Winter's End (31 page)

The recital was over. Mr. Jahn went up on the stage, gave bouquets of flowers to both the singer and the pianist, and kissed them. They came down into the restaurant while some men took the piano away and began dismantling the platform. Helen would have liked to congratulate her friends, but there was such a crowd that she couldn’t get through to them. When everyone had left the restaurant a little later, she helped her colleagues to finish the cleaning and tidying up. It was after midnight before she could finally go to her room.

In passing she knocked on Milena’s door, but there was no reply. She went back two floors down and knocked at Bart’s. No one there either. She went to bed, listening in vain until halfway through the night for the sound of a key in the lock of the room next door. Around four in the morning she thought she heard a shot fired outside. She got up, stood on her chair, and opened the skylight. Icy cold stung her face. Cars were driving fast over Royal Bridge. There was more firing; she heard the sound of voices in the distance, then silence. Helen went back to bed, her heart full of mingled hope and anxiety.

Not much later she was abruptly woken by the sound of a door being kicked in. She sat up in bed, terrified, thinking someone was trying to break into her own room, but the men outside were forcing their way into Milena’s little room next door. It was
ransacked violently but swiftly. There wasn’t much to be taken away or broken. As soon as the men had gone again, she got up and joined five other girls in their nightdresses in the corridor. Mute with horror, they were gazing at Milena’s books lying jumbled on the floor, her broken shelves, her little ornaments trodden underfoot, her scores torn up.

“I’m scared.” The youngest of the girls gulped, hugging a cushion as if it would protect her.

“Apparently the revolt began in the night,” said another girl.

“How do you know?”

“Didn’t you hear the gunfire? And Mr. Jahn has disappeared.”

“When?”

“Last night. He left with Kathleen and her tall boyfriend.”

“Bart? They’ve left?” murmured Helen. “They never said a word to me!”

“Or me,” replied the other girl. “But my room looks out on the street behind the building. I was looking out of the window after the recital and I saw them get into two cars.”

“Two cars? Wouldn’t one have been enough?”

“No, there were other people with them. I saw Lando, the head chef, and those horse-men who were guarding the entrance to the restaurant. They all left together.”

“Where were they going?”

“How do you expect me to know?”

“No, of course you don’t. Sorry.”

Helen stayed in Milena’s room by herself to tidy it up a little. Among the torn-up scores, she came upon the music of “In My Basket,” which had survived. She took it away to her own room and slipped it into the inside pocket of her coat.

Then she went back to bed, to keep warm while she waited for day to dawn.

T
he two cars crossed Royal Bridge together and drove away into the freezing night, going east. Jahn led at the wheel of his heavy Panhard. A young horse-man beside him, unsure where to put his long legs, was kneading the cap he held on his knees.

“I’m your bodyguard, Mr. Jahn. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. What’s your name?”

“Jocelin.”

“Well, Jocelin, your job is to protect me in case of any violence. Me and the passengers in the back seat.”

“Right, Mr. Jahn. I’ll protect you.”

He didn’t have to say any more. The fists he raised slightly spoke for him; they were as heavy as anvils.

In the back of the car Milena, Bartolomeo, and Dora were huddling close together to keep warm. Before they left, Milena had just had time to run to her room and fetch her things.

“Hurry,” Jahn had told her. “We won’t be back here for some time.”

Flinging her clothes and a few favorite things into her bag, she had thought that perhaps they were going to take her from place to place to sing for more audiences. She wouldn’t have minded. The pleasure she’d felt in her first recital promised great future happiness. But that wasn’t it. On the contrary, as soon as he had left the city behind and felt certain that no one was following him, Jahn told the two women that they were going to have to hide — again. Whatever happened, they must avoid falling into the hands of the barbarians. He knew a safe place where they would both stay as long as necessary, he said.

“What was the point of giving the recital, then?” asked Milena, unable to hide her disappointment.

“What was the point?” repeated Jahn, laughing. “Do you know what will happen after tonight?”

“No.”

“What will happen is that hundreds of people who heard you and Dora will tell hundreds of others about it, and they in their turn will pass on the story to thousands more. All these people will be saying that Milena Bach, Eva-Maria Bach’s daughter, sang for an hour accompanied by Dora. They’ll describe the way everyone rose to their feet to sing an encore of “In My Basket.” Tomorrow the news will spread through the whole country, through towns and villages, all the way to the most remote houses. When you sang, you stirred the embers into
flames, understand? People will come out of hiding and throw more fuel on the flames — twigs, branches. They’ll fan it into a blaze that becomes a vast conflagration. That’s what will happen, Milena.”

She didn’t reply. She found it hard to imagine that she had been able to unleash such forces by herself.

“Why didn’t you warn me I was going to sing?” she asked.

“It was a Resistance secret, and although you were very closely concerned, there was no need for you to know. Are you annoyed?”

“I don’t know. A little. It means you thought I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and Dora could. I’m not a little girl, you know. Still, what does it matter? Anyway, I’d have died of fright if I’d known in advance.”

“Well, there you are.”

They drove on through the countryside for about an hour, then followed a straight road through a forest of spruce trees. Dora gloomily watched the dark trees pass by in the headlights. At a junction, the second car, driven by the head chef, Lando, tooted its horn briefly and stopped. Jahn stopped too, sixty feet farther on. Turning around, Milena saw two horse-men get out of the car, propelling a man with a hood over his head in front of them.

“The Phalangist who tried to leave during the recital,” Jahn explained.

“Are they going to hurt him?” asked Milena.

“No. But I’m sure that’s what he expects. He’s
probably half dead of fright, thinking he’s going to be executed, but that’s their way, not ours. We’re just going to leave him here. A little walk will do him good, and he’s not about to raise the alarm with his friends, because the nearest phone is almost twenty miles away.”

