How easy it would be to sit here like this and die, he thought. To let the cold take you. The thought began to seem very promising and he closed his eyes. He remembered how, when he was a boy of twelve, he and his father and a group from Prokev had gone out looking for one of the villagers who had become lost in a blizzard whilst searching for his sheep. They had found him two days later, frozen solid, sitting on the ground with his legs crossed as if meditating. His eyes had been closed and Anatole had thought at the time how peaceful the man had looked. As if he had just fallen off to sleep. The eternal sleep of death.
Now Anatole himself sat silently, prepared to give himself up to that eternal sleep, so tired of fighting the cold and his own internal pain. He thought of his mother and father once more, of that bastard Kleiser machine-gunning them both and something stirred within him. He shook himself, suddenly reluctant to permit death such easy access. Anatole got to his feet and walked to the mouth of the hole, parting the branches which covered it.
The snow had stopped, only grey clouds above him served as a reminder that there could well be more to come.
The youth shivered, rubbed his hands together again then slapped his sides in an effort to retain some precious warmth. He carried on like that for some time then he ventured outside the overhang a few yards, reaching for some of the lower branches. The wood was frozen and harder to break but Anatole persevered until, with a snap like a breaking bone, he succeeded in wrenching one of the stouter branches free. He hefted it before him, a thin smile on his face. He repeated the procedure until he had half a dozen such lengths of wood, each about as long as his arm. Then, satisfied with his little collection, he retreated back into the hole.
He took the knife out once more and, one by one, began shaving lumps off one end of the wooden lengths until they were all wickedly sharp. He took a length of the rabbit hide from around his wrist and bound the six ‘spears’ together so that they would be easier to carry.
By the time that task was completed he felt tired enough to lay down on the cold stone once again only this time sleep came easily.
Outside, the wind wailed mournfully and the moon was smothered by another bank of thick cloud.
Chapter Four
When Anatole awoke the next morning a watery sun had risen in the sky and its weak rays fell across him like spidery fingers. He sat up and yawned, shivering immediately as he felt the sting in the air. Despite the appearance of the sun, it was still just below freezing and he had nothing to wear other than the tunic in which he’d fled the day before.
He got to his feet and walked to the opening of the overhang, the bundle of sharpened sticks held by the thong of rabbit skin. Before him, the land fell away beneath a blanket of white which seemed to glow as the sun reflected off it. Ice crystals sparkled like millions of tiny diamonds and, as Anatole emerged from his hiding place, the snow crunched beneath his boots. He looked around anxiously but there was no sign of movement in any direction, animal or human. Ahead of him lay a range of low hills, masked by trees but Anatole knew that, in that craggy range there were caves and he could hide out indefinitely in one of them if the need arose. He and his father had ridden out this way many times when he was younger and he knew the countryside well.
The thought of his father suddenly seemed to tear the breath from him and he slowed his pace, pushing through the trees with less determination. He swallowed hard and thought, for a second, that he was going to cry again but the feeling passed rapidly and Anatole now found that his grief was tempered by anger and the vision of his father and mother was gradually merging as one with the figure of that black-coated bastard Kleiser.
As he walked, Anatole began to wonder just what he was going to do. If he found shelter, which he hoped too, he couldn’t remain there forever, hidden away like some kind of skulking beast. He had to find other people. His own people. The thought sruck him hard once again. He had no people of his own. His parents, his friends, even his village had been eradicated by the SS. He had nowhere to go. He wondered if he could stay hidden until the war ended. If it ever did…
He allowed the thought to trail off.
There was a road just ahead, beyond it more trees and then the first gentle slopes of the hills. Anatole ducked low in the bushes and listened for any sounds drifting through the still morning air. The tell-tale sounds of clanking equipment, the squeaking of tank tracks. He heard nothing and, cautiously, moved out a few steps, glancing both ways. The road snaked away in either direction, the snow which had covered it deeply scored by lorry wheels. Some heavy vehicles had passed along it and recently too, he guessed. He knelt and inspected the tracks momentarily then got to his feet and sprinted across into the enveloping cover of the trees beyond. Whether the tyre tracks had been made by German or Russian vehicles Anatole didn’t know, all he was concerned about was reaching the relative safety of the hills. He quickened his pace, finding that the woodland was becoming less dense the higher he climbed. Gentle slopes gradually gave way to thick outcrops of jagged rock which protruded from the hillsides like splinters. Anatole clawed his way up over them, searching for somewhere to hide.
He almost missed the cave completely.
The entrance was masked by fallen branches and driven snow and the boy had to haul the dead wood aside in order to gain entry.
As he moved slowly into the gloom of the cave he recoiled slightly from the fetid odour inside, a mixture of damp and something much stronger which grew more powerful the deeper he went. Quite how far back into the hillside the cave went he could only guess but it was becoming difficult for him to see and, twice, he fell over pieces of rock. Rubbing his knees he got to his feet and picked up the bundle of sharpened sticks, feeling the uneven ground with his boot tip as he moved.
The smell was almost overpowering by now and Anatole stopped, trying to figure out what it was. It had a vague familiarity about it but he couldn’t yet place it.
Just ahead of him he heard breathing.
The breath caught in his throat and he backed off a step.
For a moment, Anatole thought his ears were playing tricks on him, perhaps it was just the wind whistling inside the cave.
The breathing came again, low and guttural. And rhythmic. He swallowed hard and squinted into the gloom, trying to discover who his unwelcome companion in darkness was. The breathing continued and the youth tried, with shaking hands, to undo the strip of rabbit fur which bound the six sticks together. He pulled the knot and they clattered noisily to the floor of the cave. Almost moaning aloud, he dropped to his knees to retrieve one, terrified that he had disturbed the occupant of the cave. He found one of the deadly shafts and gripped it with both hands then, as his eyes gradually became accustomed to the gloom, he advanced towards the guttural rasping.
His foot touched something soft and he jumped back.
Lying before him was a bear.
It was large, perhaps as big as a man and it was sleeping, hibernating he guessed. It was the bear he had heard snoring. And the smell was suddenly identifiable. His father had killed a bear once and brought it back to the village. The animal had been skinned, its fat used to make candles, the skin cut up to make hats and gloves. Now Anatole stood over the animal and raised the sharpened stick high above his head. It was his own breath which he heard coming in gasps now.