Winter's End Read online

  Helen watched her feeding her husband the soup, standing close to him. It was touching to see her patience and the delicacy of her gestures. Then she and Helen sat down at the table for their own meal. Sadly, the soup wasn’t as good as Helen had hoped. She could hardly swallow the lukewarm pieces of potato and turnip floating in a broth that tasted of nothing much.

  “Is there anyone else living near here?” she asked. “Other houses?”

  “My son . . .” said the old woman.

  “Your son the doctor?”

  At this moment the old man in his chair repeated a question, several times. Helen caught the name Hugo.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He wants to know how many children you and Hugo have. He’s rambling — wait a minute.”

  She answered volubly in her husband’s language, and then stifled her laughter in the dishtowel she was still holding.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you had seven, all boys, and two of them twins into the bargain! He’ll leave us in peace while he thinks that over!”

  Sure enough, the old man nodded and immersed himself in his own thoughts again. Helen repressed her desire to laugh. This little old lady, so lively and so confused at the same time, was full of surprises.

  “You were telling me your son lives here. Your son the doctor.”

  “Oh, the doctor? Does he live here too?”

  “Yes, your son . . .”

  “Ah yes, my son. He’ll be coming tomorrow morning. Would you like a glass of wine, my dear?”

  “What time will your son be here? Because my friend is injured up there in the mountain refuge.”

  “Yes, yes, didn’t you say it’s his leg?”

  “That’s right. His leg is injured. Will your son the doctor be able to help him? Do you think he’ll be able to treat him?”

  The old woman trotted over to the door at the back of the room and opened it. A flight of steps led up to the second floor and another went down to the cellar. She picked up a half-full bottle of wine from the first step and took two glasses out of the cupboard.

  “I don’t drink wine,” said Helen. Her impatience was getting her down. “I’d rather have —”

  “Ah, you should have seen him when he was young!” the old lady interrupted her, filling the glasses. “Sixteen and a half, I was, working in the café. He was a woodcutter. We happened to pass them in a clearing, my friend Franciska and me. A dozen foreign workmen. They’d stopped for their break; they were bare-chested, playing boules with round stones. There was a lot of talking and laughter. He was better-looking than the others. Much better-looking. He had his stone in one hand and a piece of cheese in the other. His shoulders were shining with sweat. ‘Ooh,’ said Franciska, ‘did you see that one? Such a handsome man!’ What a laugh we had! And I made sure I passed that way alone over the next few days. One day he came up to me and we told each other our names. He was even better-looking up close than from a distance. And another time we agreed in sign language to meet that evening.”

  Helen turned her head and looked at the old man’s liver-spotted skull, wrinkled neck, and thin shoulders as he dozed by the stove. In spite of her own impatience, she felt touched.

  “And . . . so you got together?”

  “Yes, that we did. Try keeping a boy and a girl apart! I waited for him behind my father’s workshop. I’d prettied myself up on the sly. Lipstick and everything. When I saw him come around the corner of the street and walk toward me I was bowled right over! He was wearing a white shirt, with an open collar showing his chest, and as for the crease in his trousers — oh, what a crease! Ironed in! And there he was, sleeping in a hut in the middle of the woods, but it didn’t keep him from looking elegant. Eighteen years old, he was, and there was I, sixteen and a half . . .”

  “What a memory you have!”

  “No, no, I forget everything these days, but not that. Come along, let’s drink to our health, my dear.”

  They clinked glasses. The wine was rough as it went down Helen’s throat, and she found it hard to swallow the first mouthful.

  “So then you had children?” she went on, a little ashamed of bringing the conversation back to what really interested her.

  “Children, oh yes. We had . . . we had four. No, five.”

  “And now the youngest is a doctor? Is that right?”

  “I don’t remember . . . Oh, you must forgive me. I’m like him; I forget so much these days. Come along, time for bed. We sleep down here, in the little room next door, and you can have the room upstairs. Just take a candle from the drawer before you go up, dear.”

  She went over to her husband, whispered something to him, and helped him to his feet. They both crossed the room, moving very slowly. Helen watched them pass her as she drank her wine. It was already going to her head. When the door of the little room next door had closed behind the two old people, she rose and went to sit by the stove to absorb a little warmth. It was sure to be cold upstairs. She was about to go up when the old lady came back in her nightdress, with a nightcap on her head.

  “Look, dear.”

  The photo in the wooden frame showed the head and shoulders of a young man wearing a tie. He had a black, neatly shaped beard, and he wore a peculiar flat cap on his head as he looked confidently into the lens.

  “My son! Read what it says on the back.”

  On the cardboard at the back of the frame someone had carefully written a date — it was thirty years ago — with the new graduate’s first name, Josef, and his qualification: doctor of medicine.

