The House of War and Witness
Page 19
‘But scrubbing things out,’ he said. “That’s more like woman’s work, is what you were maybe about to say?”
Standmeier cast a wild glance around him, but his fellow orderlies were all suddenly looking elsewhere. Molebacher grinned wider, showing every tooth. ‘Right, my boy?’
Standmeier managed a small, terrified nod, and flinched as Molebacher clapped him on the shoulder.
‘And by coincidence,’ the quartermaster said, ‘we just happen to have one here. A helpful girl. Who’ll be only too glad to do the job for us – eh, Drozde?’
‘You want me to …’ The incredulous words were out before she could help herself. Drozde did not do this kind of work. Molebacher didn’t trust her with heavy lifting, and he’d never given her the filthy jobs: he wanted her sweet for his bed, and he knew she had few clothes. For a moment she thought he was joking. He reached over the steaming carcass to pick up Gertrude and ran his finger down the cleaver’s blade, flicking the drops into the great bowl of congealing blood that stood nearby. Then he put down the blade with a clatter and walked to stand over Drozde: three paces, sounding loud in the new silence. He rubbed his red hands together, close to her face.
‘You’ll do this for me,’ he said softly. ‘Won’t you, now?’
His face gleamed damply; only his eyes were dry, and blank as two pebbles. All around her Drozde felt the orderlies shifting their feet. He might not do her too much harm while they were watching, she thought. But if he laid her out on the flagstones not one of them would make a move to stop him. Perhaps if she turned and walked away right now he might let her leave; he did have work to do. But he’d come after her, sooner or later.
She shifted her stance, making herself relax, and held his gaze.
‘You’ll have to get them to take it outside then,’ she said. ‘Unless you want that filth all over the floor.’
The door to the yard was through the scullery. Molebacher dismissed the men back to their work and stood in the opening to watch her. Drozde discarded the rag he had tossed her, and selected a leafy branch as long as her arm from one of the bushes. Under Molebacher’s stony stare she heaved the tub onto its side and began to scour the stinking thing.
‘You’ll need to do better than that,’ he told her. ‘I want it clean.’
She tried to ignore him. Breathing shallowly, she gouged out swathes of thick, rancid grease and dumped them on the ground. She worked as slowly as she could bear to. Finally, as she’d hoped, a crash sounded from the kitchen behind Molebacher, and he turned away with a curse. She waited until she heard him inside, roaring abuse at three orderlies together, before she stood up. Quickly, she tied up her hair with her neckerchief and undid the bodice of her dress, tucking it down into her skirt and rolling up the skirt to her knee. Her shift offered precious little protection from the cold wind, but it couldn’t be helped. Shuddering, she crawled inside the foul tub and started work in earnest.
It took perhaps an hour. Once, near the start, she had to stop and vomit, but luckily she had not eaten that morning. Molebacher came out a few times to watch. She took care that he saw little more than her feet, and enough of the foul stuff was spattered on the ground around her to stop him approaching too close. He never spoke, and she pretended not to notice him. When all the grease was out the inside still glistened and stank of rot. As she went to the well for water to sluice it, Private Fast came out into the yard with a bucket. He was the orderly who had made sheep’s eyes at her that first day in Pokoj, she remembered. At the sight of her now, he goggled like a fish and ducked back inside without a word.
Maybe Molebacher had noticed his too-quick return. Drozde had hoped to make her escape without seeing any of them, but as she heaved the tub over to let it drain, the quartermaster appeared in the doorway. He gave her a slow, appraising look, head to feet, and smiled. ‘Is it done?’ he said.
Drozde had to swallow before she could speak to him. ‘Go and see for yourself,’ she said. ‘I’m going to wash.’
‘Yes,’ Molebacher agreed. ‘You do that. I’ll want you in my bed tonight. Three days without so much as a sniff; it’s not right. A man needs more than that!’
He shouted the last words after her. But at least he let her go.
