Winter's End

by Jean-Claude Mourlevat

  The other three were waiting for her outside the restaurant. They conferred briefly and decided to go to the factory. From a distance they saw that the tall gates were guarded by a dozen armed militiamen. They turned away and went along small streets, taking care not to slip on the black ice. The boy who had spurred them into action in the canteen was still talking passionately. “They want to prevent crowds from gathering, but they won’t do it! We only need people to stop being frightened and come out into the street, that’s all!”

  “Don’t talk so loud,” the other boy warned him.

  “I’ll talk any way I like,” his friend retorted. “I’ve kept my mouth shut for years and I’m sick and tired of it, do you hear? Sick and tired!” He shouted it out at the top of his voice, and then roared with laughter. “Oh, how good that feels! Why don’t you all try it?”

  Luckily, the tram was running normally. They boarded it, and immediately noticed three militiamen sitting at the back, clubs in their hands and pistols at their belts. The enthusiastic boy calmed down a little but still stared defiantly at them.

  “Got a problem?” inquired one of the men.

  “No, just admiring your uniform,” replied the boy. He not only had the gift of gab; he had guts too. The few passengers on the tram smiled, and the militiaman clenched his jaw.

  As they approached the city center down the long avenue leading to Opera House Square, the tram filled up more at every stop. Helen thought there was a special kind of excitement on the passengers’ faces, as if they were waiting for something. Or was she just imagining it? She leaned her forehead against the cold window. The tram stopped.

  “Shall we get out here?” asked Rachel.

  “At the next stop,” one of the two boys said.

  The automatic doors were just closing again when Helen froze, transfixed. There on the sidewalk — on the other side of the road! No, she couldn’t be dreaming. . . .

  “Wait!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “Open the doors! Let me out! Please!”

  Frantically, she pulled the stop cord. Rachel took her arm, “Helen, what is it?”

  “Over there. I saw . . .” Helen murmured.

  As the tram set off again, she jostled passengers aside and went to stare out of the back window, ignoring the militiamen and moving so impetuously that they made way for her. The two figures were disappearing down a little side street. She didn’t know one of them, an old woman walking unsteadily, dressed in black and holding a shopping bag, but the other . . . She could have sworn . . . ! How could she mistake that face? She’d have known it among a hundred thousand! She was just in time to see them go through the front door of an apartment building — the second in the street, she thought — and then disappear from sight.

  “What did you see?” Rachel asked again.

  “Someone I know! But I can hardly believe it.”

  The tram was packed now. The journey between the two stops seemed to last hours. Helen made her way to the doors and jumped out as soon as they opened.

  “I’m off!” she called to the other three, and then she ran back along the sidewalk, her heart thudding.

  Suppose she was wrong? No, there couldn’t possibly be such a likeness! Back at the last tram stop, she set off breathlessly along the side street, which rose up a slight slope. The apartment building had a gray facade. She was certain, as she opened the second door inside the entrance, that this was where the two figures had disappeared. A dark corridor lay ahead of her. She tried the light switch, but it wasn’t working, and she groped her way on until she reached a small yard with broken paving. Dingy grass grew in the cracks, and there were dustbins standing around. Close as it was to the big avenue, the place seemed to be in a bad state. Two staircases led to the upper floors. At random, she chose the one on the left, a blackened spiral staircase. There was a smell of mold.

  On the first landing she stopped and listened. She did the same on the next floor, with no more success. Then on the fourth floor. It was as if no one at all lived in the building. Perhaps it had been condemned as a health hazard. She went down to the yard again and tried the other staircase. This was lighter and better maintained, and the electricity on it was working. On the first floor she found two closed and silent doors, the same on the second and third floors, but right at the top, under the roof — the clear, child’s voice inside made her heart turn over.

  “It stings!” the voice was complaining. “The soap hurts my eyes!”

  Now she was in no doubt at all. She knocked vigorously on the door. It was opened by the old woman she had seen in the street, her sleeves rolled well up over her pale, wrinkled arms, a washcloth in her right hand. Helen ignored her and marched straight to the big tub of steaming water in the middle of the room. Octavo stood up, stark naked and dripping, and flung himself into her arms.

  “Helen!”

  “Octavo! Oh, I’m so pleased to see you again! I am so pleased!”

  She hugged him close for a long time, then kissed his cheeks and his hands hard. “What are you doing here, Octavo?”

  “I’m staying with Auntie Marguerite, of course. Are you crying?”

  “No. Well, yes. Auntie Marguerite?”

  She let go of the child, suddenly aware of her own incivility. “I’m so sorry,” she said, turning to the woman. “Just bursting in like that!”

  “Oh, never mind! I think you must be the famous Helen?”

  “I don’t know about famous, but I’m Helen. And you’re —?”

  “I’m Paula’s elder sister, Marguerite.”

  That was obvious. She had the same gentle chestnut-brown eyes and the same nose as Helen’s large consoler. Only her girth and her age were different. Marguerite must be ten years older and weigh four times less than her “little sister.” Helen often remembered the story of her childhood that Paula had told her. “I remember, my sister, Marguerite and I had caught a hedgehog. . . .” It was funny to see the second character in that anecdote suddenly appear, at least half a century older. This frail lady who wasn’t very steady on her feet would never be able to run after hedgehogs now.

