A Boy in Winter

by Rachel Seiffert

  He clambers over the ridge, half tumbling, ankles twisting under him; he has to put a hand out to the rocks to keep himself from falling as he starts on the downward slope. But Yankel knows he must keep going.

  He has to find the fighters’ ground, and then he will go further; he will find a place for him and Momik well beyond here, because there must be somewhere. This is what his mother said. Yankel remembers: she said it might take a long time to find it; they might have to keep going a long while, he and Momik—even until all this is over. So Yankel thinks now: if they can just keep going long enough, then they will be safe again. Because there has to be a time after this: his mother told him so.

  But when he gets to the far side, Yankel comes to a standstill on the mud, and he finds the land before him is sodden and empty. He can see no track, no path that he should follow. Just the lifting darkness, all the distance still to be covered.

  Dawn is a cold line at the horizon, and the wind cuts into his face and fingers. Momik cries against his shoulders, crying at the cold: he can’t help himself.

  Yankel crouches, trying somehow to shield him; to keep him quieter, and to look for the way ahead at the same time. Except he still can’t see it. Yankel can’t think of his mother’s words either, only of his father’s face: if his father could see them here.

  Then the marsh girl reaches the crest of the road behind him. Yankel hears her; he turns and sees her, relieved at the sight of her—even if he is still so unsure of her.

  Her shawl pulled tight against the chill, she leans into the climb, pulling the horse behind her. The animal is unwilling, hesitant about his footing, but he allows himself to be led, clambering awkward but close behind her along the ridge first, and then down the slope too, sending rocks skittering to the muddy ground where Yankel stands up, ready for her to shout, or to rail at him for stealing.

  The girl sees him, he knows she does, but she keeps her eyes on the horse, and on where best to find a foothold. Even when she is close enough for talking, the girl says nothing—either about the bundles he took or about Yankel running.

  He walks to meet her, holding out the food to her, an apology. Wordless, she takes it from his grasp, and the trailing oilskin from Yankel’s arms. The girl already has the other strapped to the horse; she wraps the bundles, lashing them into its folds, and Yankel is grateful to fall in behind her as she pulls the animal onwards.

  —

  In this landscape there is only the three of them.

  The boy follows her, brother on his back; nothing Yasia can do to stop him. Whenever she turns her head, he is there. So she stops turning.

  With the dawn comes rain, and Yasia leads the horse from the track into the undergrowth for shelter. The boy follows her then too, crouching not far from her in the leaf and twig, untying his brother, holding him close.

  Drips fall from above, from the mossy curls dangling from the branches, as she waits for the rain to pass over. Yasia has no dry wood for a fire, even if she dared light one; no dry ground to lie on. The smaller one dozes, held in his brother’s arms, soft mouth open. Not the older one, though: he is wakeful. Yasia feels how he sits hunched under the blanket he has pulled around them both. Legs drawn up, he shields his young brother from the worst of the wet—and all the time he is watching, searching the chill and dripping scrub around them. He is listening out, Yasia thinks. For the German with the glasses, or just for other Germans. And he expects her to take him somewhere safer. He expects her to know the way.

  She pulls the oilskin over her shoulders.

  Overtaken by weariness, Yasia sleeps without knowing it, in fits and starts, all through the first chill hours of daylight. Heaving awake again and again, to find that it is still raining, the boys are still there, her fists are still wrapped in the horse’s traces.

  Until at last the rain stops.

  They press on together, for now at least. Through the wet and the cold. The wet meadows. Passing through the waist-deep grasses, growing thick and dank either side of the way they follow; and then on into stands of birch and pine, where the track disappears under root and fallen leaf and needle. Always better to be under cover, Yasia has to steel herself each time they pass out again into open country; her eyes on the next patch of scrub, she keeps on moving.

