Lennox was not exactly cheerful as he left the house and started to walk towards the village. He was too angry with himself for having taken so long to notice the German trick, a petty trick, a silly trick. But still a trick which might have come off. He reflected that when he had been a prisoner-of-war he had been sharp-witted enough to notice that kind of thing, or at least to have suspected something like it. He had learned the old lesson once more this afternoon: expect nothing, trust nothing. Fortunately the Schichtls and Mahlknecht hadn’t been so simple-minded as the Germans had thought. There had been no strangers as secret guests in the house.
He passed the Kasal barn, and then the farmhouse. Johann, from his vantage-point in the woods, must have seen him on this stretch of road; and he would know that all was well so far. And Johann would now be keeping a steady pace on the higher mountain-path to Hinterwald, so that he would reach there before Lennox did, and would be standing at the doorway of the Hotel Post to welcome his “cousin.” They had chosen the Post as their meeting-place, for it lay at the beginning of the village, and Lennox would see it very easily. Besides, the owner of the hotel was a trusted friend of Mahlknecht.
The Kasals’ dog barked. But there was no other noise or movement from the farm buildings. As he followed the twisting road, and knew that he was now hidden from view from the Kasal barn, Lennox began to walk more briskly. His movements felt natural once more, now that no German eyes were watching him.
The first stage was over: he had made his claim that he had been near the house all day, and that he had been alone. There was no evidence, yet, to disprove that. The second stage was now beginning: the Germans were to be drawn away from the Schichtl house. The solitary German, now left in the barn, must have seen Lennox take the road to Hinterwald. There were two things the German could do. Either he could keep right on sitting in the barn, and much good that would do him watching an empty house, or he could set out to follow his suspect to Hinterwald. “Don’t look now, but...” Lennox told himself. He began to whistle one of Frau Schichtl’s favourite songs.
His spirits mounted as he thought of the three men—the German, Johann, and himself—all travelling to Hinterwald by parallel routes: Johann up on the hillside, he on the cart-track, the German no doubt using the short-cut across the fields. It amused him still more that the Germans were under a pretty delusion: they didn’t know that within this last hour their whole function had changed. They had become just as much the hunted as they had been the hunters.
18
The road began to wind downhill like a snake basking in sunshine. Evening was drawing near. The cool breeze on the hillside gave way to the still air of the valley. Sounds were magnified. The music was stronger now: Lennox could hear the clear notes of a trumpet and the deeper tones of a trombone. The drum beat out the first pulse in a gay three-to-the-bar tune.
He passed four large summer villas, shuttered and abandoned, hiding their loneliness among scattered trees. Then there was a small meadow, falling in a gentle curve towards the village. A small church, no longer than forty feet, had been built on top of the meadow. The wooden spire, rising from the square tower, was onion-shaped. The plaster walls had been coloured, and they had weathered into a faded pink. There were wide-spaced paintings of saints, which decorated without concealing the walls’ surface. Lennox noted that the balance of the design was good. He slowed his pace, and then suddenly climbed the short slope of grass towards the church. He began walking round its outside walls.
Some of the murals showed definite training and talent, some were more primitive. Those on the south wall had almost disappeared under sun and rain. There were cracks in the wall too, now that he examined it closely. This church was poor: little money had been spent on it in recent years. Above the door was the figure of Christ on the Cross. The loin-cloth was painted white, and the flesh tone was dark brown. The artist had captured a strangely pitying look in the large, gentle eyes. Lennox’s interest quickened.
He hesitated on the worn stone step. The inside of the church was in shadow, for the windows were high-placed on the walls. There was a pyramid of candles burning with a clear, steady flame on the small altar. Behind it was an elaborately carved wooden triptych. Lennox took a step forward. It was as if the last five years of his life had vanished in as many minutes.
There was the rustle of silk and the light sound of narrow heels. A woman came out of the church. She pulled back the embroidered scarf which had covered her smooth dark hair, and let it fall around her shoulders as a shawl. She was young. Her low-necked black dress was of rich silk banded with velvet. The wide sleeves of her blouse, very white above the black lace which covered her forearms, were transparent and crisp. Her flower-embroidered apron was of a curiously clear blue. It matched the colour of her eyes.
She looked at him in surprise for a moment. But she recovered first. “Grüss Gott!” she said.
“Grüss Gott!” he answered slowly. He was watching her, with the background of gleaming candles behind the dark head, with the faded pink walls framing the slender figure in its elaborate costume.
“There is no one in the church. Father Sturm had to leave—he was needed at Seis. Frau Kaufmann is dying.”
