“Sounds like you have plenty of horse sense of your own, child.”
“Maybe. My father used to have several horses for his work. Big draft Vladimirs. There was one called Shlomo—I used to talk to him a lot. He was a very sensible horse.”
“What kind of work did your father do?”
“He worked for the state fuel merchant, delivering wood and coal to people. He used to say that sometimes he thought the horses could have done the job themselves. They knew their routes the way I know my alphabet. But sensible as he was, Shlomo was a dunce next to the two outside. They might be a bit untidy-looking, but underneath their shaggy coats, they’re as smart as a crow with a top hat and a fancy gold watch.”
“You know, you’re a little untidy yourself,” observed Max. “I bet that underneath all that grime, there’s a pretty girl. I shall have to find you a brush and a comb, a toothbrush and some clean clothes. You can wash when we’re in the waterworks.”
Max glanced nervously at the window. A bar of red had appeared on the horizon, indicating that dawn was just around the corner.
“Come on. We’d better get moving.”
They went outside to the stable, where the Przewalski’s were already waiting patiently by the door.
“See what I mean?” said Kalinka. “They just know what you’re thinking.”
But Max wasn’t listening. His eyes were on the horizon. His neck might have been next to useless, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight and he had already spied a dot that was moving rapidly toward them from the direction of the big house.
“What is it?” asked Kalinka.
“That SS captain—Grenzmann,” said Max. “Up and around much earlier than usual and coming this way at a gallop. Come on, back inside the stable. Before he gets near enough to see you.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s galloping,” suggested Kalinka, herding the horses back into the stable.
“No. He gallops because he’s a German. The Germans do everything at a gallop. Maybe if they stopped and took some time to think before they did something, they wouldn’t be in the mess they’re in now. And more importantly, neither would we.”
“Perhaps I should just make a run for it. With the cave horses.”
“No,” said Max. “You wouldn’t make it. The horse he rides isn’t called Lightning for nothing. Besides, the captain carries a sidearm. And I don’t think he’s the type who’d hesitate to use it.”
“It’s all my fault,” said Kalinka. “I should never have come here. I’m going to get you into trouble, aren’t I?”
“You keep these two quiet, if you can,” said Max. “And I’ll try to get rid of him.”
“Suppose he leads his horse in here for a drink or some feed?” asked Kalinka.
Max shook his head and tried to conceal the panic he was feeling. “Just do as I say and everything will be fine,” he said. But he wasn’t at all sure about that.
The old man went out of the stable, picked up his axe and began chopping wood while he waited for the captain to arrive at the cottage; he wondered if he might after all be capable of using the axe against the captain if Grenzmann threatened the girl and the horses.
Finally, the captain arrived and, as usual, he was full of smiles and impeccable good manners.
“Isn’t it a wonderful morning, Max?” he said, breathing heavily.
Max looked up at the sky almost as if he hadn’t noticed it before and nodded.
“You’ve brought the sun with you, sir,” he said agreeably.
Captain Grenzmann turned in his saddle and looked behind him.
“Yes, you’re right, Max, I think I have.” He lit a cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully. “I wanted to see the steppe in the dawn while the snow was still perfect.”
“I expect that’s the artist in you, sir,” said Max. “Not the soldier.”
“Yes, you’re right about that, too. Sometimes, I think I should like to come back and live here, after the war, and paint this wonderful place. The colors here are always changing, just like an artist’s palette. I’ve never painted landscapes and I have an idea I’d be very good at it.”
“I’m sure you would be, sir.”
“I would have painted it before but I don’t have any paints. Just my pen and my inks. And you can’t do justice to a dawn like that with just pen and ink. Can you?”
“No, sir.”
“You know, I’m a little disappointed in you, Max. I thought we were friends.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, sir.”
“Well, yes, it is, under the circumstances. It’s not every Russian peasant who gets asked to dinner by an SS battalion. We missed you last night, Max.”