. He wasn’t going to die, was he?
We will meet again, won’t we?
she thought.
Promise me, Milos. Please!

H
elen arrived at the bus station in the capital city in the middle of the night, feeling more alone than she had ever been in her life. Where were Milena and Bart? What was she doing in this place? When she asked the way, a passerby just pointed without bothering to open his mouth: the Wooden Bridge was over there. She set off. Tall, dark buildings rose on her left like cliffs, silent and menacing. She went down to the river and walked along the bank. The Wooden Bridge, Mitten — she didn’t know anything about either of them, but her only hope was to find them.

At least six fires were burning under the bridge, their dancing flames reflected on the rippling surface of the river. Helen stooped at the top of the stone steps leading down, glad to have arrived at last. She had walked a long way, passing at least six bridges before she reached this one. A dozen ragged derelicts were sleeping under burlap sacks around the largest
of the fires. Loud snores rose in a kind of disorderly concert, interrupted from time to time by a kick or an elbow in someone’s ribs. Now and then one of the sleepers got up to relieve himself in the water or put a branch of wood on the flames. Other, smaller fires were crackling gently in the darkness. Men sat by them eating, drinking spirits, and smoking in silence.

The clock of the nearby church was just striking midnight. Helen went down the steps and walked under the arch of the bridge, repeating the doctor’s words to reassure herself:
People sleep under it; they may look alarming, but don’t be afraid of them. They won’t hurt you.

“Hey, whaddya think you’re doing here?” asked a rasping voice very close to her.

The woman addressing Helen was sitting against the wall in the shelter of a buttress. It would be difficult to guess her age, but perhaps she was around fifty. Her face, flushed with broken veins, was half hidden under the peak of a fur cap, and a mongrel dog lay asleep at her feet.

“I’m looking for Mitten.”

“So what’s your business with Mitten, then?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

The woman pointed to a small fire that had almost gone out fifty feet away. “That’s him over there. Give him a kick; that’ll wake him up!”

Helen approached the shape lying huddled under a pile of blankets. “Er . . . please, sir,” she began timidly.

The woman burst out laughing. “No need for any ‘sir’ around here! Give him a kick, like I said!” And when Helen didn’t look as if she would, the woman shouted, “Mitten! Hey, you, Mitten. You got a visitor. Pretty little chick. A blonde!”

“What?” grunted the man, raising his shaggy head and long face. He could have been around forty. Thin as his face was, there was something cheerful about it. “What d’you want?”

“Are you Mitten?” asked Helen.

“Looks like it. So who are you?”

“I’ve come from Josef. Dr. Josef.”

The man yawned at length, showing a mouth with half his teeth missing, noisily cleared his throat, and sat up a little. “And how’s good old Doc Josef? Still getting paid to kill his patients off?”

“He’s fine,” said Helen, smiling.

The tramp pushed back his covers and stood up with some difficulty. He was wearing large, woolen gloves with the fingertips cut off to expose the last two joints of his dirty fingers.

“You’re from up in the hill country, I reckon. Know your way around here?”

“No, that’s why Dr. Josef . . .”

“Right. Well, let’s show you around for a start.”

Helen, who was already worn out by cold and weariness, didn’t feel at all like going back up to the icy sidewalks of the city, but a surprise awaited her at the top of the steps. Mitten kick-started a motorbike that looked a positive antique, with an
enormous yellow tank rather like the curved body of a wasp.

“Get up behind and hold on tight!”

The monster motorbike, which had no front light, chugged noisily off along the roads and began climbing north up a hill.

“Where are we going?” cried Helen, who was numb by now. “I’m freezing!”

“To the cemetery!” replied Mitten. “There’s a good view!”

As they went on uphill, the city revealed itself below. Helen had never imagined that the capital was so big. More than ten bridges crossed the river, and she found it difficult to believe it was the same river that she knew.
If you could see how wide it is here, Milos! Four times as wide as when we were looking down at it from the roof of the school! If you could see this city! Dozens of towers and belfries, wide avenues, hundreds of alleyways, tiled roofs going on and on forever. The tiles are prettier than slates. Oh, it’s a shame you aren’t here; it’s a shame.

The motorbike had no stand. Mitten leaned it up against the cemetery wall and led Helen on. They crossed the road and were soon standing on a grassy mound like a promontory above the drop below. As she turned, Helen saw the crosses and tombstones on the graves shining in the cold moonlight.

“Never mind the dead!” said Mitten. “Take a look at the view. Not bad, eh? The bridge to the north there, that one’s mine. You can tell it
by the fires burning there. The biggest bridge in the middle, that’s Royal Bridge, the one with the bronze statues. This side of the river, you got the Old Town, right? Other side of the river, you got the Castle — up on that hill, see it? Down below is the New Town. The Phalange hangs out in that tall building.” He spat the way he was pointing and then turned back to his motorbike. “OK, you seen it all. Guided tour’s over, and if we don’t move, we’ll freeze to death.”

“Where are we going now?” asked Helen.

“I’m taking you to Jahn in the Old Town.”

“Who’s Jahn?”

“You’ll soon see.”

They were already on their way down the slope when Mitten half turned and shouted, “Hey, you know those two as arrived by boat last week?”

“What two?” she asked, with a sudden surge of excitement.

“Tall, thin guy and a blonde with her hair cut short. Watch out. Hold on — the road’s bumpy here!”

“A blonde with short hair?” Helen asked. “Do you . . . Do you remember their first names?”

“No . . . yes! Him, he was Alexandro, something like that, and she . . . um . . . Helena, that’s it! Yup, Helena!”

“Bartolomeo and Milena!” she shouted into Mitten’s ear.

“You don’t need to yell like that! Want to
burst my eardrum? Yeah, like you said: Bartothingamajig and Milena, that was it.”

“Where are they now?”

“At Jahn’s, of course. Where you’re going, love.”

Helen had been under so much stress for days and nights on end. Now, suddenly, she was relaxed. She immediately forgot about the cold, her anxieties, the grief of being alone. She was going to see Milena again! Maybe even tonight. She laid her forehead against the back of Mitten’s neck.
This is an angel taking me there on his motorbike!
she thought.
Maybe he doesn’t smell too sweet as angels go, but he’s an angel all the same because we’re on our way to Milena.