“In that case,” Lennox began awkwardly, and moved away from the church door. He didn’t finish his sentence. He remembered that Hinterwald shared its old Austrian priest with several other small villages. The Tyrolese were deeply Catholic, but they had never attended the larger church which the Italians had built to the south of Hinterwald, even if it were in good repair and had a priest who lived beside it. For the Italian functionaries and their families and the summer visitors had worshipped there. And as long as the name of Hinterwald had been struck off the map to give way to the alien Montefierro, as long as the children at school were forced to speak in a foreign language, as long as a man could be arrested for whistling a Tyrolese song in public, these Austrians of the South Tyrol had avoided the well-provided church at the other end of the village. That, reflected Lennox, was something for the future peacemakers and map-drawers to remember about human beings.
The girl repeated her question. Lennox said, “Please?” politely. He noticed, with approval, the high cheekbones and the almost classical line of nose and chin. The texture of her skin was smooth, its colour was vivid and alive. Beauty, when it is natural, is overpowering.
“Are you going to the village?” she asked for the third time. She was smiling now.
“Yes.”
“Then we can walk together.” She wasn’t smiling any more. In repose, there was a certain sadness, almost a tenseness, in her face. She looked sideways at him as he fell into step beside her.
“I didn’t see you there this morning.” Her voice was polite.
“No. I have only just arrived.”
“You are a stranger?”
“I’m Frau Schichtl’s nephew. Peter Schichtl. Before the war I lived in the Zillertal.”
“Then you are Johann’s cousin.” The warmth of her voice should have warned him, but he was still watching that line of throat and chin.
“Yes.”
“Why did you come to the South Tyrol?”
“I’ve no home left up north. My mother died while I was in the Army.” He thought grimly of the double meaning to his words. His people had indeed died while he was in the Army—a landmine in Chiswick had blotted out everything that had formed his home.
“Your brothers and sisters?”
“Scattered. I don’t know where they are.” Again it was bitterly true. The war had altered a lot of things. “Are you here on leave from the Army?”
“Discharged.” And that would probably be true, too. The murals on the church wall had reminded him of his hand. If he couldn’t hold a pencil he couldn’t hold a gun. He’d be discharged, all right. The bitterness in his voice reached the girl, for she was silent.
“You are sorry you are no longer in the Army?” she asked after a pause.
“Yes,” he repli
ed shortly. He noticed a shade of disappointment pass over her face. She looked at him coldly, almost accusingly. And he remembered, as he felt the first blight of disapproval, that she had been referring to the German Army.
After that she fell silent. They were walking on the road now, and on either side were scattered houses built among the trees which encircled Hinterwald. Then suddenly the road became a village street. There was a fountain, with the gaily coloured wooden figure of a child holding an emptying pitcher out of which the water fell in a thin arc. There was a row of white houses winding downhill, with their carved wooden balconies and broad gable ends turned towards the street. Other houses were scattered in depth behind those on the street. None were in a straight row—the broad, flat roofs angled in every direction. There was a feeling of independence in the disarray of houses which were, in themselves, so well-designed and neat.
Lennox heard the voices of children, and their laughter. Ahead of him was the band, and people listening to the music. He halted. The girl stopped walking too, and watched him curiously. It was difficult for him to pretend to be as placid as these groups of oldish men who talked so quietly together, their weather-beaten faces impassive under the white-plumed hats. It had been nearly three years since he had seen a crowd of people enjoying themselves, since he had seen so many women gathered together.
The young girls stood like a cluster of blonde statues, tall and broad-shouldered. Their hands were folded in front of the wide, deep layers of their skirts, as they gravely watched the red-faced musicians. Their restraint, their quietness, emphasised the strength of their bodies. Some older women stood behind the girls and watched them carefully, proudly. The children, with fair hair bleached silver, darted about among the spreading skirts and bright silk aprons, pursuing mysterious games, laughing for no obvious reason at all. He had forgotten how children could laugh. Over nothing.
Lennox’s throat tightened, and there was a pin-pricking behind his eyes. Bloody hell, he thought, and looked quickly away from the people to the inanimate houses. This girl beside him wasn’t going to see him turn sentimental. He stared fixedly at the wall of the nearest house. And there, under a coat of white paint he could see the dimmed outlines of giant black lettering which had once greeted those arriving in the village. It was the Fascist slogan: Crédere—Obbedire—Combáttere. Believe, obey, fight. Lennox’s eyes hardened. He was in complete control again. It took more than a coat of paint, he was thinking, to obliterate that memory.
The girl said quietly, “We left it still showing. It’s our monument to remind us of what the Fascists did to our village.” She was watching his expression, and she became more friendly. “If you didn’t come down to see the procession this morning why do you come down now? You shouldn’t have come. See, there are few young men here now.”
“I was sent down here. Two Germans came to the house and told me to come. I have to register at the police station.”
“So here you are—just like that!” She stared at him in scorn and amazement. And then she was alarmed. “They came to the Schichtl house?”
He looked at her in some surprise. “Yes.”
“What did they want?”
“I don’t know. They asked questions, and then they went away. I don’t know.”
