She glanced at Walker but he ignored her, no doubt fearful she would speak in English and draw unwanted attention to him. It was a strange situation she found herself in, she thought, as she watched him focusing on the ground to avoid catching anyone’s eye. She had no desire to talk to him when they were alone. What compelled her to connect with him when they were in company?
Although there were some older men in the convoy, the majority were women with young children. The women all looked the same, their faces etched with worry and barely visible beneath tightly tied scarfs of wool or cloth. All would have theirown story to tell — when they eventually had the energy to tell it. Her situation was no different to theirs, yet it seemed to her they were caught up in an evolving biblical disaster that she was not part of. These people appeared helpless and doomed to failure, whereas she had a destination to reach and was determined to get there. Perhaps that was why she recoiled at the idea that she was like them: to accept her situation was the same as theirs would make her as helpless as they appeared.
She looked at her silent, sombre travelling companion. She had more in common with him than her own countrymen. They had an established method of survival, a shared distrust of the Russians, a shared distrust of each other. They passed a man dragging a small trolley carrying an ugly statue that was twice the size of the child forced to walk beside it. Walker glanced at her and Elsa immediately knew what he was thinking. Sometimes, words didn’t need to be spoken.
Finally, they broke free of the other refugees and trudged on alone, side by side. Several hours passed in silence until the dead bodies of a man and woman, too malnourished and poorly dressed for the unusually harsh winter that was persisting into spring, brought them to a stop. Two children lay nearby, side by side, several yards from the road. The sight was too much to ignore and this time Elsa abandoned Klara and the British soldier and stumbled towards them.
As Elsa approached, she saw she could do nothing more helpful than stare at their little bodies. They lay on the freezing snow, and their silence was heart-wrenching. Their futures had been stolen from them in the cruellest way and their manner of death cheated them of any dignity they might have had. A wave of helplessness threatened to engulf her and would have if she had not realized Klara had followed her. She shielded the girl’s face from the sight with her own coat. She felt Walker’s presenceat her shoulder. She lifted her gaze and swallowed down the pain to look at him.
‘There is a building over there,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s get some rest.’
She shook her head defiantly. ‘No. We still have several hours of daylight yet.’
‘We should take shelter where we can find it. If we wait until dark all the rooms and barns will be taken by others.’
It was the most he had said since they had first met. His dark chocolate eyes looked steadily into hers from beneath the shadow of his peaked cap. ‘Stop for the little girl. The child is too young to walk so far.’
She nodded, her voice failing her when she needed it most.
The building was no more than a vacant shed, with a leaking roof and rubbish piling up in the corner. No sooner had Elsa sat down than Walker said he was leaving and would be back soon. She didn’t argue. They had been in each other’s company for more than forty-eight hours and the intensity of their uneasy pairing was getting to her. She watched him leave.
‘I’m tired.’
Elsa looked down at the little girl by her side and gently brushed a strand of soft hair from her eyes. It was the first time Klara had spoken to her. Elsa held her breath. The little girl’s short sentence was a big turning point for them both. However, instinctively she knew that Klara needed normality and not pressure, so while inwardly she was cheering, she gave her a perfunctory kiss on her forehead and said, ‘Me too. I’ll make you a bed.’
She used some discarded sacks to form a barrier against the cold ground and piled blankets on top, and they lay down together to rest. Klara snuggled against her and fell asleep almost immediately, but Elsa could not. She stared at the timbers above her as she waited for Walker’s return. Every creakand groan of the shed sounded sinister without another adult for company. Discovering she was missing him was unnerving. Her nervousness turned to frustration that he had left her with no explanation. Unable to bear it any longer, she eased herself away from Klara’s sleeping body and went out to look for him.
It did not take long to locate Walker’s dark silhouette in the distance, standing out against the snow. His head was bowed and he was intent on his task. As she walked towards him, she realized he was tying something together. Her steps slowed. A small mound of snow was at his feet and in his hands was a homemade rudimentary cross. She looked about her. The children’s bodies were gone.
Walker began pushing the homemade grave marker into the deep snow. Its simplicity and fragility, along with the child’s belt used to tie the two pieces of wood, reflected the little bodies buried beneath it and brought tears to her eyes. As he slid his cap from his head and bowed it in silent prayer, she blindly turned away and began to run, desperate to reach the solitude of the shed so she could gather her conflicting thoughts.
When he finally returned, he dropped the shoes, socks and gloves of the children’s mother at Elsa’s feet.
Her thoughts spilled out from her in a heated whisper. ‘Why would you do that? Bury them? They were German.’
‘They werechildren. Theyarechildren,’ he replied, removing his own socks and boots and replacing them with those of the father’s. ‘They didn’t deserve to die so young.’ He searched his pockets and tossed her some coins. ‘They didn’t have much money on them. You should look after it.’
She wanted to hate him, but he was making it hard for her. She teased the wool of the socks in her hand. ‘Do you plan to bury every child you come across?’
He glanced up at her. ‘Do you want me to? I can if you want.’
His offer to carry out such a daunting, sombre task if she wanted him to surprised her, even pleased her — until she realized from the roll in his eyes that he wasn’t serious.
She clenched her jaw. ‘This is not a game.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that.’ He pulled hard at the laces of his new boots. ‘I’m the one in enemy territory.’
He looked to be in his late twenties and she found herself wondering if he had a wife waiting for him at home. She had the sudden urge to know more about him, starting with his first name. She resented her own interest, for to learn a person’s name was the first step to becoming friends. She pressed her lips together and concentrated on replacing her socks with the ones he had brought her. The socks were thicker than her previous ones and felt like thick velvet compared to them. She tried not to think of their previous owner as she slipped them onto her sore feet. She glanced over at him and found herself watching the deep concentration on his face as he fastened the laces on his boot. Her pursed lips softened. This particular enemy was going to be hard to ignore. The urge to know his name returned with a vengeance.
‘What is your name?’ he asked suddenly, without looking up.
‘Erm . . . Elsa. What is yours?’
‘Sam. And your daughter?’
‘She’s my niece. Klara.’ Their conversation stalled. The silence that followed was torturous. She scrabbled for something to say but felt out of her depth. She had not had a conversation with a man of a similar age to her own in a long time. Oddly, she had forgotten how to. Finally, she decided to return to the children. ‘It was a good thing you did.’
‘What? Steal boots from a dead father?’
