Winter's End

Helen woke up early in the morning. The fire had gone out, and the acrid smell of cold ashes caught her by the throat. She was shocked to see the belongings of Mills and Pastor scattered around her, useless, in the pale light of dawn. So she hadn’t dreamed last night’s events: the fight to the death between Pastor and Milos, the wound in Milos’s leg, the carnage inflicted by the dog-men.

She turned to Milos and gently touched his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” he said, smiling. But he didn’t move.

She got up and went to open the door. More snow had fallen overnight. The dog-men’s clothes were covered up, and over by the rocks, the buried bodies of Mills, Pastor, and Ramses showed only as three gracefully curved little mounds. She went back indoors and set to work making a fire with some dry twigs and small pieces of kindling. Kneeling in front of the fire, she blew on the flames. Milos, who was still lying on the mattress, watched her out of the corner of his eye.

“Seems you can do anything! Hide bodies under the snow, light a fire, cheer people up. I’m tempted to ask you for a coffee just to see what happens!”

“Want to bet?” she said, pretending to be cheerful. Hurrying off, she opened drawers and cupboards until she found what she was looking for: an old saucepan without a handle. She went out to fill it with snow and then put it over the fire. Less than ten minutes later she was handing Milos a mug of steaming hot water with a few drops of the spirits Pastor had brought added to it.

“Sorry, not very strong as coffee goes,” she said.

He drank it in small sips, leaning on one elbow.

“Will you be able to walk?” asked Helen. “We’ll each have a pair of snowshoes; that should help us get down. Because we are going to turn back, aren’t we? We can’t go on now.”

Milos put the empty mug down and looked at her sadly. “Thanks for the ‘coffee.’ You’re very kind, but I can’t walk at all. I can’t even get up. I didn’t sleep at all last night — it hurt too badly. And look: I think the knife went almost right through my thigh.”

He raised the blanket. Blood had soaked the dog-man’s shirt, and he carefully moved the torn denim of his jeans aside.

“Oh, my God,” Helen gasped at the sight of the gaping wound. “I’ll change the dressing for you.”

“That won’t stop it from bleeding,” said Milos. “All I can do is keep the wound compressed by trying to move as little as possible. There’s nothing else to be done unless you can stitch wounds too. Got a needle and thread with you?”

But neither of them laughed. Last night Milos had said, “I think you’re going to need enough strength for both of us,” and now Helen realized how right he was.

“I’ll go down to the valley to get help,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m sure I can find a farmer with a sleigh, and we’ll get you back down to have that wound seen to. Or I could bring a doctor up here?”

“Do you think you can manage it?”

“I don’t see any other solution, do you? We might wait hundreds of years for someone to come this way.”

Milos sighed. He didn’t like the idea of letting Helen go on her own.

“The snow will have changed the whole landscape. You won’t recognize anything.”

“I won’t even try finding the path we took up here. I’ll go straight ahead downhill and knock at the first door I come to.”

Wasting no more time, she stood up and began getting ready to leave. Mills’s snowshoes were better than the other pair; the wood was almost new, and they had supple leather straps. She adjusted them to fit her and took a few steps out in the snow to try them. Of the two knapsacks, she chose Pastor’s, which was smaller. She took out the contents, a packet of hard crackers, and two apples, and left them beside Milos with half the loaf of bread.

“You must eat a little or you’ll just get weaker.”

“I’ll try,” he promised.

She melted another full saucepan of snow and gave it to him to keep in reserve. Then she arranged anything that might keep him warm around him: the blanket belonging to the refuge, one of the dog-men’s pullovers, and Mills’s jacket, which was still hanging behind the door. She rolled up Pastor’s sheepskin jacket and put it in her knapsack with the rest of the rye bread.

When the time came for her to leave, she crouched down beside Milos and took his curly head in her hands. “It took us two days to come up here. I won’t need that long to get down again. We saw some houses on the way, remember? With a bit of luck I’ll be back tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the latest. You won’t run away, will you?”

“I’d have my work cut out for me to do that!”

They said nothing for a few seconds.

“I thought I was going to protect you, and now I’m the one who needs your help.” He sighed. “That was clever! I should have stayed at the school.”

“Stop it!” Helen interrupted him. “You wanted to keep the pack from catching up with Bart and Milena, and you did it! It’s because of you they have nothing to fear now.”

“Yes, but what about you?”

“I’ll be all right — don’t you worry. Well, I’d better leave. Shall I look for some more wood for you first? Dead branches? You could burn them this evening.”

“No, don’t waste time doing that. I’d rather you left at once.”

“You’re right. I’ll be off.” But she was still hesitating. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes, come back!”

“Of course I’ll come back!”

“Promise?”

She merely nodded. If I open my mouth, she thought, my voice will fail me, and this is no time to burst into tears. At the door, she turned and gave him a last smile. He waved good-bye with the fingers of one hand.

“I’ll wait, Helen. Look after yourself.”

She walked straight ahead for hours, going downhill, running when she could, thinking only of saving time. The wooden snowshoes crunched at every step she took over the fresh snow. Go on! Go on! their little rhythmical tune seemed to say again and again. The sun made the ice crystals glitter. How beautiful this would be, she thought, if Milos weren’t up there with his leg bleeding!

Whenever she stopped, she was surprised by the noise of her breathing and the frantic beating of her heart in the silence of the mountains. She swallowed a mouthful of bread, let a little snow melt in her mouth, and went on again. Her secret hope was to find shelter before nightfall, but the sun was already sinking behind the mountain peaks in the west, and she hadn’t yet seen any sign of a human dwelling.