  “Paula sent Octavo to me on the bus this winter,” she said, explaining the little boy’s presence.

  “That’s right,” the child agreed. “But she’ll soon be coming to find me. I wrote her a letter. Without any spelling mistakes, and I did her a drawing.”

  “Very good, Octavo. And how’s your Mama Paula?”

  “She’s fine.”

  Marguerite nodded, but her sad smile obviously concealed another story. As soon as she could, she drew Helen into the kitchen and closed the door.

  “How is Paula?” Helen asked for the second time, steeling herself for the reply.

  “I haven’t heard anything from my sister for over a month,” said Marguerite, and she burst into sobs. If she would let go like that in front of a stranger, the poor woman must have been wanting to pour her heart out for a long time.

  “Are you afraid something’s happened to her?”

  “Oh, yes, I am! Octavo had a letter for me in his pants pocket. You can read it — look, it’s over there on the dresser.”

  Paula’s careful, cramped writing filled half a page. Lovingly, Helen imagined her consoler’s large hand moving over the paper. She read to the end without raising her head.

  Dear, dear Marguerite,

  I’m sending you Octavo by the bus tomorrow. I shall put him in the care of someone who will take him to you. It’s getting too dangerous here. Several young people escaped from the boarding schools this winter. Poor children, they set off for the mountains or down the river, and God knows what’s become of them. The Phalange people accuse us of being their accomplices (and for once they’re not wrong) and they’re threatening to teach us a lesson if that kind of thing goes on. But it does go on. They say they’ll know how to punish us. They say we all have our weak points. So I’m putting my own weak point on the bus. Please look after him as if he were your own. He’s a good child. I hate parting fr
om him, but I’ll come for him as soon as possible. I know you’re not in very good health, but he won’t give you any trouble. Of course I’ll reimburse you for all your expenses. Send him to school if you can; he likes learning things.

  With all my love,

  Your sister, Paula

  “There, you see!” cried Marguerite as soon as Helen had finished reading. “I’ve heard nothing since that letter. There was no reply when I wrote back. I’d have gone to see her, but the journey’s too much for me. I have a weak heart, my hip gives me trouble, and then of course I can’t leave Octavo.”

  Helen thought for some time. Several young people had escaped? Did Paula mean just Milena and herself and the two boys, or had there been others? Had their escape brought a wind of change and freedom blowing down the dismal school corridors, a wind that couldn’t be contained? What had become of Catharina Pancek, Vera Plasil, and the others? And above all, what had become of Paula? Her silence was worrying. The idea that her consoler might be suffering was unbearable to Helen.

  “Do you know what time there’d be a bus going up there?” she asked.

  “There’s one that leaves from the bus station at twelve thirty, but you’re surely not going to . . . Why, you haven’t even eaten!”

  Helen was already on her feet. “If I run, I can catch it.”

  She put her coat on, checked that she had enough money in her purse for a ticket, and ran back to Octavo, who was still splashing about in the tub.

  “I’m off again, Octavo darling. Sorry.”

  “I know. You have to leave because if you’re not back, they’ll put someone else in the black hole.”

  It took Helen several seconds to realize what he was talking about.

  “Oh no, that was at the school! I’m not there anymore now. I’m free. I can come and go at random!”

  “Where’s Random? Will you take me there with you?”

  She burst out laughing. “I mean I can go where I like. And yes, I’ll take you around with me sometime.”

  “Promise?” asked the child, drawing a design in bath foam on Helen’s cheek.

  “Promise. As soon as things are better again.”

  She hugged Marguerite as if she’d known her forever, and ran down the stairs. “Any message for your sister?” she called up from the yard.

  “Yes, tell her I’ve put Octavo down for school!”

  She ran along the riverbank, the front of her coat still wet from Octavo’s bathwater, retracing the way she had gone several months earlier in the middle of the night when she was looking for the Wooden Bridge. She hadn’t known at the time that she was soon to be reunited with Milena. And now she’d lost touch with her again.

  The bus station was quiet, but Helen noticed several soldiers pacing up and down in their khaki uniforms, with guns in their hands. They were clearly on a war footing. She swiftly boarded the almost empty bus bound north. Once she was seated, she had time to think about what she had done. Yes, she was leaving the capital just at the moment when it looked as if the fighting were about to begin; yes, she would have to be back in a few days’ time for the winter fights, supposing they were held. But a force ten times stronger had made her catch this dingy bus to go find Paula. She couldn’t abandon the woman who had been so good to her, not after Paula had comforted her when sadness and despair threatened to overwhelm her. She wouldn’t let Paula down. She could never forgive herself if she did.

  With nothing to read, it was a long journey. At every village people got out of or onto the bus, taking no notice of one another. The red-faced driver manhandled his vehicle around the bends and up slopes, tooting angrily at everyone else on the road as if they had no right to be there. Late in the afternoon he stopped outside a café, went in, and didn’t come out. Gradually the passengers followed him, and soon they were all inside. The room was dark and smoky. Helen sat down at the end of one table. Steaming bowls of soup were passed over her head, and plates of ham or omelettes. Her stomach was crying out with hunger. She looked in her purse, but it contained just enough for her to buy her return ticket.

