The Dogs and the Wolves

by Irene Nemirovsky

  They were happy now. The cold draught that fell against their shoulders was the frosty breath of an iceberg they’d only just missed in the darkness; the creak of the boards, the rags, even the hunger that gnawed at them, all that was no longer reality, but a story, an adventure, a dream. Outside, the screams, the cries for help, the din, the storm sweeping through the old street, they all became the crashing of waves, the roar of the wind, and delighted, they strained to hear the mournful sound of the bells, fragments of prayers that rose towards them as if from some faraway shore.

  They reached the height of joy when Ben found in his pocket a box of matches and a piece of a candle, along with a ball of thick string, some bits of bread, a whistle and two nuts he’d forgotten about.

  They shared the nuts; they came from the Christmas tree. They were painted gold on the outside, but inside they were dry and bitter. They lit their candle and set it on the edge of the trunk; the tiny little flame that fluttered in the cold air made the attic seem even more like a fantastical world, dark and mysterious, half vision, half game. And so the night passed. Outside, the noise seemed to quieten down, at last. The children, overcome from shouting, from hunger, from the strangeness of it all, suddenly dropped down into the trunk and fell fast asleep.

  8

  Very early the next morning, the door was opened by Aunt Raissa. At first, she couldn’t see the children; she looked anxiously around for them, letting out a cry when they suddenly emerged from the trunk, their clothes all crumpled and dirty, their hair grey with dust. She took hold of their arms and pulled them out of their hiding place.

  ‘You’re going to stay with some friends of Lilla,’ she said. ‘There’s no one in the streets now. It’s safe to go. You’ll sleep there, for one or two nights, maybe.’

  The children, half asleep, followed her downstairs. Their hands and feet were frozen. Their bodies felt heavy and painful. They rubbed their little dirt-streaked faces and tried, without success, to force open their eyes: their heavy, burning eyelids shut again almost immediately.

  It wasn’t until they’d gone past the kitchen that they woke up.

  ‘Can’t we have something to eat?’

  ‘You’ll eat when you get to Lilla’s.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘We didn’t light the fire this morning.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Aunt Raissa didn’t reply, but while they were getting dressed, she gave them a bit of black bread she’d brought for them. She took it out of a package that also had some clothes in it.

  ‘There’s a shirt and a pair of socks for each of you, just in case . . . it goes on for longer . . .’

  ‘Longer than what?’

  ‘Be quiet, Ada! Longer than we think.’

  ‘What do they want to do to us?’

  ‘Nothing. Be quiet.’

  ‘Well, why do we have to go then?’

  ‘Will you shut up, you idiot?’ hissed Aunt Raissa, shaking her son by the shoulder.

  She cautiously opened the front door. Nastasia was waiting outside.

  ‘Go now, quickly!’

  She walked a little way with them. Never had they seen her go out like this, with no hat or coat; it was bitterly cold. Her face was deathly pale and the corners of her mouth were turning blue. For the first time in his life, Ben took his mother’s hand and looked at her lovingly.

  ‘Come with us, Mama.’

  ‘I can’t. I have to help look after Ada’s grandfather.’

  ‘What did they do to him?’ asked Ben, as Ada turned pale and looked down at the ground. She didn’t know why, but she was afraid to hear the answer.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Aunt Raissa, ‘but they threw all his work into the fire. He’s beside himself now.’

  ‘But why? How silly,’ said Ben, laughing. ‘If they’d thrown him in the fire, I’d understand, but some old papers!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Ada suddenly shouted, tears streaming down her face. ‘You don’t understand anything, you . . . you . . .’

  She couldn’t think of anything sufficiently insulting to say. She slapped him across the face and he slapped her back, twice. Aunt Raissa separated them.

  ‘Stop it, both of you! Go with Nastasia! Quickly now!’

