The two bodyguards did not like each other. Theophilus thought that Earless was a stupid thug—which he was—and Earless thought that Theophilus was a slimy creep—which was true also—but the two men made a good pair. One had brains and the other had brawn—and Stiefelbreich had taken a lot of trouble to get hold of them for his latest assignment in Bergania.
Baron Gambetti arrived in Stiefelbreich’s room through the back entrance of the Blue Ox. He was extremely nervous; his goatee beard trembled slightly and he was sweating, but when he entered the room and saw the colonel he took heart. The bodyguards at the door, the glittering medals, the man’s air of importance were reassuring. In encouraging the Gestapo to come to the aid of Bergania he was doing the right thing, Gambetti told himself. He was saving his country from the king’s foolish obstinacy. The future lay with the people that Stiefelbreich represented.
“Heil, Hitler!” said the colonel, and Gambetti cleared his throat and said, “Heil, Hitler,” in a slightly squeaky voice.
“I have messages for you from our headquarters. The chief of the Gestapo is appreciative of the information you have sent to us. I take it there has been no change?”
“Not as far as I know, Colonel,” said Gambetti.
“Good. Good. In that case I think it is time for us to act for the good of your beautiful country. We have great affection for Bergania—I used to come skiing here with my family when the children were small. It will be a pleasure for us to rescue the country from the king’s obstinacy and folly.”
Baron Gambetti nodded. “It seems impossible to make him see that there is no future for countries that oppose the might and strength of Germany. We must join the great German Reich or be trampled underfoot. But the king is obstinate—his prime minister, too, old von Arkel. He will never give in to Herr Hitler’s demands, which are, after all, not unreasonable. As a Berganian patriot I feel it is my duty to help you,” he said.
“Quite so,” said Stiefelbreich. “In that case we had better get down to details.”
An hour later Gambetti let himself into his villa behind the botanical gardens and found his wife in her dressing room.
“I hope you didn’t weaken, Philippe,” she said. “If we dither now, we are lost.”
“No, I didn’t weaken. But I hope he means what he says. That everything will be . . . civilized . . . an orderly takeover without any bloodshed or violence.”
“Of course he means it,” said his wife, taking the curlers out of her dyed blonde hair. “It will be perfectly simple. And you will at last have the honor and glory you deserve. I’m sure he promised you your reward.”
“Yes, he did. Only . . .”
“Only what? For heaven’s sake—why can’t you be a man?”
“I am being a man,” said Gambetti plaintively. “But it isn’t easy to do this—the king has been good to me.”
“Bah! Milksop,” said the baroness. “Thank goodness you are married to somebody who isn’t afraid of a bit of adventure. Now pass me my hairbrush, please.”
Back in the Blue Ox, Stiefelbreich was questioning his bodyguards.
“Find out if Stilton has arrived—he should be here by now.”
“He has, sir,” said Theophilus. “Checked in to room twenty-three, on the third floor. Next to the attic . . .”
Stilton, like Earless, was an Englishman. He had led a perfectly normal life for many years, working as a sanitary engineer who specialized in bathroom fittings, so that he earned good money, but after a while he decided it was his duty to travel around the simple peasant houses of Europe and persuade their owners to get rid of their old-fashioned outdoor toilets—just a hole in a wooden bench—and order a proper, indoor, flush sanitation system.
But that wasn’t all he did. Stilton had a hobby—more of a skill, really—and it was because of this that Stiefelbreich had tracked him down. Now, hearing that Stilton had arrived safely, the Nazi smiled and rubbed his hands, knowing that everything would go exactly as planned.
There was only one more thing for Stiefelbreich to do. He picked up the phone and put a call through to the German consulate.
“I take it you have my instructions about the German children at the campsite? I have made inquiries and they are quite unsuitable. Children like that should never have been sent to represent our glorious country and the new order that Herr Hitler has established.”
He listened, frowning, to the voice on the other end. The man seemed to be arguing, almost pleading.
“I’m afraid that has nothing to do with it,” Stiefelbreich barked. “Please see that my orders are carried out without delay.”
Satisfied that the matter was settled, he ordered a large beer. The middle-aged waitress with ginger hair who brought it to him was unfriendly—but it didn’t matter. This infuriating country was about to get a lesson it would not forget.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Dragonfly Pool
They had worked all morning but now, the last day before the festival began, everyone was relaxing. Tally and Julia had finished untangling the wreaths and straightening the flowers for their costumes and were playing cards on the grass with Anneliese, the curly-haired German girl who had befriended them. Borro was demonstrating slingshots to his French friend, whirling his scarf around his head and sending missiles unerringly into the river. Kit and two Dutch boys were trying to catch a carp, lying on their stomachs by the pool and using willpower to make the fish come to the surface.
Matteo was organizing a game of football on a patch of level ground farther along the bank, and Magda was playing chess with the teacher in charge of the German group. He was a serious young man with horn-rimmed spectacles and reminded her of Heribert, the professor she had hoped to marry.
It was a glorious day, sunny and still.
