‘Every decent village built shelters like this one for the protection of young girls — they’ve done it ever since the Tatars invaded,’ Mr Cimbura muttered, ‘but these Russians with their modern spy satellite technology, they can ferret out any woman anywhere, even underground. Never used to be like that, no sir! This time we failed, that’s all there is to it!’
‘So the Russians found ’em?’
‘Some they found, some they didn’t, sonny. This time we just failed,’ said Mr Cimbura.
Páta said it was not a bad place to live, here in the girls’ bunker. He’d known worse… and he and Sister Alberta tended to Mr Cimbura’s wounds, since a symbol of national resistance like Mr Cimbura should never fall into Soviet hands!
‘And what about the sisters?’ I asked Sister Alberta, and she murmured that the Lord of Heaven is competent at His job, and every peasant is mindful that ‘dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return’, and so the Lord returns human lives to nothing, as He sees fit.
I hadn’t a clue what she was on about.
And Páta said that only Sister Alberta had come back to Siřem, because she was a local and her papers said that she was a resident of the village, so she had to wait there to be evacuated. And Sister Alberta said she couldn’t care less about any evacuation — that there in the vault they made up the last cohesive Siřem family, taking turns to tend to the old man’s wounds. Mr Cimbura would only emerge into the light of God’s day when he was fully fit again, and as a symbol of national resistance his miraculous appearance would provoke another uprising. All three of them said this at once.
Then I told them about the villages with no people in them, and I asked, ‘Where have all the people gone?’
‘Look,’ said Páta, ‘when I saw you up top, I attacked you… I thought you’d escaped from a train. I’m sorry I went for you like that. Those runaways steal all the time, because they don’t have nothing… and there isn’t room in the girls’ bunker for everyone… I didn’t know it was you. I’m sorry, okay? You forgive me now, don’t you?’
‘What are those train runaways running away from?’
‘Don’t you know?’ asked Páta, amazed. ‘Everyone who lived here has been put on a train to Russia. Everybody from the insurgency zone. They say you get given a new cottage and stuff, but I’m not so sure… I don’t wanna go!’
‘Me neither,’ I said.
‘So stay,’ said Páta, and lay on his back. Then we were silent. I lay in some rags, the steam coming off me. It was hot in there. The candles flickered. I lay still and dried out. I didn’t think about what Mr Cimbura had said about my parents. I was thinking about what he had said about those Russian satellites. Maybe they can’t see Mr Cimbura and Sister Alberta because old people don’t have as much body heat. But they could pick up me and Páta. A platoon of Soviet paras could burst in on us at any moment. I wasn’t going to hang around. I didn’t care what Mr Cimbura said about my parents. Not one bit!
Now I sprawled out in some comfort. I heard Páta yawn. It was a good thing the girls or someone had brought in so many blankets. Down here you couldn’t even hear the shellfire or anything. If the new Russians had joined Yegorov’s tank column, we knew nothing about it.
I looked at Páta and remembered: Gypsy cowboy. I couldn’t help laughing.
‘What’s up?’ Páta said.
‘Oh, nothing.’
Then Mr Cimbura piped up, and I, just as I had in my childhood long ago, ensconced in empty tar-soap boxes, listened, half-asleep, to Mr Cimbura’s fairy story. In those bygone days we weren’t hiding in a vault in the cemetery, while tanks and planes bent on our destruction rumbled overhead. I listened to the story of the dragon’s egg for the first time.
‘So, lads, I’m going to tell you how this Siřem of ours came into being, and who founded it hundreds and hundreds of years ago,’ said Mr Cimbura. ‘I’m telling you so that our squire here and his most esteemed delinquent brother know about it. Seeing as all the other locals have gone, you two stalwart sons of Czechia are the only ones left to keep alive this ancient legend… So listen carefully and stop fidgeting. Bullets are whizzing about outside and disorder reigns, but we’re here, tucked away in our snug little hole, so I’m going to tell you about the wayfarer…
‘Once upon a time, long, long ago, the wise men and militant boyars of the czar of the Eastern Empire decided they weren’t going to leave the world until it was all theirs. So they sent out this wayfarer to find the weapon with which they could subjugate the whole world… And the wayfarer rode away, until he came to a soot-stained signpost, on which it said: CAUTION: BOHEMIA! Well, the wayfarer wasn’t afraid, so he spurred on his horse… After travelling far across the wilderness, he came to a cottage, see? Inside it was a man and a woman, and their son, a chubby little lad who was a delight to behold.
‘And who else does the wayfarer see? A beautiful girl… She’s got these great big eyes, the skies float in them; her hair shimmers halfway down her back; and she’s got this gorgeous figure, a neck as white as snow, full breasts rising under her blouse, and a throat of radiant alabaster… She’s the purest of maidens… but then, there are no blokes living anywhere nearby, because they’ve all killed each other fighting or gone away or something!
‘The girl was sitting on a little stool, sewing. She was embroidering a white shift, and that shift was for her wedding day! Well, they welcomed him in: “A wayfarer’s arrived!” The girl gave him something to drink, and they all said, “When Grandfather returns, he will rejoice!” And the wayfarer learned that the old man had been in the forest for two days, hunting a wolf, but was expected home soon.
‘After dinner they went to bed. They all slept in the parlour, though they let the wayfarer have the lumber room, him being a guest. Only the little lad slept in the lumber room, and he didn’t disturb anyone, he just whistled gently through his little nose.
‘Well, that night the wayfarer’s mind turned to that gem of a girl, but he was all worn out from his journey and fell asleep.
‘Next day, they were working in the fields and the wayfarer helped out. They appreciated his strength and skill, which was good news for him, because a powerful love was growing in his heart for the beautiful daughter!
‘That evening, the wayfarer played with the little boy, and he was full of high spirits, and they all appreciated how good he was with children, which was more good news for him, given as how all he could think about was that girl!
‘Well, there they were, having dinner again, only in silence. And when the meal was over and they had blessed themselves with a crucifix, the wayfarer took the Cross and put it outside the door. Then they told him about the grandfather.
‘The old man had said that he was going after a wolf. “If I’m not back by nightfall on the third day,” he had said, “or if I’ve been at all mauled by the wolf, don’t let me in. It’ll be me, but it won’t be me.”
‘“I see,” said the father, and he picked up a wooden stake and started sharpening it with his knife.
‘Come the next evening and they heard this scratching at the door, and the little lad jumped up and said, “Grandpa’s back!” and they heard the loud voice of the old man saying, “Open the door!”
‘And the father said, “You’re too late, Dad.”
‘Well, the woman and the boy begged him to open the door, as Grandpa was only a teeny bit late for dinner! He’d been chasing a wolf for three days! He was worn out!
‘The father half-opened the door and said, “Show us the wolf’s head, Dad!” But the moment the door was open the old man came inside.
‘The father said, “Where’s the wolf’s head, Dad?” The old man let out a terrible groan — “Ooooaaaaaaa!” — and lifted his head, and through his whiskers they could all see his mangled throat.