THE WINTER CITY

by MARY HOCKING

  He hustled her across the living room into the bathroom. ‘What have we here? Toothbrushes, two; flannels; hair spray, you won’t need that . . .’

  Helen picked up a piece of soap and folded the flannels around it. Her hands were trembling. ‘Have you seen Paul?’ she asked.

  ‘We were together while Keltner was making his speech. But he dived off somewhere afterwards.’ He glanced around the room. ‘Nothing more here.’

  They moved into her bedroom.

  ‘You don’t know where Paul went?’ she asked.

  ‘No. It isn’t going to be easy to keep in touch now.’ He turned away and picked up a jewel case. ‘Any heirlooms?’

  While they were talking, Kate drifted back to consciousness. The window was open and a light breeze played on her face. She could hear the church bells ringing, just as they used to at home, the sound carrying across the bright fields of corn. In that moment of clarity which comes in the brief release from pain, she saw that Doyle had not loved her; he had been as alien to her as the spirit of the Byzantine cathedral in which she had first admitted to herself her fear that she could never possess him. It took all the strength of her candid soul to accept this fact. She lay staring up at the white ceiling. She could not imagine the days that lay ahead, but she knew that there would have to be a great adjustment in her life.

  ‘Kate,’ Helen spoke softly from the doorway. ‘Are you well enough to move now? We’re nearly ready.’

  Kate looked at her coat thrown over a chair, her hat and gloves balanced on top of it; when she put them on she would have to go out and become a part of the world again; she would have to think and speak and make decisions. It would surely be better to lie here, to renounce the struggle. Yet when Helen called again, Kate dragged herself to her feet.

  IV

  The narrow road twisted down steeply, and the cobblestones were hard to walk on; it was this, Paul told himself that made him suddenly feel so tired. But why uneasy? Or was it that he felt uneasy all the time now, but only occasionally noticed it? These dirty, twisting streets were often dark tunnels which ended in a blank wall; it was pointless, unplanned, a world of nightmare. So easy to lose oneself. And yet the sound of traffic told him that the square must be quite near; but in this crumbling labyrinth it did not have any reality. He paused to light a cigarette. ‘I’ll walk up to the square and start from there again,’ he told himself. And, immediately, as he turned a corner, he came upon the café. As he walked through the dark arch the heavy smell of Turkish tobacco became suddenly oppressive. He felt the prickle of sweat on his forehead. He heard voices, Luka was saying:

  ‘Come. I have been very patient . . .’

  ‘You are an evil woman.’

  The voice was vibrant with hatred, but Luka, it seemed was deaf to its warning. She began to laugh. As Paul came into the corridor she was wagging her finger admonishingly at the boy with the gypsy looks and saying:

  ‘No, no; you must realize it will be for his own good.’

  It occurred to Paul that, if he had not appeared at that moment, the boy would have killed Luka. Luka herself looked up, flabbily startled; when she recognized Paul she came to him and, to his revulsion, laid a hand like a damp sponge on his.

  ‘He does not understand,’ she wheezed. ‘He is young and idealistic.’ She smiled, but the slanting eyes were cold as a snake’s and very watchful.

  There was a strong smell of burnt fat and wisps of blue smoke curled above the dark curtain which covered the entrance to the café.

  ‘What doesn’t he understand?’ As Paul asked the question he was conscious of the boy fading into the background.

  ‘That my father must go away, and that it is foolish to be concerned about him. He is nothing more than a mound of flesh, rotting away up there . . .’

  ‘If that is so, why is it suddenly necessary for him to go away?’

  The boy had gone up the stairs. Paul was relieved. He wondered whether he could manoeuvre Luka back into the café, and then get the young idiot out of the way; nothing would be gained by making a scene with this dreadful woman, who was no doubt acting under orders.

  ‘In these times,’ Luka was saying, ‘one cannot be too careful.’

  ‘But it must be very distressing for you, his daughter.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘My name is constantly linked with his and over the last few years that has been very embarrassing.’

