Stefan Zweig - The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig

Well, that’s all to the good, he muttered, but he, Wondrak, had just been wondering whether Karel hadn’t secretly made off? No business of his, of course, and after all, you could understand a fellow who didn’t want to throw his bones into another man’s soup—let the Germans manage this stupid war of theirs on their own. But (and here he turned to the door again) three days ago an armed troop had arrived, a contingent of military police from Prague with Carinthian soldiers, and they were searching the houses now for lads who hadn’t obeyed the call-up to join the army. There was Jennisch the locksmith, who after all had sprained his forefinger, they’d taken him out of his house and led him over the marketplace in handcuffs. It was a shame, such a good, honest man. And in the neighbouring village they were said to have shot a man who ran away, a shocking thing, it really was! They hadn’t finished yet either, said Wondrak. They had brought a whole list from Budweis or Prague or somewhere, a list of the names of all the men who hadn’t joined. Well, his lips were sealed on account of his official position, but maybe a number of men shouldn’t be on that list at all.

As he spoke, Wondrak did not look at her, but stared with curious interest at the smoke rings rising from his pipe to the ceiling. Then he stood up and growled, unruffled, “But if your Karel really did join up, they’ll have had their trouble for nothing, and it will all turn out well.”

Ruzena sat there, frozen. It was all over. So her trick had done no good, they had found out, those bastards in Vienna with their books, they’d discovered that her child hadn’t joined up. However, she asked no more questions, and merely got to her feet. Wondrak didn’t look at her, but elaborately knocked out his pipe; they had understood one another.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and left.

She went to the end of the street with her knees stiff and cold, and then she suddenly began to run. If only she wasn’t still on the way when they came—her child wouldn’t defend himself, silly boy. She ran faster and faster, she threw her basket away, she tore open the dress clinging damply to her skin, she ran on and on and on, further into the forest, she ran as she had never run before in her life.

Night lay black above the house when she heard, from afar, the dog barking. That good dog Horcek, she thought, he gives us plenty of warning. All was still. Thank God, she had come in time. I’ll have a Mass said, she thought, gasping for breath and only now aware of her exhaustion, two Masses, three Masses, and I’ll offer candles, she added, lots of candles, all the rest of my life. Then she quietly went in, held her breath and listened. And suddenly the blood flowed strongly back into her trembling body as she heard the regular breath of the sleeping man. He was safe and sound, the child who had grown from her body. She climbed the stairs to the attic, a lighted candle in her shaking hand. Karel was fast asleep, sleeping deeply. His thick, heavy brown hair hung damp over his forehead, his broad, handsome, masculine mouth stood open to show his strong, firm white teeth. Tenderly, uncertainly, the candlelight flickered over the clear planes and shadows of that carefree boyish face. She saw again how handsome he was, and how young. His muscles stood out like white roots on his arms, which were bare, crossed above the blanket, and his shoulders might have been made of smooth marble; they were broad, strong and firm. There was power to last for decades in the flesh that she had formed from her own, there was an unimaginable wealth of life in his body, which had only just grown to manhood. And was she to give it up to Vienna for the sake of a silly piece of paper? Instinctively, she uttered a sharp laugh. Karel started up in alarm and shook himself, blinking foolishly at the light. Then, seeing her, he laughed too, his good, hearty, childlike Bohemian laugh. “What’s up?” he asked, yawning and cracking his finger joints. “Is it day?”

But she shook him fully awake. He must get out of bed at once, she told him, he must get out of the house, she’d make him a place to stay for the next few days far in the forest and on no account must he move from it, even if a week passed before she came back for him. Then she tied up a great bundle of hay, put it on her back, and led him along a secret path for about quarter-of-an-hour into the thickest, most inaccessible part of the forest, to a place where a small huntsman’s hide had once been erected.

He had to stay here, she told him, he mustn’t show himself by day, but he could walk around at night. And she’d bring him food, she assured him of that. As usual, Karel obeyed her. He didn’t understand, but he obeyed her. She would bring him food and tobacco in the middle of the day, she said. And then she went away, feeling relieved. Thank God, she had saved him. The house was cleared of his traces, so now let them come.

And come they did, quite a large troop of them. They knew their trade, they had studied it. Wondrak had done well to warn her. At five in the morning, when she had gone to bed and had been there for two hours (they must have been marching all night), the dog began to bark. She lay awake with her heart thudding. They were here. The enemy had come. But she did not stir, even when a harsh voice downstairs shouted, “Open up there!” Slowly, very slowly she dragged herself to the door, muttering in a deliberately loud voice, as if she had just been woken from deep sleep. Slow-witted she might be thought, but deception came naturally to her.

She yawned, a loud yawn. Then she opened the door. A military police officer stood outside in the wan, misty light of early morning with dew on his cap, a stranger. He had four soldiers and a dog with him, and he immediately stuck his foot in the door.

Did her son Karel Sedlak live here, he asked.

“Oh mercy me, he left long ago. He went to Budweis to join the army, all our town knows that,” she was quick to answer. A little too quick—noticeably quick. As she spoke, she did not forget that she should look these men in the eye. She had worked that out for herself.

“We’ll see,” grunted the officer through his red moustache, which was moist from the mist. Then he barked out an order in German. Two men stationed themselves outside the door, two more went round behind the house, unslinging the guns from their shoulders. The dog leaped around sniffing at her own Horcek, who distrustfully avoided him. As soon as the soldiers had taken up their positions, the officer told them something else in German and then, turning to her, addressed her in Czech.

“Let’s see the house now.”

She followed him, feeling both fear and angry glee. There’s nothing in the house, look as long as you like, she thought. You won’t find anything.

He stepped briskly into her living-room, pushed open the shutters so that grey light fell on everything inside, and looked around. He opened the chest, looked under the bed, raised the bolster—nothing. “The other rooms,” he ordered.

As if to trying to fool him and make him tired of all this, she replied, “I don’t have any. The others all belong to His Excellency the Count. And His Excellency just has me here to keep house for him. I had to swear my oath on it.”

He ignored this. “Open up.”

She showed him the Count’s dining-room, the kitchen, the servants’ quarters, the bedrooms where the gentry slept. He searched the whole place. He had had practice; he tapped at the walls. Nothing. An expression of annoyance came over his face, and joy leaped up in her, sharp and full of malice.

Then he pointed to the stairs. “The attics,” he ordered. Once more she felt that surge of glee. Yes, Karel had indeed been sleeping in the attics. Thank heaven that good man Wondrak had warned her, or they would have caught him there.