“My dear Kalinka,
“It’s been a very long time since I wrote a letter—so long that I have almost forgotten how—and I wish I had more time to write this one. As I think I told you, I never had any children of my own, but if I had, I certainly couldn’t have wished for a better daughter than you. Somewhere, your own father and mother are very proud. You are a great credit to them.
“I haven’t known you for very long, but you are a remarkable young lady and you have my admiration, not just for your having survived the terrible events in Dnepropetrovsk, but also because in all my years I never knew anyone who could win the trust of these Przewalski’s horses. I envy you that and wonder if you can explain it yourself.
“Anyway, that was one of the things I wanted to tell you. I remembered you called them tarpan horses. That was incorrect. I wanted to remind you that these are not tarpan horses. Tarpan horses were gray, and had manes that hung down on one side, and forelocks; they were also smaller than the Przewalski’s horse. I say were because tarpan are certainly extinct; the last one died—poor thing—in 1918, in captivity at Poltava.”
Kalinka shook out the match and lit another to finish reading her letter.
“The same thing must not be allowed to happen to these Przewalski’s; one of the things that makes living in this world so wonderful is the fantastic variety of all the races and species that are in it, and it would be a crime to let the same thing happen to the Przewalski’s as has happened to so many other species of animal. But I am convinced that if anyone can save them, it’s you. Don’t let me down, Kalinka; more importantly, don’t let the Przewalski’s horses down. You must get them to a place of safety.
“You have already suffered great hardship, and in the days ahead, there may come even more despair; so I also wanted to tell you about a great Russian grand master of chess—as perhaps you yourself will be one day—called Savielly Tartakower. In 1911, his parents were murdered, just like yours, and in very similar circumstances; but by 1935, he was one of the main organizers of the Chess Olympiad in Warsaw. Tartakower was almost as well known for his great wisdom as for playing chess, and I had to write down a few of the clever things he said that may help you in the coming days and years. They are about chess, but in a way, they are also about life. Here they are, in no particular order:
“ ‘It’s always better to sacrifice your opponent’s men.’
“ ‘The mistakes are all there on the board, just waiting to be made.’
“ ‘The move is there, but you must see it.’
“ ‘Chess is a fairy tale of 1,001 blunders.’
“And my own favorite: ‘Moral victories do not count.’
“I am not a wise man like Tartakower. But one important thing I have learned is that nothing good ever comes of hate. It would be all too easy and understandable for you to hate the Germans for what they did to your family. But please try always to remember that it was a German—the baron Falz-Fein—who created the sanctuary at Askaniya-Nova, and there was a time when I thought that this particular German was the most wonderful man in the world. I promise you that there will certainly be other good Germans like him. I hope that one day you get a chance to meet a German such as he was.
“Good luck to you all. I know you will need it. But with God’s grace, I know you can come through this ordeal.
“Your affectionate friend,
Maxim Borisovich Melnik
“PS. Stroke Taras for me.”
Kalinka blew out the third match and stroked Taras as Max had told her; then she laid her head against the tree and closed her eyes for just a moment and wished that she could have hugged the old man and thanked him again for his kindness.
“When you think about it,” she told Taras, “it’s not such a bad world that has men in it like Maxim Borisovich Melnik.”
TEMÜJIN WAS GONE FOR less than an hour, but to those who slept under the heavy boughs of the big conifer tree, it seemed much longer. Laying a false trail in the snow to deceive the Germans had been the work of only ten or fifteen minutes, and most of the remaining time he had spent looking for a warmer place for Kalinka, Börte and Taras to hide—a woodsman’s hut or perhaps an old barn—as the stallion was certain they could go no farther without sleep. The dog, he was sure, was like him and could have run forever, for that is characteristic of the borzoi breed, but the girl was exhausted, and Börte—who was the focus of Temüjin’s extra concern—almost as tired.
After a while, he sensed that there was a much better hiding place close by. He could not explain how he knew this, but it was as if his ancestors had called out to him from hundreds—perhaps thousands—of years ago; and suddenly his nose seemed to tell him which way to go.