The Winter Horses (16 page)

All Kaspar Grenzmann wanted to do in the world was ride horses, paint pictures, listen to Mozart and help his father run the business in his hometown of Munich. Before the war, he had been studying to become a lawyer, and he thought of himself as a gentle, civilized man. But there was nothing civilized about what he and hundreds of men like him had been asked to do all over eastern Europe. He knew that it was highly unlikely he would ever feel civilized again. But what could he do? This foolish old man had pushed him into a dark corner where he had no choice but to behave ruthlessly and without mercy—to be that which he was increasingly reluctant to be: the inflexible SS man of blood and honor.

Finally, the irritation of this realization was too much for Grenzmann and he hit the old man hard on the side of the head with the back of his gloved hand; it wasn’t hard enough to knock him over, but it was hard enough to make Grenzmann feel a little ashamed of himself.

“You foolish old man,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Now look at what you made me do. You see? Everything is different now between you and me. It didn’t have to be like this, Max. But you have painted me on your wall. I am fixed there like one of those blasted horses. Me and what I am now required to do. Which is my duty, of course. I have no alternative now but to punish you.”

Grenzmann clenched his fist for a moment and turned away for fear of hitting the old man again. He took a deep breath, let it out and then turned back to face him.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed wearily, “for losing my temper like that. It was unforgivable. And let me add that it gives me absolutely no pleasure to find myself obliged to act here, but you leave me no choice. You know that, don’t you? I’ve given you every chance, wouldn’t you say? But you seem intent on betraying my trust. First, the Przewalski’s horses, and now this. Really, it’s too much, Max. I’m very disappointed. Honestly, I thought we were friends.”

Max wiped his mouth and found a little blood on the back of his gnarled hand, which seemed to make him realize something, too: that the time had surely come to tell the young German officer the truth—not about Kalinka and where she had come from, but about the captain himself and his being there at Askaniya-Nova.

“No,” he said quietly. “You were deluded. We were never friends, you and I, Captain. How could I be friends with a man like you—a man who has systematically tried to destroy everything I hold dear in this world? Not just the people who lived peacefully in this country but also
the animals that lived on this great nature reserve at Askaniya-Nova. How could I be friends with a monster like you, Captain? You and your men have made everything ugly by your presence here in Ukraine. And I pity you as I would pity a man-eating bear—as something that needs to be destroyed for the good of everyone. Friend? No. I’m sure we can both spell it, Captain Grenzmann. Even in German. But only I know what it means.”

Grenzmann nodded and then glanced at the sergeant.

“Take him outside,” he said quietly.

In the cold dawn, Grenzmann mounted his horse, and the SS men sat in the sidecars of their motorcycles and checked that their heavy machine guns were loaded, the way they’d done many times before. The guns weren’t pointed at Max.

“Walk over there a bit,” Grenzmann told the old man.

Max started to walk; there was no point in running. Where could he have gone? Besides, the motorcycles would have caught up with him in seconds.

“Stop where you are,” said Grenzmann. “That will do fine where you are now.”

Max took off his cap, knelt down on the snow and crossed himself carefully in the Russian way. It was a while since he’d said a proper prayer, so he didn’t bother; he told himself that God had certainly made up his mind one way or the other where Max was concerned.

The old man glanced up at the sky and marveled at the beauty of the Ukrainian landscape. It was such a magical
place. For a moment, he remembered how, in spring, the deer would eat the heads of the magnolias outside his little cottage when they were still in bud, just as the goats ate the blue irises on the steppe—greedily, for they must have known they were too hot for their mouths—and how sometimes Max had to chase them both off because of what he now considered to be the sheer selfishness of wanting to see these flowers resplendent in all their glory. If the rest of the world was as lovely as Askaniya-Nova when the flowers were out, there was much to be thankful for. He took a deep breath of the cold air and smiled quietly at how good it made him feel. And gradually his smile broadened, until all of the Germans could see it. This left them feeling very awkward indeed.

“I don’t know what you’re smiling about, Max,” said Grenzmann. “When this is over, we’re going in pursuit of your friends: the horses, the dog and your little refugee. That won’t be too difficult; after all, they’ve left a trail as wide as a railway track. And when we catch up with them, well, you can imagine what’s going to happen. The same thing that’s going to happen to you now.”

Max pointed at the sun and laughed. “Do you see that sun?” he asked the captain. “And that beautiful blue sky? I reckon it’s going to be warmer than it was yesterday. In a couple of hours, that snow will melt. And so will their trail. With any luck, they’ll be off the steppe by dinnertime.”

He heard the guns being loaded, and nodded. He was ready.

“I doubt that very much,” said Grenzmann.

“You know, I’ve just had an idea, Captain. When all this is over. I mean, when you’ve done your worst here to me, why don’t you get your pen and paper and draw a picture? Of my dead body. You’re good at drawing. So why not combine that with the only other thing you’re good at?”

The captain swallowed uncomfortably, as if the old man’s words had stuck in his throat. He glanced at his men and raised his arm.

“Any last words, Max?”

“Yes.” Max had thought of a poem he’d learned as a boy at school. “Ukraine is not yet dead.”

“Maybe not,” said the captain. “But you are.”

T
HEY MADE GOOD, STEADY
progress, although it wasn’t very long before the insides of Kalinka’s thighs started to ache and she wished she’d had a saddle and some stirrups so that she could have stood up now and then to stretch her legs. But she said nothing to her companions because she was not the type to complain, and besides, the alternative—walking—was infinitely more inconvenient.

The sun came up, and the sky turned a brilliant shade of bright blue that seemed to tint the snow. The air got much warmer; steam plumed off the horses’ big bodies. From time to time, Kalinka looked around to see how their snow trail was faring, in the hope that it might just melt away, but it was still there, like a tail even longer than the dog’s that she couldn’t get rid of.

Ahead of the two horses, Taras made the pace like
the lead dog in a team of huskies; he didn’t seem to tire, and Kalinka marveled that he was never distracted by an interesting smell on the steppe: a rabbit or a hare. Perhaps there were no rabbits or hares—Max had told her that game was in short supply that winter—but even so, she thought it impressive that any dog could be quite so single-minded. Taras just kept trotting on as if he had an important mission to accomplish, which of course he did: Max had charged him with the survival of the girl, and Taras meant to accomplish this or die in the attempt.

A couple of hours passed, and the dog and the two horses slowed to a steady walk and, gradually, the gentle motion of the mare and the sun on her head took hold of Kalinka’s sleep-deprived senses. Slowly, she allowed her eyes to close against the bright glare of the snow and, for a blissful moment, she dreamed that she was safe, back home in Dnepropetrovsk with her whole family.

Her father and brothers were already out on a round, delivering coal, while her mother was making
oladushki—
buttermilk pancakes—for Kalinka’s breakfast. Served with a selection of sour cream, jam and maple syrup,
oladushki
were Kalinka’s favorite breakfast. She often made them herself but, try as she might, the ones she cooked never tasted quite as delicious as the ones her mother made.

“Why is that?” she had asked. “Why don’t my pancakes taste as good as yours, Mama?”

“Because when I’m cooking them for you, I use an extra ingredient that you don’t,” said her mother.

Kalinka was cross. “That’s not fair,” she said. “Using a secret ingredient puts me at a real disadvantage when I’m making my own
oladushki
. A little salt, maybe? A special kind of flour? Tell me.”

“I didn’t say it was a secret ingredient,” said her mother. “I just said that I used it when I was making
oladushki
for you, Kalinka. And one day, when you’re cooking for your own family, maybe you’ll see how this is what makes all the difference.”

“So what is it? Please, I want to know.”