The little stream of the Drench ran close to Pokoj on the north side. A few minutes upstream from the house was a place where the trickle of water widened into a shallow pool overshadowed by trees: that was where the women of the camp did their washing. Drozde hoped that none of them would be there now. She’d had to stop off in the camp to get her other dress and her cloak, and to borrow a shift from Alis, but she’d avoided seeing anyone else so far – or at least seeing anyone close enough to need to answer questions. It was too late in the day for laundry, she told herself, and no-one would be bathing in November. Still, she looked all around her before finally stripping off her clothes. The shift and kerchief were past saving: she balled them up and dropped them into the latrine pit they’d dug in the bushes. The dress might be salvaged, she thought, draping it over a willow branch to examine it. But first things first.
Nobody bathed in November. She held her breath and entered the water at a run, wincing as the cold gripped her legs, her thighs, her waist. She had to duck down to get her shoulders under. Kneeling on mud and pebbles, she scrubbed at herself like a soiled sheet, using a stone to scrape off the worst of the grease, then the oil-and-ashes mixture that Alis had given her. Her arms were the worst, and she worked on them until the skin was raw, as if she could wash away the memory with the smell. Then she ducked her head and rubbed the ashes into her hair.
Alis had been full of questions and concern, but Drozde had cut her off before she could say much, offering the briefest possible explanation of the state she was in. It was no way to ask for help, but Alis had run to fetch her a spare shift, as well as the little tub of ashes, and had mercifully held her tongue as Drozde accepted them. She would have to thank her properly later.
She wrapped herself in her winter cloak to get dry, stamping up and down the bank until the shivering subsided. She pulled her clothes on, tied up her wet hair and busied herself with the stained dress. But she could not put those two faces out of her mind: Alis, her eyes widening in shock and horror as she saw her, and Molebacher, with that blank, dispassionate, slaughterer’s look. She could not shake off the thought that the dread she had seen in her friend’s face mirrored something in her own.
Drozde found she was shivering again. He had stood over her, twisting those big red hands, smiling his sly smile, and he’d threatened her. It wasn’t the first time either. Leave your pretty things lying around and they will get broken, Drozde. She wondered now how she could ever have thought that the slashed face of her coquette was an accident. And now she’d let him frighten her; she was still letting him. She wrung out the dripping dress savagely, enraged at her own weakness. He’d make me his drudge, would he? she thought, his little dog, to be kept in line by whipping?
He was so sure that he owned her; she’d seen that in his face this morning. He would come after her if she didn’t go to him tonight. He’d batter her, not in a drunken passion, but deliberately, to prove who was master. Her stomach leapt into her throat at the thought, but she summoned the rage again to push it down. She’d go, then; she’d let him think he had control for a little longer. And when she was ready she’d take her money and she’d leave.
She was striding back towards the camp now, the damp clothes heavy in her arms. But she wouldn’t stay there, she told herself, to wait on the quartermaster’s pleasure. She had her own work and life. If he harmed her puppets she could repair them. She had wood to buy, and somewhere else to be.
Hanslo was at his workbench when she pushed open the door of the carpenter’s shop. He jumped up as soon as she appeared, smiling that wide delighted smile.
‘I knew you’d come!’ he said.
‘Of course I’ve come,’ Drozde retorted. ‘I’ve paid for the wood – had you forgotten?’
Drozde leaned on the bench and waited for him to get down to business. There was no harm in him, after all; there was nothing but goodwill and honest liking. At this moment the thought was so warming that she almost returned his smile.
With an air of producing a gift, Hanslo reached down a package from the shelf behind him, unrolling it with an expansive gesture to show the wooden cylinders she’d ordered.
‘Will they do?’ he asked, his voice uncertain. She bent over the little sticks of wood: they were neatly turned and sanded to a smooth finish. ‘They’re perfect,’ she said. ‘Thank you. They’ll do very well.’