  The air reeked of burnt fat now. Luka muttered under her breath and jerked the curtain aside; Paul watched her blunder across to the kitchen, coughing and shouting obscenities. Behind him a door closed, and looking up, he saw the boy at the head of the stairs. He waited while the boy came towards him; perhaps he would take him out for a drink and tell him not to be such a fool, it was just possible that he would listen to him. He moved forward. But the boy passed him by; he moved like a young stallion and he was very beautiful at that moment, his eyes brilliant with tears and the sensuous lips parted in a smile of exaltation. Paul sat down on the bottom step and put his head in his hands. For a time after the boy had gone, the air in the dark passage quivered.

  At last Paul rose and went very slowly up the stairs. The General was lying on his bed, propped up by a pillow, the dirty blankets were folded back and his arms rested above them, the hands clasped with composure just below the hilt of the knife. There was not much blood. Paul stood looking down at the man. He supposed that if he were to call Luka there was some chance that the General could be saved. In any case, there was no doubt at all that if he did not call her, his own position would be a serious one. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, he felt exhausted, as though he had come to the end of a long journey. There were flowers in a vase on the mantelshelf, and a breeze from the open window lifted the leaves gently. An eddy of dust swirled at Paul’s feet.

  ‘I remember . . .’

  The slow words were spoken as though they were part of an interrupted conversation, and Paul turned his head quickly, imagining that someone must have entered the room. There was only the old man on the bed. Paul went and knelt beside him, moving quietly so that he should not disturb him. He bent forward, because the old man was speaking very softly, his eyes staring out of the window.

  ‘I remember the flowers that she was carrying. They smelled . . . so fresh.’

  The dry voice trailed away. But as Paul watched, a spasm contorted the muscles of the yellow, parchment face; the bloodshot eyes filled with tears; the mouth twisted and the lips trembled; the whole face crumpled in a helpless agony of despair.

  Paul watched him, knowing that he should call Luka, yet not calling. He waited beside him until, half-an-hour later, he died quite peacefully. When Paul left him he met Luka at the entrance to the café; she did not speak, but she watched him as he walked away. It was not until some time later that the full implications of his behaviour dawned on him.

  He walked for a long time in the city, along the narrow, twisting streets and the high, walled avenues; he walked round and along and back again, like a prisoner exploring the walls of his cell.

  V

  Somewhere in the city a fire had started. Between the lean trees in the long avenues the evening sky glowed a raw and fevered red. The acrid smell of smoke was in the air. Everywhere there was noise, confusion and an uneasy excitement. Feet clattered on the cobblestones in the narrow alleyways, people scurried in twos and threes along the broad main streets, sirens screamed, lorries rumbled towards the main squares where crowds might congregate. Twice all the lights in the city had gone out only to be restored in about twenty minutes. Orders were given and countermanded almost immediately. The police erected barricades across roads and then had to remove them to allow the passage of fire engines and army lorries. There was a rumour that Party Secretary Keltner had resigned; there was another rumour that he had given secret orders to the special police which had not been approved by other Party leaders. Meanwhile the glow spread across the sky.

  ‘Where is the fire?’ P
aul asked a young girl and a boy who were running along Martin Zinnemann Street.

  ‘We don’t know. We are going to find out.’ They scampered away, their faces excited, like country children on the way to a passing circus.

  Across the street, just beyond its junction with the Avenue Kapitol, the police were erecting a barricade. There were only a few policemen, but an army lorry was drawn up near-by and one or two soldiers were diverting the crowd. People were turning back, muttering angrily, as Paul reached the barricade. An elderly man approached one of the policemen who shouted at him to stand back. The old man persisted; he had a shop a little further down the road. A young boy shouted: ‘Let him through!’ A policeman approached the old man from behind, his fingers tightening around a rubber truncheon. A group of students erupted onto the road from a side-street. The old man, flustered and distressed by the noise and the threats, blundered towards the barricade. Paul saw the policeman’s arm raised, then the truncheon described a swift, savage arc. The old man grovelled, screaming, with his hands across his face. The students leapt at the barricade and the police, unprepared and outnumbered, called to the soldiers. The soldiers turned their backs, their hands in their pockets, shuffling their feet on the pavement noticing nothing. Behind the students there now came others, in twos and threes, running, shouting, men, women and young children. The barricade was swept aside.

