She had to go through the city to get to the hospital, and she took the tram to its terminus. The cheerfulness of the other passengers passed her by, but the final fall of the Phalange and the return of freedom had brought new light to their faces. Helen couldn’t understand it. What do all these people have to smile about? she asked herself. Don’t they know my love is dead? Then she walked through the park with her head bent to reach the hospital, where everyone came to know and greet her.
First she asked Basil about the boarding school. She got him to tell her about his first meeting with Milos the day when he gave Bart the letter and it all began. “Was it a fine evening?” she asked. “Or was it raining? What was Milos wearing?” Then she wanted to know about the training camp. What exactly did they eat there? Who shaved their heads? Who was the man he called Fulgur? Did they train barefoot or in sandals? Basil had to tell her every detail and was impressed by the attention she paid. No one else had ever listened to him so intently before. He frowned with concentration as he tried to remember everything.
“Did Milos . . . did he ever talk to you about me?” she ventured to ask one day.
Basil might not be very clever, but his heart told him what to say. “You bet he did! Couldn’t stop!”
“Oh — what did he say?”
“Well . . . all sorts of things. Said you were very pretty.”
“What else?”
“All sorts of things, like I said. For instance . . . oh, I dunno . . . said you were very good at climbing ropes.”
And in this way, as the days and their conversations went on, they came to that last morning, the morning of the fights in the arena. First Basil told her about his own. He did so without much emotion until he had to describe the moment when he gave his opponent the death blow, at which point he unexpectedly burst into huge sobs.
“He — he wanted to kill me, see?” he stammered. “I didn’t want to die. Wanted to live.”
Helen bent over and stroked his forehead. “Don’t cry, Basil. You were only defending yourself — you know you were. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, but we horse-men, we don’t like killing folks.”
She left it there for that afternoon, but as soon as she was at his bedside the next day, she began again. “Basil, tell me about Milos, please. I mean his last day in the arena. Tell me all you can about it. I need to know.”
For once the young horse-man began at the end. “It was Caius who killed him,” he said gravely. “I’m sure it was. He thought Milos was a cat.”
“A cat?”
Basil told her about Caius and his murderous insanity, and he went on to describe Milos’s fight with the old gladiator. Fascinated, Helen listened. Every word she heard was transformed into pictures of Milos alive. She clung to them with all her heart.
“Did you see it yourself?” she asked when Basil had finished. “He really spared his opponent?”
“Yes, I saw from behind the gate. I was just back from the infirmary. Fulgur had been sewing me up. Milos almost lay down on top of the guy; they talked, then Milos took his sword away. You have to be brave to do a thing like that! Then there was the battering ram at the gate, and after that it was all chaotic. I didn’t see him again, and my stomachache was terrible. I wonder what he was doing there at the end of the corridor — Milos, I mean. Everyone was running for it, and he went back. . . . Maybe he was looking for me.”
Helen nodded.
“I’m sure that was it, Basil. He was looking for you. You deserved it.”
As May approached, winter finally retreated. The sky was full of migrant birds returning, and the sun came out, warming everyone. Helen felt the claws of grief that clutched her heart relax their hold slightly. She went out more, caught herself laughing at Dora’s amusing remarks and the jokes the others made at work. Slowly her love of life was coming back with a light and hesitant touch. It felt like she was breaking out of the prison of her mourning, just as the city broke out of the ice of winter. But sometimes in a light-hearted moment she felt as if it were treachery, and the idea plunged her into grief deeper than ever.
One Sunday the city celebrated the return of freedom. In holiday mood, the capital hailed its heroes: the horse-men and the Resistance. There was dancing in the squares and on the streets all day. Every part of the city was full of music and singing. That evening a horse-drawn trailer arrived in Opera House Square, and when the tarpaulin over it was removed, Napoleon the giant pig appeared in all his glory, a monumental and astonishingly clean vision. Although applauded as a hero, he ignored his triumph, merely waggling his large ears, grunting, and snuffling around for food. He was hoisted up to a platform in the middle of the square by means of a system of lifts and straps.
People were mingling cheerfully everywhere, waving tankards in the air. Stupefied by beer and the noise, Helen was clinging to Dora’s dress. In the middle of the festive crowd she caught sight of Mitten, limping, toothless but happy, dancing for joy. He recognized her, rubbed his stomach with both hands and shouted, pointing to the pig, “Told you so! Now we’ll have a hog roast!”
