by Philip Kerr
“And those sub-equine Przewalski’s horses of yours. Were they also here without your knowledge? This is your last chance to level with me.”
“No, sir. I brought them here.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“Two stallions? Two mares? One of each? What are we talking about?”
Max might have been more careful about how he answered this question if he had known just how far the SS captain was prepared to go in carrying out his orders.
“A stallion and a mare,” he said.
“So. A breeding pair. Perhaps the last two on the estate. Maybe even in the world.”
“I couldn’t bear to see them slaughtered like all the others,” said Max.
“Max,” said the captain sadly. “I told you. I had strict orders from my superiors in Berlin. The Przewalski’s horses are an altogether inferior species of Gypsy-like horses that must be liquidated. So as to prevent the domestic horse from being contaminated with their blood. You can see why that’s necessary, surely? If your stinking Przewalski’s horses were allowed to breed with decent domestic horses, they might affect the whole bloodline; it might even become impossible to domesticate horses at all. And then where would we be? I was quite clear about this matter, was I not?”
“Yes, sir,” admitted Max.
“All the same,” said Grenzmann. “I suppose that’s almost forgivable, under the circumstances, you having been here so long.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The horses will be tracked down and eliminated, of course. I have no choice in that matter. I have my orders and I’m obliged to carry them out. Come what may. Especially now that I know this is a pair capable of breeding. Yes, that makes things different. All of our earlier efforts to liquidate this breed will have been for nothing if they manage to reproduce.”
Grenzmann frowned.
“But what disturbs me more is that there was someone else here, looking after these horses. Someone about whom I have no knowledge. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. It smacks of subversion.”
“I can assure you, sir, that this person was absolutely no threat to you and your men.” He shrugged. “Otherwise I would never have let them stay here.”
“Hmm. I wish I could believe that.”
“Sir,” said the SS sergeant, and kicking the fire out, he bent down and retrieved the remains of Kalinka’s old coat from the embers. “It looks as if someone has been trying to burn the evidence of their being here. This looks like a coat.”
Instinctively—he was, after all, a kind of policeman—the sergeant started to search the pockets of the smoldering coat. He found a piece of foil in which Max’s chocolate had been wrapped, a few buttons, a coin and a carefully folded piece of yellow material that Kalinka had been saving as a souvenir of her dreadful experiences. The sergeant handed the material to the captain and then glanced sadly at Max, for he knew what this meant for the old man’s prospects. While a scrap of poor-quality yellow material would normally have told someone very little, this particular piece of yellow material was eloquence itself—especially to SS men like the sergeant and Captain Grenzmann—for it was by now obvious that the material had been cut off the coat’s breast pocket. But it was the shape of the material that everyone recognized immediately and that changed Max’s fortunes irrevocably.
It was a yellow Star of David.
KALINKA WAS TREMBLING INSIDE her Astrakhan coat for almost an hour after the wolf attack; it was as if she’d had an electric shock, and although she had not slept in more than twenty-four hours, she now felt wide awake. This was just as well, as there was still a long way to go before they were safely off the steppe, and when the dawn came to expose their insignificance in that vast, open space, Kalinka saw quickly just how vulnerable they were. There was nowhere to hide—not a tree nor a bit of shrubbery nor a dip behind a hill that might have concealed them from anyone in pursuit. What was worse, a blind man could have followed their trail: the tracks in the snow were like some evil serpent that continually threatened to betray them. Every time she turned to look at their tracks, what she saw made her feel almost sick.
“If only it would snow again,” said Kalinka, eyeing their trail uncomfortably. “Or if only it could get a little warmer and the existing snow would melt. Then we might feel sure that no one could follow us. But so long as that trail exists, then so does the possibility that the Germans will follow it.”
Taras barked and kept on walking.
