by Philip Kerr
At the bottom of the hill was a thick line of conifer trees, where the wolfhound ate a large pinecone and the horses nibbled at some tree bark, which they seemed to enjoy; in just a few minutes, they each managed to chew a complete ring around two trunks, and Kalinka didn’t have the heart to point out that this only made their trail easier to follow. Even if it was dark by the time the Germans reached this place. Not that she thought Grenzmann and his men were going to slow down much when it got dark: as well as large-caliber machine guns, the sidecars on their motorcycles were equipped with powerful searchlights.
Kalinka and the animals resumed their journey at a trot and passed quickly through tall silver birch trees and around another hill. They made what seemed like good progress for thirty minutes or more until they came upon another clump of pine trees, but there an uncomfortable discovery awaited them: they were looking at the same two pine trees from which the horses had eaten the bark earlier on.
Kalinka almost fell off Börte’s back with disappointment.
“Oh no,” she sighed wearily. “We’ve come in a complete circle. We’re back where we were a while ago. Look. The stone circle we passed through is at the top of that hill. Well, so much for my navigation.” She shook her head. “It’s all my fault. You make mistakes when you’re tired. But I promise I won’t let it happen again.”
They came to a halt while Kalinka decided what to do. Given the fact that Temüjin was now distinctly nervous—his whole body was atremble, as if he sensed the Germans were much closer now—this setback seemed disastrous; but above all she sensed the importance of not panicking. Their very survival depended on it.
“Wait a minute.” She glanced up at the darkening sky and thought for a moment. “What do I know about the stars?” she asked herself. “Maybe I can figure out the best way to go from them. Isn’t that how people used to get around in the old days? Before compasses were invented? When they used that stone circle for telling them important stuff about the seasons, probably. And maybe which way is southeast.”
Kalinka turned the mare slowly and searched the heavens until she found what she was looking for.
“There. The seven stars that make up the Saucepan. And that’s Cassiopeia, which is always on the opposite side of … yes, there it is: the North Star. That sits right over the North Pole, and unlike the other stars, it does not appear to move. So as long as we know that, then we know this direction must be south.”
Taras yawned an infectious yawn that Kalinka found impossible not to copy. She’d never felt as tired as this before—not even when she’d run away from the botanical gardens in Dnepropetrovsk and hid in a closet for several weeks—but sleep was now her enemy. If they stopped and rested now, they’d surely be caught and killed.
“We’d better get going!” she yelled at the others. “There’s no time to waste. With any luck, we can make up some of the time we’ve lost.”
She banged her thighs against Börte’s rough flanks, and the mare broke into a gallop.
“It’s this way. I’m certain of it.”
THINGS WENT WRONG FOR Captain Grenzmann and his men soon after they set off in pursuit of Kalinka and the horses.
First, one of the BMW motorcycles suffered a flat tire, which meant a delay of almost an hour while Corporal Hagen carried out the repair; fortunately for the SS, there was a spare wheel on the back of each sidecar. Then, almost as soon as they set off again, the other motorcycle collided with a rock that was buried in the snow, and the rider bruised his chest against the outsized fuel tank, while Captain Grenzmann broke a tooth and cut his lip on the handle of the machine gun. The collision buckled the motorcycle’s front wheel, and they were obliged to change that one, too. The accident shook them up; it made them realize that the apparently featureless steppe was actually full of unpleasant surprises, and that not all of them were the Red Army.
The discovery close to the trail of a dead wolf was another surprise, and Grenzmann’s men were discomfited by Corporal Hagen’s suggestion that the wolf might have been killed by the horses and the dog acting as a team.
“It’s just like the Bremen Town musicians,” he said. “In the Brothers Grimm story.”
“I never heard such rubbish,” said Grenzmann. “It was just instinct, that’s all. The wolf attacked and they all reacted. Simple as that.”
