Or was it not, rather, dim-witted on their part to be so fiercely suspicious? One thing they were incapable of divining, it seemed, was the impulse to be helpful common to most Americans—other people had it but not to the same degree. In America, if you were not born with it, they taught it to you in school. Carey’s was just a reflex reaction to the sight of incompetence; it hurt the American farm boy in him to watch somebody use an ax that badly. Nor was it only the Senator. Sophie had noticed that the task of moving this oversize helicopter to safety had produced something like a team spirit even in the bystanders. Once indignation over the tree-uprooting had subsided, there had been a quick shower of advice, to which Simmons of course had contributed but also the queenly mammoth they called Margaret: “You will have more traction, I think, Harold, if you shift your position somewhat more to the right.” More remarkable: a pair of pale yellow gloves had been silently tendered to the cable-pullers, relayed—too late, as it happened—from Charles, banished to the shadows but evidently taking an active interest. And now poor Ahmed had managed to cut his thumb; instead of letting it bleed, the Air France stewardess promptly came forward with her first-aid kit. These little occurrences touched Sophie. Of course it was in the stewardess’s training. And of course Ahmed was by way of becoming everybody’s pet hijacker. But something more was at work, Sophie felt—an endearing, irrational, human tendency to make common cause. Nothing could be more foreign to the hostages’ self-interest than the project of hiding this helicopter.
Finally the path was declared to be wide enough. Ahmed’s place had been taken by a gaunt new Palestinian even less adept. “I guess in the desert they don’t get much use for an ax,” summed up Carey. Henk had gone ahead merrily at the wood-chopper’s side, and now he reported what he had been able to see: a typical gabled Dutch farmhouse, two stories high, and near it a barn in construction—it lacked one wall and a roof. The helicopter was ready to move. There was no need for fresh mud; the ground here, being marshy and half-frozen, was naturally slippery—a point the pastor had demonstrated by another sorry tumble. There were also, Henk said, crusted remnants of a snowfall in the open space around the barn, where the helicopter would obviously go. From now on the job would be easy. And in fact that was so. The only difficulties were interposed by the pilots. The track was still on the narrow side—either thanks to Ahmed and his successor or because the hijackers had not wanted to make it too wide, in case it would be noticeable from the air—and to keep the helicopter straight on course, free of interference from protruding briars and branch-ends, seemed to have become a point of honor with the flyers, who from time to time shouted “Halt!” and brought everything to a standstill, as though a few scratches on the German paint job would matter. It was their training, Sophie supposed. But the kapers were humoring them, and the helicopter made it to the barn.
Urging it in, finally, was the simplest part. It really looked as though Providence were working on the hijackers’ behalf. That the barn lacked a wall and a roof could not have been better for their purposes. If the roof had been on, the helicopter could not possibly have fitted under it, and the open side was a made-to-order portal. The unfinished barn was a perfect berth; you would almost think it had been designed by a builder to function as a hangar. And lying around, as though in readiness, were sheets of builders’ tar paper and a carpenter’s ladder. It was quick work for the more able-bodied hostages, following the northlander’s instructions, to climb up and fit the tar paper loosely over the top, like a tent, resting on the outspread blades. When the job was finished, the lanterns were put away, and everyone stood back to admire. As though at the command of a stage electrician, the moon came out, to provide a ghostly lighting. Standing back, you would never know that a helicopter was garaged here unless you were directly in front, facing the open side. And from the air, that would not matter; from the air, the illusion would be complete. A search plane would see only a typical barn in the process of construction, and the tar paper might have been laid over the top to keep the damp out. No jungle camouflage, Sophie decided, could ever have been so naturalistic. “A light blanket of snow would add a touch,” commented Jim. He himself was a wet blanket, Sophie told him. Her legs had regained feeling, and she momentarily forgot being hungry in a general glow of satisfaction—Veblen’s pride of workmanship, it must be, though her own part had been small.