Hanslo visibly relaxed. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I’ve something else to show you. If you don’t mind seeing it.’
‘What is it?’ she asked guardedly. But he was already opening a small door at the back of the workshop. ‘This way!’ he called. Drozde followed with misgivings.
It had once been a store cupboard, and still had one wall lined with crowded shelves. Along the other wall was a narrow bed. The space in between the two was barely wide enough to take a three-legged stool, which Hanslo gestured to her to sit on while he lifted something down from a high shelf. He had laid it out on a woollen cloth, the different parts touching but not yet connected.
It was a puppet. She was unpainted apart from her face, but finished as expertly as the cylinders – even more so. A puppet’s body did not require finishing: male and female characters were distinguished by the clothes they wore. But this little figure had sloping shoulders, small breasts and wide hips, all smoothly sanded. The face, too, was more detailed than necessary, the nose wider and flatter than those of Drozde’s coquettes, and the chin a little longer. He’d attached hair already, thick strands of black wool which would make her harder to paint. Drozde picked up the three parts of a little arm and hand. The joints would need some filing, but it was an admirable piece of work for a beginner. She had opened her mouth to say so when she looked again at the face, and realised what it was he had made.
‘It’s not the best likeness,’ Hanslo said. ‘But for a start … I hope you like it. I’m not sure how to attach the strings; I was hoping you’d show me.’
Drozde was not often speechless. He had made her into a puppet. He’d taken her face without asking, and now he was asking her to finish the job! Despite his protestation, it was a good likeness: did that make the case worse or better?
She found that she was laughing. It was only what she did to others, after all; she’d just never expected that someone would return the favour. ‘Let’s see what string you have,’ she said.
They went back to the workshop to join and string the puppet. Hanslo had a great ball of fishing twine. It was not as flexible as what Drozde was used to, but thin and strong enough. It fitted with ease through the holes he had bored, which were smooth and perfectly rounded.
‘I used a bradawl,’ Hanslo told her shyly when she complimented him on their neatness and precision. ‘It’s meant for boring screw holes.’ He crossed to a toolbox on the bench and pulled out a thin blade with a wooden handle. Drozde eyed it admiringly. She had never seen one before: it was wickedly sharp, and she could tell at once that it would work much better than the thin chisel which she employed for the job. Hanslo saw her covetous look, and offered the tiny instrument to her eagerly.
‘Take it! I have a hundred of them.’
Drozde did so with gratitude, slipping it into the pocket of her dress.
She showed him how to thread his twine through the narrow holes in the puppet’s hands, knees and feet, and how to hide the knots. He was a quick learner, but the task was a delicate one and took some time. After a while Hanslo rose and locked up the shop for the day. Drozde thought uneasily of Molebacher. It really would not be wise to leave it too late to visit him. But it was afternoon still, though the light was already fading; she had hours yet.
They talked as they worked, Drozde telling him a little about her travels, and Hanslo recalling his childhood exploits. He had never been more than ten miles from Narutsin, and was fascinated to hear of the streets and palaces she had seen in the cities she had visited, the painted coaches and outlandish fashions. For her part Drozde found the carpenter’s stories almost equally strange: he seemed to have spent all his life in a tiny, charmed world, untouched by war or hunger.
‘We used to fish in the Drench when I was small,’ Hanslo told her. ‘That was before they dammed the river and it dried up. It could be a torrent some years, in the rainy season. And Casparlin and Bobik and me, we used to cross the bridge walking along the railings, like we were acrobats. One time I fell in and was swept away; I would have drowned only my coat got snagged by that big rock at the corner of old Stefan’s field. When they got to me, I was stuck fast between the rock and the bank. But they panicked and tried to drag me out anyway. I still have the scar, look.’
He pulled down his shirt to show her the pale line along his shoulder blade, glancing at her sidelong as he did so. Drozde was not disconcerted. She had noticed his well muscled shoulders the last time they met, and had no objection to viewing them again. ‘It seems to have healed well,’ she said.