  She kissed them and left. Nastasia walked swiftly; the children ran alongside her, clinging on to her skirts. They looked around them aghast. Was this really their own street? They didn’t recognise it. It seemed entirely different, frightening and strange. The buildings that had three or four floors hadn’t been damaged much – a few windows were broken – but the run-down houses, so numerous in the poor neighbourhood, the street stalls, the kosher butchers, the shops with only one room, an attic and a worn-out roof looked as if they’d been ripped out of the ground and thrown on top of each other, as if there had been a cyclone or a flood. Other houses were missing their doors and windows: burnt out and charred by the smoke, they looked dark and menacing. On the ground, bits of metal, tiles, cast iron, wooden planks, bricks lay in chaos – endless debris in which they could make out a boot here, a shattered clay pot there, the handle from a saucepan, and further along, the twisted high heel from a woman’s shoe, broken chairs, a nearly new ladle, what used to be a blue earthenware teapot, empty bottles whose necks had been shattered. It had all been left for the looters, but inexplicably certain things had been spared, just as in a fire a fragile piece of furniture sometimes escapes unscathed. All the shops were empty, their windows dark and gaping.

  White and grey feathers floated slowly down through the air: torn eiderdowns shed them gently from top windows.

  ‘Faster! Faster!’ said Nastasia.

  They were afraid of these deserted streets, the dark, ravaged houses.

  The lower town was separated from the upper levels by a flight of steps, where women hunched over their baskets and buckets on market days to sell fish, fruit, and wafer-thin, crumbly little croissants dotted with poppy seeds that tasted of water and sand.

  The children and Nastasia vaguely hoped they were leaving the terrifying sight of the pillaged streets behind them, that everything would once again be back to normal as soon as they set foot in the upper town: the colourful sleighs, people calmly walking along, shops full of merchandise. But here, too, it all looked different . . . Perhaps it was because of the early morning light, but everything seemed deathly pale, blurred, as if it were twilight. A few street lights still shone here and there. It was freezing cold with a bitter feel that meant it would soon snow. Ada had never felt so cold, even though she was dressed in warm clothes; for the first time in her life, she found herself outside without having first had some hot tea. The bread was a day old and difficult to swallow; her throat felt sore.

  The avenue they were crossing was deserted, the shops barricaded, the windows barred; certain shopkeepers were Jewish; the others feared the riff-raff, the beggars who followed along with the soldiers and pillaged everything, not caring what religion their victims practised. The houses where the Russian Orthodox lived all displayed icons on their balconies, in the hope that respect for the Holy Images would prevent them from being attacked.

  The children tried to get Nastasia to talk to them, but she seemed not to hear. She wore the same wooden, bleak, cruel, impassive expression as when Aunt Raissa scolded her for having had a man stay the night, or for burning the roast, or for getting drunk. She wrapped her shawl more tightly under her chin and kept walking without a word.

  In front of the church they saw the first human faces; several women stood at the entrance, gazing into the distance and talking excitedly. One of them spotted Nastasia. ‘Where are you going?’ she shouted.

  Nastasia gave the name of the street where Lilla’s friends lived.

  The women surrounded her, all chattering at once:

  ‘May God protect you! Don’t go that way . . . Some drunken Cossacks knocked a woman over and their horses trampled her . . . She hadn’t said a word to anyone, she was just walking past . . . They rode their horses on to
the pavement . . . No, they thought she was running away: she was carrying a packet of clothes under her arm and they wanted to have it; she didn’t give it up willingly, so . . . No, no! That’s nonsense, the horse took fright . . . She was running across the road and fell . . . Anyway, she’s dead now, don’t go that way . . . especially not with the children . . .’

  They were tugging at Nastasia’s sleeve and skirt. The wind made their shawls billow around their heads as they huddled together.

  Ada started to cry. One of the women tried to console her, others kept shouting. Some of them began fighting, hurling insults and punching each other. Nastasia rushed from one person to another, then grabbed the children by the hand and ran down the street, only to hurry back again, moaning: ‘What should I do? Where should I go? Oh, please tell me what to do! . . . They’re ransacking the lower town and here they’re killing people . . . Where should I go? What should I do?’

  A woman who had been standing further away suddenly ran towards them, shouting.

