Horizon (18 page)

The girl repeated her question. Lennox said, “Please?” politely. He noticed, with approval, the high cheekbones and the almost classical line of nose and chin. The texture of her skin was smooth, its colour was vivid and alive. Beauty, when it is natural, is overpowering.

“Are you going to the village?” she asked for the third time. She was smiling now.

“Yes.”

“Then we can walk together.” She wasn’t smiling any more.
In repose, there was a certain sadness, almost a tenseness, in her face. She looked sideways at him as he fell into step beside her.

“I didn’t see you there this morning.” Her voice was polite.

“No. I have only just arrived.”

“You are a stranger?”

“I’m Frau Schichtl’s nephew. Peter Schichtl. Before the war I lived in the Zillertal.”

“Then you are Johann’s cousin.” The warmth of her voice should have warned him, but he was still watching that line of throat and chin.

“Yes.”

“Why did you come to the South Tyrol?”

“I’ve no home left up north. My mother died while I was in the Army.” He thought grimly of the double meaning to his words. His people had indeed died while he was in the Army—a landmine in Chiswick had blotted out everything that had formed his home.

“Your brothers and sisters?”

“Scattered. I don’t know where they are.” Again it was bitterly true. The war had altered a lot of things. “Are you here on leave from the Army?”

“Discharged.” And that would probably be true, too. The murals on the church wall had reminded him of his hand. If he couldn’t hold a pencil he couldn’t hold a gun. He’d be discharged, all right. The bitterness in his voice reached the girl, for she was silent.

“You are sorry you are no longer in the Army?” she asked after a pause.

“Yes,” he replied shortly. He noticed a shade of disappointment pass over her face. She looked at him coldly, almost accusingly.
And he remembered, as he felt the first blight of disapproval, that she had been referring to the German Army.

After that she fell silent. They were walking on the road now, and on either side were scattered houses built among the trees which encircled Hinterwald. Then suddenly the road became a village street. There was a fountain, with the gaily coloured wooden figure of a child holding an emptying pitcher out of which the water fell in a thin arc. There was a row of white houses winding downhill, with their carved wooden balconies and broad gable ends turned towards the street. Other houses were scattered in depth behind those on the street. None were in a straight row—the broad, flat roofs angled in every direction. There was a feeling of independence in the disarray of houses which were, in themselves, so well-designed and neat.

Lennox heard the voices of children, and their laughter. Ahead of him was the band, and people listening to the music. He halted. The girl stopped walking too, and watched him curiously. It was difficult for him to pretend to be as placid as these groups of oldish men who talked so quietly together, their weather-beaten faces impassive under the white-plumed hats. It had been nearly three years since he had seen a crowd of people enjoying themselves, since he had seen so many women gathered together.

The young girls stood like a cluster of blonde statues, tall and broad-shouldered. Their hands were folded in front of the wide, deep layers of their skirts, as they gravely watched the red-faced musicians. Their restraint, their quietness, emphasised the strength of their bodies. Some older women stood behind the girls and watched them carefully, proudly. The children, with fair hair bleached silver, darted about among the
spreading skirts and bright silk aprons, pursuing mysterious games, laughing for no obvious reason at all. He had forgotten how children could laugh. Over nothing.

Lennox’s throat tightened, and there was a pin-pricking behind his eyes. Bloody hell, he thought, and looked quickly away from the people to the inanimate houses. This girl beside him wasn’t going to see him turn sentimental. He stared fixedly at the wall of the nearest house. And there, under a coat of white paint he could see the dimmed outlines of giant black lettering which had once greeted those arriving in the village. It was the Fascist slogan:
Crédere
—
Obbedire
—
Combáttere.
Believe, obey, fight. Lennox’s eyes hardened. He was in complete control again. It took more than a coat of paint, he was thinking, to obliterate that memory.

The girl said quietly, “We left it still showing. It’s our monument to remind us of what the Fascists did to our village.” She was watching his expression, and she became more friendly. “If you didn’t come down to see the procession this morning why do you come down now? You shouldn’t have come. See, there are few young men here now.”

“I was sent down here. Two Germans came to the house and told me to come. I have to register at the police station.”