  A woman was trying to drag the old man onto the pavement. Paul and two of the students helped her. A man standing outside a café called out: ‘Bring him in here.’

  When Paul came out of the café the people were still rushing by. Their faces were brilliant in the unearthly light in the street; eyes flashing, eager and alive, intoxicated, dazzled, bewildered by the splendour of the fire. Voices shouted:

  ‘They have fired the City Hall, we hear.’

  ‘No. It is the Party Headquarters beyond.’

  A girl caught at Paul’s arm.

  ‘American? Yes, you are American?’

  ‘I am English.’

  ‘I love England!’ Her eyes shone. Tonight she loved the whole world. Her friends pulled at her arm and soon she was lost in the crowd.

  They surged past the broken barricade, seemingly unaware of what had happened. Now, at this moment, there was no hatred, no conscious intent to rebel. They were driven by some force of which they were unaware, as though far upstream a dam had burst and at present the only indication was a quickening in the rush of water. Near Paul a police officer was storming at one of the soldiers, his face livid, his lips trembling uncontrollably. The soldier ignored him. A car braked violently and Paul saw members of the special police jump out. Obviously this was no place in which to loiter. He went with the crowd.

  At the end of the street, where it branched into Government Square, Paul saw that a crowd had gathered outside the cathedral. The notice boards announcing the Party meetings had been torn down and two long strips of wood had been fashioned in the shape of a cross which now hung precariously above the entrance. There were people filing into the cathedral, men carrying their caps and women with shawls over their heads, crossing themselves as they passed beneath the rough, wooden cross. Outside the crowd was chanting phrases which Paul could not catch, the voices vibrant with a fervour that was more emotional than religious.

  Beyond, in Government Square, another crowd had collected in front of the City Hall which stood out diamond-hard with the flames leaping behind it. The faces in the crowd were mostly young. They were transfigured by a happiness which Paul would not forget. But here and there, in the dark doorways and peering from windows, he saw the old faces. He saw them wrinkled, bony, and afraid. The old have long memories, he thought.

  He pushed into the square. The government buildings were dark; their empty windows stared at the crowd with bland indifference. Voices cried ‘Matthias’ and someone was singing a marching song. The crowd shifted and swayed aimlessly, lacking leadership. A man near Paul was saying to his companion:

  ‘They say that Keltner is hiding in one of the Ministries, afraid to leave.’

  ‘Why should he be afraid? He is free to go, provided he goes far enough!’

  An armoured car had appeared at the end of Martin Zinnemann Street. No-one took any notice of it. The shouts for Matthias were intensified. Part of the roof of the Party Headquarters building crashed down; fingers of flame danced up behind the City Hall. The crowd cried out rapturously. Near Martin Zinnemann Street people were crying out on a different note. One or two men on the terrace of the National Museum ran to the balustrade and shouted a warning to the people immediately below. Paul, who was near, looked up at them but could not hear what they were saying. There was another crash and the flames leapt higher. The crowd in the centre of the square swayed in excitement, blind and deaf to everything but the hypnotic magic of the fire. The armoured car began to force its way along the pavement; the pavement was crowded and it was not stopping for anyone who happened to be in the way.

  Paul felt the sudden pressure of the crowd against his back and it was as though a wall had fallen on him. A woman clawed at him to prevent herself slipping, a child screamed in terror from the ground. In the centre of the square more people were singing the marching song; their voices, vigorous and unafraid, drowned the cries for help and the screams of those who were beyond help. The woman who had fallen against Paul was half-conscious; he tried to support her but his hands were torn away and he saw her head gradually disappear, drowned in a great wave of thrashing arms. Another lunge of the crowd almost carried him off his feet. His arm twisted behind him, no longer seeming to belong to him, a man’s elbow crushed his ribs. There was blood on his coat, not his own. Somewhere in the distance a voice over a loudspeaker blared out threats; it sounded like Keltner. People clambered up lamp-posts and scrambled over railings. Paul, stumbling, found he was trampling on a young girl; she clutched at his ankle, screaming, but the crowd swept him on.

