Jean-Claude Mourlevat - Winter's End

Not much later she was abruptly woken by the sound of a door being kicked in. She sat up in bed, terrified, thinking someone was trying to break into her own room, but the men outside were forcing their way into Milena’s little room next door. It was ransacked violently but swiftly. There wasn’t much to be taken away or broken. As soon as the men had gone again, she got up and joined five other girls in their nightdresses in the corridor. Mute with horror, they were gazing at Milena’s books lying jumbled on the floor, her broken shelves, her little ornaments trodden underfoot, her scores torn up.

“I’m scared.” The youngest of the girls gulped, hugging a cushion as if it would protect her.

“Apparently the revolt began in the night,” said another girl.

“How do you know?”

“Didn’t you hear the gunfire? And Mr. Jahn has disappeared.”

“When?”

“Last night. He left with Kathleen and her tall boyfriend.”

“Bart? They’ve left?” murmured Helen. “They never said a word to me!”

“Or me,” replied the other girl. “But my room looks out on the street behind the building. I was looking out of the window after the recital and I saw them get into two cars.”

“Two cars? Wouldn’t one have been enough?”

“No, there were other people with them. I saw Lando, the head chef, and those horse-men who were guarding the entrance to the restaurant. They all left together.”

“Where were they going?”

“How do you expect me to know?”

“No, of course you don’t. Sorry.”

Helen stayed in Milena’s room by herself to tidy it up a little. Among the torn-up scores, she came upon the music of “In My Basket,” which had survived. She took it away to her own room and slipped it into the inside pocket of her coat.

Then she went back to bed, to keep warm while she waited for day to dawn.

The two cars crossed Royal Bridge together and drove away into the freezing night, going east. Jahn led at the wheel of his heavy Panhard. A young horse-man beside him, unsure where to put his long legs, was kneading the cap he held on his knees.

“I’m your bodyguard, Mr. Jahn. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. What’s your name?”

“Jocelin.”

“Well, Jocelin, your job is to protect me in case of any violence. Me and the passengers in the back seat.”

“Right, Mr. Jahn. I’ll protect you.”

He didn’t have to say any more. The fists he raised slightly spoke for him; they were as heavy as anvils.

In the back of the car Milena, Bartolomeo, and Dora were huddling close together to keep warm. Before they left, Milena had just had time to run to her room and fetch her things.

“Hurry,” Jahn had told her. “We won’t be back here for some time.”

Flinging her clothes and a few favorite things into her bag, she had thought that perhaps they were going to take her from place to place to sing for more audiences. She wouldn’t have minded. The pleasure she’d felt in her first recital promised great future happiness. But that wasn’t it. On the contrary, as soon as he had left the city behind and felt certain that no one was following him, Jahn told the two women that they were going to have to hide — again. Whatever happened, they must avoid falling into the hands of the barbarians. He knew a safe place where they would both stay as long as necessary, he said.

“What was the point of giving the recital, then?” asked Milena, unable to hide her disappointment.

“What was the point?” repeated Jahn, laughing. “Do you know what will happen after tonight?”

“No.”

“What will happen is that hundreds of people who heard you and Dora will tell hundreds of others about it, and they in their turn will pass on the story to thousands more. All these people will be saying that Milena Bach, Eva-Maria Bach’s daughter, sang for an hour accompanied by Dora. They’ll describe the way everyone rose to their feet to sing an encore of “In My Basket.” Tomorrow the news will spread through the whole country, through towns and villages, all the way to the most remote houses. When you sang, you stirred the embers into flames, understand? People will come out of hiding and throw more fuel on the flames — twigs, branches. They’ll fan it into a blaze that becomes a vast conflagration. That’s what will happen, Milena.”

She didn’t reply. She found it hard to imagine that she had been able to unleash such forces by herself.

“Why didn’t you warn me I was going to sing?” she asked.

“It was a Resistance secret, and although you were very closely concerned, there was no need for you to know. Are you annoyed?”

“I don’t know. A little. It means you thought I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and Dora could. I’m not a little girl, you know. Still, what does it matter? Anyway, I’d have died of fright if I’d known in advance.”

“Well, there you are.”

They drove on through the countryside for about an hour, then followed a straight road through a forest of spruce trees. Dora gloomily watched the dark trees pass by in the headlights. At a junction, the second car, driven by the head chef, Lando, tooted its horn briefly and stopped. Jahn stopped too, sixty feet farther on. Turning around, Milena saw two horse-men get out of the car, propelling a man with a hood over his head in front of them.

“The Phalangist who tried to leave during the recital,” Jahn explained.

“Are they going to hurt him?” asked Milena.

“No. But I’m sure that’s what he expects. He’s probably half dead of fright, thinking he’s going to be executed, but that’s their way, not ours. We’re just going to leave him here. A little walk will do him good, and he’s not about to raise the alarm with his friends, because the nearest phone is almost twenty miles away.”

The two cars set off again. The Phalangist watched them go, holding his hood and astonished to find himself still alive.

Milena put her head on Bart’s shoulder. They drove on through the forest and then past fields with mist hanging over them. She was just falling asleep when they reached a village with rows of brick cottages. They looked drab in the faint light. At the very end of the road, Jahn stopped his car outside a small house just like the others.

“Here we are, ladies.”

They all got out except Jocelin, the young horse-man, who preferred to stay in the car to keep watch on the road. The air was sharp and cold. There was a loose brick in the wall to the right just above the door frame. Jahn stood on tiptoe, dislodged the brick, put his hand into the hole, and brought out a large key. The door opened, squealing, to reveal a small room with rickety, old-fashioned furniture. A single lightbulb dangled from a wire. Dora ran a finger over the dust on a chair and made a face.

“What luxury! Oh, you really shouldn’t have! See what a lovely life we musicians lead, Milena! Such a grand hotel! Such comfort! How many stars does this place have?”

“You won’t be staying here long,” said Jahn, sounding rather put out. “And you’ll be safe; that’s what matters most. Everyone in this village supports us.”

“Wonderful. And if we get bored, we can always do the housework. Guns for you, brooms for us, right?”

Milena, who knew Dora very well by now, realized how furious she was.

“Dora, please don’t think that —” Jahn began, but she gave him no time to go on.

“I don’t think anything!” she snapped, looking him straight in the eyes. “I just know one thing: fifteen years ago, Eva and I hid as if we were ashamed to be ourselves. We traveled covered by stinking blankets, we could wash only every third night, and we scurried into hiding like insects. And what for, at the end of the day? To be captured. To be tortured in my case and killed in hers. I’m sorry, Jahn, but I have no intention of playing the same part again. That role doesn’t suit me.”