“So here you are—just like that!” She stared at him in scorn and amazement. And then she was alarmed. “They came to the
Schichtl
house?”

He looked at her in some surprise. “Yes.”

“What did they want?”

“I don’t know. They asked questions, and then they went away. I don’t know.”

The girl looked at him as if he were a complete fool. He had
to admit he had tried to give that impression. And then he saw she was angry because she was afraid.

“Was Johann with you?”

“No. He’s in the village.”

“He isn’t. He hasn’t been here all afternoon.” The lovely face was tense with worry. “Can I trust you?” she asked suddenly, pathetically. “Johann is in danger. These two Germans came to question him. He’s in danger, and it is my fault.”

Lennox was looking at her so uncomprehendingly that she began an urgent, rambling explanation. Her voice was low as if she were afraid that a passer-by might overhear; it was hurried as if she knew there was little time. She had trusted her uncle. She had not seen him for a long time except for his two visits to Bozen at Christmas and Easter, for when their house in Hinterwald had been closed he had gone to live in the North Tyrol. She had preferred to stay in Bozen with her cousins. When he visited them it seemed natural that he should ask news about their old village, about the people she was meeting in Bozen. And she had, without thinking, answered his questions about Johann Schichtl.

When she finished Lennox was staring at her.

She misinterpreted his expression. “Do you understand what I mean? You must warn Johann. He avoided me today. You will tell him?”

Lennox smiled slowly. “You are mistaken,” he said. “Johann isn’t in danger. He has done nothing to put himself in danger. What danger is there?”

The blue eyes looked at him in anger. “You are a fool,” she said.

He avoided her gaze. “Yes?” he asked quietly. He was
looking down the village street again. At the door of the Hotel Post he saw Johann. And beyond, at a safe distance, he saw two men lounging against a wall. They were listening to the band, which was now marching determinedly, if somewhat exhaustedly, towards the Hotel Post’s garden. Their heads had turned away from him, but he knew that they had seen him. They were dressed in ordinary clothes, of the colour and shape which he had seen entering the Kasal barn this afternoon. So he had brought them back to the village, and away from the Schichtl house. At least, he had managed the second stage of the job.

He looked once more at the girl, and smiled generously. He was thinking of all the German tricks. He couldn’t have played a safer game than to look a fool. Her report to her uncle and his Nazi friends would give him a lot of comfort.

He was surprised to see her anger give way to tears. She said again, with difficulty, “Please tell Johann.”

“Tell him yourself. He’s over there.” Lennox nodded to the door of the Hotel Post.

She looked, and she was obviously surprised. And then she shook her head. “He will avoid me if I go over, as all the others have been avoiding me.” She turned towards him and said bitterly, “Why do you think I was in the church this afternoon? I’ll tell you. I was running away from eyes in the street. Eyes which dislike me. That’s why I was in the church.” Her voice changed again. It was almost lifeless now. “Once I had friends here. When I came back here from Bozen I thought I would be happy. But I found today that I was mistaken. I’ve been mistaken in many things, it seems. My uncle—Won’t you believe me? Have you never known someone you loved and
trusted, someone who was separated from you for five years whom you still loved and trusted? And then you found that, although he looked the same, spoke the same, seemed the same, he had changed here”—she placed her clenched fist over her heart—“and there?” Her hand went to her brow.

Lennox was quite motionless. His voice was cold and hard. “It doesn’t take five years. Six months is long enough with some women.”

The girl was watching him. She was neither curious nor angry any more. She touched his arm gently for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said, so quietly that he could hardly hear her words. “You do know, then, that I speak the truth.” She wondered what woman had changed in six months to hurt this man so deeply. Perhaps when he was away at the war. It would hurt most then.

He left her suddenly, as if he had read her thoughts.

She would have run after him, even if the whole village had laughed at her. But her uncle, sober-faced, soberly dressed in ordinary town clothes, was coming towards her. She waited, wondering what he would have to say now.

* * *

Johann took his hands out of his tight pockets, and removed the weight of his shoulder from the inn door. But he did not look at Lennox. His eyes looked beyond, to the street: “That was Eva Mussner,” he said.

