Winter's End

It was the very end of the winter, and a sudden spell of bitterly cold weather struck the city. It froze under a dirty gray sky. People stayed at home whenever possible, and after midday the squares, avenues, boulevards, and parks were populated only by large crows. They too looked frozen as they came down in hundreds to perch on the bare branches of the trees. Only the powerful river resisted the cold, and its dark waters flowed on, never freezing over.

Helen gave up her walks and spent the afternoons reading in her room. She turned up the radiator, got under the covers of her bed, and immersed herself in a favorite novel. During these days it seemed to her as if nothing important could happen, as if the world were stuck in a groove. But she also felt that something profound and unknown to her was moving in the space inside this numb, drowsy sensation. As if the sleeping earth were incubating a secret, throbbing life in the warmth of its belly. She would have to wait. . . .

Sometimes the book fell from her lap and she sat motionless for a long time, her eyes fixed on a mark on the wall or the ceiling, lost in painful reverie. Where are you, Milos? I wish I could see your wild curls again, hold your big hands in mine, talk to you, kiss you. Are they treating you well? You haven’t forgotten me, have you?

These thoughts saddened her, but she needed to spend such moments with her absent love. She began keeping a diary in which she wrote to him every day.

Dear Milos, I was late for my shift today. Let me tell you about it. . . . Dear Milos, Dora is really impossible! You wouldn’t believe what she did this morning. . . .

She confined herself to describing the small events in her life. And she imagined what the two of them would do when they were together again later, but she could never manage to write that down.

She waited for Bart to come and tell her when he had more news, as he had promised he would. He didn’t come. She reassured herself by remembering what he had said on the riverbank: he knew something was going on but he wasn’t allowed to talk about it. One day Milena told her that Bart had been to what she called “meetings,” but she couldn’t talk about them either.

An afternoon came when Helen had suddenly had enough of her sad, somnolent state; she was tired of staying shut up indoors. She put on her thickest sweater and her brightly colored cap, wrapped herself in her coat, and went out. No trams were running; she supposed the cold had damaged their engines. She was alone on the deserted sidewalks, and it felt like walking through a ghost town. When she came to the former Opera House, she stopped and cautiously climbed the steps, which were gleaming with black ice. It was hard to imagine Dora, years earlier, climbing the same steps arm in arm with Eva-Maria Bach, both of them cheerful and happy. Then she saw the poster on the locked door covered with obscene graffiti. She didn’t have time to look away. The words leaped to her eyes: The Winter Fights . . . Arenas . . . Reservations at . . .

The very realistic picture on the poster showed two black swords under the red beam of a floodlight, one raised in triumph and dripping with blood, the other broken, lying in the sand, the sword of the defeated man.

She lived through the next few days in a state of anxiety and nausea. She felt she was falling ill and confided in Dora one evening. In spite of the cold that stung their cheeks, the two of them were walking along the banks of the river, making sure that no one overheard them.

“But who goes to see these horrible spectacles, Dora? Do you know?”

“Practically all the Phalangist leaders, Helen. Anyone who seems to disapprove is considered squeamish, and people suspect he might turn traitor sometime.”

“That wouldn’t be enough to fill all the tiers of seats, though! And apparently the arena always has a full house.”

“You’re right. A lot of people go.”

“But why?”

“I suppose we have to believe they just enjoy it. And I imagine they also go to the arena to be seen there, so that the authorities will think well of them, as part of the family. Boys get dragged along by their fathers. They have to prove themselves capable of watching such things without being physically sick. Basically it’s a kind of initiation, like rites of passage in primitive tribes. When they’ve watched a fight, they think they’re men.”

“Men? More like barbarians,” murmured Helen. “It’s so depressing.”

“Yes. Yet they’re our human brothers — in theory . I sometimes wonder whether I don’t prefer animals.”

“Do you think something could still happen to prevent the fights? They’re in two weeks’ time. That seems like no time at all to me. I’m so frightened for Milos. I can’t sleep at night.”

“I don’t know, Helen. We have to go on hoping in spite of all the darkness around us. I remember how the worst happened within only a few days fifteen years ago. So I tell myself that something good could happen quickly too. Even though that could never bring back our dead.”

“Do you believe in God, Dora?”

“I began to have doubts before it happened, but I’ve lost all faith since they crushed my hand and set the dogs on Eva. Still I wouldn’t want to put other people off believing. You asked me a question; I told you the answer, that’s all.”

“But then what gives you the strength to be . . . well, the way you are?”

“The way I am?”

“Yes. You’re always smiling, you comfort people, you’re amusing . . .”

“No one needs strength for that. Or anyway, no more strength than it takes to be sad or cruel, right? I don’t know. It must be my own way of resisting. But it’s yours too. We’re like each other, you know. Not brilliant but dependable!” She broke into laughter and pressed Helen’s arm. “Well, there it is — not everyone can be a Milena!”

“Do you think Milena’s as gifted as her mother?”

“It’s a different kind of gift. Her voice isn’t as strong as Eva’s. Not so full, you might say. But she’s more at ease in the higher registers. And she can find nuances that make you think you’re hearing a melody for the first time when you’ve known it for years and years. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. It always is the first time with her.”

“Exactly. And then she has . . . well, grace, and I don’t know how to explain that. It’s something beyond technique. Perhaps the quality of her soul — it’s very mysterious. But anyway, I can tell you that Milena is going to be an exceptional singer. If nothing gets in her way.”

Two sturdy militiamen, fur collars turned up behind their shaven heads, passed slowly in the opposite direction, gave them a baleful glance, and disappeared into the night.

“If no fat pigs get in her way,” said Helen in a low voice.

Ten days later, when Helen came into the restaurant for her evening shift, she was surprised not to see Dora there. She asked more than ten people where she was, but none of them knew. A platform had been put up against the back wall, and a piece of furniture of some kind stood on it, concealed by a blue cloth.

“What’s that?”

“No idea.”

No one seemed to know anything this evening.

Helen set to work, made vaguely uneasy by her friend’s absence. The customers arrived as usual from seven onward, muffled up in winter coats and scarves. Within a few minutes the two rooms of the restaurant were full of noise. Helen had come to enjoy the daily ballet performed by the girls in blue aprons, the understanding between them, the challenge — also a daily event — of standing up to a tidal wave of hungry customers, serving tables, clearing away, cleaning up, and restoring the restaurant to its original state of peace and calm.

She told herself that no doubt she could do something else with her life, but while she was waiting, she owed it to Mr. Jahn to do the job he had given her as well as she could. What would have become of her without him? Without Dr. Josef, without Mitten? All of them, she guessed, were links in a secret chain. She wondered how many of the workers sitting at these tables shared the same burning desire for freedom to return, so that everyone could talk freely again, and sing, and the Opera House could be reopened. In three months at the restaurant Helen had never heard a single word of discontent. A deafening silence reigned. But perhaps if someone dared to speak that first word, then everyone would rise up and they would all open their hearts.

She had just brought the dessert course to one of the tables, a tray of small bowls of fruit in syrup, when she heard the tinkling sound behind her. She turned to look. Mr. Jahn was standing on a chair, looking uncomfortable. His paunch swelled inelegantly under his buttoned waistcoat. He was trying to get silence by tapping the rim of a glass with a spoon.

“Please, my friends! Silence, please!”

It was rare for Mr. Jahn to assert himself. There must be some serious reason, and curiosity showed on all faces.

“Listen to me, please, friends.”

Before he started speaking, Helen had time to notice a dozen men standing close to the entrance, arms crossed over their chests. Their long heads, short necks, and massive torsos left her in no doubt: they must be horse-men. She had never seen any before and was impressed by their tremendous physical presence.

“My friends,” Jahn began.

At that moment the staff in the kitchens were relaxing a little after the usual frantic activity. The last dishes of dessert had been sent out; there were no more orders. They were already beginning to tidy up and clean the stoves. This was the moment for Lando, the head chef, to give his daily performance. Without pausing in his work, he cheerfully struck up an operatic aria. He wasn’t always entirely in tune, but he certainly had a powerful voice. His face as red as a peony, he ended the aria on a last reverberant note, and acknowledged the applause and laughter like a diva.

Milena was washing dishes with two of her comrades, bending over one of the huge zinc tubs in the sinks. All three girls were talking cheerfully, but Milena was in a hurry to get the job done and go to the canteen to eat. She was ravenously hungry, and Bart would be there by now.

“Hi, Kathleen. They want you in the restaurant.”

At first they’d had to call her two or three times before she reacted to her new name. She was used to it now, and she turned at once.

“In the restaurant? What on earth for?”

The waiter who had spoken to her spread his arms to show his ignorance. “They just want you there.”

“Who does?”

“Mr. Jahn.”

