Winter's End

Helen arrived at the bus station in the capital city in the middle of the night, feeling more alone than she had ever been in her life. Where were Milena and Bart? What was she doing in this place? When she asked the way, a passerby just pointed without bothering to open his mouth: the Wooden Bridge was over there. She set off. Tall, dark buildings rose on her left like cliffs, silent and menacing. She went down to the river and walked along the bank. The Wooden Bridge, Mitten — she didn’t know anything about either of them, but her only hope was to find them.

At least six fires were burning under the bridge, their dancing flames reflected on the rippling surface of the river. Helen stooped at the top of the stone steps leading down, glad to have arrived at last. She had walked a long way, passing at least six bridges before she reached this one. A dozen ragged derelicts were sleeping under burlap sacks around the largest of the fires. Loud snores rose in a kind of disorderly concert, interrupted from time to time by a kick or an elbow in someone’s ribs. Now and then one of the sleepers got up to relieve himself in the water or put a branch of wood on the flames. Other, smaller fires were crackling gently in the darkness. Men sat by them eating, drinking spirits, and smoking in silence.

The clock of the nearby church was just striking midnight. Helen went down the steps and walked under the arch of the bridge, repeating the doctor’s words to reassure herself: People sleep under it; they may look alarming, but don’t be afraid of them. They won’t hurt you.

“Hey, whaddya think you’re doing here?” asked a rasping voice very close to her.

The woman addressing Helen was sitting against the wall in the shelter of a buttress. It would be difficult to guess her age, but perhaps she was around fifty. Her face, flushed with broken veins, was half hidden under the peak of a fur cap, and a mongrel dog lay asleep at her feet.

“I’m looking for Mitten.”

“So what’s your business with Mitten, then?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

The woman pointed to a small fire that had almost gone out fifty feet away. “That’s him over there. Give him a kick; that’ll wake him up!”

Helen approached the shape lying huddled under a pile of blankets. “Er . . . please, sir,” she began timidly.

The woman burst out laughing. “No need for any ‘sir’ around here! Give him a kick, like I said!” And when Helen didn’t look as if she would, the woman shouted, “Mitten! Hey, you, Mitten. You got a visitor. Pretty little chick. A blonde!”

“What?” grunted the man, raising his shaggy head and long face. He could have been around forty. Thin as his face was, there was something cheerful about it. “What d’you want?”

“Are you Mitten?” asked Helen.

“Looks like it. So who are you?”

“I’ve come from Josef. Dr. Josef.”

The man yawned at length, showing a mouth with half his teeth missing, noisily cleared his throat, and sat up a little. “And how’s good old Doc Josef? Still getting paid to kill his patients off?”

“He’s fine,” said Helen, smiling.

The tramp pushed back his covers and stood up with some difficulty. He was wearing large, woolen gloves with the fingertips cut off to expose the last two joints of his dirty fingers.

“You’re from up in the hill country, I reckon. Know your way around here?”

“No, that’s why Dr. Josef . . .”

“Right. Well, let’s show you around for a start.”

Helen, who was already worn out by cold and weariness, didn’t feel at all like going back up to the icy sidewalks of the city, but a surprise awaited her at the top of the steps. Mitten kick-started a motorbike that looked a positive antique, with an enormous yellow tank rather like the curved body of a wasp.

“Get up behind and hold on tight!”

The monster motorbike, which had no front light, chugged noisily off along the roads and began climbing north up a hill.

“Where are we going?” cried Helen, who was numb by now. “I’m freezing!”

“To the cemetery!” replied Mitten. “There’s a good view!”

As they went on uphill, the city revealed itself below. Helen had never imagined that the capital was so big. More than ten bridges crossed the river, and she found it difficult to believe it was the same river that she knew. If you could see how wide it is here, Milos! Four times as wide as when we were looking down at it from the roof of the school! If you could see this city! Dozens of towers and belfries, wide avenues, hundreds of alleyways, tiled roofs going on and on forever. The tiles are prettier than slates. Oh, it’s a shame you aren’t here; it’s a shame.