A woman carrying a posy of sweet peas came out of the Blue Ox, and crossed the river and made her way toward the marble statue of the queen. She removed the withered flowers and put the fresh ones in the statue’s hand. As she came back she smiled at the children. It was the middle-aged waitress who had stared at Matteo.
From the Spanish tent came the sound of a guitar, and the dancers in their bright red skirts and yellow boleros made their way to the wooden platform for a last rehearsal. Their music drew a few of the other children to the platform. Those who had been dozing lifted their heads.
“We did it,” said Tally happily. “It worked—here we all are from everywhere.”
And their new friend nodded and taught them a German word: Bruderschaft. “It means a band of brothers—and sisters, too,” she said.
It was at that moment that they looked up and saw three men in uniform come across the bridge—and with them was the minister of culture. His silver hair was disheveled and his face pale. Two of the men were in the light blue uniform of the Berganian police and one—who walked in front with a swagger—wore khaki with a swastika on the sleeve. It was this man who marched up to Magda and the teacher with whom she was playing chess and said sharply, “Where are the German children? Which tent?”
The teacher stood up and looked about him. “They are everywhere,” he said, startled by the sudden command.
And indeed they were. Some were playing football with Matteo. A little girl with a crown of flaxen pigtails, her arm around her new friend from Portugal, was sitting on the steps of the platform listening to the music.
“Call them at once,” barked the Nazi officer. “Get them together. Why are they not in an orderly group?”
The teacher looked bewildered. “They have made friends,” he said. “It is—”
“Round them up,” repeated the officer. “They have one hour to get ready. A bus will take them to the station.”
“But—”
“They are leaving. The king of Bergania has again insulted the people of Germany and no child of the Fatherland will remain in this country. Hurry!”
The minister of culture had taken Magda aside.
“A directive has come from
the Gestapo in Berlin,” he said hurriedly. “I’ve tried to make them listen but it’s impossible.”
On the platform the music ceased; the dancers came to rest. The sudden silence was ominous. The two policemen stood by, looking embarrassed. Gradually, as they understood what was happening, the German children, one by one, came toward their tent. At the same time the other children, in every language, expressed their indignation.
“We want them to stay.”
“They’re our friends.”
“They haven’t done anything.”
And repeated again and again: “It isn’t fair!”
Only the German children were silent. They had lived for too long in an oppressed country. They knew there was no hope. The small girl with flaxen pigtails was crying. Her friend from Portugal tried to comfort her and was turned away by one of the policemen.
Then Tally saw red. She ran up to the Nazi officer and began to pummel him with her fists. “You can’t do this,” she yelled. “You can’t, you can’t!”
Strong arms pulled her back. “Stop it, Tally,” said Matteo. “Stop it at once.”
Within an hour the tents had been stripped and the German children herded away.
Karil woke in high spirits. For once it was going to work; he was going to have a whole day alone with his father in their favorite place. The Scold had gone to visit a friend—there was nothing in the way. The king, when he came to fetch him, looked more relaxed than he had done for a long time. He carried his hunting bag filled with their picnic, and his collapsible fishing rod.
They made their way out of the palace by the secret door the guards had opened for them and set off along the turf path that led up toward the mountain.
“Look, a lammergeier,” said the king.
Karil, following his pointing arm, saw a tiny speck in the sky.
“How can you tell, so far away?”
“It’s the flight pattern and . . .” He shrugged. “I had a friend once who could identify birds that I could hardly see with the naked eye. He was uncanny—he could lead you up to a stone in a place he’d never been before and tell you what was underneath it. Almost exactly. It was as though he’d placed the creatures there himself.”
“Like giving you a present,” said Karil.
The king looked at him, startled. “Yes, exactly like that.”
“What happened to him?”
The king shrugged. “He went away, just when I needed him most. People do that with us.”
They walked for a while in silence. Then Karil said, “We’re sort of freaks, aren’t we? I mean because we’re . . . royal or whatever. It’s not real, being a king or a prince.”
The king turned to him. “Good heavens, Karil! Is that how you feel?”
Karil nodded. “When I wake up in the morning I think, why me? Why did it happened to me, being kept apart? Why didn’t I just get born as an ordinary person? Well, I am ordinary, but nobody realizes that. Why can’t I be like anyone else and belong?”
“There are good things, too,” said his father. “Sometimes we can help. Not often, but when we can . . .”
They came to a division of the path. The main track led up to the high meadows, to old Maria’s hut and the peaks. The smaller one veered off to the left, toward the hunting ground. This was a green and shady place of great trees and running water, of moss and unexpected pools. Nowadays it was more of a nature reserve. The king had little time for hunting; the dappled deer roamed without fear, and the hares when disturbed sat up and gazed at the intruders before lolloping away.
They passed a wooden lodge, now boarded up, and plunged into the cool greenery of the forest. There was a place here to which the king had come as a boy, a hidden pool known only to the foresters and groundsmen who worked there. He had taken his queen there when she came from England; Karil had taken his first steps on its mossy banks and caught his first trout in its waters. The dragonfly pool was outside time: safe, beautiful, and private.
