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.”
THEY 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.