She showed Hanslo how to loop the stiff pieces of twine at their tops. ‘You should make a crosspiece to take the main strings,’ she told him, ‘but you’ll work her better if these ones loop over your fingers. Look.’ His hand was warm in hers. ‘Then you can do more than one thing with the same hand. That’s how you make her bend, or do a dance.’
Hanslo was not looking at the puppet but at her. ‘That wasn’t why I made her,’ he said. ‘I never meant just to pull your strings, Drozde.’
His face was stricken. How could a man of his age be so defenceless?
This time she met his gaze full on. A little voice in the back of her mind hissed at her not to be a fool. Now, of all times! So he wants you, it jeered; so you like him. You’ll get yourself into a world of trouble, just for pity?
But it wasn’t pity, she knew. She looked at his face, so openly longing, at his brown arms, his hands so sure and careful on the little puppet.
‘Put her down,’ she said, and took him by the shoulders. She pulled him towards her and kissed him on the mouth.
His skin was smoother even than she’d imagined. He was nervous and eager, fumbling with the buttons of his breeches, and mumbled an apology when his narrow bed creaked beneath their weight. But he knew what to do, and his body was compact and trim and beautiful. She reached to clasp the curve of his buttock, and felt him tremble and sigh with pleasure. He was gentle for all his frantic haste: he knew to withdraw and spend outside her, and was quick and attentive to learn how to bring her own rise and fall. Afterwards he drew her to him, murmuring her name with a softness she had never heard in any man’s voice. And she let him, knowing that a time like this might not come again.
She lay partly on top of him, relishing the way his body fitted against hers. Their legs were tangled together, and his arms were so tight about her that she could hardly move. She breathed in his scent, which had something in it of resin and something of fresh mushrooms. She had to go, she told herself; it must be almost time for dinner back at the camp. She gave herself another few moments, and another few. She realised that she was struggling to keep her eyes open. She had to go. But the moment was so sweet: warmth and tenderness, and this small space of peace. She’d spent so long looking over her shoulder. She nuzzled her face into the warm hollow of Hanslo’s neck. A minute or two more of respite, before she went back to the fight.
She awoke – she didn’t know how many hours later – with a muted curse. How long had she been asleep? Too long, certainly: the little room was pitch dark. Molebacher would have missed her by now. Still wrapped in her arms, Hanslo was snoring gently. For all her urgency, Drozde sighed a
s she disentangled herself and reached for her shift. He stirred sleepily, then pushed himself up, looking at her in alarm.
‘You’re not going?’
‘Yes, I’m going.’ She smiled at him and reached to stroke his belly. ‘I’d stay longer if I could, and glad to. But I have things to do, and so have you.’ She straightened her dress and looked around for any bit of metal that might do as a looking glass – she’d have to pin her hair up somehow before venturing outside. He caught her arm and held on to it. ‘Stay with me.’
‘Let go!’ Drozde said, irritated.
Hanslo was instantly crestfallen. ‘But you want to stay,’ he said, making it half a question. ‘Weren’t you … Didn’t I please you?’
‘You did. You do,’ she said, trying to keep the softness out of her voice. ‘But I’m not free. You saw my ring!’
‘You’re not married,’ he said with absolute certainty.
‘No! But I do have a man at the camp – we all have. We wouldn’t be with the soldiers else. Please, Hanslo.’
His face had frozen, but he smiled again at the last words. ‘But you don’t love him.’
‘What does that matter!’ He was impossible. She shook her head at him, disengaged his hand and laid it down. ‘This was … I wanted to do this. I’ve nothing to regret, not if you haven’t. But I must go now.’
‘Will you come again?’ he asked, suddenly serious. She was on the point of saying no, of course not. It had been stupid enough to do this once. But oh, she thought, he was a sweet man. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Not at once. But when I can.’
His face cleared. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you must call me Anton. And kiss me once more before you go.’
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