“I’m sorry. You’re quite right. That kind of talk doesn’t do any good at all, does it? But I can’t help feeling nervous when I see exactly where we have come from. Every minute, I’m convinced we’re going to see the Germans coming after us on their motorcycles. If only this were Egypt, they might run into one of those ten plagues.”
The wind stiffened a little, and momentarily Kalinka was grateful that it was not blowing in her face, which might have made the going slower; even so, it was clear that she was the slowest of the four, and every so often, Taras would stop and look around at her, patiently waiting for her to catch up.
“Yes, I can see what you’re thinking, Taras. You’re thinking, ‘If only she could walk a little faster.’ Now I’ve got you doing it. My father used to say that unless you’re careful, a lot of if onlys can add up to one long, hard-luck story. But it’s me who’s slowing you all down, isn’t it? If only Temüjin and Börte weren’t wild horses, then perhaps I could ride and then we’d make much better progress. We could cover twice as much ground in half the time. I guess it’s just my luck to be guiding wild horses to safety instead of tame ones.” She shrugged. “Then again, if you weren’t the rarest horses in the world and probably the last of your kind, there would be no point in guiding you to safety at all. Each of you would be just another tall horse like that big dumb Hanoverian.”
Taras barked again and shot an accusing sort of glance at Temüjin. It had been easy enough for the wild horse to avoid the dog’s eye in the darkness, but now, in dawn’s cold and unforgiving light, this was more difficult. The stallion knew exactly what the dog was thinking, and there was no getting away from what was obviously the right thing to do.
Temüjin walked ahead of Börte, herded the mare to a halt and then gave Taras a sideways look. He glanced back at the trail for a moment and then snorted at the girl, which sounded awfully like a sigh. Kalinka was strong but slow—that could hardly be denied—and the solution was obvious. The dog was right about that. Their survival was going to require compromises from them—perhaps Temüjin most of all.
Now, some of the buttons on the girl’s Astrakhan coat were missing, and wound twice around her narrow waist was a long black leather belt that Max had tied there to help keep the coat closed against the cold wind; after a moment or two’s further consideration of the matter at hand, the stallion stepped forward and nibbled at Kalinka’s buckle.
“Hey, stop it,” she said. “This is no time to play, Temüjin. Taras is right. We have to get going again. If they catch us out here in the middle of the steppe, we’re all sitting ducks. And you know what happens to sitting ducks when there are men with guns around.”
Temüjin swung his head and then stamped the ground impatiently; then he nibbled the buckle again.
“You want this belt?” she asked. “Why?” But she took it off anyway and let the stallion take it in his mouth. “All right. Have it. But I don’t understand. You can’t eat it. Or maybe you can; I really don’t know what a wild horse can eat.” She shrugged. “I saw a goat eat a shoe once. And that was made of leather. I guess if a goat can eat something that’s made of leather, then maybe a wild horse can, too. Maybe you’re just hungrier than I think you are.”
Temüjin took the belt and laid his head across Börte; when he moved away again, the belt remained lying on Börte’s neck.
By now it was clear to Kalinka that Temüjin wasn’t going to eat the belt, but the cold had numbed the space between her ears and it was several seconds
before she understood what was being suggested.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “You want me to buckle this around Börte’s neck?”
Taras barked and wagged his long, curved tail; he understood, even if the girl was being a bit slow about this.
“Temüjin? Are you suggesting I should ride Börte?”
Temüjin nodded and then nudged Kalinka toward the mare.
“I’m sorry, Temüjin. If I sound surprised, that’s only because I am. I thought you Przewalski’s were the only true horses never to have been domesticated. At least that’s what Max told me. But hold on a second—what does Börte have to say about it? Shouldn’t we ask her permission or something? I mean, it seems a bit rude just to climb on her back without so much as a by-your-leave.”
The mare reached around, took Kalinka’s coat in her mouth and pulled the girl gently toward her.
