The Woman from Bratislava

by Leif Davidsen

  It was quite normal for us to be given the day off a couple of times a year, when the Count held one of his big shooting parties for friends and business acquaintances. Among the guns were local farmers whom I knew, because I was often allowed to go with Kaj on his bread rounds. Sometimes they would give me a piece of rock candy or a glass of squash. Others were gentry from the local market town. A few of the guns came from much further afield: the Count was a well-known and highly respected man. Mum said that just after peace was declared there had been rumours that he had done rather too well for himself during the early war years, but that he had been careful to break with all dubious associates before it was too late. The people at the top always looked after number one. Such insinuations from the grown-ups were often lost on me, although I was always a very observant child. But what I remembered most clearly about our home was that those who were constantly being hailed as heroes were regarded, in our family, as villains who had not understood the necessity of shaping a new Europe under the leadership of Germany. Hadn’t former prime minister Stauning himself said that Denmark would have to fall in with the German plan economy, which would also act as a shield against the dreaded capitalism. But no one mentioned that now. The general feeling seemed to be that it was best to put all of that behind one and make a fresh start. And although we were never told this in so many words, Fritz and I knew not to talk about the war to anyone else. Nothing good could come of that. But Teddy did not know anything, nor was he ever told anything. ‘There’s no need for anyone born after the war to be burdened with all that,’ my mother would later say to Fritz and me.

  One of the Count’s gamekeepers came over to us and kindly inquired whether we had had coffee and rolls. Because, if so, the Count would like to get started at first light. ‘Drive them over to the Vesterås boundary, Niels Ejnar Jensen,’ he said, tipping a finger to his green cap. Like the other men he had his shotgun open and resting in the crook of his arm and his cartridges in the bag slung over his green coat. Guffaws of laughter sounded from the group of guns, backs were thumped and thighs slapped in that noisy, all-boys-together way which, later in life, would drive me mad. Such masculine arrogance – as if they really believe that they are the stronger sex and the world belongs to them.

  On that morning, however, it seemed perfectly natural to me. We climbed back into the wagon and Niels Ejnar drove us north to the boundary of a field. Two other tractors and wagons from the next parish were already drawn up there. Ahead of us lay stubble-fields dotted with narrow furrows and occasional pools – little more than puddles really – left by the autumn rain. The Count always left little clumps of bush and scrub standing in the fields – for the game – and in some spots even delayed the autumn ploughing until after the first shoot. Further off, past the first little ash grove, the meadows stretched out, damp and steaming. On the horizon lay the forest and beyond it more fields. Way out on the edge of the area we hoped to cover that day, the marshes began.

  The keepers had organised the beats in consultation with the Count, in such a way as to ensure that they were drawn as efficiently and thoroughly as possible. They would be shooting both hare and pheasant and if anyone happened to bag a fox into the bargain then so much the better. I knew that a dead fox caused the men to swagger even more when they surveyed the bag laid out on display at the end of the day. We were strung out in a long line with a keeper in the middle and one at either end, their job being to keep the beaters in line so that the game would have no chance to break through their ranks. The keepers’ liver-coloured hunting dogs were whining and straining at their leashes, quivering with excitement. Much as we were, I suppose, although I winced every time I saw a bird or an animal hit. Not that I would ever have admitted that – to myself or to Dad.

  The keepers had us ranged up like soldiers in an old-style war. In the cold, grey morning light we saw the guns forming a line down at the other end of the field, well spaced-out, with their shotguns over their arms. And far away though they were, I could see their breath swirling around their faces. I could just make out Dad, way out on the right. Then a hunting horn keened, high and mournful in the distance. As the sound died away over the flat fields the keepers’ whistles trilled. We moved forward, clapping our hands. A few of the boys thwacked pieces of wood together, but the line of beaters made so much noise as it swished through the wet stubble that that in itself was enough to flush out the game. The keepers yelled at us to hold the line. The dogs strained at their long leashes. It could not have been more than a few seconds before the first pheasant flew up, wings clattering, to be followed by partridge and more bright-feathered pheasant cocks, and even before I heard the shots I saw the grey plumes of smoke issuing from the barrel mouths when the guns, as if on command, raised their twin barrels to the sky, from which the beautiful birds, checked in their flight, plummeted groundwards, suddenly and without warning, like hard, alien fruit, and sundered feathers fluttered in the breeze and blew over our heads. Two hares also sprang up, right at my feet. They zigzagged down the beaters’ line; we whooped and hollered and one of them bolted, ears flattened, straight towards the guns – only to be hit and sent rolling across the ground like a football that had just been kicked. The other hare stopped in mid-spring, turned, spotted a gap in the beaters’ ranks, darted through it and sped off across the field in a series of mighty bounds.

