Stacy Gregg - Prince of Ponies

Zofia’s heart began hammering. The visitors! They were here after all! She needed to get back to the hayloft.

She waited for the headlights to flicker past. She was just about to stand up when another set of lights came shining in through the window. A second car was arriving, and then a third.

As the car doors slammed outside, Zofia crawled across the floor of the stall on her belly until she reached the wall below the window, and then, carefully, making sure that the headlights wouldn’t catch her shadow in their beam, she popped her head up just high enough so that she could see.

The three black town cars were lined up in a row in the snow. On their bonnet each car flew a tiny flag with the red, black and white symbol of the Nazi swastika. Zofia saw the symbol and felt certain now that she was in real trouble.

She should never have come down here. The Colonel had been clear in his orders to her to stay hidden and she’d stupidly ignored him. Now the house lights had been turned on and in the driveway she could see the men getting out of their cars. They were not ordinary German soldiers either – their uniforms were not like the ones the Colonel and his men wore. These were special police, officers of the SS, dressed in black greatcoats and long boots, with red armbands emblazoned with swastikas, matching the flags on their cars.

She had to get out of here now! Run before it was too late and get back up the wooden step ladder into the ceiling then pull the ladder up behind her and close the trapdoor. Except such a sequence of actions in the cold silence of the night was not without risk. Even if she could make it up the ladder, she wouldn’t have time to drag it back up into the ceiling and if the officers saw it, they’d come looking maybe, knowing someone was in the loft.

As she peered out over the window ledge one of the German officers looked in her direction and she ducked down, heart pounding, afraid she’d been seen. So now she couldn’t even look at them. All she could do was crouch low and listen to their voices in the cold night air, speaking to each other in clipped German.

There were more car doors slamming, and laughter, and then she heard a voice she recognised. The Colonel. Zofia took the risk, poked her head up once more and saw him on the doorstep, wearing his full German uniform. It looked strange to see him dressed like this. In the time since the German army had taken control of Janów Podlaski, she had seldom seen the Colonel in his military clothes – he usually just wore his jodhpurs, like a civilian. And when the officers saluted him, he looked distinctly uncomfortable as he saluted back, arm raised straight out into the air: “Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler, Colonel,” one of the SS officers replied. “I apologise for the lateness of the hour, but the snow made it impossible for us to get to you any faster.”

“Of course.” The Colonel nodded in agreement. “Your accommodation for the evening has been prepared and there is a meal ready. I’m sure you must be hungry. The horses can wait until morning.”

“Ah,” the officer replied. “Thank you, Colonel. However, such matters are not my decision …”

The officer turned his gaze to the second car in the row of three and at precisely that moment the driver’s door swung open and yet another officer in SS uniform stepped out with great formality to open the passenger door.

The man who emerged was in a different uniform to all the rest of them. Bald, stout and not wearing a hat on his bare head, he did, however, wear epaulettes on his shoulders that clearly marked out his seniority. While his top half was very much dressed as a military man, on the lower he was dressed as a horseman in jodhpurs and long boots.

The Colonel looked anxious as he stepped forward and, uncertain whether to salute again, he tried to do so, and then changed his mind, did a half-salute and feebly offered his hand in greeting.

“Dr Rau,” he said. “I am delighted. It is a great honour to have you at our stables. I was just saying to your men that perhaps you might wish to eat dinner and be shown to your rooms? It is late and …”

But the man did not take his hand.

“I have not come all this way to enjoy your hospitality,” he said coolly. “I am here for the horses and you will take me to the stables immediately.”

“Of course,” the Colonel said. “As you wish, Dr Rau. They await your inspection.”

They await your inspection. As the Colonel said these words Zofia knew she had left it too late to run. Already the flustered Colonel, accompanied by eight SS officers, had fallen into step beside the man they’d called Dr Rau, and now they were striding briskly, making their way through the knee-deep snow to the stable door. It was too late for Zofia to make it back to the hayloft. In just moments they would be here to inspect the horses and she had no escape. She was trapped in Prince’s stall with no way out.

There was the sound of boots crunching on snow and then the heavy wooden doors were slid back at the entrance and the lights came on and Zofia was no longer in darkness. She could see. Which meant they could see her too. When they reached Prince’s stall, there was no way they would not would find her. The stall was bare except for a thin layer of straw on the concrete floor. There was nowhere to hide.

And then she looked back at Prince. The horse was wearing a dark navy woollen stable rug. He was dressed in it to keep him warm, but right now her need was greater than his. Zofia’s trembling fingers worked the front buckle and unclipped the back straps and slid the rug off Prince’s back. Then, curling herself up in a ball in the furthest corner of the stall, she draped the rug over the top of her, hoping to make it look as if it had been tossed aside by a careless groom.

She hoped she’d covered herself and that no part of her body was sticking out because she didn’t have time to adjust it – the men who’d been working their way along the corridor from stall to stall had reached Prince’s door. She heard the bolt being slid back and then, from her hiding place, she peered out at the shiny black boots of the Nazi officers, standing right there in front of her in the straw!

“So.” The voice was that of Dr Rau. “This is him, then? The one you told me about?”

The Colonel cleared his throat. “Yes, Dr Rau. This is Prince of Poland. He is purebred Polish Arabian, descended from the very best bloodlines that we possess here at Janów Podlaski. He is the finest horse in these stables.”

Dr Rau gave a hollow laugh. “You are being arrogant, Colonel. You dare to tell me which is your best horse? Such decisions are mine to make and mine alone. This is why the Führer appointed me. This is why he gave me my title: Master of Horses. You understand what it means?”

“I-I meant no insult,” the Colonel stammered. “I simply meant that I think him to be my best horse.”

“Your best horse?” The Master turned this phrase over slowly on his tongue. “He is not your best horse , Colonel. He is not your horse at all. None of them are yours. I come here tonight on the instructions of Hitler himself. These horses belong to the Führer now. They are to play their part in his plan for the glory of the Third Reich.”

“I am sorry, Dr Rau.” The Colonel sounded confused. “I do not understand. I thought you were coming to inspect the stud farm. What is this plan that you speak of?”

“Ahhh.” The Master almost purred with pleasure to be in possession of such top-secret information that the Colonel clearly did not know. “You are aware, Colonel, that the German army have made it part of their mission as a conquering nation to secure the very best artworks in the world? In our hands now are masterpieces by Raphael, Rubens and many more. They are works of such great beauty, the Führer demands that we ensure that they be taken by the SS and kept in secret, to ensure that when the war ends, they will belong to Germany.”