“It’s something I always use when I’m cooking pancakes for you and your brothers and sisters, or buckwheat kasha for your father. Love. I make everything with love, Kalinka. In my experience, that always makes things taste a lot better.”

And somehow it was true—the cakes your own mother bakes always taste better than …

Kalinka awoke with a start. She didn’t know how long she had dozed but it couldn’t have been for very long. Börte had stopped in her tracks and so had Temüjin; it was another moment or two before she saw the reason both horses had pulled up was that Taras had come to an abrupt halt ahead of them. The dog’s long white face was lifted up toward the sun, and she could hear him noisily sampling the air with his shiny black nose.

In silence, they all waited for the dog’s keen sense of smell and even keener hearing to work to their advantage.

“What is it, Taras?” she whispered. “Wolves again?”

Glad of an excuse to dismount, Kalinka jumped down from Börte’s back and approached the big wolfhound.

“D’you smell danger?”

Slowly, the dog’s long tail curled between his back legs, and his body started to tremble. Then Taras sat down on the cold, snowy steppe and began to chew the air like it was a solid thing, and to howl. Kalinka might have said that his howl was like a wolf’s except that, having recently heard a wolf’s howl, she recognized that a wolf’s howl sounded much less plaintive than the dog’s. Taras howled as if he was giving voice to some deep and enduring tragedy.

Kalinka put her arms around the dog’s neck and hugged him close for comfort, but this did nothing to stop Taras from howling some more. He howled as if he held the sun itself responsible for a dreadful crime.

“What is it?” she said, stroking his long, fine head. “I wish I knew what it was that’s upsetting you, boy.”

Taras kept on howling. Kalinka had never seen an animal cry before, but she had the strong impression that she was looking at this now. The dog was crying as if his heart had been broken. There was something buried under the snow, perhaps, or in the wind, something terrible that Taras knew without seeing it for himself.
She’d heard of such things. An animal’s sixth sense was what her father would have called it. And then, instinctively, Kalinka realized exactly what had happened, just as Taras had done several minutes before.

“It’s Max, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Something dreadful has happened to Max.”

Taras barked an answer and then began to howl again, and this time Kalinka knew what Taras was doing: he was crying like a baby for his dead master. And she was certain that the dog’s sixth sense could not have been wrong about something like that.

“Oh no,” she breathed. “They wouldn’t have. Surely. Not to that kind old man.” But of course she knew perfectly well that the SS had murdered him, just as they had murdered her whole family and thousands of families like her own.

After what had happened in the botanical gardens at Monastyrsky Island, in Dnepropetrovsk, Kalinka had found no time to grieve for the deaths of her parents, her brothers and sisters, her grandparents and great-grandmother, her aunts and uncles and her cousins; the imperatives of her own unlikely survival and the sheer enormity of what had happened to her family—to everyone she knew—were almost too overwhelming. She felt sad for Max and for Taras—terribly sad—but, somehow, she still managed to hold her sadness in check. As always, she knew that if she started crying, she might never stop.

Kalinka sat down and started to pound the snow with her fists. “No! No! No!” she yelled at the sky. “After everything else, how could you let that happen?”

For a moment, she caught sight of herself as if from above, and she almost heard Max’s voice inside her head.

“It’s no good yelling at God,” he would have said. “He had nothing to do with what happened. Don’t blame him. Like you blamed him for what happened before. If you want to blame someone, young lady, then blame me for not getting you away from this place earlier. Blame the Germans for being stupid enough to elect Hitler, and invade Russia and Ukraine. Blame that stupid young captain for being such a fanatic. But don’t go blaming old God.”

Throughout all this, the two Przewalski’s horses waited patiently for their companions to deal with their feelings; being wild animals, they were made of sterner stuff than the dog and the girl, and while they were capable of becoming depressed—Börte had lost a foal once and spent a whole summer pining for it—they were not creatures of emotion in the same way as a pet dog or an adolescent girl.