The Winter Horses(48)

When they stopped to refuel from the big jerry cans they were carrying and to eat their horse-meat sandwiches, Corporal Hagen was appointed to express their doubts to Captain Grenzmann and to suggest, strongly, that they turn back.

“If we go much farther, then we won’t have enough fuel to get back to the big house,” said the corporal. “Not to mention the fact that we’ll have to spend the night out here, on the steppe, in the freezing cold, without tents, without a hot dinner. And don’t forget that there are wolves about. And Red Army soldiers, perhaps.”

“Then it’s very fortunate that we have machine guns,” said Captain Grenzmann. “Besides, I told the sergeant to follow us with more supplies, didn’t I? So we’re doubly fortunate.”

His men finished refueling the motorcycles and resumed the chase in a sulk that became so profound that, after a while, Captain Grenzmann felt obliged to lift their spirits with a song. They sang “Erika,” which is a song about a flower that grows in Germany; it was also a favorite marching song for the German army. But with only four of them singing and without a military band, it didn’t sound the same.

They gave up singing when they came across the circle of standing stones on top of a hill; in the twilight, it was an eerie place, and they half expected to see some wicked giants and perhaps a few Rhine maidens, or their Ukrainian equivalents.

“I don’t like this place,” said Hagen.

“Me neither,” said Donkels. “It gives me a peculiar feeling, as if we’re not supposed to be here. As if this whole business was jinxed from the outset.”

“That’s enough,” said Grenzmann, but he, too, was touched by the peculiar atmosphere of the circle and a feeling that things had not gone entirely to plan; at that point, he might have ordered them to turn back but for the fact that he didn’t want to lose face in front of his men.

Optimism that their quest might be coming to an end was restored at the bottom of the slope with the discovery of the pine trees with the rings of missing bark.

“These trees were chewed by horses,” explained Grenzmann. He sounded triumphant and perhaps a little mad. “For the minerals. Horses do that sometimes. And what’s more, these trees were chewed recently, too. D’you see? The girdles of the trees are still sticky.”

He climbed stiffly out of the sidecar to inspect some horse dung on the ground. It was still moist to the touch.

“And this dung is fresh. So they can’t be far away from us now. I can feel it. They’re close. Very close. It’s only a question of finding them.”





IN THE ARCHING LIGHT of a big white Ukrainian moon, Kalinka picked a circuitous, winding route through the silver trees in order to make it difficult for the motorized Germans to follow them, but in the deeper snow of the forest, progress was painfully slow. Börte was carrying her head below shoulder level, and even Temüjin had stopped flicking his furry tail; every so often, he would nuzzle the mare’s neck with encouraging snorts and nibbles because she was very tired. Kalinka herself was slumped on her forearms against Börte’s neck, as if she still had some boring schoolwork to complete before going to bed. Only Taras seemed to have energy; he had gone ahead on one of his regular reconnaissance missions. Somehow he always knew where to come and find Kalinka and the two Przewalski’s.

“We’ll find somewhere to rest soon,” she told Börte. “We have to.”

Temüjin stopped and listened for a moment and looked at Kalinka, wondering if she could hear what he could hear.

“What is it?” she asked him as Börte came to a halt beside the stallion’s muscular flank. “Can you hear something? Me, I can’t hear anything.”

His own question answered, Temüjin paced the snow impatiently and then bit Börte on the shoulder; the mare’s head jerked up. Now he had her full attention, and immediately he set off at a canter, with the mare following and Kalinka just holding on to the belt around Börte’s neck.

A couple of minutes later, the girl heard the engines of the German motorcycles, and even though she was already freezing cold, she felt an extra chill down her back.

“What are we going to do?” she said.

But Temüjin knew, even if the girl did not. Ahead of them was a big conifer tree; he paused for a moment, looked around to see that Börte was behind him and then pushed his way through the lowest snow-covered branches.

Kalinka squealed and pressed her head into Börte’s neck as snow tumbled onto the mare’s back and down the collar of the girl’s coat. She was about to complain when she realized that Temüjin had cleverly led them to a dark area under a thick canopy of branches, where the ground was dry and they were almost completely hidden from view. It was immediately obvious that this was the kind of ingenious natural hiding place that the Przewalski’s horses had used before.