A little later she was greeted by Dr. Josef, who had brought Napoleon. He must have known about Milos, for he hugged her close with his eyes bright, and said nothing.
As evening fell, microphones were put up in the courtyard of the Opera House, and a series of musicians performed there. Toward midnight, Milena stepped forward alone, wearing a blue dress that Helen had never seen before, and began to sing.
“In my basket,
In my basket, I have no cherries,
My dear prince. . . .”
Everyone fell silent. Those who were wearing hats took them off, and when the chorus came, thousands of voices joined in, raising the little tune to the sky. At first Helen’s throat felt so tight that she couldn’t utter a sound, but then she managed to sing after all:
“I have no pretty kerchiefs,
No embroidered kerchiefs,
I have no beads, no.
No more grief and pain, my love,
No more grief and pain. . . .”
She sang, her voice mingling with the voice of Dora, whose hand was on her shoulder:
“In my basket, I have no chicken,
Father dear,
No chicken to be plucked,
I have no duck, no.
I have no velvet gloves,
Gloves neatly sewn, no.
No more grief and pain, my love,
No more grief and pain.”
She sang with all the others, and it was her own way of returning once and for all to the land of the living.
Helen worked in Mr. Jahn’s restaurant for a few more months and then found a job that suited her better in a bookshop in the New Town. During the next few years, she had the pleasure of seeing several old friends come into the shop, former students at the boarding school who had found out where she was. She saw Vera Plasil, now a young woman in full bloom accompanied by her husband, and a few weeks later, just as she was about to shut the shop, in came Catharina Pancek, who had hardly changed.
Milena Bach and Bartolomeo Casal stayed together. Right into the evening of their lives they were a luminous, inseparable couple. Bart was a brilliant university student and became a famous lawyer. As for Milena, she didn’t waste her talent. Dora found her a singing teacher and made her work hard. Over the years her natural voice gained in depth and balance, and she became the incomparable singer that she had always promised to be. She sang in the most famous theaters in the world, but she never forgot her origins, and every season she gave a recital in the Opera House of the capital city, the theater where her mother had once sung. Helen reserved her seat for this occasion months in advance, and was always there sitting in the front row.
Even with a symphony orchestra behind her, Milena never failed to give Helen a private, loving little wave from the platform. It said: Do you remember the school yard? Do you remember the icy dormitory and the long winters? And then her voice rose, vibrating w
ith humanity. Helen let that familiar yet mysterious voice carry her away, as you might let yourself be carried away on a ship. And during her voyage she let the secret images of her heart come before her eyes: the great, tranquil river flowing under the bridges, the infinite love of the consolers, the faint memory of her dead parents, and then, always and forever, the smiling face of a boy with brown curls.
Evening was falling in the garden. Helen breathed in the honeyed scent of the clematis with pleasure. She slowly finished taking the washing off the line. It was going to be a mild night, and the young woman was in no hurry to go in.
“Mama, it’s for you!” a little girl suddenly called to her from the open sitting room window.
Leaving her laundry basket under the line, Helen went in. The child held out the receiver, forming the silent syllables with her lips: “A gentleman.”
“Thanks. Go and put your nightie on. I’ll come in a minute.”
She didn’t know the deep male voice. “Is that Helen Dormann?”
“Yes,” said Helen, although she had changed her surname some years ago.
“Hello, Helen! This is Octavo. I’m so pleased to have found you — I had difficulty finding your number.”
“Octavo?”
“That’s right, Paula’s Octavo. You remember?”
Slowly, she sat down. She hadn’t seen Paula for ages. A hundred times she’d told herself she would go and visit her, and a hundred times she had put it off until later. The bookshop, her children, the distance . . . As for Octavo, she had lost track of him entirely.
“Good heavens, Octavo!” she cried. “How are you? It feels so odd to hear you with a grown-up voice.”
“I’m calling from the village,” he said. “Paula has just died. I thought you’d want to know.”
She caught the bus next morning. All the way, memories were overwhelming her, and she couldn’t manage to read the novel she had brought. Octavo welcomed her to the little brick house in the consolers’ village, Number 47. She would never have recognized him. He was tall and strong; his chin and cheeks prickled her when they kissed.
“Come upstairs. She’s on her bed there. As you’ll see, she’s at peace.”