At last the slope became less steep. She couldn’t be far from the plains now. Since it was slowly growing darker, and a sharp chill was penetrating her sweater, Helen put on Pastor’s sheepskin jacket and quickened her pace. She didn’t like the idea of sleeping outside. Luckily some rocks soon appeared ahead of her, and then came the green grass of the plains. She took off her snowshoes and tied them to her knapsack by their straps. A path went downhill past a wood of silver birch trees. She followed it, and she hadn’t gone five hundred yards before a small stone cottage appeared to her right on the far side of a meadow.

The cottage was certainly very old, but it looked well maintained. A thin plume of white smoke rose from the chimney. A giant pig was squelching around in the mud of its enclosure, two huge, dirty ears flapping against its sides. Helen had never seen such an enormous pig. It must weigh almost two tons. She went up to the wooden door and knocked, waited in vain for someone to answer the door, and knocked again. She thought briefly of Goldilocks: Would there be three bowls of porridge on the table? And three chairs? And three beds? The enormous pig was watching her from a distance, with unearthly grunts emerging from its throat.

“Anyone there?” called Helen.

She walked all around the cottage, but she couldn’t see a sleigh or any kind of cart, only stocks of firewood under a lean-to. Back on the other side again, she tapped at the window panes.

“Anyone there?”

She put her face against the glass. The room inside was lost in the dim light, but in the faint glow of the fire in the stove she saw someone sitting on a chair, both legs propped on a foot warmer.

“Please, sir!” called Helen, and the man raised his eyes and saw her. “Please, may I come in?”

She decided that the vague movement of the man’s head meant yes and opened the door. The room had a low ceiling. Its entire furnishings were a cupboard, a table, a clock, and two benches standing on the trodden-earth floor. Helen went over to the stove.

“Excuse me, sir, but I saw the smoke and . . .”

The man was even older than she’d thought. Or perhaps he was sick. Deep wrinkles lined his tired face; the last of his scant white hair lay over his forehead like a funny little comma. He was keeping his hands warm under the blanket that covered his knees.

“I’ve come down from the mountain refuge,” Helen ventured. “The refuge — you know, in the mountains?”

The old man didn’t seem to understand. He was watching her without alarm but without any real curiosity either. His large ears stood out from his bald head.

“Do you live alone here?” She took a closer look around the room and saw a second wicker chair drawn up close to the stove. “Do you live alone here?” she repeated, raising her voice and pointing to the chair. “Is there anyone else here with you?”

She was already resigning herself to further silence when he opened his mouth and, in a hoarse voice, uttered a short and totally incomprehensible sentence, something like, “Sjo ce adji?”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked.

He repeated the same words, but raising his voice and sounding annoyed.

“I’m afraid I don’t speak your language,” Helen apologized. “I . . .”

He brought a thin arm out from under the blanket and pointed his shaking hand at her. “Bjoy? Gjirl?”

“Oh, I see!” said Helen, laughing. “A girl! I’m a girl!”

With her short hair, her square face, and wearing Pastor’s jacket, she could indeed have passed for a boy. As soon as the old man knew that she was a girl, he seemed better disposed to her. He signaled to her to draw up the other chair and sit down. But that was as far as communication went, and they sat there face-to-face, now and then exchanging rather awkward smiles. Helen was just wondering how the evening was going to turn out when the door opened and a little old woman wearing a head scarf came in. She closed the door after her, quickly hung up her coat on a nail, and stopped dead in the middle of the room when she saw the visitor, who had risen from her chair. However, after the old man had said something in his own language, she walked toward Helen at once with her arms spread wide, “Hugo’s fiancée!”

“No, I’m not Hugo’s fiancée,” replied Helen, glad to find someone who could understand her at last. “I got lost in the mountains, and —”

“Oh, I see,” said the old lady, obviously disappointed, but she hugged Helen warmly all the same. Her cold cheeks felt soft as silk. “And you’re lost?”

“That’s right. I’ve come from the refuge up in the mountains. You know it?”

“Yes, yes, I know the refuge.”

“My friend’s up there, he’s injured — badly injured — do you understand? It’s his leg. I came down to find help, he needs medical attention.”

As she told her story, the old man was trying to talk to his wife too, and the poor woman didn’t know which of them to listen to.

“He thinks you’re Hugo’s fiancée,” she told Helen at last. “Stubborn as a mule, he is! Just tell him Hugo’s well and then he’ll leave us in peace!”

“Hugo’s well,” Helen told the old man, smiling and articulating clearly. “He’s very well.”

“Ah,” he said, satisfied, and then he was quiet.

The old lady gave Helen a conspiratorial wink, as if to say, Now we can talk sensibly.

“As I was telling you, my friend’s in the mountain refuge,” Helen tried again. “He’s badly injured. I need to find a sleigh to go and get him down, or a doctor to go up and treat him.”

“Oh, is there a doctor in the mountain refuge?”

“No! No, there isn’t a doctor in the refuge! My friend’s all alone up there. He’s injured. Do you know a doctor?”

“Well, my son . . .”

“Your son’s a doctor?”

The expression on the old woman’s face suddenly changed. She looked at Helen in astonishment. “My son’s a doctor, is he? My youngest son?”

Oh, my God, Helen thought, what on earth have I landed in? But she persisted all the same. “Yes, you just told me your son is a doctor. Didn’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. . . . Would you like a little soup?”

For the first time, Helen noticed a cast-iron pan heating up on the stove. Steam was escaping from under the lid. Why not take advantage of the offer? Night had fallen now, and she would have to eat and sleep somewhere.

The little old lady lit an oil lamp hanging from a beam in the ceiling and took a large bowl out of the table drawer. “I’ll see to my man first. He shakes too much to feed himself. He’s not quite right in the head, you know. He hasn’t spoken anything but his mother tongue for some time. Oh, it’s so sad, my dear. You should have seen him when he was young!”

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 could 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!