The other hostages, too, had been reanimated; interest had shifted to the dark farmhouse and what it might contain by way of amenities. “Will there be a toilet?” Simmons wondered. Beryl’s mother was hoping for a “bathe”—even a sponge bath. The men’s thoughts ran to food and heating: better not be counting on steaks, though, and Ramsbotham understood that Holland had an oil shortage. Henk, as the authority, was besieged with eager questions: would they heat with gas maybe, how many rooms in a farmer’s house, any hope of a frigidaire? For these poor souls, merely naming those “necessities of life”—warmth, food, running water—even with cautious pessimism, could not fail to bring on a mood of anticipation. “Will they let us get our things now?” said Harold’s wife.
Certainly by now they had earned a good night’s rest and something hot to eat. But the hijackers did not see it that way. From their point of view, there was still work to be done. Obviously the path that had just been widened would have to be restored to at least a semblance of its earlier state, so that from the air it would look as if nothing more than a builder’s truck had used it, to bring in materials. They could not just quit and go to bed. With reluctance, Sophie conceded that, and Jim Carey, beside her, was nodding his agreement as the leader, leaning against the barn wall, went down the list of tasks that remained. A squad of hostages was to collect sedge, lopped-off branches, and so on, to fill in the sides of the path. The uprooted tree was to be put back in place and all traces of disturbance cleared off the highway. To Sophie, it was as if a stage were about to be set, with the hostages as scene-shifters, and she asked herself whether so much verisimilitude was really necessary—could there be an element of sadistic enjoyment? “And our toilet cases?” prompted Harold’s wife, whose chief interest probably lay in her eight-Hour cream. Curious, though, that the hijackers had omitted to mention the detail of the hostages’ “things”; now that the helicopter was gone, the pile of cases on the highway was the most conspicuous item for miles around. The question annoyed Gretel. “We have not forgotten, Mrs. Moneybags. A squad will be assigned to place them in the ditch until we are ready.” That was a cruel blow; some of the women gasped and some emitted piteous bleats. Sophie caught Henk’s eye. He cleared his throat. “Neen!” he called out. Again he was going to come to the rescue. Over by the barn, he talked rapidly to the two in Dutch; Sophie watched his gestures—he seemed to be counting on his fingers, as a demonstration of something. And almost at once Jeroen was making an announcement: for “compassionate reasons,” a group of hostages would be permitted to collect their “hand baggages” and proceed to the house; the others would finish the work.
“How did you pull that off?” inquired Carey when Henk was back among them. “Yes, how?” said Sophie. “I said that here are too many persons. For them, it must be dangerous. And most are not needed.” Whenever he had been speaking Dutch, she noticed, his English got worse, as though he were trying to be his own interpreter at some summit meeting—he had pronounced “said” as “sayed.” Or was it a sign of strain? He was certainly a gifted negotiator.
It was the first-class passengers who reaped the immediate benefit. With the exception of Beryl and the curator, they were being sent off to bed, which was only fair, Sophie thought: most of them were well past fifty. It was a relief to see them set forth, guarded by two Arabs and clutching their cases. “But I’m fifty,” cried Simmons. “Why should they be privileged?” “You don’t look it, Aileen,” said Carey. “Let them have their shut-eye. Be good now and stay with us liberals.” “But they’ll eat up all the food, Jim.” Nevertheless, she complied. In a minute she was helping him pick up branches.