  The older boy carries the small one on his back. She rides ahead of them on the horse, with the bundles strapped across his haunches—and although she rides, the boy keeps pace with her. Each time she thinks he’s falling back, he trots to catch up again; it drags on her like a weight, knowing he’s there behind her.

  But Yasia won’t let herself be slowed by him. She only stops if the horse has to drink, filling the pot she took from Osip’s at the peaty streams they halt beside. When the older boy catches her up, he crouches, cupping water in his hands, before untying his brother from his shoulders.

  Free of his blanket binding, the young one slides down to crouch beside her at the water’s edge, and Yasia stands then: she doesn’t like them too close. But when the small one fills his palms and drinks, she sees it again: his milk-white and soft brown fineness, even through the dirt streaks on his face and fingers. When she bites into one of the apples from her bundle, he blinks at her, eyes glassy with hunger and from this relentless pressing onwards. So she hands him an apple; Yasia cannot do otherwise. And then another for the older one—even if his face is turned away from her.

  But she pushes them onto the horse to eat. Better not to be slowed, she thinks, even now they are over the roadworks.

  They barely speak. Most of the time they walk and walk, following where a cart rut, here and there, shows that others have passed through on their way to the marshes, or to the scarce villages on this poor land before them.

  Yasia has passed this way before now on her way to her uncle’s, and she holds it in her mind all the while as she walks: his small byre, its leaning walls of wooden shingles, the handful of pale cows that filled it. She followed behind that small herd with her mother most autumns, holding the tether, walking the calf born in the spring, which would buy her uncle enough buckwheat to last him through the cold months, if he drove a hard enough bargain.

  But his village is surrounded by marshland, and Yasia knows they are entering that wide and empty vastness. She has never led the way through there; she has only ever been led before.

  They pass through clearings where the trees are blazed with rough way-markers; Yasia sees leaning shelters made of branches, blackened circles of old cookfires; traces left by traders, or by partisans maybe. But in all their hours and hours of walking they see no one.

  And then they have to stop when the light goes.

  Yasia leads them into the trees, the thickest she can find in the dusk. The ground underneath there is soft with fallen leaves; not soft yet like the marshes, but Yasia spreads the oilskin where she feels it is driest.

  Still no fire: all she manages is a dark smoulder, striking and striking at the flint while the older one stands and watches. The younger one crouches nearer her, hopeful of flames to warm him, his face blank from the long hours of rocking motion on the horse, on his brother’s shoulders.

  The animal grazes, the children eat more of the apples, just a little of the meat too; Yasia divides it between them. And then, each rolled in blankets, they pull the sides of the oilskin up to cover them.

  Yasia is warm enough, just, to lie down, but not to close her eyes yet. The older boy sits up longer, still sleepless, hollow-eyed with the effort of watching, blinking about himself at the darkening wilderness.

  “No Germans will come here,” he ventures, after a while. “They do not dare,” he says, into the darkness, and then he looks to Yasia, as though for confirmation.

  He may just be right. But Yasia can’t answer, because she sees, too, that the boy doesn’t understand.

  She packed food only for one. Only for her, not for three; she never meant to take them. The cart was meant to shelter her, and to carry her; Yasia isn’t even sure that
she can reach her uncle’s without it, not before the food runs out. And if the boys are still with her when she gets there? She hasn’t even thought that far. Yasia can think only of the emptiness out here, and the risk to all of them.

  She is last to sleep, first to wake. All through those dark hours she thinks how she will leave them; that she must do that, come the morning. But when she leans over the boys at daybreak, she cannot bring herself. Yasia can only shake them.

  “We have to keep walking.”

  —

  The light rises, the mist drifts, clearing a little before returning; and then, some time late on in the morning, the land grows softer underfoot. Yasia’s boots begin sinking into the track they are following—or what passes for a track in this landscape.

  It is not long before the older boy sees it too: Yasia hears him calling out on the horse’s back, where he sits with his brother. He is pointing behind himself when she turns to look, showing the small one how the hoof prints fill with water, her heel prints too, so they must be getting nearer.

  But they are all hungry, all weary, so when they next come to water, she lets the boys slide down from the horse. Yasia tears bread for them to share, and she tells them to sit and eat; the pines here grow thick, and she finds enough dry branches to make a blaze at last. Warmed through, the children doze a little, and Yasia lets them, thinking they will walk faster and further when they have rested.

  She bundles up the food again, lashing it to the horse’s back, ready to press on as soon as the boys wake, and then Yasia hunkers down near the embers to wait, to feel their warmth against her face. She closes her eyes too, just a short while. Only to sleep with them into the afternoon darkness; Yasia doesn’t wake again, bleary, until nightfall.

  She scolds herself over the lost hours, building up the fire again. Her empty stomach nags at her, and so does the thought of all those miles they could have put behind them. But the boys blink at her, still weary in the firelight, and the urge to sleep more pulls at her limbs too.

  They can go no further until morning, Yasia knows this; and she cannot feed them more if the food is to last them. So she warms water from the stream for them to drink, so their bellies will feel full, even if they aren’t. That third night, the small one lies between Yasia and his brother where he will be warmest.

  But the night is far colder than the last, and even before dawn they are awake again, the blankets stiff and frost-rimed.

  The small one cries then. So there is no more sleeping. They sit and wait for dawn, which comes only slowly, only dimly: the sky low above them and heavy-grey, clouds full of cold rain.

  They walk on again as soon as they can see enough. But the young one cries to be carried, he cries to be held; the noise he makes is painful. Even when the older one hoists him onto his shoulders, he doesn’t stop his mewling.

  Yasia begins to doubt the way then. The noise of the small boy’s crying and the wide and wet silence all around them have her confounded.

  She thinks: If the track they have picked up again so often wasn’t the right one?

  There is no sun, just low cloud beyond the branches, and Yasia has lost her bearings. If they have erred off course? They have been erring for hours through these wooded hollows, and still they have seen no village houses. Only sedge and moss, fern and birch, all around them.

  They need to get to higher ground; she knows this. Only the higher ground is possible to farm here, to graze small herds on, as her uncle does. But she also knows the high ground in the marshes is rare, and scarcely different from the low. There are small islands of sloping pasture, but few and far between, and often cut off entirely by the autumn rains; even the forests turn to lakes out here in the cold months, roots submerged, branches dipping into the swampy mire. In amongst the trees as they are, Yasia cannot see far enough to be certain: if their way is clear, or barred already by water.

  And if they are lost now?

  Yasia says: “I have to stop.” She wants to think; she has to rest.

  But even when they crouch a while by a fallen tree, she can do neither, because the small one will not stop his whimpering, his eyes wet and dark, young brows knitted and clammy, soft mouth puckered with unhappiness.

  The older boy holds him; he digs in the younger one’s pockets, pulling out his wooden trees, wooden houses, pressing them between his fingers as he murmurs and comforts. But the child will not be distracted by toys or stories.

  He will not eat either. So they make him drink, cupping water from the pot, and Yasia feels his cheek, hot against her fingers as she presses him to drink more. His skin is far too hot for a child who is shivering.

  She says nothing of this to the older boy. But she sees, too, how limp the small one lies across his lap when he stops his crying, eventually, and sleeps a while, eyes flickering restless under his lids.

  The older one whispers to his brother and Yasia watches. He speaks in his own tongue, and his whispers sound like promises—as feverish as the small one.

  His fingers gripped around the wooden forms, his gaze fixed now, the boy looks along the path they were following—but not looking at the same time, his eyes elsewhere. Far beyond the trees somewhere. And Yasia thinks: How far does he think he can keep going?

  He holds his brother, falling silent, and Yasia eats a heel of bread, chewing the mouthfuls slowly, her fingers stiff, her lips sore with being too long outside. When the boy sees her picking over the last of the loaf, the last of the meat, he stands up.

