“Can I have something for Milena? And the end of the tart that we kept for her?”
“I’ll put it all in a basket. Just leave the basket at the library and I’ll collect it tomorrow. When will you be coming back to see me?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try to wait until January for my second outing. I hope there won’t be too much snow to get up here then.”
They stood on the doorstep in each other’s arms for a long time. Helen breathed in Paula’s scent: her apron, her sweater, her hair.
“See you soon, Paula. Thank you. Give Octavo a kiss for me.”
“See you soon, my beauty. I’ll always be here for you.”
Helen hurried along the village streets, carrying the basket. It was still drizzling, and hard to see. She hurried into the library, looking forward to seeing Milena enjoy her baked potatoes. She’d just have time to eat them and the pear tart before they set off to go back to the boarding school.
But when Helen entered the room, she stopped short. It was empty except for the end of a log burning out in the stove.
After the first moment of shock, Helen thought her friend might be upstairs. There was a door at the back of the room, and probably a staircase beyond it.
“Milena! Are you up there?”
She tried to open the door, but it was locked.
“Where are you, Milena?”
Terror rose in her. Why would Milena have gone back ahead of her? Was she afraid of being late? They had plenty of time.
Then she saw a book on the table with a piece of notepaper folded in half sticking out of its pages. Helen snatched it up. Milena’s elegant handwriting covered just four lines:
Helen, I’m not going back to school. Don’t worry. I’m all right. Ask Catharina Pancek to forgive me.
Milena
(Please don’t hate me.)
Helen stood in horror for a full minute, unable to react. Then she felt rising anger. How could Milena do such a thing? How cowardly to leave like that, without any explanation, either! She felt betrayed. Tears of rage came to her eyes. Please don’t hate me. How could she not? At that moment she really did hate her friend. Selfish and irresponsible, that’s what she was! What could she do? Go back to Paula and tell her what had happened? That wouldn’t be any use. Run away? Not go back to the boarding school hersel f? After all, she might as well take her chance, because little Catharina would be put in the Sky anyway. But where would she go? And suppose Milena came back after all? Then she, Helen, would be to blame for Catharina’s imprisonment. Questions came thick and fast in her mind, but no answers.
She put the note in her pocket and left, leaving behind the basket containing the plate of baked potatoes, still warm and wrapped in a cloth, and the slice of pear tart.
As she carefully walked back in the dark, it occurred to her that this would cause a sensation: never in living memory had any girl at the school not returned. If they were allowed out from time to time, it was because of the certainty that no girl would dare to condemn another perfectly innocent comrade to the torment of the Sky. The most cruel punishments stipulated in the school rules sent you there for a few hours, but never for days or weeks. You might even die there, thought Helen.
She retched with anticipation of the shame she’d be feeling in a few minutes when she had to confess to the others that Milena hadn’t come back. “Did she have an accident?” “No, she just hasn’t come back — that’s all.”
The shame of being Milena’s friend . . .
She crossed the bridge, and the memory of her friend’s arm in hers a few hours earlier as they walked over these same paving stones hurt her. It was a few minutes after nine when she reached the lodge and presented herself to the Skeleton. The woman, seeing Helen on her own, realized that her hour of glory might be about to come: after twenty-five years keeping watch at this gate, she would at last be able to tell the headmistress that a pupil had failed to return. “That’s right, Headmistress. She hasn’t come back!” She took her time savoring this once-in-a-lifetime moment.
“You went out at . . . let’s see, at eleven minutes past six?”
No, not until six thirty, and it was your fault, thought Helen, but she had learned to control herself.
“Yes, eleven minutes past six,” she said.
“And now it’s only seven minutes past nine, so you’re back on time.”
“Yes, I’m back on time,” agreed Helen, thinking Go on, spit your venom out. You’re just dying to.
The acrid smoke of cigarettes got up her nose and into her eyes. Did no one ever open the window here? The Skeleton hemmed and hawed for a few seconds, and then breathed, in a barely audible voice, “So . . . what about the girl who sings?”
“She isn’t here,” was all Helen said.
“She’ll be back by eleven minutes past nine at the latest, of course?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“That’s right. I don’t know.”
“Well, we’ll wait for her together. Then we will know. And we can keep each other company. Do you like company?”
Her small, bloodshot eyes held the sheer cruelty of a snake.
“Yes, I like company,” said Helen in an expressionless voice, gritting her teeth and trying to suppress her urge to hit this sadist.
The minute hand went around the dial of the clock on the wall three times. It seemed an eternity. Come back, Milena. Please walk into the lodge. Bring this nightmare to an end.
“Still not here,” remarked the Skeleton, pretending to be upset, though her delight was obvious.
Her cigarette was burning out in the ashtray. Forgetting about it, she lit another. Her hands shook as she pushed in a plug on her switchboard and picked up the phone. After a few seconds she had an answer on the line.
“Good evening. This is Miss Fitzfischer in the lodge . . .”
Miss Fitzfischer! Well, at least I’ve learned something new today, thought Helen. Who’d have guessed that the Skeleton’s name was Fitzfischer?
“May I speak to the headmistress, please? It’s urgent.”
The conversation was very short. Helen thought the Skeleton was going to have a stroke as she told her news, her voice was shaking so much with excitement.
“. . . Yes, that’s right. One of the pupils has failed to return. . . . Her name? Milena Bach, year four. . . . Definitely, Headmistress. . . . Yes, Headmistress. . . . Yes, the other girl is back. She . . . oh, absolutely, Headmistress. . . .”
“May I go back to the dormitory?” Helen asked when the Skeleton had hung up. She realized that she was breaking Rule 17, which forbade the students to ask adults any questions.
But the Skeleton was in such a state that she didn’t notice. “Yes, you can go.”
The dormitory, a vast room with fifty or so bunk beds and gray metal lockers, was above the refectory. In the faint glow of the night-lights Helen passed through the first part, where the youngest girls slept, amid whispers and the rustling of sheets. There was still a light on in Miss Zesch’s cubicle in the corner, casting vague shadows on the ceiling. When Helen reached her bed, near the windows, she sat down on the edge of it to take her shoes off. For the first time in more than three years, Milena’s bed, the one above hers, would be empty. She undressed, put on her nightgown, and disappeared under the covers, head and all. Less than ten seconds later, she heard Vera Plasil, in the next bed, whispering.
“Where’s Milena?”
Helen timidly emerged. “She hasn’t come back.”
“Will she be coming?”
“I don’t think so.”
Vera groaned. “Oh, no! I don’t believe it! So who was picked for punishment?”
“Catharina Pancek.”