The girl looked at him as if he were a complete fool. He had to admit he had tried to give that impression. And then he saw she was angry because she was afraid.
“Was Johann with you?”
“No. He’s in the village.”
“He isn’t. He hasn’t been here all afternoon.” The lovely face was tense with worry. “Can I trust you?” she asked suddenly, pathetically. “Johann is in danger. These two Germans came to question him. He’s in danger, and it is my fault.”
Lennox was looking at her so uncomprehendingly that she began an urgent, rambling explanation. Her voice was low as if she were afraid that a passer-by might overhear; it was hurried as if she knew there was little time. She had trusted her uncle. She had not seen him for a long time except for his two visits to Bozen at Christmas and Easter, for when their house in Hinterwald had been closed he had gone to live in the North Tyrol. She had preferred to stay in Bozen with her cousins. When he visited them it seemed natural that he should ask news about their old village, about the people she was meeting in Bozen. And she had, without thinking, answered his questions about Johann Schichtl.
When she finished Lennox was staring at her.
She misinterpreted his expression. “Do you understand what I mean? You must warn Johann. He avoided me today. You will tell him?”
Lennox smiled slowly. “You are mistaken,” he said. “Johann isn’t in danger. He has done nothing to put himself in danger. What danger is there?”
The blue eyes looked at him in anger. “You are a fool,” she said.
He avoided her gaze. “Yes?” he asked quietly. He was looking down the village street again. At the door of the Hotel Post he saw Johann. And beyond, at a safe distance, he saw two men lounging against a wall. They were listening to the band, which was now marching determinedly, if somewhat exhaustedly, towards the Hotel Post’s garden. Their heads had turned away from him, but he knew that they had seen him. They were dressed in ordinary clothes, of the colour and shape which he had seen entering the Kasal barn this afternoon. So he had brought them back to the village, and away from the Schichtl house. At least, he had managed the second stage of the job.
He looked once more at the girl, and smiled generously. He was thinking of all the German tricks. He couldn’t have played a safer game than to look a fool. Her report to her uncle and his Nazi friends would give him a lot of comfort.
He was surprised to see her anger give way to tears. She said again, with difficulty, “Please tell Johann.”
“Tell him yourself. He’s over there.” Lennox nodded to the door of the Hotel Post.
She looked, and she was obviously surprised. And then she shook her head. “He will avoid me if I go over, as all the others have been avoiding me.” She turned towards him and said bitterly, “Why do you think I was in the church this afternoon? I’ll tell you. I was running away from eyes in the street. Eyes which dislike me. That’s why I was in the church.” Her voice changed again. It was almost lifeless now. “Once I had friends here. When I came back here from Bozen I thought I would be happy. But I found today that I was mistaken. I’ve been mistaken in many things, it seems. My uncle—Won’t you believe me? Have you never known someone you loved and trusted, someone who was separated from you for five years whom you still loved and trusted? And then you found that, although he looked the same, spoke the same, seemed the same, he had changed here”—she placed her clenched fist over her heart—“and there?” Her hand went to her brow.
Lennox was quite motionless. His voice was cold and hard. “It doesn’t take five years. Six months is long enough with some women.”
The girl was watching him. She was neither curious nor angry any more. She touched his arm gently for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said, so quietly that he could hardly hear her words. “You do know, then, that I speak the truth.” She wondered what woman had changed in six months to hurt this man so deeply. Perhaps when he was away at the war. It would hurt most then.
He left her suddenly, as if he had read her thoughts.
She would have run after him, even if the whole village had laughed at her. But her uncle, sober-faced, soberly dressed in ordinary town clothes, was coming towards her. She waited, wondering what he would have to say now.
* * *
Johann took his hands out of his tight pockets, and removed the weight of his shoulder from the inn door. But he did not look at Lennox. His eyes looked beyond, to the street: “That was Eva Mussner,” he said.
Lennox nodded.
Johann was still watching. “Her uncle has reached her,” he reported. “They are talking... She is walking with him... They are going towards the Mussner house. And our two German snoopers are m
oving towards it too, and they’ve reached it, and they’ve gone inside. The Mussners have now reached the house also... They’ve entered it...” His voice was bitter. In his heart he had defended Eva Mussner, even if he had accepted his family’s judgment for security’s sake. In his heart he had hoped he could find proof that his family was wrong. And here was proof of another kind. The girl and her uncle had followed the two Germans into the Mussner house, as if by some prearranged plan. No doubt the Germans had thought of it, and given Mussner his instructions when they had seen the Schichtls’ cousin talking so seriously with the girl.
Johann said roughly, “Come on. My mother and Frau Kasal are waiting for us. Come on.”
Lennox still had nothing to say. He had resisted the momentary temptation to turn and look at the Mussner house. For all he knew, the Germans might be now watching from its windows to see how interested Johann and he were. Well, they weren’t interested. Johann and he were now entering the inn.
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