  ‘There they are! They’re coming! They’re nearly here! They’re drunk! They’re trampling everything in their way! Lord Jesus, have pity on us!’

  Some Cossacks on horseback galloped across the street. In the crush that followed, Ada and Ben got separated from Nastasia. Without thinking, they threw themselves into a nearby courtyard, then another, until they reached an alleyway and ended up back on the main road. They could hear the Cossacks shouting, the horses whinnying, their hooves beating the frozen ground. The children were delirious with fear. Blindly they kept running, panting, holding each other’s hand, absolutely convinced that the horde of soldiers was after them and that they would meet the same fate as the woman who had been crushed to death a few moments before. Their bulky, heavy winter coats were slowing them down. Ben had lost his cap; his hair was too long and covered his eyes so he couldn’t see anything. Every breath he took felt like a knife ripping into his chest. Ada saw the Cossacks only once. She quickly glanced back and spotted one of them laughing as he rushed forward. A piece of velvet was tied to his saddle; it had unrolled itself and trailed behind him in the melted snow and mud. Ada would never forget the colour of that bit of velvet, a pink that was nearly mauve and shimmered like silver.

  It was daylight now. Instinctively the children ran ever higher, up towards the hills, leaving the ghetto far behind them. Finally, they stopped; everything had gone quiet. The Cossacks hadn’t followed them, but they were all alone and didn’t know where to go.

  Ada collapsed on to a stone, sobbing. She had lost her hat, her gloves, her muff; the torn hem of her coat trailed sadly along the ground. She rubbed her face with both hands; her pale little cheeks were splattered with dirt; her tears etched long stripes down her dusty face.

  ‘We’ll go back down the hill and try to get to where Lilla’s staying,’ said Ben, panting.

  ‘No!’ cried Ada, shaking like a leaf. ‘No! I’m scared! I don’t want to! I’m scared!’

  ‘Listen, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to go through the courtyards, behind the houses. No one will see us and we won’t see anything.’

  But Ada just kept on saying ‘No! No!’ over and over again. She clung on to the stone, as if it were the only safe place in the world.

  They had ended up on one of the quietest, wealthiest streets in the city, surrounded by large gardens. Everything exuded peacefulness. No doubt the people who lived here had no idea what was happening down by the river. Not a single Cossack came to disturb their tranquillity; perhaps they looked upon the horror and confusion of the ghetto as if they were at the theatre, with the superficial shudder of spectators watching a drama who quickly reassure themselves with their comfortable sense of security: ‘That would never happen to me. Never.’ They were lucky. A million times luckier than her. And yet, they were Jewish too, just like her, weren’t they? Ada imagined them like angels who leaned over the balconies of the heavens and watched the wretched earth with indifference. This was where she wanted to stay – with them. She refused to go back down.

  ‘Let’s stay here, Ben,’ she pleaded softly.

  He got angry, called her ‘mad, an idiot, a coward’, but she knew very well that he didn’t really want to leave this heavenly place either.

  They held hands and walked aimlessly along. Ada clung to her cousin’s arm, limping. Ben had fallen and torn his trousers, his knee was bleeding.

  ‘Maybe we’ll find someone who’ll ask us to come inside,’ Ada said shyly.

  Ben laughed sarcastically. ‘Ah, so that’s what you think, do you?’

  ‘Ben,’ said Ada after a moment, ‘this is where the Sinners live.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So they’re our cousins . . .’

  ‘So you think we should go to their house, do you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’d chase us away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’re rich.’

  ‘But we wouldn’t ask them for money!’

  Ben called her ‘an idiot’ again. She didn’t argue, just sighed sadly and kept on walking. She could feel Ben beside her, shivering from the cold.

  ‘This is where they live,’ said Ada, pointing out the street.

  ‘I don’t give a damn.’

  But the wind was blowing more harshly now. She took Ben’s hand.

  ‘We could at least get out of the cold for a while under their porch. I remember they have a porch with columns and a roof . . . made of marble,’ she added, after thinking for a moment.