The motorbike had no stand. Mitten leaned it up against the cemetery wall and led Helen on. They crossed the road and were soon standing on a grassy mound like a promontory above the drop below. As she turned, Helen saw the crosses and tombstones on the graves shining in the cold moonlight.

“Never mind the dead!” said Mitten. “Take a look at the view. Not bad, eh? The bridge to the north there, that one’s mine. You can tell it by the fires burning there. The biggest bridge in the middle, that’s Royal Bridge, the one with the bronze statues. This side of the river, you got the Old Town, right? Other side of the river, you got the Castle — up on that hill, see it? Down below is the New Town. The Phalange hangs out in that tall building.” He spat the way he was pointing and then turned back to his motorbike. “OK, you seen it all. Guided tour’s over, and if we don’t move, we’ll freeze to death.”

“Where are we going now?” asked Helen.

“I’m taking you to Jahn in the Old Town.”

“Who’s Jahn?”

“You’ll soon see.”

They were already on their way down the slope when Mitten half turned and shouted, “Hey, you know those two as arrived by boat last week?”

“What two?” she asked, with a sudden surge of excitement.

“Tall, thin guy and a blonde with her hair cut short. Watch out. Hold on — the road’s bumpy here!”

“A blonde with short hair?” Helen asked. “Do you . . . Do you remember their first names?”

“No . . . yes! Him, he was Alexandro, something like that, and she . . . um . . . Helena, that’s it! Yup, Helena!”

“Bartolomeo and Milena!” she shouted into Mitten’s ear.

“You don’t need to yell like that! Want to burst my eardrum? Yeah, like you said: Bartothingamajig and Milena, that was it.”

“Where are they now?”

“At Jahn’s, of course. Where you’re going, love.”

Helen had been under so much stress for days and nights on end. Now, suddenly, she was relaxed. She immediately forgot about the cold, her anxieties, the grief of being alone. She was going to see Milena again! Maybe even tonight. She laid her forehead against the back of Mitten’s neck. This is an angel taking me there on his motorbike! she thought. Maybe he doesn’t smell too sweet as angels go, but he’s an angel all the same because we’re on our way to Milena.

They rode through a maze of narrow alleys and reached a small paved square. It was deserted. Mitten stopped outside a restaurant with an old-fashioned facade running at least sixty feet along one side of the square. The glazed door bore the name of the place, JAHN, in gilded lettering. Behind the curtained windows Helen could just make out rows of tables with chairs perched on them upside down, a forest of legs sticking up into the air.

“This is it,” said Mitten, without turning off his engine. “Off you go. I won’t come in. You ask for Mr. Jahn, get it? Not just Jahn, right? Mr. Jahn. You tell him you want work. He’ll tell you to clear out. So then you say, ‘I’m ready to wash dishes.’ And then he says, ‘Ready to wash dishes?’ And you say, ‘Yes, I’ve already mashed potatoes for Napoleon . . .’ and he’ll take you on. Easy as pie. Got all that, have you?”

Helen wondered if she was in the middle of some crazy dream. “I don’t understand. Who’s Napoleon?”

“Why, Dr. Josef’s giant pig. Didn’t you see him up in the hills?”

“Yes, but I never knew his name.”

“He’s our mascot, Napoleon is. When we’ve seen those Phalangist bastards off, we’re going to build a great big bonfire, have a hog roast, and eat Napoleon, in tribute to him, like. Off you go, then. I’ll wait to see if you’re OK. Give me a wave from the window, right?”

“Right,” said Helen. “I’ll go in — and thank you for everything.”

She was on her way to the entrance of the restaurant when Mitten called her back. “Wouldn’t have a little cash for the gas and the guided tour, would you?”

“Oh, of course!” cried Helen apologetically, ashamed of herself for not thinking of it first. She gave him a few bills.