The two cars set off again. The Phalangist watched them go, holding his hood and astonished to find himself still alive.

Milena put her head on Bart’s shoulder. They drove on through the forest and then past fields with mist hanging over them. She was just falling asleep when they reached a village with rows of brick cottages. They looked drab in the faint light. At the very end of the road, Jahn stopped his car outside a small house just like the others.

“Here we are, ladies.”

They all got out except Jocelin, the young horse-man, who preferred to stay in the car to keep watch on the road. The air was sharp and cold. There was a loose brick in the wall to the right just above the door frame. Jahn stood on tiptoe, dislodged the brick, put his hand into the hole, and brought out a large key. The door opened, squealing, to reveal a small room with rickety, old-fashioned furniture. A single lightbulb dangled from a wire. Dora ran a finger over the dust on a chair and made a face.

“What luxury! Oh, you really shouldn’t have! See what a lovely life we musicians lead, Milena! Such a grand hotel! Such comfort! How many stars does this place have?”

“You won’t be staying here long,” said Jahn, sounding rather put out. “And you’ll be safe; that’s what matters most. Everyone in this village supports us.”

“Wonderful. And if we get bored, we can always do the housework. Guns for you, brooms for us, right?”

Milena, who knew Dora very well by now, realized how furious she was.

“Dora, please don’t think that —” Jahn began, but she gave him no time to go on.

“I don’t think anything!” she snapped, looking him straight in the eyes. “I just know one thing: fifteen years ago, Eva and I hid as if we were ashamed to be ourselves. We traveled covered by stinking blankets, we could wash only every third night, and we scurried into hiding like insects. And what for, at the end of the day? To be captured. To be tortured in my case and killed in hers. I’m sorry, Jahn, but I have no intention of playing the same part again. That role doesn’t suit me.”

Jahn was not used to opposition and was left speechless by the angry woman now already on her way to the door and about to march out of it.

“I am not staying in this hole!” she went on. “Nor is Milena. We’re not dolls to be taken out to make the place look good and then put back in the cupboard once the visitors have gone.”

“I just wanted to make sure you avoided any risks,” Jahn pointed out calmly. “You two are very valuable to the cause, as you well know, Dora.”

“Save your breath, Jahn,” Dora interrupted him. “I’m very fond of you, but it’s no use arguing. This discussion is now closed. Come on, Milena.”

Bartolomeo was torn between astonishment and admiration. He had never before heard anyone speak to Mr. Jahn so fiercely.

After this outburst, oddly enough, the atmosphere in the car was more cheerful and relaxed. It was as if Dora’s anger had done everyone good, first and foremost herself; it had been on her mind for a long time. Jahn too, for he was tired of secrets and the necessity for silence. And finally Bart and Milena, who would now be able to stay in the fight together.

The two men replied freely to questions now, describing the hundreds of meetings that had been held over the last few months in cellars and garages, the underground work of thousands of invisible but determined partisans. Their supporters were waiting only for the signal, they revealed, and then the revolt would begin. It was a matter of days now, no more.

The two cars had turned back and then branched off on a road going north. Bartolomeo soon recognized the moorland landscape and the moss-grown rocks. This time it seemed only a short way to the horse-men’s village.

Faber and his wife had waited up late to welcome their visitors. They were upset to think they had received them so grudgingly last time and were determined to make up for it. They succeeded.
Roberta was wearing a pretty flowered dress and pink lipstick. Her husband was barely recognizable in a suit that could have accommodated two men of normal size. A comb had left shining furrows in his black hair.

Seeing the gigantic horse-man appear before her, Milena felt that she was suddenly in one of the stories she had read as a little girl, tales in which peaceful giants held children in the palms of their hands. Bart hadn’t been able to keep from telling her how Faber had crushed the Phalangists in his kitchen. She had doubted the story, but now that she saw the colossus in front of her and the new ceiling above their heads, she had to believe it was true. Jahn made the introductions. As soon as he said that Milena was the daughter of Eva-Maria Bach, Roberta clasped her hands, saying breathlessly, “Oh, how like her mother she is! Oh, my God, she’s so like her! And can you sing too, Miss Bach?”

“I’m learning,” Milena modestly replied, to the great amusement of those who had heard her a few hours earlier.

They sat down at the table — a new one, like the ceiling — and Roberta brought in beer. Faber dispensed smiles all around, delighted to have all these people in his house. The gradual revival of the leader of the horse-men was complete now, and it was a pleasure to see the change in him.

“Well, Faber?” said Jahn. “Have you managed to assemble your men?”

“I think so, Mr. Jahn. There are groups all over the country, ready to fight. A good number here in this village. I don’t know quite how many, but a lot. You’ll see them tomorrow morning.”

Then Lando, the head chef, raised a particular problem: how to bring this fighting force of horse-men to the capital when the moment came? None of them could drive.

“Walking’s best,” replied Faber. “A pair of legs never breaks down. It’ll take three days; that’s nothing.”

“Three days is far too long,” growled Lando.

“No, Faber’s right,” Bart put in. “If they go on foot and separately, it’ll be harder to pick them up than if they’re traveling by bus or car. They’ll be on all the roads coming from the north, the south, everywhere. And the rest of the population will join them. It’ll be a human tide converging on the capital. The Phalangists can’t intervene everywhere. They’ll be overwhelmed.”

He went on in this vein, picturing the irresistible advance of the horse-men while all the other supporters of a free society rallied to them. His black eyes were blazing. Milena looked at him with love and admiration. He might be only seventeen, but he wasn’t afraid of arguing with older men, and they treated him as an equal.