  ‘Hold the bloody line, young ’uns!’ the keepers bellowed, all shouting at once. It sounded worse than it was. As if they were angry or annoyed, but they weren’t really. That was just how they spoke to children. But it was early in the morning, the first drive had produced a fine bag and spirits were high. The keepers gathered up the game and piled it into the wagon which Niels Ejnar on the tractor pulled round after each drive, while the guns carried on down the lane. Dad strode out alongside the Count and a farmer whom I knew because he had once paid his bill with a side of pork instead of cash. The odd spit of rain fell from the grey sky, moving some of the men to get out their hip-flasks and take a swig as they made their way to the next beat, where they spread out as before and the whole performance was repeated.

  At the third beat we were ranged just in front of a ditch lined by stunted willows. There was water in the bottom of the ditch. We could see all the way across the flat meadows to the dyke which ran out to the shallow channel. We had to drive the game down the side of the dyke towards the row of guns who appeared, by now, to be looking forward to the light mid-morning refreshment which the Count laid on. The maids would bring out coffee and schnapps and sandwiches for the shooting party. For us there would be boiled sausages and soft drinks. The girls carried the sausages out in a big pot, from which clouds of steam and the most glorious smell escaped when they lifted off the heavy lid. We ate the red-skinned frankfurters wrapped in greaseproof paper out there in the fields. They were delicious, and smelled faintly of vinegar and onions from the cooking water. But if the gentlemen looked forward to their elevenses, this was as nothing compared to the eagerness with which they anticipated the lunch which would bring the shoot to a halt for a couple of hours. We beaters were looking forward to that too. There would be rye-bread sandwiches with salami, liver paste, rolled-lamb sausage and cheese, and all the lemon or orange squash we could drink. And it would be a bit warmer in the big garage where we children were usually fed, while the gentlemen sat down to table in the Count’s banqueting hall. Ploughs, harrows and other farming implements were moved outside to make room for us, the keepers and Niels Ejnar. The morning was beginning to tell on our legs. It was heavy going in the damp soil which clogged the soles of our rubber boots. But I could tell from Fritz’s face that he was still keyed-up and rather exhilarated by the shoot. Possibly by the blood from the dead creatures. He did not appear to have been upset by the sight of those lovely birds stopping in mid-flight and dropping like stones when hit by the lead shot. Or the hares, cartwheeling pathetically across the ground when their lithe progress was cut short in mid-leap. He seemed quite comfort
able with the smell of blood and gunpowder. One could tell just by looking at him that he could not wait for the day when he could stand next to Dad, alongside the other guns, peering at the line of beaters with his shotgun at the ready.

  The only little fly in the ointment was Peter, who was always sucking up to the keepers and showing off, because he had already turned sixteen. Peter’s Dad was a lawyer in the town. He had been on the right side during the war and Peter was always boasting about how his father had met Montgomery and chucked a whole load of Nazi swine into jail on May 4th and 5th, the days of liberation. I didn’t know if this was true. Folk were always bragging about what they had done during the occupation. You would have thought the whole country had been united against the Germans, when the truth was, in fact, that most people had stayed out of it, minded their own business. Or collaborated. But when Peter or anyone else started holding forth I either had to keep my mouth shut or try to talk about something else. Not that he was interested in talking to a twelve-year-old girl anyway, but sometimes you’d be standing on the fringes of a group in the playground, talking about this and that, and you heard things. Peter’s father hadn’t yet joined the shooting party. He had gone to pick up another man in Odense, some bigwig all the way from Copenhagen. This was Peter’s way of rubbing in the fact that his Dad had a private car with black registration plates, as opposed to the yellow commercial ones which Dad, for example, had. Luckily Peter was way down at the the other end of the line when the keepers blew their whistles and we started moving down towards the bottom of the field where the guns were waiting impatiently.