She took off her rubber gloves and followed the waiter. She couldn’t make it out. The big man had always expressly warned her not to show her face in the public rooms, and now he himself was summoning her. And at a time when there must still be a lot of people around. She climbed the stairs, surprised by the unusual silence on the ground floor, and opened one side of the double door. Jahn was waiting for her there. He took her by the arm as if afraid she might run away.

“Come on.”

Astonished, she let him lead her into the restaurant. Turning her head from side to side, she found all eyes intently gazing at her. The customers from the second room had crowded in to join those in the first, so that it was quite difficult for her to make her way past the rows of seats. Milena felt no fear, only immense amazement. And so she arrived at the far end of the room. A smiling Dora met her at the foot of the platform.

“Come with me,” she said.

They went up three steps and were onstage. A waiter jumped up behind them and pulled the blue cloth away to reveal an upright piano, an unexpected sight here. So far Milena had not had the time or inclination to object.

“What’s going on?” she asked, but she was afraid she knew already.

“It’s a recital, my dear,” said Dora. “I’m going to play the piano and you’re going to sing. We can do that, can’t we?”

The accompanist was wearing a pretty cream dress, with a bright red flower in her curly black hair. With no more ado, she sat down on the piano stool and struck a cheerful chord.

“You could have warned me!” Milena protested.

“Sorry, we forgot.”

Milena had no choice: she would have to sing. She took up her usual position standing beside her friend, her right hand on the side of the piano, and then froze, feeling sure that she wouldn’t be able to utter a single articulate sound. All the same, she ventured to look at the room, where the lights had been dimmed, and realized that for the first time in her life she was facing a real audience.

A great many of them gave her encouraging smiles, and she was touched by their goodwill. She saw Bart perched on the back of a chair by the window, surrounded by his friends. He waved a couple of fingers at her. If only I could entertain them, she thought. I’ll never be able to sing. There was absolute silence now. Expectation was at its height.

“Schubert, D. 764,” announced Dora in a low voice, but just as she was about to play the first chord, she stopped and signaled discreetly to Milena, who failed to understand.

“What is it?” she murmured.

“Your apron,” whispered Dora. “Take off your kitchen apron.”

Realizing that it did look slightly strange, Milena opened her mouth with an expression of such dismay that the audience burst out laughing. In her haste to untie the white apron, she only tightened the knot behind her and had to ask Dora for help, but Dora couldn’t do it either. The more she struggled in vain to undo the apron strings, the louder everyone laughed. It seemed to go on forever, and in the end Milena couldn’t help laughing herself, showing the audience her luminous face at last. It was a moment that overwhelmed everyone present who had known Eva-Maria Bach. They recognized the clear, laughing eyes of the singer they had loved so much in the past, her generous smile, her love of life. Nothing was missing but her long blond hair.

“Schubert, D. 764,” Dora repeated, and this time they were off.

Milena had never sung so badly in her life. She felt she was making every possible mistake, mistakes she had patiently put right one by one during dozens of hours of work. She got ahead of the accompaniment, she fell behind it, she mixed the words up, her voice faltered. On the last note she turned to Dora with tears in her eyes, furious with herself. But she had no time to indulge in her distress. Applause broke out and had hardly died down when her accompanist began another song. This one went better. She gradually came to feel new confidence. Inner peace spread through her, and at last her voice rang out full and serene.

Helen, precariously seated on the very end of a bench at the back of the room, held her breath. A man of about fifty beside her was gently nodding his head, and could hardly hide his emotion.

“The child sings almost as well as her mother. Oh, if you could only have heard our Eva, young lady,” he murmured to Helen. “When I think what they did to her — it was disgusting.”

The sound of a scuffle and several stifled oaths made them turn. The horse-men at the entrance were overpowering a man who was obviously trying to leave the restaurant.

“No one goes out,” the largest of them said calmly, lifting the man right off the ground. “Mr. Jahn’s orders.”

Then he put the man down in his seat again and pressed on his shoulders to keep him there, as if quelling a refractory child.

Once peace was restored, Dora and Milena performed another four lieder . Helen recognized the last one from hearing her friend rehearsing it: An die Musik (“To Music”).

“Du holde Kunst, in wieviel grauen Stunden,

Wo mich des Lebens wilder Kreis umstrickt,

Hast du mein Herz . . .”

She sang melodiously, and the audience paid her the tribute of complete silence. The slightest inflections of her voice could be heard, even the tiny sound of her fingernail on the wood of the piano during a rest. And when the last note had rung out, the silence continued and no one dared to break it.