Lennox nodded.

Johann was still watching. “Her uncle has reached her,” he reported. “They are talking... She is walking with him... They are going towards the Mussner house. And our two German snoopers are moving towards it too, and they’ve reached it,
and they’ve gone inside. The Mussners have now reached the house also... They’ve entered it...” His voice was bitter. In his heart he had defended Eva Mussner, even if he had accepted his family’s judgment for security’s sake. In his heart he had hoped he could find proof that his family was wrong. And here was proof of another kind. The girl and her uncle had followed the two Germans into the Mussner house, as if by some prearranged plan. No doubt the Germans had thought of it, and given Mussner his instructions when they had seen the Schichtls’ cousin talking so seriously with the girl.

Johann said roughly, “Come on. My mother and Frau Kasal are waiting for us. Come on.”

Lennox still had nothing to say. He had resisted the momentary temptation to turn and look at the Mussner house. For all he knew, the Germans might be now watching from its windows to see how interested Johann and he were. Well, they weren’t interested. Johann and he were now entering the inn.

Johann led the way. In the dark, wood-panelled, flag-stoned hall he said, “What’s wrong with you? Did you tell Eva Mussner too much?” He smiled derisively. “She’s easy to talk to, isn’t she?”

“She learned nothing.”

Lennox pretended to look at the carved design on the nearest panel. It represented a harvesting scene, with thick stacks of rye ready for the miller and rich vines heavy with grapes for the wine-press. The artist had dated his work 1771. Lennox kept looking at the date. He was seeing it, but he wasn’t even thinking about it: it was just something to fix his eyes on, to avoid looking at Johann.

“Tell me, Johann,” he said very quickly, “do you think she is
with her uncle in this?”

Johann said gruffly, “She’s certainly with him at this moment.”

Lennox stopped looking at the carved panel. The two men eyed each other carefully. But they said nothing more.

In the little wine-room some of the older men and women were resting. Tired children sat obediently beside their grandparents. Their small, fair heads leaned back against the panelled walls, and their short legs stuck out numbly from the broad high benches. Above them the wooden panels were carved out into elaborate hunting scenes, but the children were too weary even to look at the stags and the chamois. Their bodies drooped with temporary exhaustion. For once they were silent, and only asked questions with their eyes.

Frau Schichtl had chosen one of the long tables, and beside her—talking worriedly, seriously—was a thin-faced woman who was evidently Frau Kasal. There were others at the table too, but they had grouped round Frau Schichtl and they were talking so continuously that they scarcely noticed the two young men beyond a polite phrase of greeting and a dignified bow. Usually a stranger would have excited interest. But today the people of the village were too occupied in hiding their worries by argument among themselves. They had too many questions of their own, still unanswered. Young Schichtl and his cousin seated themselves at the unoccupied end of the table. They seemed, outwardly, to belong to this party of peasants; actually, they were as isolated as if they had had a small table of their own. And they were less noticeable this way. Johann’s next words confirmed that. With his elbow on the table, and his chin cupped in his hand so that the movement of his lips
was scarcely noticeable, he said, “We can talk here.”

“Give me five minutes,” Lennox answered. Johann nodded, and became absorbed in ordering some wine.

Peter Lennox slumped on the hard bench as completely as the children. He would rest for five minutes and let his body relax completely. Then he would start shaping the plan which had begun to exist in his mind. For he must have a solid, simple plan; he must have a basis on which he could improvise, as he had been told to do. That was his job.

Around him was the constant rise and fall of voices. He watched the black flies circling aimlessly above the wooden table, and listened to their steady humming. Frau Schichtl and her friends were talking, but he heard nothing. He tried to think about nothing, too. But he kept thinking of Eva Mussner. She knew all the tricks, he decided bitterly. And then he was conscious that Johann was refilling his glass with wine, that Johann was waiting with eager impatience. Lennox pushed aside his glass, and rested his elbows on the table. He didn’t look at Johann. He was watching the others, as if what they were discussing interested him. Johann was studying the jerky progress of a thirsty fly, as it scouted round the edge of some spilled wine.