  “Your son! That’s your son who’s coming tomorrow?”

  “Yes, he comes every Tuesday. Good night, dear.”

  Helen swiftly counted days. She and Milos had run away from school on Friday evening; two nights had passed since then. Maybe the old lady was right.

  Although she was so tired, she found it hard to get to sleep. The bedroom was cold, the bed sagged, and the enormous eiderdown slipped to the floor at the slightest movement. She was haunted by her mental picture of Milos losing blood in the mountain refuge. She didn’t drop off until the small hours of the morning, lulled by the giant pig’s deep grunting. It shook the windowpanes.

  The doctor arrived at ten in the morning in a muddy, high-built car, which was backfiring noisily. He was a dark-eyed man of about fifty. With his gray hair, bald patch, and shaggy beard, he didn’t look much like the photograph of his younger self. Helen ran over the meadow toward him before he even had time to get out of the car. It was a relief to talk to someone who could understand her!

  “We’ll go on around the mountain in the car,” he said. “Then two hours on foot from a place I know will get us to the refuge.”

  “You mean we’ll be up there by this evening?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Do you have your medical bag with you? Will you be able to treat him?”

  “I have everything I’ll need. I’ll just leave my parents their provisions and then we’ll start.”

  Helen could have kissed him. Her good-byes to the two old people were quickly said.

  “Come back and see us soon!” said the old lady. “We enjoy a visit.”

  “Gjirl!” the old man informed his son, pointing to Helen. And he embarked on a long and incomprehensible torrent of words in which the name of Hugo came up several times.

  “What’s he saying?” asked Helen.

  “He says you’re very young to have had seven sons with Hugo. I wonder how on earth he took such an idea into his head.”

  “Who is this Hugo, anyway?” asked Helen, smiling.

  “My son,” said the doctor. “He’ll be twelve in November.”

  Then he put a toboggan into the trunk of the car and turned the starting handle. The pig gave them one last grunt by way of good-bye and they set off, with the old lady waving her dirty dishtowel from the doorstep.

  The road went uphill along a gentle slope, but there were so many rocks that it was a bumpy
ride. The car jolted along, and Helen had to hold on to the door handle beside her seat to keep from being thrown up into the air. Talking through the roar of the engine wasn’t easy.

  “What were you doing up at the refuge at this time of year?” shouted the doctor.

  “A walking trip!” Helen replied, surprised to find how much easier it was to shout a lie than tell one in a normal voice.

  “The snow took you by surprise?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. I’m Josef — what’s your name?”

  “Helen.”

  They said no more for a few more miles, and then the doctor jerked his head in the direction of a bag on the backseat. “There’s something to eat in there. Bread and dark chocolate, I think. Help yourself.”

  Chocolate! Helen made an effort not to fall on it too desperately. She reached behind her for the bag and put it calmly on her knees.

  “How exactly did your friend injure himself, by the way?”

  “Cutting a piece of wood with his knife,” said Helen, a bar of chocolate in her hand. “Would you like some?”

  “Yes please, I’ll have a small square,” said the doctor, laughing. “My little weakness!”

  As she gave him the chocolate, a jolt even stronger than the others made them both rise briefly into the air and they both burst out laughing.

  Helen considered telling him the truth as she ate the chocolate. Once they got up there, he’d soon realize she’d been lying. He’d see how deep the cut was, and the blood all over the place. And if the snow had melted, he’d even see the bodies. He was a doctor; he’d treat Milos, but then what? Would he give them away?

  She realized that it was a risky business to take this unknown man up to the scene of the violence. But how else could she help Milos?

  They drove on for a little longer, exchanging a few commonplaces about the landscape and the poor state of the road. The doctor, concentrating on his driving, asked no more questions. Dark ravines lay on their right now. On their left, the summit of the mountain disappeared into the mists. A large bird of prey clipped the windshield, flapping its wings, and made them jump.

  “Is it much farther?” asked Helen.

  “No, we’re nearly there,” the doctor told her. And less than a quarter of an hour later he stopped the car by the roadside.

  A snow-covered path led straight toward the mountains. They put on their snowshoes and started along it. The doctor took large strides, pulling the toboggan that was to bring Milos down again. Sometimes he stopped to wait for Helen, who was carrying his medical bag and had some difficulty in keeping up. They walked for over two hours before they came to a small spruce wood.

  “The refuge is on the other side,” said the doctor. “You’ll recognize the place.”

  Sure enough, as soon as they had gone through the wood, she could make out the gray shape of the hut about two hundred yards above them. Her heart beat faster. I’m coming, Milos. Don’t worry. I’m bringing a doctor. Everything will be all right. . . .

  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 cou
ld 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!

  Helen 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.