In spite of the strengthening sun, the trail in the snow remained clear—clear enough to provide further discouragement for Grenzmann’s men, because after a while, they noticed that the child was no longer walking but riding, and riding a wild horse at that, which did not, they considered, bode well for their enterprise. They’d all seen the Przewalski’s horses at Askaniya-Nova and considered them wilder than most wild horses; they knew how aggressive and untamable they could be, and how fast—perhaps as fast on snow as a motorcycle. A few of the SS men had even come to admire the strong spirit of these horses with the same grudging respect they held for the Red Army.
“I never heard of a wild horse that would let someone ride it, just like that,” said Corporal Hagen. “Or one that would protect a child against a wolf. It just doesn’t make sense. From what little I know about horses, it can take months to tame one.”
“Can’t be done,” said the man seated in the corporal’s sidecar; his name was Donkels. “Not unless that someone was very special.”
“What do you know about horses?” sneered the captain.
“It’s weird, that’s what it is, sir,” insisted Hagen. “Uncanny. Most wild horses would kill themselves trying to throw someone off their backs. Or give you a pretty savage bite. Maybe even trample you to death. Like they trampled that wolf. And yet this child climbs up on one, just like that. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. Doesn’t make sense.”
“What do we know about this child anyway?” shouted the man driving the lead motorcycle. He had to shout because of the noise of the engine.
“We know all that we need to know,” said the captain from his sidecar. “As SS, we know all that’s important to know. And we know our duty, so let that be enough for you.” And he squeezed the trigger on the sidecar-mounted machine gun, letting off a few rounds at some crows just to show his men that he meant business.
The corporal nodded, but his sense that this was a mission doomed from the outset was not diminished by the captain’s smooth words, nor was anyone else’s sense of the same. And as the morning gave way to afternoon and still they had not caught up with their quarry, all of the men except the captain began to doubt the wisdom of going any farther. Now, soldiers are often superstitious people, and in spite of the young captain’s assurances, the three had started to arrive at the same conclusion: that the refugee child who had painted the strange pictures on the walls of the disused water tank had established a mysterious bond with the wild horses, of the kind that they’d all encountered in the myths and legends they’d read as boys. Hadn’t the great German hero Siegfried owned an almost magical steed whom no one had ever mounted, called Grani, sired from Sleipnir, who belonged to Odin himself and whom the god Baldr had ridden for nine long nights into Hel? Wasn’t it possible that these wild Przewalski’s horses were just a little bit like Grani and Sleipnir? And given that all of the SS soldiers had eaten the meat of these same horses, weren’t they courting disaster by going after their blood brother and sister?
When they stopped to refuel from the big jerry cans they were carrying and to eat their horse-meat sandwiches, Corporal Hagen was appointed to express their doubts to Captain Grenzmann and to suggest, strongly, that they turn back.
“If we go much farther, then we won’t have enough fuel to get back to the big house,” said the corporal. “Not to mention the fact that we’ll have to spend the night out here, on the steppe, in the freezing cold, without tents, without a hot dinner. And don’t forget that there are wolves about. And Red Army soldiers, perhaps.”
“Then it’s very fortunate that we have machine guns,” said Captain Grenzmann. “Besides, I told
the sergeant to follow us with more supplies, didn’t I? So we’re doubly fortunate.”
His men finished refueling the motorcycles and resumed the chase in a sulk that became so profound that, after a while, Captain Grenzmann felt obliged to lift their spirits with a song. They sang “Erika,” which is a song about a flower that grows in Germany; it was also a favorite marching song for the German army. But with only four of them singing and without a military band, it didn’t sound the same.
They gave up singing when they came across the circle of standing stones on top of a hill; in the twilight, it was an eerie place, and they half expected to see some wicked giants and perhaps a few Rhine maidens, or their Ukrainian equivalents.
“I don’t like this place,” said Hagen.
“Me neither,” said Donkels. “It gives me a peculiar feeling, as if we’re not supposed to be here. As if this whole business was jinxed from the outset.”