  Again we flushed out both pheasant and partridge. And two hares that bounded away, running for all they were worth. Dad brought down one of them, the other was smarter; it darted sideways, down the line of beaters and disappeared over the dyke. A few of the guns appeared to have been hitting their hip-flasks again: they were starting to shoot wild now, or merely winging their quarry; the keepers had to send the dogs out to find the downed creatures. Yet another hare leapt from cover. It was a mystery to me how they managed to hide in the virtually bare, reaped field. But they stayed very still, blending into the earth. Then all at once they would spring up and run for their lives – first dashing towards the beaters, then leaping round on themselves. More often than not they made the wrong decision and ended up running straight to their deaths. This particular hare was a big beast which looked as though it had been in this same situation before. It raced straight for me, I clapped my hands furiously and shouted and yelled. One of its ears appeared to have taken a shot at some point. It was smaller than the other and flopped at an odd angle, as if dragged down by the weight of an old lead pellet, but it had powerful legs and a thick coat. The hare stopped right in front of me, looked at me for a split-second, and I was filled with a burning desire to step aside and let him through; then he turned round – I’m pretty certain it was a buck – and ran, in long, graceful bounds that caused the wind to ruffle his fur, towards the guns. And, typically, there was one gun who simply could not wait for the hare to come properly within range. I saw him take aim, saw the puff of gunsmoke and, a moment later heard the two sharp cracks from the double-barrelled shotgun. The hare tumbled head over heels, but it got back onto its feet. It was limping now, though, trailing one of its forelegs which was stained red with its blood. It hopped back and forth between the guns and the beaters. Our own line was so close to that of the shooting party that no one dared shoot. I saw one of the keepers raise his gun to put the creature out of its misery, but I think he was afraid some stray shot might hit one of the gentlemen. It looked as though the wounded animal might get away. We beaters stood stock-still – almost as if ordered to do so, although no one had said a word – and followed the hare’s lurching course. We knew enough about shooting to comprehend that it was wounded and ought to die, nonetheless I could not help hoping – a hope shared, I felt sure, by some of the other beaters – that he would run away, over the dyke to freedom, if only to find himself a place to hide and die there peacefully and alone.

  The keeper on our line’s outermost flank released his dog. It was a big Danish pointer with a beautiful shaded dark-brown coat. It sprang away, its stubby docked tail quivering with excitement. It bounded across the clayey stubble-field with great, powerful strides, running diagonal to the hare. The hare seemed to sense this new threat. It hopped even faster, but I could see that it was in pain from its wounded foot. It changed direction. Everything happened very fast, and yet so slowly. I kept my eyes on the dog, counting the seconds and praying inwardly to God to save the hare, to give it the strength to run faster than the wind. But the Lord was not listening to me then either. The pointer caught up with the hare, but did not manage to bring it down right off. The hare stumbled and fell, got up again, somewhat unsteadily; the dog wheeled around, so excited by the chase that it almost lost its footing. But before the grey hare had time to build up any speed the dog had it by the throat and bit down. Until that morning I had not known that hares had voices. But this one uttered a heartrending cry, like the squeal of a scalded baby. The scream faded to a whimpering sigh and then there was silence.

  The keeper stood for a moment. Everyone stood for a moment. Possibly no more than a couple of seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Then the keeper put his whistle to his lips and called his dog back. When one thinks of the changes in our lives that were set in motion on that day, the incident with the hare is really neither here nor there. Since then, though, it has occurred to me that my twelve-year-old self might unconsciously have felt that the hare’s agony foreshadowed my own. I am a rationalist, but one should never underestimate the subconscious. In that scream lay the germ of my own outward and inner pain, as well as relief from them through the insight the years would bring.

  Because I remember it as if it was yesterday. The low, grey clouds, the withered grass on the dyke, the black, wet, cold earth, the raindrops mingling with the tears on my cheeks, the beaters and the guns, facing each other like two armies, and the echo of the hare’s plaintive, agonised, stricken squeal, hanging like a shrill false note in the bitter autumn air.

  16

  ON THE NEXT DRIVE we were quieter. The hare’s scream was still in our ears. The dog alone seemed pleased and happy after the praise given to it by the keeper when it brought him the mangled quarry. Were the guns, too, a little rattled perhaps? At any rate they showed more patience, waited for the game to come closer before shooting. I did not want to appear soppy or girly so I stepped out again, clapping my hands, like the boys on either side of me, but a couple of the bigger teenage girls were struggling to hold back the tears. It was odd, really. I don’t know why the dog’s kill affected us more than those made by the men. Could it be that we, in fact, ascribe to animals a rationality and goodness – a sort of inverse humanity – which they do not possess?