  ‘Marble?’ said Ben, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Why not solid gold?’ he sniggered.

  ‘Well, anyway, it’s a porch and we’d get out of the wind.’

  ‘And how would you get into the garden?’

  ‘I thought you bragged about being able to climb over any gate, even the highest?’

  ‘Well I could, maybe . . . but you, you’re just a girl!’

  ‘I could do it just as well as you,’ she said, angrily.

  ‘Really? Just look at yourself! You’re a real sight, hobbling about in the snow . . . And we only ran for half an hour!’

  ‘Well, what about you? You were the one who fell down while we were running away, weren’t you? Your knee’s bleeding.’

  ‘I bet that I’ll be able to climb right over the top of the gate and jump down into the garden, and that you won’t even make it to the first rung!’

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that!’

  ‘I dare you!’

  They ran all the way to the Sinners’ house. It was already nine o’clock and there was the odd passer-by: a few servants were hurrying towards the shops and the marketplace in the centre of town; a footman was walking some dogs; a worker was sweeping away the snow; but the children chose a moment when there was no one in sight and started to climb over the gate. They were both agile, even though their movements were hindered by their padded winter coats. Ben got over first and gave Ada a scornful look. Ada, putting herself in God’s hands – she wouldn’t dream of asking her cousin for help – managed to get a foothold between two gilded bars. Getting up was the most important step; you could always get down . . . slowly or fast . . . She jumped down on to the snow-covered lawn and got buried up to her waist. Ben reached out to her; he pushed, pulled, hoisted her up so she was finally standing. Creeping behind the bushes, they made their way to the door, or rather to the front porch with its oval ceiling and slender stone columns. Ben and Ada edged their way along the cold wall and waited . . . for what, they had no idea . . . At first, they were just relieved to be out of the wind, but soon they felt horribly anxious and their exhaustion and hunger were stronger than ever.

  ‘Let’s ring the bell,’ Ada suggested in a quiet, nervous voice.

  Ben, his face turning blue from the cold, shook his head ‘no’, but less insistently. Ada rang the bell. They huddled together, their hearts racing, staring at the door. It opened. A maid appeared and tried to shoo them away; she was a fat, dark-haired girl, w
ith a little lace bow comically perched above her large, ruddy face with its sullen expression. But Ben had put his hand in the door-frame and was holding it open.

  ‘We want to see Mr Sinner,’ Ada said quickly. ‘We’re cousins of his.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ the maid said, dumbfounded, as she leaned towards Ada.

  ‘We’re Mr Sinner’s cousins. We wish to speak to him,’ Ada said again, this time more confidently.

  The maid hesitated. But the children had caught a glimpse of the entrance hall and could already feel its warmth, so were filled with a desperate sort of courage. They pushed the maid aside and walked right past her.

  ‘Very well!’ she said. ‘I’ll let Madame know . . . But you stay right where you are, or else!’

  She went out, but they followed close on her heels; they knew very well they would be sent away. They couldn’t let their rich relations have any time to think.

  In the dining room, where the Sinner family ate breakfast every morning, with its long red damask drapes, its expensive, impressive furniture, there suddenly appeared two pale little urchins with torn clothes and dishevelled hair. They were full of daring, arrogance and fear, yet yearned to be fed, warmed, reassured.

  His voice hesitant, Ben began explaining who they were and why they were there. It was a long story. As for Ada, all she could do was stare. She didn’t just look at everything around her. She drank it in, as a person dying of thirst pounces upon a drink of water and gulps it down, still not managing to quench his thirst or let go of the glass; this was how each colour, the shape of each object, the faces of these strangers seemed to pierce her, finding their way into a secret place, deep within her heart, a place she had not realised even existed, until now. She stood absolutely still, wide-eyed, and with a wild, stunned expression gazed at the heavy, matt fabric of the red curtains, the high-backed ebony chairs covered in damask, the bright walls painted a pale cream to bring out the richness of the other colours, the deep purple of the carpets, the dark wood of the furniture, the silver platters on the sideboard.