Winter's End (3 page)

“We could exchange messages through the Skunk, couldn’t we?”

Helen felt the blood rise to her face. She had always thought that messages delivered by the Skunk were only for the fifth- and sixth-year students. Milena’s suggestion seemed incredibly daring. It was as if she had suddenly crossed a forbidden frontier without warning.

The Skunk was a wizened little old man who hobbled across the school yard and back late in the morning on Fridays, laboriously hauling his handcart after him. It contained, first, a load of
clean sheets and, on the way back, a pile of dirty sheets, which he was taking to the laundry in town. As the only person who could pass freely between both schools, he was someone of considerable importance: he could deliver messages and bring the replies back next week or the week after. All you had to do was leave your letter tucked in the laundry along with payment — a banknote in an envelope or, even better, a bottle of spirits if possible. The Skunk suffered from some kind of gastric disorder that gave him appallingly bad breath. A disgusting smell of rotten cabbage hit you ten feet away from him even if he’d hardly opened his mouth. The poor man tried to keep this misfortune at bay by drinking cheap rotgut that could be bought for him in the town.

“We’ve never tried it before,” said the taller boy, the one his friend had called Bartolomeo. “But the older guys say it works.”

His voice was both deep and soft, almost a man’s voice.

“Let’s write our names down,” said Milena. She was already tearing a piece of paper into four.

They all searched their pockets for a pencil or a pen, and then each of the four carefully wrote his or her name. Standing close together in their long overcoats, they formed a little island of warmth in the cold. The boys had their collars turned up, the girls had pulled their hoods over their heads, and there was almost nothing of them to be seen except their hands and faces. Helen finished
writing
Helen Dormann, the girls’ school, 4th year,
then handed the paper to Milos without hesitating. He handed his note to her at the same time, and their fingers touched. They smiled and put the two scraps of paper in their pockets unread. Milena and Bartolomeo had already exchanged theirs.

“We don’t want our letters to cross each other,” said Milena, always practical. “Helen and I will write first.”

“Fine,” said the two boys.

“Right.” Helen shook herself and took Milena’s arm. “We’re going on up. I don’t have much time left.”

“We’d better get a move on too,” said Milos. “Or we’re going to be late. I don’t fancy sending a friend to the detention cell.”

And they rushed on downhill.

“You’ll write first, then?” the taller boy confirmed, turning back for a moment.

“Is that a promise?” asked Milos, forefinger raised as if to threaten them.

“It’s a promise!” said the two girls at the same time, laughing.

A
s Helen and Milena walked into the consolers’ village, the chilly drizzle surrounded them like liquid dust, its tiny droplets glittering in any light from the street lamps or windows. The brick houses, crowding close to each other all along the road, looked like miniatures. You went down a few steps to reach most of them, and you almost had to bend to get through the doorway.

Milena stopped at the first house. “I’ll wait for you here. And don’t forget me if your consoler’s cooked something nice. I’m starving.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll remember. I just hope it’s warm for you in the library.”

To make sure, Helen followed her friend into the tiny, low-ceilinged room. A flame was flickering behind the glass door of the wood-burning stove, and it was indeed warm.

“They never forget, do they?” said Milena.

A lighted lamp on the table welcomed visitors, and halfway up the wall were two shelves with a hundred or so well-worn books on them. As Milena took her coat off, she was already looking at them, deciding which to choose.

“I’m off, then,” said Helen. “See you soon. Have a nice read!”

She herself had been here several times as companion to Milena or one of the other girls. She loved the library, a place cut off from the rest of the world where no one ever disturbed you and you could read and dream in peace. It was like a nest or a cradle, she thought — somewhere warm, in any case, where no one ever wished you harm. And no one else would come in except, from time to time, a quiet man who must be married to one of the consolers, coming to add a log to the stove on the hearth. He would ask kindly, “Enjoying your book?” You assured him that you were, and he went away again. She had only once had to share the room with another companion, a boy who read for a few minutes but then sat huddled up in a corner with his head on his knees and went to sleep.

All the girls loved being chosen as companions and having the chance of two hours in this library. Sometimes, of course, they would rather have visited their own consolers, but Rule 22 was quite clear: Girls acting as companions are not allowed to visit their consolers. And the severe punishment didn’t encourage anyone to disobey: no outings for the rest of the year.

Helen went straight ahead, turned left at the fountain, and started along a sloping road. As she reached Number 47, she found herself smiling. She knew in advance what happiness she was going to give and receive. She went down the three steps and tapped lightly on the window rather than the door. The panes were steamed up inside. In a moment a small hand rubbed one of them and a bright little face appeared. The child’s mouth opened wide, and Helen could see his lips shaping the two syllables of her name:
He-len!

A few seconds later Octavo was throwing himself into her arms. She picked him up and kissed his chubby cheeks. “You’re so heavy!” she said with a laugh.

“I weigh fifty-seven pounds!” said the child, very proud of it.

“Is your mama here?”

“In the kitchen. I’m doing my homework. Will you help me like last time? I like it when you help me with my homework.”

They went into the living room. It was not much larger than the library, but stairs to the right went up to the second floor, where there was a bedroom, and a door at the back of the house led to the kitchen. This door opened to reveal the monumental form of Paula.

On one of her first visits, Helen had cried her heart out and then fallen asleep in Paula’s arms. When she woke up, she had murmured, “How much do you weigh, Paula?”

She was only fourteen at the time, and this tactless question had made the fat woman laugh. “Oh, I don’t know, my dear. I’ve no idea. A lot, anyway.” When she hugged you, it was hard to make out where her arms, shoulders, breasts, and stomach were. Everything merged into a sensation of sweet warmth, and you wanted to stay there forever.