“That’s enough,” said Grenzmann, but he, too, was touched by the peculiar atmosphere of the circle and a feeling that things had not gone entirely to plan; at that point, he might have ordered them to turn back but for the fact that he didn’t want to lose face in front of his men.
Optimism that their quest might be coming to an end was restored at the bottom of the slope with the discovery of the pine trees with the rings of missing bark.
“These trees were chewed by horses,” explained Grenzmann. He sounded triumphant and perhaps a little mad. “For the minerals. Horses do that sometimes. And what’s more, these trees were chewed recently, too. D’you see? The girdles of the trees are still sticky.”
He climbed stiffly out of the sidecar to inspect some horse dung on the ground. It was still moist to the touch.
“And this dung is fresh. So they can’t be far away from us now. I can feel it. They’re close. Very close. It’s only a question of finding them.”
IN THE ARCHING LIGHT of a big white Ukrainian moon, Kalinka picked a circuitous, winding route through the silver trees in order to make it difficult for the motorized Germans to follow them, but in the deeper snow of the forest, progress was painfully slow. Börte was carrying her head below shoulder level, and even Temüjin had stopped flicking his furry tail; every so often, he would nuzzle the mare’s neck with encouraging snorts and nibbles because she was very tired. Kalinka herself was slumped on her forearms against Börte’s neck, as if she still had some boring schoolwork to complete before going to bed. Only Taras seemed to have energy; he had gone ahead on one of his regular reconnaissance missions. Somehow he always knew where to come and find Kalinka and the two Przewalski’s.
“We’ll find somewhere to rest soon,” she told Börte. “We have to.”
Temüjin stopped and listened for a moment and looked at Kalinka, wondering if she could hear what he could hear.
“What is it?” she asked him as Börte came to a halt beside the stallion’s muscular flank. “Can you hear something? Me, I can’t hear anything.”
His own question answered, Temüjin paced the snow impatiently and then bit Börte on the shoulder; the mare’s head jerked up. Now he had her full attention, and immediately he set off at a canter, with the mare following and Kalinka just holding on to the belt around Börte’s neck.
A couple of minutes later, the girl heard the engines of the German motorcycles, and even though she was already freezing cold, she felt an extra chill down her back.
“What are we going to do?” she said.
But Temüjin knew, even if the girl did not. Ahead of them was a big conifer tree; he paused for a moment, looked around to see that Börte was behind him and then pushed his way through the lowest snow-covered branches.
Kalinka squealed and pressed her head into Börte’s neck as snow tumbled onto the mare’s back and down the collar of the girl’s coat. She was about to complain when she realized that Temüjin had cleverly led them to a dark area under a thick canopy of branches, where the ground was dry and they were almost completely hidden from view. It was immediately obvious that this was the kind of ingenious natural hiding place that the Przewalski’s horses had used before.
Taras was with them again, full of alarm at the nearness of the Germans; but recognizing the need for complete silence, he managed to contain his agitation and lay down right away on a deep bed of pine needles. Kalinka jumped off Börte’s back and did the same, hugging the wolfhound close for security and warmth. The dog began to chew a pinecone quietly and quite enjoyed it.
“Won’t they see our tracks?” whispered Kalinka.
Temüjin had already considered this possibility; the stallion crept stealthily across the diameter of their hiding place to the other side of the tree trunk, squeezed through the branches there and galloped off. Kalinka guessed that he had gone to lay a false trail for the Germans.
“He’s such a clever horse,” she told Börte.
Meanwhile, the mare knelt down, tucked her legs underneath her rear and closed her tired brown eyes.
