One Crow Alone (5 page)

She went back into the hut and rolled up the blankets. She discovered her pilfered bag.

The worthless. Arrogant. Thief. You blushed! And made him porridge!

She stamped about the hut, thrusting things angrily into the bag. She kicked at the door that would not open without force. And hurt her toe.

If I ever find him I'll
—She felt her faith flutter for a moment.
Two days ago your own village was filled with people, and now it seems that everyone has forgotten you. Even that wretched dog.

For some reason that she could not understand, Magda wished the boy had not left her. She looked up into the branches above her, arching into the brightening sky like beams. She remembered Ivan's long laugh.

Why do you care? He is a worthless creature—no better than the dog.
She untied the pony and climbed onto its back, kicking it on with unease lodged in her heart. She headed along the foresters' track running straight and wide through the trees. The sooner she reached the open fields above Karlikov the better. To see a house, even empty, would be something.

Her hands gripped the wiry mane. The pony's head rose and fell as it tramped through the snow, ears flicking back as she chivvied it on. Northwards. With thoughts of Ivan Rublev mocking her in the dark.

Have mercy. Have mercy
.

*   *   *

By mid-morning Magda had reached the fringes of the forest, and below her the roofs of Karlikov were shining in a weak sunlight that glanced over the hilltops.

A fresh-smelling wind whipped lazy trails of snow across the surface of the fields. She clapped her hands together in the cold. “You see, it wasn't far.” She rubbed the pony's neck. In the distance—a dark speck against the white—was a truck, moving slowly along a road.

“Hey!” She kicked the pony on, with the reins flapping and her arms waving and everything grim forgotten. “Hey!” she shouted out across the fields. “Hey. Wait for me!”

Her heart beat fast as she picked along the ditches and drifted hedgerows and lost sight of the rooftops. Urgency pounded inside her like a drum. She called again, as loud as she could: “Wait for me. Wait for me!”

The pony slid onto the hard-packed snow of a road. She forced it onward with her coat flapping and her legs aching.

Rounding a shallow bend, two figures came into view. She called out. “Hello. Wait for me.”

The figures turned: an old man and his wife leading a donkey. And there was Azor, snuffling along the side of the drifts.

“Azor!”

He wagged his faithless tail. Magda jumped down from the pony.

“Who on heaven's earth are you, girl?” the old woman said.

“Magda Krol. From Morochov.”

“Morochov? You missed the trucks or what?” said the old man.

“I came across the hill, yesterday. On the pony.”

The dog stuck its nose into Magda's leg.

“Shoo!” The old woman flapped her arm. “That dog's been following us like the devil!”

“No, it is all right. He ran off this morning. It's Bogdan Stopko's dog.”

“Pan Stopko?” said the old man. “Where have they taken him?”

“I don't know. I was hiding in my grandmother's cellar. I saw nothing. Just heard on the radio—”

“Where is your grandmother now?” said the old woman.

“Dead.”

“In the snow?”

“No. The priest came. It was before they took everyone away.”

“Thanks be to God in heaven,” said the old woman, crossing herself.

“But where are the trucks? I saw one from up there on the hill.” Magda pointed up to the distant line of trees high above the village. “Where are they taking us? Am I too late?”

“No. We must go to the village,” said the man. “You aren't too late, girl.” He put his hands up, looked skyward. “Where they're taking us—that's another question.” He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“But what's the reason?” said Magda, falling in step.

“They say it's the weather,” muttered the old woman, plodding on, with the donkey dragging behind her. “We don't understand it, but we're too old to hold up our arms and ask questions. The soldiers came and told us to leave. We must pray that everything will return to normal soon.”

Up ahead more villagers appeared, tramping along the track with crates of chickens and canvas bags and badly tied belongings. Several decrepit wooden cottages came into view, ramshackle behind rickety fences. And with relief Magda saw an army van further along, exhaust fumes smoking on the cold air.

A group of villagers had stopped to watch an old man arguing with two soldiers.

“I am not leaving. Get off my porch!”

The old man raised his voice, pushed at one of the soldiers.

They dragged him down the steps. “You have to come. We have orders!”

“Get your hands off me. This is my property. Get your hands off.”

The assembled villagers looked on like cattle in the field. But their voices grew angry, the old women muttering, “For shame, for shame.”

Behind them another van slid and grumbled along the track before coming to a halt. A young soldier jumped from the cab with a gun slung across his back. Open-handed he beckoned. “Come. This way. You must get in the trucks. All of you.”

The villagers did not move. Old men began remonstrating. “What about the animals? I won't leave my donkey.”

“Where are we going?”

“We have our orders,” the soldier said. “Now don't cause us trouble. You'll be safer with us. You will be compensated for the animals.”

“What about my donkey?”

“Orders are orders, Grandfather. Everyone is to be evacuated.”

A freezing wind blew down from the hill, ruffling the fur on the soldier's hat. He was unshaven. He looked tired. Like he had cajoled too many from their villages already. From villages they had never left in their lives.

The old women were pushed up into the back of the truck, large skirted behinds clambering up the steps. The old men would accept no helping hands. They argued over the seizing of their animals. A soldier kicked at Azor. The dog skittered away, whimpering. Crates of chickens were handed up to eager old hands, bags grabbed over the tailgate.

At the back of the truck another soldier took Magda's pony, noted something down on a clipboard. Blowing on his fingers he asked her name, her village. He stamped the paper, ripped a sheet, and handed it to her.

“You'll get compensation.”

There was shouting and complaining.

“What about my donkey? What are you going to do with it? You can't take my livestock from me!”

“You'll get compensation, Grandfather. In you get.”

Magda rubbed the pony's nose. It bowed its head a little, pushed against her.

“Come on, girl. Up you get.”