  “We should keep on now.”

  —

  The trees clear a little, even if the sky doesn’t clear above them. The clouds are still grey-dark, but the ground slopes here, and the older boy takes them up the low incline, leading the horse on which Yasia is riding. She holds the young one cradled in one arm, gripping the mane with her free hand, heading what she hopes is further north and eastward.

  The ground slopes just enough for her to feel the effort in the horse’s tread, swaying behind the older boy’s dogged striding; the boy sways too, but he doesn’t stop, even now he is tired. They can get further on this ground, Yasia tells herself. At least while they are walking, they still have hope of finding somewhere.

  They are trudging this low ridge as the day starts fading, and the ground there is dry, so Yasia says they should stop for the night. The older boy starts rolling out the oilskins even before she has dismounted.

  He gathers enough leaf and twig and fallen branches for Yasia to start a small fire, still holding the younger one in her lap, and then he gathers more to feed the flames, once he sees she has set them going. The boy slinks off into the darkness, again and again, returning with armfuls, building a good enough pile to keep the fire stocked until morning.

  But the small one is so quiet.

  He lies bundled in Yasia’s arms, unmoving, with just the white of his face showing, and the dark curls at his hairline plastered to his forehead. So although the fire warms her, still Yasia worries. That they have not found Uncle’s village, that they will not find it tomorrow either. They have strayed so far already, what is there to keep them from straying further into nowhere?

  Her thoughts are fevered and scattering, they give her no rest, although she sorely needs it. And when she lies down, the ground is rough beneath her hips and shoulders.

  —

  Yasia does not wake with the light: the older boy has to wake her.

  He bends over her under the dripping branches, shaking her by the shoulder, holding out the horse’s traces. His still and sleeping brother clasped to him.

  “We have to walk.”

  But her mouth is too dry for speaking; Yasia’s eyes keep on closing; her head is so leaden with aching weariness, she cannot rise, even when he pulls at her arms.

  “We have to find somewhere. We have to. At least find more shelter.”

  She tries to answer, but a new ache in her throat won’t let her, and Yasia’s limbs are folded so strangely under her, she cannot lift herself.

/>   —

  When she opens her eyes again, the boy has brought water.

  “I let you sleep,” he says, holding it out to her.

  Why can’t he let her rest more?

  The boy props up her shoulders, and he lets her drink from the pot—cool water.

  “But you have to come now,” he says, “you have to.”

  He has folded his too-quiet brother into the oilskin, but the child slides from his arms as he stands: he cannot hold the sleeping weight of him, and Yasia’s eyes close again; open and close again.

  —

  When next she wakes, he is not there.

  The young one is lying beside her, blue-pale and sleeping under the oilskin.

  He is too pale, far too still and silent. But Yasia can do nothing for him; her eyes only close again.

  —

  In this landscape there is no one.

  Yankel rides through the trees, all the while the girl and Momik are sleeping. First in one direction, then another, ducking under branches, sinking into hollows, seeking signs of people. He cuts notches into trunks, slashing at the bark with his clasp knife, peeling away its darkness to reveal the pale wood, so he will have a path to return by.

  But each time he returns to the girl and his sleeping brother, more hours have passed, and still he has found no help. None for Momik, nobody to help the girl either.

  Yankel rides further. Out into the wide and wet silence. He crosses streams, striking out towards the horizon. Still cutting his marks, peeling back the bark, but putting far more distance than he wants to between himself and Momik.

  He cannot say how many hours he does this. Hunger comes and passes, thirst too; only the cold stays, only the fear increases. Yankel is frightened of losing his brother, of leaving him too far behind himself. But he also fears stopping, and the coming winter darkness.

  His thoughts turn in circles: if he cannot find someone, if he cannot find somewhere, the dark might take him, or it might take Momik. This idea is so appalling it keeps returning, along with a new and worse thought: that he will have to go on without him. That this may be the only way left open.