“All right, all right. I understand. You’re okay with this.” She buckled the belt around Börte’s neck and then prepared to mount. “I’ll give it a try. After all, they say that even a bear can be taught to dance, so maybe this will work. I don’t mind admitting to you that my feet are beginning to ache; they’re also very wet and very cold. But if this is some kind of Przewalski’s joke, then I’m not going to be at all amused. There’s a time and a place for a joke, and take my word for it, this just isn’t it. Believe me, I left all of my sense of humor back in Dnepropetrovsk. After what happened there, I may never laugh again.”
Kalinka took hold of her makeshift bridle and then leapt up onto the mare’s broad back; a little to her surprise, the wild horse did not try to throw her off.
“Well, I never,” she said. “I guess you’re only really wild when you want to be, huh?” She nodded as Börte began to walk steadily, as if the horse was quite used to having a rider on her back. “Well, this is better. I like it up here. And I can also see farther in all directions. Not that there’s anything very much to see. But you get the idea. That might come in useful.”
“Oh, I wish I had a camera so that I could send Max a picture. He would never believe this. I can hardly believe it myself. I’m really riding a wild horse. But look, I promise never to let any other wild horses know that this happened. All right? I can see how that might be a little embarrassing for horses like you.”
Taras barked and picked up the pace immediately, and so did the two Przewalski’s horses.
Kalinka took a tighter hold of Börte’s simple bridle, squeezed her thighs against the mare’s flanks and, before long, all three were running across the steppe.
“This is great!” she yelled. “Clever old you, Temüjin, for suggesting this.”
Taras looked at Temüjin and growled in disgust, as if to say, “Yes, clever old you, Temüjin.”
CAPTAIN GRENZMANN LOOKED AT the scorched yellow cloth star that the sergeant had given him and nodded gravely.
Everything was clear to him now—it was clear what had been going on, and it was equally clear what he was going to have to do about it. Not that he wanted to do anything very much about it, of course, but what choice did he have? There were strict orders from Berlin about what to do in situations like the one that now presented itself. Under the circumstances, he had no alternative but to act, and act harshly. That was the discipline the SS lived by. Without that, they were nothing, just a rabble. His men knew that, too. They liked Max as much as he did, but he could see that they already knew what was going to happen.
Grenzmann took off his battered gray hat and rubbed the short blond hair on his head slowly, almost as if he was hoping to make his twisted Nazi brain find another solution to the problem that was in front of him. In fact, he was rubbing his scalp because it delayed him from striking the old man, which was his first inclination on seeing the yellow star. It was odd how that made everything so very different; but for this simple insignia, he could probably have ignored all of the old man’s many misdemeanors. The orders from his superiors were crystal clear about this sort of thing, however; retribution was absolute. There could be no room for maneuvering.
All Kaspar Grenzmann wanted to do in the world was ride horses, paint pictures, listen to Mozart and help his father run the business in his hometown of Munich. Before the war, he had been studying to become a lawyer, and he thought of himself as a gentle, civilized man. But there was nothing civilized about what he and hundreds of men like him had been asked to do all over eastern Europe. He knew that it was highly unlikely he would ever feel civilized again. But what could he do? This foolish old man had pushed him into a dark corner where he had no choice but to behave ruthlessly and without mercy—to be that which he was increasingly reluctant to be: the inflexible SS man of blood and honor.
Finally, the irritation of this realization was too much for Grenzmann and he hit the old man hard on the side of the head with the back of his gloved hand; it wasn’t hard enough to knock him over, but it was hard enough to make Grenzmann feel a little ashamed of himself.
“You foolish old man,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now look at what you made me do. You see? Everything is different now between you and me. It didn’t have to be like this, Max. But you have painted me on your wall. I am fixed there like one of those blasted horses. Me and what I am now required to do. Which is my duty, of course. I have no alternative now but to punish you.”