She clambered into the truck. “What are you going to do with him? He's a good pony.”

“You'll get compensation like the others. Just take that paper to the authorities in Krakow.”

“Krakow!”

There was a sudden outcry among the villagers.

“Krakow? What will I do there? I have no family there.”

The murmuring became desperate and fearful. Old women began crying. “Let us off to die in peace!”

Azor sat in the snow, watching from a distance. Magda wished he had gone with the boy now.

The soldiers began to close the doors.

“Come on. Sit down. Get yourselves comfortable. It will be all right.”

Clang
.

There was a sudden silence in the darkness. Magda could hear the breathing of twenty souls.

She pushed her face to a crack in the doors. Peered with one eye, her hands spread on the boards.

A soldier talking on the roadside. He led Stopko's pony to the edge of the track. She squinted. He pulled something from his belt. Raised his hand to the side of the pony's head.

Crack!

The pony fell on its knees. A bloody red hole in its head. Its breath labored. Mouth open. Blood on its tongue. Then over it fell.

She pulled her head back.

“What? What did you see, girl?”

It was the old man.

“They are shooting the ponies. Shooting the ponies.” She felt her body tremble. Her legs weakened. The engine grew louder and with a lurch Magda fell against the wall.

“Sit down, girl. Sit down.” Old hands helped her along. She picked her way over the legs and bags. The villagers becoming silent like sheep to slaughter.

She found a place at the back of the truck and sat down. She put her trembling hands in her lap. Pulled off her gloves so she could feel her own flesh. Above her a small panel in the roof let in weak gray light. Against her shoulder a body moved, and she looked at the person leaning in the corner beside her.

Her heart jumped a beat.

Ivan Rublev!

 

7

The smell of onions and unwashed winter clothes rose from the frightened old villagers on the floor of the truck. Even the chickens were quiet. It was not what Magda had imagined.

That picture of Stopko's pony sinking in the snow with a round bloody hole between its eyes
—

She looked at Ivan Rublev's face, undisturbed in the dingy light. There was a smudge of blood at the corner of his mouth. She shook him by the shoulder. “Ivan.” She managed to pull him up straight. “Ivan.”

His eyes opened.

“It's me. The girl from the forest.”

He looked at her. Rubbed his head. “Where am I?” He looked about at the old villagers. Then at her again. “It's you, Havemercy. Where are we?”

“They're taking us to Krakow.”

“I have to get out.”

“Sit down. You can't get out. What happened to you?”

He rubbed his head a little. “Those pigs took my gun. The best gun. How long have we been going?”

“I'm not sure.”

He waved his hand about. “Who are these people?”

“Villagers,” she whispered. “The villagers from Karlikov.”

“And your pony?”

“They shot him. They say I will get compensation. But it was Stopko's pony, not mine.”

“Stopko?”

“A man from my village.”

“I'm surprised at you, Havemercy.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“All right, all right. I just didn't think you looked like a horse thief.”

“I'm not. I was trying to get to Karlikov.”

“Well, you did that well enough. Now look what's happened. You should have stayed at home.”

“But I have to find the others. So I can go back.”

“Listen—” He turned to her. Some of the old people were looking at him as they bumped along. He lowered his voice. “You won't be going back—”

“What do you mean?”

“It's not just here. It's everywhere. What do you think it's like in the cities? They've got no wood to burn. No chickens. No cellars.”

“I don't understand.”

“They say it's going to get worse. That it's not going to end. And now all the borders are closing. I've seen it. Soon they won't have fuel for all these trucks and for keeping people warm. There are soldiers stationed on all the roads east. There is going to be war. That's why they're taking everyone while they can.”

“But why us? We villagers can get by. We always do.”

“For how long, Havemercy? How long before people come from the cities to steal your chickens? The soldiers will be the first. And then it will be village against village.”

“The village people don't behave like that. The winters always come. And then they go. Soon it will be spring.”

But she remembered the raids on Zborov last winter, the old men getting their guns ready.

“God will watch over us,” she murmured, looking at her hands.

“God?” Ivan snorted in derision.

Magda remembered that last call to her mother.
Even the English are hungry. It is getting ugly, Magda … I cannot find a way back.

She looked at him. “How can you know all this? Why should I believe you?”

“You're just a foolish country girl who leads her pony through the drifts and gets stuck in the back of this truck and thinks God is watching over her.”

“Well, if you are so clever, how did you find yourself in this truck too?”

“I was trying to steal food from the soldiers. Camped a bit west from here. They caught me.” He banged his fist angrily against the side of the truck.

“Shh!” said Magda. Some of the villagers were looking again. She took a jar from her bag. “Here, have something to eat.”

Ivan pulled off his gloves, cracked the lid, and took some pickled mushrooms out with his fingers.

“And why did you take my dog?” Magda said.

“I didn't. He followed me.” Ivan's mouth was full. “I couldn't stop him.” He put up his hands in defense. “Honest!”

“I don't know if anything you say is true.”

“Suit yourself.”

He settled himself in the corner.

*   *   *

Krakow—Magda had been there once, with her mother. She remembered the cars and the people and the noise. She remembered Mama buying her an ice cream. It fell from her hands and she cried and Mama bent down and said, “Don't worry, Magda,” and she bought her another from the ice-cream man, who stuck a chocolate stick into it and told her not to cry over spilled milk and laughed. She remembered that.

She thought of her mother. Far away in England. She thought of what the boy had said. They were closing the borders; they would not be allowed back to the village.

How could all this happen because of winter?

*   *   *

Eventually there came the sound of other engines and horns blowing and the spray of slush against the wheels. They had reached the outskirts of Krakow at last.

Bolts scraped back and the tailgate opened. Daylight flooded into the truck. The villagers burst into railing and complaining—the women grabbing at the arms of their men.