Minutes passed, and the sound of the BMW motorcycles grew closer as they labored noisily through the snow. Kalinka could see their headlights now and hear German-speaking voices. She could smell the exhaust fumes from their machines; in the clear, fresh air, she could even smell the tobacco in their cigarettes and the sausage on their breaths. Her heart was in her mouth, but she still found time to wonder that any motorcycle could make it across such difficult ground, let alone one with a sidecar; she wasn’t to know that the Type Russia machine had three-wheel drive when it was combined with a sidecar, which made it highly maneuverable.
“The trail stops here,” said a voice. “At this big tree. It’s just as if they disappeared.”
“You idiot,” said another man. “Of course they haven’t disappeared. This isn’t some fairy story, you know. I never met such an impressionable, superstitious bunch as you men. Really, you astonish me sometimes.”
The Germans had stopped right beside their hiding place; they had kept their engines running and appeared to be studying the trail. One of them had climbed off his machine and was walking around the tree.
Suddenly Kalinka had an overwhelming desire to sneeze, so she pinched her nose, held her breath, closed her eyes and prayed that the Germans would not find them.
“The trail resumes on the other side, Captain,” said the German who’d circled the tree. “They must have gone under this conifer and sneaked out the other side in an effort to throw us off their trail. Smart idea. Do you suppose it was the child who thought of that or the horses?”
“These Przewalski’s are known for their cunning,” said another voice. “They may look like horses, but the fact is they’re not really proper horses at all but more of a counter-race of Gypsy horses: an inbred mixture of species that should have died out years ago. Biologically speaking, they’re duds. Like the dodo. But they still exhibit strong and primitive instincts for survival, and to that extent, they’re more like rats than horses. Which probably accounts for their cunning. And explains why Berlin wants them eliminated. To that extent, they and the person traveling with them have much in common. Come on. We’ll pick up the trail on the other side. Won’t be long until we have them now. I’m sure of it.”
The motorcycles started to rev up again and then drove around the tree to the place from where Temüjin had begun the false trail.
Kalinka let out her breath and hugged Taras, who licked her face with relief.
“They’re gone, I think.”
Taras crawled to the edge of the canopy and peered out, then came back with his tail wagging.
“That was too close for comfort,” said Kalinka.
Taras let his lip curl; being near to a German sounded good to him just as long as he could bite one.
“Now all we have to do is wait for Temüjin to come and find us again,” Kalinka told him.
Taras barked.
The girl shrugged and looked around. “At least we’re dry. And it’s out of the wind.”
Once again, Kalinka
was too alert to sleep. She thrust her frozen hands into the pockets of her Astrakhan coat, and felt the money that Max had given her. Suddenly she remembered him telling her he’d given her something to remember him by, and since there was nothing else in her pockets but matches, she took out the money. Between two greasy banknotes, she found a folded piece of notepaper. It was too dark under the tree to read it, so she struck a match and saw that there was writing on the paper.
“Max wrote me a letter!” she told Taras. “How wonderful.”
Tara sniffed the letter, caught a strong scent of his master’s hands and whined.
“Would you like to hear it? Of course you would.”
Kalinka struck a second match and started to read:
“My dear Kalinka,
“It’s been a very long time since I wrote a letter—so long that I have almost forgotten how—and I wish I had more time to write this one. As I think I told you, I never had any children of my own, but if I had, I certainly couldn’t have wished for a better daughter than you. Somewhere, your own father and mother are very proud. You are a great credit to them.
“I haven’t known you for very long, but you are a remarkable young lady and you have my admiration, not just for your having survived the terrible events in Dnepropetrovsk, but also because in all my years I never knew anyone who could win the trust of these Przewalski’s horses. I envy you that and wonder if you can explain it yourself.
“Anyway, that was one of the things I wanted to tell you. I remembered you called them tarpan horses. That was incorrect. I wanted to remind you that these are not tarpan horses. Tarpan horses were gray, and had manes that hung down on one side, and forelocks; they were also smaller than the Przewalski’s horse. I say were because tarpan are certainly extinct; the last one died—poor thing—in 1918, in captivity at Poltava.”