Their labors were almost over. The final chore was to remove all the skid traces from the highway. In Sophie’s opinion, this was overdoing it. The kapers were succumbing to a perfectionist temptation, unless they were plain brutes. And in their place she would have advised water, carried from their hideaway if necessary, rather than a broom. She and Beryl were alone on the empty road. They had relieved the young museum man and the silent Scottish don. The tree had been replanted, the path had been “landscaped” to the limit of possibility, and most of the weary workers had been allowed to go to the house. Only Henk and Jim remained, waiting loyally by the road’s edge and strictly forbidden to help. Somewhere nearby, the leaders were keeping watch. Eventually they would come with their flashlights to assure themselves that Beryl and Sophie had not shirked. To shirk was certainly tempting, with one broom between them and the skid tracks half frozen in places. They could have used a shovel as a scraper; instead they had only the feet God had given them. Kicking at a lump of ice, Beryl hurt her big toe. Sophie commiserated, grateful, now, for her boots. Both would greatly like to know how it was that the two of them had been specially elected to perform this senseless last task by themselves. “Why us?” wondered Beryl. Sophie suspected that it was because the gang was punishing her for being Jewish but she decided not to say that; anyway, it did not explain Beryl. On that point, however, Beryl had her own theory. “Ahmed likes me,” she said. “That’s why.”
Suddenly Sophie was bone-tired, too tired, she feared, to be able to eat. And tomorrow, she expected, would be worse, even if they were fed, because tomorrow there would be nothing to do but wait. She took the muddy broom from Beryl and gave a ferocious swipe. As she did so, Beryl’s head turned. They heard the sound of a plane’s motor. It was flying low. A searchlight was playing over the highway perhaps half a mile off and coming nearer. They saw a flare drop. “Cripes,” said Beryl and ducked. Automatically Sophie let go of her broom; she crouched. A strange thought crossed her mind. “If it sees us,” the thought said, “we are lost.” She scrambled toward the road’s edge, looking crazily for shelter.
“Down!” the man’s voice commanded from somewhere in the underbrush. Clearly he could not see that the order was superfluous. “Down, both of you,” said the woman’s voice. “Into the ditch.” “She loves that ditch,” muttered Beryl. The icy, muddy trough was the last hiding-place either of them would have chosen; nevertheless they obeyed. Sophie hoped at least that Henk and Jim would be there, too, but they must have been told to hide in the bushes. She was by herself with her one-time classmate, the two of them crouching down, with their feet in the gelid mud. “Does she remind you of Mrs. H.?” Beryl said, under her breath. “Ssh!” said Sophie. She had remembered something. The broom. She had left it lying on the road. She asked herself whether Gretel realized that. Maybe she could not see it from where she had taken cover. Sophie straightened up and peered out. The searchlight was still some distance off, making broad sweeping arcs; she had time. Her heart raced; her knees shook, as if the plane was “enemy” with a load of bombs to release on her. She crept out. “Get back!” called the man’s voice. Sophie did not answer. She inched along the highway on her hands and knees—dirt on her suede coat no longer mattered—till she could touch the tip of the broom-handle; then she pulled the broom toward her and fell back with it into the ditch. “The broom,” she explained, idiotically. Beryl gripped her filthy hand. “Shake, sister.” All at once, Sophie remembered a funny thing about her at Putney: the time she had told the whole form that she was changing her name to “Aventurine” and expected them all to call her that.
Now the plane was directly overhead. Another flare was dropped. Next to her, Sophie could feel Beryl holding her breath. Impossible that the plane would not see them as a motionless pair of shadows in this blinding light. The pilot was making sweeps, yet what interested him seemed to be farther up the road. Did the replanted tree look peculiar? She remembered reading a background story—was it about the Moors murders?—which said that aerial photographs could show where a grave had been dug from the way the soil looked even when the turf had been carefully replaced. Now even Beryl’s breathing seemed to her too loud; she could not rid herself of the queer feeling that they could be overheard by the plane. Yet the pilot could not have noticed anything suspicious, for he had turned away from the road, in the direction of the dark house and the barn. It was safe now to peek out. He dipped, and the searchlight prowled. The peaked roofline of the house showed clearly, a quarter of a mile away. Sophie wondered what the hostages inside were feeling. She pictured Harold trying to signal from the roof. But apparently the pilot was satisfied that there was nothing there but “a typical Dutch farmhouse.” In a minute the plane veered back to the highway. It went on, still flying low, toward what must be the mainland. The sound of the motor gradually died away.
