Night slowly began to draw in, crushing the sun, draining it of its colour, it oozed crimson into the sky and stained all around it the colour of blood.
With the coming darkness came the cold and, before long, an icy wind was whipping down from the hills. Schiller and the others picked up their gear and tramped across to one of the barns. Once inside they fell down onto the piles of straw and curled up like so many mice. The straw offered a certain warmth and, in their dreams, men could imagine themselves in a bed with clean sheets and blankets. Such a luxury they had not seen since the war began.
Sergeant Foss turned up the wick on the oil-lamp and the room became brighter. The faces of the men inside took on a curious yellow glow in the light of the flame.
Captain Ritter looked closely at the young girl across the remains of his dinner. He was sitting at the table in the kitchen of the farmhouse. Standing beside him was Foss, on his left were Herzog and, holding a protective arm around the two children, Synovski. The girl had calmed down slightly during the time she had been with them but still not enough to eat the pitiful little meal which they had offered her. The boy, on the other hand, seemed quite relaxed and gazed up at the German soldiers in wonder rather than fear. Perhaps he was too young to understand, thought Herzog. The boy reminded Foss of his youngest child and he had to fight hard to retain his composure at the thought of his family.
“Ask her if she knows anything about the Russians,” said Ritter, pressing his fingertips together, watching while Synovski repeated the question in Polish. The girl looked up and shook her head. Her big brown eyes filled again and it looked as if she was going to cry but the Pole said something to her and she nodded, even trying to smile.
“What about the partisans?” Ritter wanted to know.
Synovski asked and the captain sat forward when the girl began to speak. “What did she say?” he demanded eagerly. The Pole shrugged. “She doesn’t know what partisans are.”
Foss looked across at Herzog and suppressed a snigger, the corporal smiled.
“Does the boy know anything?”
“What about?” sighed Synovski.
“I want to know if he’s seen the Russians,” said Ritter.
The Pole dropped to one knee so that he was looking into the boy’s face, then murmured something quietly. The child smiled at him but said nothing. Synovski got to his feet.
“He knows nothing.”
Ritter pulled at his bottom lip, contemplatively, then sat forward again. “Ask her who shot her mother.”
The Pole repeated the words and the girl suddenly began to babble away. Ritter smiled.
“She says the men had black uniforms,” said Synovski.
“S.S.” muttered Herzog, reaching into his pocket. He took out the cartridge-case and laid it before Ritter. “I found that beside the body. It’s from a Luger.”
Ritter picked it up and studied it.
“We should have realised,” said Herzog, “This has got S.S. written all over it.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the captain.
“The woman was neck-shot,” the corporal told him, “that’s their favourite trick.”
“There must have been a reason for it.”
Herzog grunted indignantly.
“The other boy had a rifle,” added the captain. He stood up and crossed to the children, who looked at him fearfully. “Ask her where her brother got the rifle,” he told Synovski and the Pole translated.
“She said it belonged to her father,” he replied.
Ritter sneered. “It was a Russian rifle.”
“What the hell do you expect him to have?” snapped Herzog. “A Mauser?”
The captain ignored the remark and kept his eyes fixed on the two children. “Find out how they came to be hiding in the barn and what happened to their father.”
Synovski asked and then listened intently as the girl recounted her story, barely pausing for breath. Their father had seen the S.S. jeep coming and had told them to hide in the barn. The men had taken her mother inside the house, she had heard the shot, then they had put her father in the jeep and taken him away. The girl began to cry.
Ritter sneered. “They were probably all partisans,” he said.
“Even the boy?” asked Herzog, pointing to the child. “At ten years old?”
“Age has no meaning in matters like this.”
“Captain, for God’s sake, we haven’t seen or heard anything of partisans and the bloody S.S. didn’t either. They were probably out for blood and this happened to be the first place they came too.” He shook his head angrily.
“Everyone is under suspicion,” shouted Ritter, “I want these children kept under guard until morning.”
“And then what?” asked Herzog.
Ritter clasped his hands behind his back and rocked to and fro on his heels. “I will decide tomorrow,” he said. “You may leave.”
Synovski ushered the children out, keeping his arm around them as a protection against the biting wind. The girl shivered and began to weep softly but the Pole lifted her up and kissed her gently on the forehead. Foss took the boy and, together, they walked to the barn. All around, men were huddled together, wrapped in blankets and greatcoats. They looked up as the three men passed, some shuffling aside to make a path. Herzog looked down at the row of sanguine faces and a great feeling of weariness came over him.
They reached the barn and walked in. Across by one wall was Schiller, his loud snores ensuring that few of the others got much sleep. Herzog kicked him.
“What the fuck is it?” mumbled Schiller, looking up.
The corporal put a finger to his lips and pointed to the children. “We’ve got visitors, keep quiet.” Schiller muttered something and rolled over. Herzog grinned and padded over to the other side of the barn where Foss and Synovski had covered the children with their greatcoats. They were already asleep. The Pole leant over and kissed the little girl on the cheek.
“I wonder where her father is,” whispered Foss, stroking the boy’s hair. Herzog sat down beside them. “Dangling from a tree somewhere, I shouldn’t wonder,” he said.
“Maybe Ritter was right,” said Synovski, “he could have been a partisan.”
Herzog shook his head. “Maybe. But, like I said, chances are he was just unlucky.”
“We’re all unlucky,” said the Pole, “being stuck in the middle of this lot.” He shook his head and looked down at the sleeping children. “What do you think he’ll do with them?”
“What does it say in the rule-book about children?” snarled the corporal bitterly. “Because if it’s not in there he won’t know what to do.”
“Do you think he’ll shoot them?” the Pole persisted.
Silence greeted this question; he looked into the faces of his companions, searching their eyes for an answer, but none was visible. He looked down at the children.
The Pole didn’t sleep much that night and, as dawn climbed over the horizon, he was sitting up waiting for it. The sky suddenly became brighter and the men in the yard began to rouse themselves. They stood up, stiff with cold and hunger, many urinating where they stood. Others preferred the privacy of the cattle-shed. It had become a communal latrine and, as Synovski watched, he could see the steam rising from it into the crisp early-morning air. He woke Herzog and Foss and their movements, in turn, disturbed the children who pulled their coats tighter round them and peered out into the daylight.
Tents were taken down, gasmask cases which had been used as rough pillows were returned to their rightful positions. Some men lit up cigarettes and, soon, the sound of coughing filled the air.