Paula opened her arms now for Helen to snuggle up in them. “It’s been a long time, my beauty.”

Paula often called her “My beauty” or “My pretty one.” And she would hold Helen’s face between her hands to get a better look at her. Helen had heard herself described as a number of things — emotional, odd, a tomboy — but no one else ever said she was pretty or beautiful. Paula did, and she meant it.

“Yes, last time was before the summer,” Helen said. “I wanted to wait until December at least, but I couldn’t manage to hold out.”

“Well, come on in. I’m just making supper for Octavo. Baked potatoes, and there’s some of the pear tart we had for lunch left. Will that be all right?”

“Couldn’t be better!” said Helen happily. Everything she ate here, far away from the hated school refectory, tasted delicious.

Octavo was already impatient to get back to his homework. “Come on! I can’t do it on my own.”

As Paula went back into the kitchen, Helen rejoined the little boy and sat down beside him. “So what are you learning at school, then?”

“Words that go in pairs for males and females.”

“Right. Like what?”

“The teacher gave us the first one. It was husband and wife. We have to write down three more pairs.”

“Have you thought of your three?”

“Yes, but I’m not quite sure about the third.”

“Go on.”

“Wizard and witch.”

“Very good.”

“Bull and cow.”

“That’s fine. How about the third?”

“That’s the one I’m not sure of.”

“Never mind, let’s hear it.”

“Fox and foxess.”

Helen found it hard not to laugh. At the same time a deep, strong wave of melancholy swept over her. Did she have a little brother of her own somewhere? A little brother puzzling over his homework? Sticking his tongue out as he concentrated on the past tense of the verb
to do
or a problem like 3 × 2? No, she didn’t have a brother or sister anywhere. Or parents either. She thought of the orphanage where she had spent her childhood, and the autumn day when she left it. How could she ever forget?

Three grim-looking men push her into the back of a large car. They lock all the doors and drive off in silence.

“Why have you locked the doors?” she asks the man next to her. “Do you think I’m going to jump out or something? Where are we going?”

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t even turn his head. All the way she smells the strong odor of his leather jacket and the cigarettes that the other two are smoking in the front of the car. They drive through the countryside for hours, and then the road runs beside the river to the nameless little town and the gray boarding school building.

About a hundred other girls are waiting in groups of five or six, coats over their arms and small books in their hands. They are all surprisingly quiet. She is led along shabby corridors to the room outside the headmistress’s office, where she has only a few minutes to wait. Then the door opens and a girl comes out, also with a coat over her arm and a book in her hand. She is small, wears thick glasses, and looks even more downcast than the others. This, as Helen will learn later, is Catharina Pancek. She just murmurs, “Your turn to go in,” and then walks away. Helen cautiously goes through the doorway.

“Name?”

This is the first time Helen hears the headmistress’s voice.

“Dormann. My name’s Helen Dormann.”

“Age?”

“Fourteen.”

“Come here.”

Helen goes up to the desk, where a massive woman with short gray hair is sitting. She wears a man’s jacket, and her shoulders are wide and powerful. Helen will soon discover that the girls’ nickname for her is
the Tank.
The Tank searches some papers, finds a file on Helen, and runs through it. Then she opens a drawer and brings out a leaflet.

“Here, take this.”

The leaflet is well worn; its cover has been mended many times.

“These are the school rules. You must have them with you at all times. There are eighty-one rules. Learn ten a day. If you have to come back here, which I hope you will not, you must know them all by heart. Go into the cloakroom next door, find a coat that fits you, and go out. If there’s anyone sitting outside my door, tell her it’s her turn.”

Helen goes into the room next to the office, which is full of dozens and dozens of coats hanging there like theatrical costumes. Except that all these costumes are identical: heavy wool overcoats with hoods. It’s like a maze.
If I ever need to hide,
thinks Helen,
I’ll know where to go.
She chooses a gray coat that looks a little less threadbare than the others, tries it on, and decides that it fits. She takes it off, puts it over her arm, and goes back through the headmistress’s office. The Tank ignores her.

A tall, pale girl is sitting on the bench in the waiting room, bleeding slightly from the nose into a handkerchief stained with red. Helen will learn later that her name is Doris Lemstadt; she will become so ill that she leaves the boarding school. “Your turn!” Helen tells her, and she goes out into the yard where a faint ray of sun falls on the girls standing there motionless, with their coats and their booklets of rules.

“I know — I’ll say duck and drake instead. Is that better?”

Helen came back to the present and smiled at Octavo. “Yes, that’s better. Not as funny, but better.”

The delicious smell of baked potatoes was
coming from the kitchen, and Paula called, “How’s your friend Milena? Is she all right? Do you admire her as much as ever?”

“She’s fine,” said Helen, laughing. “And yes, I do! She’s waiting for me in the library. Can I take her something from supper?”

“Of course, and a slice of tart if there’s any left.”

Paula was always cooking: for herself, for Octavo, for people who happened to drop in. It was impossible to go to her house and not eat anything, or come away without something to eat: a helping of bread-and-butter pudding or chocolate cake or just an apple. She had one child, Octavo, but no husband. When Helen asked her about that, she had said she didn’t need one. The village on this hill belonged to the consolers, and it was no place for men unless they were very discreet. Like the man who comes to put wood in the stove, Helen had thought. He must be one of those shadowy men who were allowed to live on the hill. Other men didn’t feel at ease here; they lived in the town and seldom came up to the village.