  “Aren’t you eating anything, young lady?” the man on her left asked. She recognized him as one of her neighbors in the bus.

  “No, I’m not hungry.”

  “Not hungry or short of cash? Come on, I saw you counting your pennies; there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has a right to eat, you know!”

  He was about fifty. She had no time to protest; he was already summoning the waitress. “An omelette for the young lady, please.”

  As she emptied her plate, he turned away from her to talk to other people, perhaps to keep her from feeling awkward.

  “Where are you going?” he asked when she had finished her omelette.

  She told him her destination, and he looked surprised. “Do you think you’ll get that far?”

  “Why not?”

  “They say there’s trouble there. Barricades. No one’s being let into the town. Now, how about a coffee?”

  Night had fallen by the time they set off again. The shared meal had loosened the passengers’ tongues, and for several miles the cheerful sound of conversation mingled with the purring of the engine. Then the conversation gradually died down and most of the passengers dozed off. Helen, who had no one sitting beside her now, took off her shoes, put her feet up on the seat, and used her coat as a blanket to keep her knees and elbows warm.

  As she dropped off to sleep, she thought of Octavo wanting to go to “Random” with her. Then she wondered again how Paula came to have her little boy and who his father was. Her consoler had told her many of her secrets, but never that one! She just used to laugh and call Helen nosy if she persisted in asking.

  She was woken by the cold. The bus had stopped, and the folding doors had opened, letting in a blast of icy air. The driver was standing in the aisle, looking at her impatiently.

  “Here you are, miss. This is where you get out.”

  She got to her feet, looked around her, and saw that she was the last remaining passenger. The bus was empty. Night surrounded them.

  “But we haven’t reached the bus station!”

  “I’m not going there. There’s fighting. I can do without any trouble.”

  Helen stood on the step, frightened. “Surely you’re not just going to leave me here!”

  He didn’t even bother to reply.

  “At least tell me where the town is.”

  “That way. Follow the road and you’ll get there. Or you can take the shortcut over the hill there. Got a flashlight with you?”

  Helen was surprised. “The hill? You mean where the consolers live?”

  “That’s the one. Good night, then.” He touched her shoulder with his fingertips, not even trying to hide his impatience. “Make up your mind, won’t you? Want me to push you out?”

  She wasn’t going to spend any longer arguing with the driver. She got out. Did the man have a daughter of her age, she wondered, and if so would he have liked the idea of her being left alone in this deserted spot in the middle of the night?

  She didn’t have a flashlight. She decided that the best thing would be to go on along the road, reach the town, and then take the route she knew so well over the bridge and on into the village. She stood there motionless until the sound of the engine had died away entirely and then started walking. After going only a little way she stopped short: she caught the sound of dogs barking over in the direction of the town. Their excited yapping could be distinctly heard in the silence and seemed to be coming closer. She shivered, turned on her heel, and made for the hill.

  The moon shed faint light on the rising path. She stumbled on rocks several times but reached the top of the hill without hurting herself. The wind was blowing in gusts, and her teeth were chattering. The rooftops of the first of the consolers’ houses came into sight below her. She tried to see the town or the river in the distance, but they were hidden in the night.

  Following the road through the village, she felt nervou
s. There was something wrong here. The place was sleeping, certainly, but it was an uneasy sleep. She saw one front door standing wide open. A shutter swung in the wind. She quickened her pace. When she came to the fountain, she took the familiar little road to her right. Marguerite’s words came back to her: “I haven’t heard anything from my sister for over a month.” What would she do if Paula wasn’t at home? Where would she sleep?

  The farther she went, the more certain she was that the houses to the right and left of the road had been abandoned. She could sense their emptiness, as if the large forms of the consolers no longer warmed them with their sheer size. She stopped at Number 47, her heart thudding. The light of a candle trembled on the other side of the window. She looked through the window and saw Paula.

  She was sitting in her armchair, head tilting slightly toward one shoulder, fast asleep. Helen opened the door, closed it quietly, knelt down at her consoler’s feet, took her hands in her own, and looked at her for a long time. She had never seen Paula asleep before, and it was strange to feel that her mind was so far away. In the end she began to feel almost embarrassed. She shook her, gently.

  “Paula . . . Paula!”

  The large woman opened her eyes and showed no surprise. It was as if she had fallen asleep like this with Helen already kneeling there, and now that she woke up, they were still in the same position.

  “Oh, my beauty,” she murmured. “Look . . . just see what they’ve done.”

  Only then did Helen notice the state the room was in. The chairs were broken, the table turned upside down, shelves pulled away from the wall. The dresser lay on the floor, gutted. It was easy to imagine the furious hatchet blows falling, bent on destruction.

  “I didn’t get back until this afternoon. After a month. I’ve tidied the kitchen up a bit, but I haven’t touched anything in here. I’m so tired. I ought to have gone up to the bedroom.”