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.
The two cars crossed Royal Bridge together and drove away into the freezing night, going east. Jahn led at the wheel of his heavy Panhard. A young horse-man beside him, unsure where to put his long legs, was kneading the cap he held on his knees.
“I’m your bodyguard, Mr. Jahn. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right. What’s your name?”
“Jocelin.”
“Well, Jocelin, your job is to protect me in case of any violence. Me and the passengers in the back seat.”
“Right, Mr. Jahn. I’ll protect you.”
He didn’t have to say any more. The fists he raised slightly spoke for him; they were as heavy as anvils.
In the back of the car Milena, Bartolomeo, and Dora were huddling close together to keep warm. Before they left, Milena had just had time to run to her room and fetch her things.
“Hurry,” Jahn had told her. “We won’t be back here for some time.”
Flinging her clothes and a few favorite things into her bag, she had thought that perhaps they were going to take her from place to place to sing for more audiences. She wouldn’t have minded. The pleasure she’d felt in her first recital promised great future happiness. But that wasn’t it. On the contrary, as soon as he had left the city behind and felt certain that no one was following him, Jahn told the two women that they were going to have to hide — again. Whatever happened, they must avoid falling into the hands of the barbarians. He knew a safe place where they would both stay as long as necessary, he said.
“What was the point of giving the recital, then?” asked Milena, unable to hide her disappointment.
“What was the point?” repeated Jahn, laughing. “Do you know what will happen after tonight?”
“No.”
“What will happen is that hundreds of people who heard you and Dora will tell hundreds of others about it, and they in their turn will pass on the story to thousands more. All these people will be saying that Milena Bach, Eva-Maria Bach’s daughter, sang for an hour accompanied by Dora. They’ll describe the way everyone rose to their feet to sing an encore of “In My Basket.” Tomorrow the news will spread through the whole country, through towns and villages, all the way to the most remote houses. When you sang, you stirred the embers into flames, understand? People will come out of hiding and throw more fuel on the flames — twigs, branches. They’ll fan it into a blaze that becomes a vast conflagration. That’s what will happen, Milena.”
She didn’t reply. She found it hard to imagine that she had been able to unleash such forces by herself.
“Why didn’t you warn me I was going to sing?” she asked.
“It was a Resistance secret, and although you were very closely concerned, there was no need for you to know. Are you annoyed?”
“I don’t know. A little. It means you thought I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and Dora could. I’m not a little girl, you know. Still, what does it matter? Anyway, I’d have died of fright if I’d known in advance.”
“Well, there you are.”
They drove on through the countryside for about an hour, then followed a straight road through a forest of spruce trees. Dora gloomily watched the dark trees pass by in the headlights. At a junction, the second car, driven by the head chef, Lando, tooted its horn briefly and stopped. Jahn stopped too, sixty feet farther on. Turning around, Milena saw two horse-men get out of the car, propelling a man with a hood over his head in front of them.