Paula lay there with her hands crossed over her breast. The perfect calm of her face was as reassuring as ever and seemed to be telling those who came to pay her a last visit, You see, it’s not too bad, nothing to make a song and dance about! Helen, who had shed all her tears during the journey, was beyond grieving now. She kissed the forehead of the woman who had been like a mother to her and sat at her bedside for a long time.
She helped Octavo with the funeral arrangements. He had a car, and she was to go back to the capital with him when it was all over.
On the morning of their departure, she asked him to wait for another hour. She went down the hill and easily found the exact place where she and Milena had met Milos and Bart fifteen years ago. It seemed like yesterday. She followed Donkey Road and crossed the bridge, marveling at the infinite patience of the four stone equestrian statues. The sun was hot. She slung her sweater around her shoulders and walked on with her arms bare. The water of the river shone.
She found the barred gates of the boarding school open and walked in. The Skeleton’s old-fashioned lodge was still there. As she passed it, Helen felt goosebumps, almost expecting to hear the woman’s acid voice all of a sudden: “And where do you think you’re going, young lady?” But there was no sound apart from the twittering of sparrows in the trees in the yard.
Following the wall of the building, she found the refectory door unlocked and went in.
“It’s closed. Are you looking for something?”
The place was unrecognizable without its tables and chairs. Reels of electric cable lay around on the floor.
“Can I help you?” the electrician asked, screwing a switch into place.
“Yes . . . no. That is, I was a student here long ago . . . at the boarding school. I just wanted to look.”
“Ah, yes, but it’s closed. The holidays, see?”
“Of course. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to bother you. Do you happen to know if it’s possible to get through that little door at the back there?”
“The door to the cellar? I don’t know. But there’s a bunch of keys hanging from the nail there. If you want to try it. . . . Here, you can borrow my flashlight. It’s in the toolbox there.”
The third key she tried opened the lock. Helen turned the beam of the flashlight on the darkness and went down the stairs. Once at the bottom, she went along the tunnel. Its ceiling was covered with dusty cobwebs. The door of the detention cell, torn down and smashed to pieces, barred her way. She stepped over it. A smell of mold met her nostrils. The bunk was broken too, lying flat on the floor. A rusty bucket with holes in it lay in a corner.
There was no picture left, no Sky, nothing.
The birds had flown away. All of them.
The hardest moment, and Helen hadn’t expected it, was when Octavo had to turn the key and lock up Paula’s little house behind him. Neither of them could hold back their tears on the steps outside.
But they talked cheerfully on the drive back, telling each other about their lives and recalling the past. “Do you remember about going to Random?” asked Helen. “And a fox — a foxess?” Octavo, who had forgotten, roared with laughter. He was an amusing man, very vivacious.
He dropped Helen at her home in the middle of the night. They parted, promising to see each other again from time to time and talk about Paula. Helen slipped quietly into her sleeping house, but as she opened her bedroom door, another opened at the end of the corridor, and her daughter came out.
“Can’t you sleep, darling?”
The little girl shook her head. She was twisting the front of her nightdress and wasn’t far from tears. “I had a bad dream, Mama, and then you weren’t there.”
Helen took her in her arms, put her back to bed, and sat beside her to reassure her. She stroked her daughter’s hair and talked to her quietly.
And it seemed to her that the love she had received from Paula flowed into her caressing hands and her voice, and she in turn was passing it on, a love as powerful as the river.
“I’m back now, ” she said. “Go to sleep, my beauty, go to sleep. Everything’s all right.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank several people who have accompanied me through the writing of this novel: Thierry Laroche of Gallimard Jeunesse, for his helpful and always friendly comments; Jean-Philippe Arrou-Vignod of Gallimard Jeunesse, who reassured me about the darker side of the story; Dr. Patrick Carrère for his advice on medical subjects; Christopher Murray, musician, for his equally valuable help with musical matters; Rachel and my children, Emma and Colin, who all three give me the inestimable gift, constantly renewed, of being there for me.
And finally I would like to express my great gratitude to the memory of Kathleen Ferrier, the British contralto, whose voice and whose story both moved me deeply and have gone into this story. But for her, this novel would not have been written.
JEAN-CLAUDE MOURLEVAT was born in Ambert, France, in 1952 and started his literary career in the theater. Today he is considered one of the major children’s fiction authors in France, where he has been awarded many literary prizes and his stories have become classics. Winter’s End is his first novel for young adults.
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