  A sudden twist of movement spun him round so that he was facing Martin Zinnemann Street. It was then that he saw the armoured car moving along the pavement: it was not far away and it was keeping up a steady pace. The sight gave him a sudden access of energy. He began to fight his way towards the terraced steps of the Museum. A nightmare of effort was required to move one agonizing inch. He could see the special police lashing out savagely with rubber truncheons; they were so near now that they seemed to be riding on the shoulders of the people just in front of him. Then, suddenly movement was easier because the people around him were also making for the terrace steps. But, as the crowd lunged once more, he caught his foot on the bottom step and went down. A heavy boot came down on his wrist; someone kicked him in the face and blood poured from his nose. Fortunately he was against the wall and he managed to pull himself to his feet, sick and shaking, but very determined to survive. A man caught his arm and dragged him up the remainder of the steps.

  There was a crash below and the sound of glass breaking. Paul went unsteadily to the balustrade. The armoured car had driven into a lamp-post. It had hit it straight on and it was going to be a long time before it moved again. Gradually the turbulent chaos quieted until there was scarcely a ripple in the crowd. People formed a half-circle around the armoured car. They looked at the special police and the special police looked at them. The wind stirred the flag of the Party which flew from the mast above the terrace. The jagged glass on the pavement glittered. Slowly, men from the crowd began to move towards the armoured car among them there was a boy of about seventeen with dark, curly hair, an arrogant gypsy of a boy. One of the special policemen glanced towards Martin Zinnemann Street: it seemed a long way back. The men moved nearer.

  There was a sharp report. The boy with the gypsy looks stopped, astonished, and then went down, gentle as a falling leaf, at the foot of the terrace steps.

  The sound of the shot echoed around the square.

  Chapter Twelve

  MONDAY MORNING: EARLY

  I

  Just after midnight Gen
eral Zoltan sent a message to Party Secretary Keltner stating that if he were not reassured that the situation in the city was under control, he would take the necessary action to restore order. Party Secretary Keltner, however, was no longer concerned with the affairs of the state. He was lying in Martin Zinnemann Street, beneath the disfigured statue of Stalin, staring with fixed, indifferent eyes into the night sky.

  Reports poured into the British Embassy. Mr. Clare, earnest and rather important, enumerated the main events as he tabulated them.

  ‘10 p.m. Special police opened fire on the crowd in Government Square. That we know for certain.

  ‘No exact information as to what happened afterwards except that sometime between 10 p.m. and midnight the army appears to have thrown in its lot with the people. Considering all the troops that have been moved into the city recently, the place must be quite a fortress now.

  ‘Midnight. Those of the special police who survived the battle in the square are reported to have barricaded themselves in the City Hall.

  ‘Half-past twelve. It was announced that Matthias had taken over from Keltner. Where is Keltner, one wonders?

  ‘Reports received at 1 a.m. indicate that there is still fighting in various parts of the city between units of the special police and civilians, many of whom are now armed.’

  The red-headed girl who was dozing with her head on the desk, looked up as Mr. Clare paused, and said: ‘Go on.’

  ‘Nothing more at present. If only Zoltan doesn’t move it may be all right. It might even be a miracle.’ He walked across to the window and looked out. ‘And why not? It seems a climate for miracles. Ten days ago, who would have thought that these people could ever come to life again? And now . . .’

  Helen Jenner was walking across the main hall on her way to the information office. People lay on the floor wrapped in blankets or sat huddled on stools or suitcases. When they came they had been angry, frightened, or heartily resigned to making the best of things. Now they were mostly silent. Here and there a child cried and a mother held it close.