  The last beat yielded only a single pheasant and a hare, then came our sausages and soft drinks. It cheered us up to reach the end and see the two maids from the big house standing beside the cart with the huge, steaming soup pot and baskets full of little hot-dog rolls with big jars of mustard alongside, as well as homemade ketchup in old white milk bottles. The guns stood in their own little group, some way apart from us in a clearing in the forest, where they were served sandwiches and beer and coffee laced with schnapps. They missed out on the firm, red frankfurters and the golden orange squash, which tasted wonderful in the keen, grey autumn air. Everything looked and smelled of autumn. The odour of rotting leaves mingled with the salty scent of the sea beyond the dyke. The clouds drifted in two layers over those yellow leaves which still clung to the trees. The big hardwoods in the forest were only waiting now for the first proper autumn storm. It had been threatening to rain all day, but only a few drops had fallen. Then suddenly the sun broke through the clouds, the thick layer parting as though the Almighty had sliced through it with a bread-knife. Dad came over to Fritz and me and asked how we were doing. Were we warm and dry? Then
he gave my arm a little squeeze, as if he understood that I was upset but knew that I knew that I could not let him or anyone else see it. Fritz was the younger of us two, but his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were shining. He was as tall as me and it was easy to see that he took after Dad. The keepers came over to tell us to finish off and get back into the wagon: it would be good if we could get in a couple more drives before lunch at one. We climbed aboard and Niels Ejnar drove us out to our new positions. We were happy as larks again by now and sang all the songs we could remember from morning assembly at school as we trundled along the rutted country lane. And so things continued until lunch.

  We were in the lofty barn, sitting or standing around, eating our sandwiches and drinking lemonade, when Peter’s father arrived with the guest from Copenhagen. The barn smelled of oil and hay; all of the farm machinery had been hauled out apart from the old combine harvester which sat in a corner swathed in cobwebs and looking as though it had been wrapped in silk by some storybook fairy. Peter suddenly drew himself up tall and it was all he could do not to point. He was just about bursting with pride when, as if on cue, we kids all dashed out of the barn to admire the car. It was a long, low blue Buick with huge tail fins and a sweeping bonnet. Peter’s father drove slowly past the barn and us pop-eyed kids and up to the big house. The big, broad white-walled tyres scrunched over the gravel as it glided past an ancient oak tree and pulled up in front of the broad steps leading up to the big front door. The Count came out together with his wife, a skinny woman with jingling bracelets and red hair. The Count’s face was flushed from schnapps and the indoor warmth. He had taken off his jacket and stood there in his shirtsleeves. Broad braces held his trousers up over his narrow hips and small backside. Out of Peter’s Dad’s car stepped the guest. He was a middle-aged, dried-out husk of a man with grey hair and wrinkled cheeks. He was in hunting garb: dark-green plus-fours and boots, three-quarter-length jacket and cap. The Count walked down a couple of steps and met him halfway. They shook hands and although I could not hear what the Count said it was clear that the newcomer was being warmly welcomed. Peter’s father stood a step or two below them, looking like a conjuror who had magicked this grand guest out of thin air. We children stood there gawping, awestruck by the whole scenario. Because here was a genuine celebrity. We had seen pictures of him in the paper, read about him and heard him on the radio. He was one of our country’s true heroes, a member of the Danish Freedom Council who had fought valiantly throughout those five dark years. He was also said to have shot several traitors personally. The liquidation of informers they called it on the radio. He did not look like a hero. He looked more like a rather timid bank clerk, or a schoolteacher. The sort that taught bible studies or geography and could deliver the odd clip round the ear without it mattering too much, because he did not hit very hard. You could not have told from looking at him that he had actually killed people – in cold blood, at that. Somehow I had thought that this would leave a mark, physically too, on a person, that they would be surrounded by a special aura of death and mutilation, but that was not the case. And at that point, of course, I did not know that Dad had probably witnessed more death and misery than all of the others present put together, and in all likelihood had also taken more lives. A thought which I still find hard to come to terms with: he seemed so normal. A perfectly normal baker dressed in white and enveloped in the scent of flour and pipe smoke.