Grenzmann clenched his fist for a moment and turned away for fear of hitting the old man again. He took a deep breath, let it out and then turned back to face him.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed wearily, “for losing my temper like that. It was unforgivable. And let me add that it gives me absolutely no pleasure to find myself obliged to act here, but you leave me no choice. You know that, don’t you? I’ve given you every chance, wouldn’t you say? But you seem intent on betraying my trust. First, the Przewalski’s horses, and now this. Really, it’s too much, Max. I’m very disappointed. Honestly, I thought we were friends.”
Max wiped his mouth and found a little blood on the back of his gnarled hand, which seemed to make him realize something, too: that the time had surely come to tell the young German officer the truth—not about Kalinka and where she had come from, but about the captain himself and his being there at Askaniya-Nova.
“No,” he said quietly. “You were deluded. We were never friends, you and I, Captain. How could I be friends with a man like you—a man who has systematically tried to destroy everything I hold dear in this world? Not just the people who lived peacefully in this country but also the animals that lived on this great nature reserve at Askaniya-Nova. How could I be friends with a monster like you, Captain? You and your men have made everything ugly by your presence here in Ukraine. And I pity you as I would pity a man-eating bear—as something that needs to be destroyed for the good of everyone. Friend? No. I’m sure we can both spell it, Captain Grenzmann. Even in German. But only I know what it means.”
Grenzmann nodded and then glanced at the sergeant.
“Take him outside,” he said quietly.
In the cold dawn, Grenzmann mounted his horse, and the SS men sat in the sidecars of their motorcycles and checked that their heavy machine guns were loaded, the way they’d done many times before. The guns weren’t pointed at Max.
“Walk over there a bit,” Grenzmann told the old man.
Max started to walk; there was no point in running. Where could he have gone? Besides, the motorcycles would have caught up with him in seconds.
“Stop where you are,” said Grenzmann. “That will do fine where you are now.”
Max took off his cap, knelt down on the snow and crossed himself carefully in the Russian way. It was a while since he’d said a proper prayer, so he didn’t bother; he told himself that God had certainly made up his mind one way or the other where Max was concerned.
The old man glanced up at the sky and marveled at the beauty of the Ukrainian landscape. It was such a magical place. For a moment, he remembered how, in spring, the deer would eat the heads of the magnolia
s outside his little cottage when they were still in bud, just as the goats ate the blue irises on the steppe—greedily, for they must have known they were too hot for their mouths—and how sometimes Max had to chase them both off because of what he now considered to be the sheer selfishness of wanting to see these flowers resplendent in all their glory. If the rest of the world was as lovely as Askaniya-Nova when the flowers were out, there was much to be thankful for. He took a deep breath of the cold air and smiled quietly at how good it made him feel. And gradually his smile broadened, until all of the Germans could see it. This left them feeling very awkward indeed.
“I don’t know what you’re smiling about, Max,” said Grenzmann. “When this is over, we’re going in pursuit of your friends: the horses, the dog and your little refugee. That won’t be too difficult; after all, they’ve left a trail as wide as a railway track. And when we catch up with them, well, you can imagine what’s going to happen. The same thing that’s going to happen to you now.”
Max pointed at the sun and laughed. “Do you see that sun?” he asked the captain. “And that beautiful blue sky? I reckon it’s going to be warmer than it was yesterday. In a couple of hours, that snow will melt. And so will their trail. With any luck, they’ll be off the steppe by dinnertime.”
He heard the guns being loaded, and nodded. He was ready.
“I doubt that very much,” said Grenzmann.
“You know, I’ve just had an idea, Captain. When all this is over. I mean, when you’ve done your worst here to me, why don’t you get your pen and paper and draw a picture? Of my dead body. You’re good at drawing. So why not combine that with the only other thing you’re good at?”
The captain swallowed uncomfortably, as if the old man’s words had stuck in his throat. He glanced at his men and raised his arm.
“Any last words, Max?”
“Yes.” Max had thought of a poem he’d learned as a boy at school. “Ukraine is not yet dead.”