Then she opened the door and found herself in the comfortable warmth of the building inside. Dim standby lights faintly illuminated the large restaurant. She made her way between the tables, passing double doors that must lead to the kitchens. At the back of the restaurant there was a wide oak staircase with a faint light at the top of it. She climbed the stairs in silence, drawn as if by a magnet to the line of light showing under a door. She had almost reached the landing when she tripped on one of the steps.

“Anyone there?” asked a deep voice from the lighted room.

“Yes,” said Helen. “I . . . I’d like to see Mr. Jahn.”

“You want to see Mr. Jahn?”

“Yes, please.”

“Come on in, then, and you’ll see him.”

A chubby-cheeked man was sitting at a desk, poring over accounts books. He glanced rapidly at Helen and went back to his calculations. Classical music was playing on the radio, but the volume was turned down, and Helen had to strain her ears to pick it up.

“So what brings you here, young lady?”

“Work. I’m looking for work.”

“No vacancies.”

His thick lips gave the impression of a sulky pout. Helen stood her ground.

“I . . . I’m ready to do any kind of work. I can wash dishes. . . .”

Still writing with his stub of a pencil, the man muttered, “Ready to wash dishes, are you?”

“Yes, I’ve already mashed potatoes for Napoleon, so . . .”

She had the odd sense of speaking lines in a play, but a play that would determine the whole course of her future life. Jahn glanced up. This time he was really looking at her, and his eyes were very gentle.

“Ah, so that’s it. Potatoes for Napoleon. And how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Did you run away from your boarding school too?”

“Yes.”

The stout man put down his pencil, took off his glasses, and ran both hands through his curly hair. Then he sighed, as if all the cares of the world were weighing down on his shoulders.

“Right,” he said at last. “Right. I’ll show you to your room. It’s up in the attic. You can begin tomorrow morning. But I already have more than enough people washing dishes. You can . . . Let’s see, yes, you can sweep up in the restaurant and wait on tables. The others will explain the job to you. Your salary won’t be very much, but you’ll get your board and lodging. Are you hungry?”

“No,” said Helen. She hadn’t even finished the food Dr. Josef had given her for the journey.

“Then off to bed with you now. It’s late.”

He switched off the radio, rose, and led her up more stairs. They climbed two floors higher and reached a dilapidated, low-ceilinged corridor with a dozen small closed doors on each side of it.

“Your colleagues’ rooms,” said Jahn.

When he reached the end of the corridor, he opened the left-hand door and stood back to let Helen in.

“Here we are. This is your room, and here’s the key.” He stepped back out into the corridor, and then turned back. “What’s your name?”

“Dormann,” said Helen. “My name is Helen Dormann. Please . . . is there a girl called Milena Bach here?”

“Milena sleeps in the room next to yours,” said Jahn as if in passing, “but don’t call her that anymore.”

“What should I call her, then?”

“Anything you like, but not Milena. Good night.” The stout man didn’t give any further explanation, and she heard his heavy tread as he walked away.

The tiny room contained only a narrow bed, a table, a chair, a washbasin, and two shelves. A cord stretched across one corner did duty as a wardrobe. But Helen was holding the key to her room for the first time in her life, her own room, and she felt wonderfully happy. A cast-iron radiator gave gentle warmth. She stood on the chair to see out of the skylight and had a view of the river, wide and silent, and the sleeping city with its street lights on.

A beginning, she thought, a new beginning. Everything will be all right.

She went to bed, worn out by exhaustion and emotion, and as she slowly fell asleep, she called to mind everyone who had ever been dear to her: her parents, coming back out of the night to smile lovingly at her; Paula, who must know what had happened by this time and might be thinking of her; Milos, now in the middle of his hardest fight somewhere; and Milena asleep on the other side of the wall, with her hair cut short.

The last thing she heard was the noise of a motorbike rattling down the road and fading away. Oh no! That’s Mitten riding off, and I forgot to wave from the window to let him know I was staying. Sorry, Mitten.