The scare was over; bodies popped up, as if resurrecting, and stretched their limbs. Nothing could be heard but the distant pumping-station, the sudden rustle of bird wings, and low human voices, still pitched to an undertone. The flare petered out; everything returned to normal. Or so to speak. “‘Beddy-bye,’ eh?” said Carey, and no one contradicted. As he took her arm to steady her on the homeward path, Sophie could not help feeling that she had proved quite a heroine in the broom episode—courage and initiative under fire. Yet she fought back the urge to mention it, since on the one hand objectively there had been no “fire,” as a sane part of her giddy mind must always have known, and on the other the whole adventure, insofar as it was one, was best kept between herself and “Aventurine.” What would the Bishop think if he heard that single-handed and without prompting or duress Sophie Weil had foiled a powerful search plane intent on learning their whereabouts? And that she was unrepentant and unregretful, though she could not say why. He would pray for her maybe.
Eight
DURING THE NIGHT, A thin snow had fallen. The temperature stood at -1° Celsius. The sky was empty; no plane had yet come snooping. From the air, in any case, nothing unusual would be noticed: a typical new farmhouse painted dark green in the Frisian way, its eastern window panes glittering in the rising sun, the sloping roof tiles a shiny fresh orange. Outside the main door swung a clothes-yard on which laundry hung, the only sign of habitation. Fifty meters off, there would appear to be a barn twice the size of the house in construction, loosely roofed over with tar paper or plastic sheeting and lightly blanketed with snow. Beyond, stretching to the horizon and broken only by the gleam of a canal, lay ploughed fields marked by frozen furrows like the deep wrinkles of a weathered boer face—on the ridges the earth color showed through where the wind had swept them bare. Around the house were dainty bird tracks but as yet no human footprints. Later the men would be led out in pairs to pee and move their bowels, if able, close to the back shed; the women would use the downstairs toilet for the time being—the toilet permission would be revoked were a breach of discipline to occur. From the air, the house should appear to be occupied but not unduly, not beyond the norm of four to six persons warranted for a settler’s family.
On this day in reality it held thirty-two. Eight guards, twenty-four prisoners, which made an acceptable ratio: for every three imperialists, one people’s army soldier. In the kitchen the Air France personnel was preparing a morning meal of bread, cheese, cold ham, butter, and coffee. The same meal had been distributed the night before, with the addition of pea sou
p and herring. If the hostages were to become constipated on this diet, it made no matter: fewer trips under guard to the outdoors and fewer stinking turds deposited. For this reason, prunes had been struck off the list of military supplies required. The logistics of this phase of the operation had been reviewed in depth; no detail of housekeeping was too small to be passed over. These people, it must be remembered, were prisoners of war. In engaging an enemy the less left to chance, the greater your flexibility in meeting the challenge of the unexpected under whatever form it might arise—“For want of a nail,” as the proverb said.
Now, thanks to good planning, on this Tuesday morning, precisely forty-four hours after the launching of the assault, the innocent-looking farmhouse was an arsenal, stocked to the rafters with arms and ammunition, sandbags, explosives, canned and dried foods, smoked meat and fish, legumes and cereals, dairy products, blood plasma—all the matériel needful for a sustained auto-defense. The dwelling stood isolated, in open ground, without neighbors. As yet, no tree or shrub, which might afford cover, screened it from the wind. Any force seeking to approach would be seen immediately, at any rate by daylight. On the side away from the barn ran an entry road visible along its whole length from the big kitchen window, no doubt for the housewife’s convenience; the underbrush that might have obstructed a sweeping view had been cleared and stacked in piles. The thicket near the highway on the barn side extended only a few hundred meters of protection. As noted in the initial study, the position had one small drawback, unavoidable in this terrain: the dwelling lacked a cellar, which might have been used for storage and for punishing disciplinary offenders. On the other hand, in the utility room, which occupied the shed, there was a big deep-freeze chest, and the kitchen had a frigidaire, ample shelves and cupboards and old-style bins. Outside the rear door were a chicken coop and a rabbit run. The welfare state was kind to its kulaks.
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