“‘In My Basket’” Dora whispered, and she played two bars of the tune.

Faces lit up. “In My Basket”! Milena was going to sing “In My Basket”!

The name of whoever had written that artless and very simple little song was long forgotten now. It was to be sung slowly, in a low voice, with nothing abrupt about it. It had come down through the centuries, a light and melancholy tune, and no one tried to work out what the words meant. The Phalange had taken it into their heads, heaven only knew why, that it contained some hidden message and must therefore be banned. The ban was, of course, the best possible way of making the little tune a good-luck charm to the Resistance, in the same way as the giant hog Napoleon had become the movement’s mascot. You never found out what the girl in the song had in her basket, only what wasn’t in it, and no doubt that was what enraged the Phalange.

“In my basket,

In my basket, I have no cherries,

My dear prince.

I have no crimson cherries,

I have no almonds, no.

I have no pretty kerchiefs,

No embroidered kerchiefs,

I have no beads, no.

No more grief and pain, my love,

No more grief and pain. . . .”

The first to take up the melody were several women timidly raising their voices. Then the bass voice of a man at the back of the room joined in. Who stood up first? It was impossible to tell, but within a few seconds, the entire audience was on its feet. The only person still sitting down was the man who had tried to leave a few minutes earlier. The horse-man who had barred his way then took him by the collar of his jacket and forced him to stand like his neighbors. Everyone sang mezza voce, all of them simply adding their voices to the rest without raising them. The childlike words of the song rose in the air like a muted murmur from underground.

“In my basket, I have no chicken,

Father dear,

No chicken to be plucked,

I have no duck, no.

I have no velvet gloves,

Gloves neatly sewn, no.

No more grief and pain, my love,

No more grief and pain.”

Helen couldn’t get over it. All around her, dozens of grown men and women were taking out their handkerchiefs as tears ran down their cheeks. For a little song like that! As she clapped with all her might, she felt a lump in her throat. Don’t worry, Milos! We’re coming! I don’t know just how we’ll do it, but we’ll get you out of there!

The recital was over. Mr. Jahn went up on the stage, gave bouquets of flowers to both the singer and the pianist, and kissed them. They came down into the restaurant while some men took the piano away and began dismantling the platform. Helen would have liked to congratulate her friends, but there was such a crowd that she couldn’t get through to them. When everyone had left the restaurant a little later, she helped her colleagues to finish the cleaning and tidying up. It was after midnight before she could finally go to her room.

In passing she knocked on Milena’s door, but there was no reply. She went back two floors down and knocked at Bart’s. No one there either. She went to bed, listening in vain until halfway through the night for the sound of a key in the lock of the room next door. Around four in the morning she thought she heard a shot fired outside. She got up, stood on her chair, and opened the skylight. Icy cold stung her face. Cars were driving fast over Royal Bridge. There was more firing; she heard the sound of voices in the distance, then silence. Helen went back to bed, her heart full of mingled hope and anxiety.

Not much later she was abruptly woken by the sound of a door being kicked in. She sat up in bed, terrified, thinking someone was trying to break into her own room, but the men outside were forcing their way into Milena’s little room next door. It was ransacked violently but swiftly. There wasn’t much to be taken away or broken. As soon as the men had gone again, she got up and joined five other girls in their nightdresses in the corridor. Mute with horror, they were gazing at Milena’s books lying jumbled on the floor, her broken shelves, her little ornaments trodden underfoot, her scores torn up.

“I’m scared.” The youngest of the girls gulped, hugging a cushion as if it would protect her.

“Apparently the revolt began in the night,” said another girl.

“How do you know?”

“Didn’t you hear the gunfire? And Mr. Jahn has disappeared.”

“When?”

“Last night. He left with Kathleen and her tall boyfriend.”

“Bart? They’ve left?” murmured Helen. “They never said a word to me!”

“Or me,” replied the other girl. “But my room looks out on the street behind the building. I was looking out of the window after the recital and I saw them get into two cars.”

“Two cars? Wouldn’t one have been enough?”

“No, there were other people with them. I saw Lando, the head chef, and those horse-men who were guarding the entrance to the restaurant. They all left together.”

“Where were they going?”

“How do you expect me to know?”

“No, of course you don’t. Sorry.”

Helen stayed in Milena’s room by herself to tidy it up a little. Among the torn-up scores, she came upon the music of “In My Basket,” which had survived. She took it away to her own room and slipped it into the inside pocket of her coat.

Then she went back to bed, to keep warm while she waited for day to dawn.