They had not walked more than a few hundred meters into the forest when they heard the sound of hoofbeats. Turning, they saw a palace messenger riding a black mare and leading a second horse.
The messenger slid to the ground and bowed to the king.
“Your Majesty, there has been a crisis. The prime minister requests your presence most urgently.”
The king frowned. “Not today, Rudi. I’m going into the woods with my son.” And again, firmly, “Not today. Tell von Arkel I’ll deal with the matter tonight.”
The messenger leaned forward and whispered in the king’s ear.
Karil caught a few words. “Troops mustering . . . urgent telegram from the border station . . .”
The king’s face changed. All the weariness and strain of the last weeks returned.
“This is serious, Karil. You will understand; I have no choice.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Next Sunday, by God’s grace—next Sunday we will go.”
But the boy pulled away and would not look at him.
“Please, Karil,” said the king. “Please try to understand.”
“All I understand is that you don’t care about me,” muttered Karil. “You care about everybody in the world except me. A few hours can’t matter; there’s always a crisis. Always.”
The king’s voice was suddenly the voice of an old man.
“A few hours can topple a kingdom, Karil.”
“Then let it,” said the boy furiously, and began to walk off between the trees.
The king stood for a moment, looking after him. The weight on his chest was almost more than he could bear.
“You must come back and fetch him, Rudi,” he said to the messenger. “He shouldn’t be out alone.”
And he took the second pair of reins and mounted, and they rode away.
Left alone, Karil walked without any sense of direction. His anger was like cold steel going through his body. He hated his father. All his life the king had put anything and everything before his son. The thought of this day had meant so much to Karil—they had begun really to talk—and then it was over before it began.
“But I don’t care,” he said aloud. “I’m not going to try anymore. I’m going to learn to be completely on my own. People you love just die or ignore you.”
He had cut a switch from a hazel branch and slashed at the undergrowth in a relentless and sullen rage. He wouldn’t make his way to the pool—what was the point? But he would not return home either. Not yet. They could worry about him if they wanted to, but they wouldn’t. What would his father care, busy in useless meetings and conferences that led nowhere?
Without thinking, he had turned away from the forest and come out on the meadows. The sun was very hot, but what did it matter if he got sunstroke? Who would be sorry if he died? Nobody—nobody at all.
He had not gone far when he saw, sitting by the side of the track, a small hunched figure. Coming closer, he made out a girl about his own age. She had light hair cut in a fringe and wore shorts and a blue shirt. Not a local then—probably one of the folk dancers. As he came up to her she lifted her head and he saw that she had been crying.
“Are you all right?” he asked in English.
For a moment she looked at him blankly, and he was about to try another language when she focused on him.
“No,” she said furiously. “No, I’m not all right. How can one be when things like that go on?”
“Like what?”
“The Nazis. Hitler. I’m so tired of Hitler. I’m so terribly tired of him.” She began to cry again. “We were all so happy. I thought we had done it.”
“It’s when you’re happy that God strikes you,” said Karil.
She shook her head angrily. “It’s nothing to do with God. It’s people who spoil things.” She went to wipe her eyes on her sleeve and Karil felt in his pocket for a handkerchief, which he gave her.
“Thank you. I really like my school and I really like Magda—she’s our housemother and very clever—but she can’t manage
handkerchiefs.”
“Keep it,” he said. “I’ve got another one.”
“Two?” said Tally, momentarily diverted. “Lucky you!”
“No,” he said vehemently. “I’m not lucky. I’m not lucky at all.” He looked away, then turned back to Tally. “You’re from the camp, aren’t you? One of the folk dancers?” He thought now that he had seen her through the telescope, helping a little boy. “It looked so nice down there. What happened?”
“They came and marched all the German children away. They said the king had insulted Hitler again, but I don’t see how you can insult Hitler enough. There was a horrible Nazi . . . There’s been a crisis.”
“There’s always a crisis,” said Karil bitterly.
“They were so sad to go, the German children. There was a very little one with plaits wound around her head who couldn’t stop crying. I went for the Nazi, and Matteo—he’s in charge of us—pulled me away and I was so angry I just ran off. There’ll be a row—we’re not supposed to leave the camp alone.”
“No, children are never supposed to do anything sensible alone.” He hesitated, then made up his mind. “I’ll take you to a place where no one will find you. You’d better come out of the sun. Then you can tell me . . . if you want to. But you needn’t.”
She followed him willingly. He was surprised at himself: the dragonfly pool was his secret and his father’s—yet he was going to show it to an unknown girl. But then, what was the point of sharing anything with his father? What did his father care?
They plunged into the cool of the forest. He led her down a mossy path, along a stream in which a heron stood on one leg, fishing. The path was dappled with pigeon feathers, and small fir cones lay on the ground; there was the faintest of breezes. The relief of the shade and moisture after the heat of the meadow was overwhelming.
Karil turned along beside a smaller stream; Tally heard the sound of rushing water and they came to a waterfall, tumbling down between rocks. Running up its side was a narrow track almost hidden by creepers and overhanging bushes. Still following the boy, she scrambled up to the top—and stood there, silent and amazed.