Taras was with them again, full of alarm at the nearness of the Germans; but recognizing the need for complete silence, he managed to contain his agitation and lay down right away on a deep bed of pine needles. Kalinka jumped off Börte’s back and did the same, hugging the wolfhound close for security and warmth. The dog began to chew a pinecone quietly and quite enjoyed it.
“Won’t they see our tracks?” whispered Kalinka.
Temüjin had already considered this possibility; the stallion crept stealthily across the diameter of their hiding place to the other side of the tree trunk, squeezed through the branches there and galloped off. Kalinka guessed that he had gone to lay a false trail for the Germans.
“He’s such a clever horse,” she told Börte.
Meanwhile, the mare knelt down, tucked her legs underneath her rear and closed her tired brown eyes.
Minutes passed, and the sound of the BMW motorcycles grew closer as they labored noisily through the snow. Kalinka could see their headlights now and hear German-speaking voices. She could smell the exhaust fumes from their machines; in the clear, fresh air, she could even smell the tobacco in their cigarettes and the sausage on their breaths. Her heart was in her mouth, but she still found time to wonder that any motorcycle could make it across such difficult ground, let alone one with a sidecar; she wasn’t to know that the Type Russia machine had three-wheel drive when it was combined with a sidecar, which made it highly maneuverable.
“The trail stops here,” said a voice. “At this big tree. It’s just as if they disappeared.”
“You idiot,” said another man. “Of course they haven’t disappeared. This isn’t some fairy story, you know. I never met such an impressionable, superstitious bunch as you men. Really, you astonish me sometimes.”
The Germans had stopped right beside their hiding place; they had kept their engines running and appeared to be studying the trail. One of them had climbed off his machine and was walking around the tree.
Suddenly Kalinka had an overwhelming desire to sneeze, so she pinched her nose, held her breath, closed her eyes and prayed that the Germans would not find them.
“The trail resumes on the other side, Captain,” said the German who’d circled the tree. “They must have gone under this conifer and sneaked out the other side in an effort to throw us off their trail. Smart idea. Do you suppose it was the child who thought of that or the horses?”
“These Przewalski’s are known for their cunning,” said another voice. “They may look like horses, but the fact is they’re not really proper horses at all but more of a counter-race of Gypsy horses: an inbred mixture of species that should have died out years ago. Biologically speaking, they’re duds. Like the dodo. But they still exhibit strong and primitive instincts for survival, and to that extent, they’re more like rats than horses. Which probably accounts for their cunning. And explains why Berlin wants them eliminated. To that extent, they and the person traveling with them have much in common. Come on. We’ll pick up the trail on the other side. Won’t be long until we have them now. I’m sure of it.”
The motorcycles started to rev up again and then drove around the tree to the place from where Temüjin had begun the false trail.
Kalinka let out her breath and hugged Taras, who licked her face with relief.
“They’re gone, I think.”
Taras crawled to the edge of the canopy and peered out, then came back with his tail wagging.
“That was too close for comfort,” said Kalinka.
Taras let his lip curl; being near to a German sounded good to him just as long as he could bite one.
“Now all we have to do is wait for Temüjin to come and find us again,” Kalinka told him.
Taras barked.
The girl shrugged and looked around. “At least we’re dry. And it’s out of the wind.”
Once again, Kalinka was too alert to sleep. She thrust her frozen hands into the pockets of her Astrakhan coat, and felt the money that Max had given her. Suddenly she remembered him telling her he’d given her something to remember him by, and since there was nothing else in her pockets but matches, she took out the money. Between two greasy banknotes, she found a folded piece of notepaper. It was too dark under the tree to read it, so she struck a match and saw that there was writing on the paper.
“Max wrote me a letter!” she told Taras. “How wonderful.”
Tara sniffed the letter, caught a strong scent of his master’s hands and whined.
“Would you like to hear it? Of course you would.”
Kalinka struck a second match and started to read: