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  “You didn’t see that Mussner girl, did you?” Frau Schichtl said.

  Johann’s smile faded. “What’s she got to do with the two flyers?” he asked, defensively.

  “Frieda, let me deal with this my way,” Mahlknecht said, almost sharply. “Come on, Johann, lend us a hand with the scrubbing of this floor. You came just in time to help us clean it up. Your mother can start cooking dinner. We’ll have it early, today. There’s a lot of talking to be done, tonight.”

  Frau Schichtl’s hands went to her mouth. “I almost forgot,” she said. “The Committee is coming up here this evening.”

  “And tomorrow at dawn there is the spring festival in Hinterwald.” Mahlknecht looked thoughtfully at his sister. “I wonder if the Germans timed their interest in our village just to coincide with our feast-day. They know the people from miles around will be coming to Hinterwald tomorrow.”

  “Rubbish,” Frau Schichtl said. “It is just the Germans being Germans. They always were too officious. They like making regulations and rules.” She was tying on her large white apron over the small silk one which was part of her dress. She began to measure a meagre quantity of flour into the large mixing-bowl for the soup’s dumplings.

  “Not so much rubbish,” Mahlknecht said quietly. “You don’t like the Germans, Frieda, but you don’t know how they work. They’ve done things you couldn’t believe just because you have lived among normal people most of your life. I am willing to wager that they chose our feast-day for some reason. They know that everyone will be there. They will have us all gathered together like a flock of sheep.”

  “A feast-day is a holy day,” Frau Schichtl said. “Only heathens would cause trouble then.” Her voice was indignant. Her hands kneaded the dough vigorously.

  Mahlknecht shrugged his shoulders. “I can feel the screw going on,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

  “I wonder just how much suspicion they have,” Lennox said. “They may have discovered that there is active opposition here, even if it is hidden.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Mahlknecht. “And perhaps it is only the news which is worrying them.”

  “What news?” Lennox asked. For the last two nights it had been impossible to hear Allied broadcasts. There had been atmospherics and much interference. “What news?”

  “The Brenner railway has been bombed. There has been a very thorough job. I left Bozen in flames two days ago. The German supply system has been wrecked. And the Allied push into Italy has begun.”

  Frau Schichtl stopped her work. She stared unbelievingly at her brother.

  It’s begun, Lennox kept thinking; at last it has begun. He said, “And no one has yet come here. The colonel didn’t get through.”

  “On the contrary, he did. He sent some men to see me in Bozen. We have our plans all made, don’t worry about that.”

  “And what about the men who were coming here?”

  “They are coming. Any day now. Why the devil did you think I came to Hinterwald? Why the devil did I nearly break my neck this morning getting down those stairs?” Mahlknecht halted, looked at his sister and Lennox. “What’s wrong with both of you?” he demanded. “Jumpy as a couple of cats. Filled with worries. Don’t you trust me or our Allies? What do you think we are, anyway? A bunch of newly born lambs?”

  Lennox smiled at that. “We’ve stopped worrying,” he said. “If things have really started moving then we’ve stopped worrying. We’ll have plenty to do instead.”

  Frau Schichtl was smiling too. “It’s begun,” she said happily. And then the smile vanished. She brushed some flour off her forearm. “I am glad. I am glad and I’m sorry. Sorry for the men who will die.” She looked as if she were going to cry again. She began pummelling the small handfuls of dough as if they were Germans. “Why couldn’t they leave everyone alone? Why couldn’t they stay in their Germany? What’s wrong with them?” Her voice was angry now. She slapped the dumplings into the pot of thin soup. “And I’ve probably ruined these. I’ve probably put in salt twice over.” She suddenly hurried out of the kitchen and climbed the stairs to her room.

  Mahlknecht ignored all this, although his face was grave as he gave Lennox his answer.

  “Plenty to do,” he said briefly, and turned to look out of the window at the green fields.

  12

  Lennox woke to hear the first “Juch-hé!” coming down the mountainside. Today, he remembered, was Hinterwald’s feast-day. He lay under the thin padded quilt, feeling the cold morning air strike round his ears. Again a “Juch-hé!” sounded, and again. The last one was long-drawn-out, with the accent on the “Juch—,” while the last syllable fell gradually away. The groups of men, women, and children, making their way towards Hinterwald, were silent once more. Now there was only the deep peace of the darkness before dawn.

  “Damned fools,” he said, but he was smiling. He tried it. There was something merry and high-spirited about the yodelled call. It meant nothing except that the man who called it, with his hands cupped round his lips, was feeling in good form. “You’re a damned fool too,” he told himself. And then he laughed. It was difficult this morning to work up his usual awakening gloom.

  But then, last night had been a good night. The Committee had met—the hatchet-faced old men, the serious grim-eyed boys, talking of freedom. Freedom made good talk. Last night it had been especially good. For the news from Italy had wakened hope, and the winter plans were alive at last. Lennox, sitting quietly back in his usual corner, had watched with increasing interest the quickening faces around him. He had seen them before, never all at once but in various groups of two or three. Now the eleven men (three from this district, the others from more distant parts of the Schlern) had come together. Openly, their reason was the feast of St. Johann, with its early mass in the morning, to which all the friends and relatives of the people of Hinterwald would come. Secretly, their purpose was a final meeting—with Paul Mahlknecht here from Bozen to give the latest report on anti-German organisations—before the men scattered into the forests and on to mountain alps for the summer.

  And Mahlknecht had brought encouraging news. Contact with the Allies had been made; the Committee’s plans had been accepted. The band of prisoners from the camp above Bozen had fought their way through to the Allied lines, and Colonel Wayne, who had talked with Mahlknecht last September, was one of those who were still alive. His report had interested Allied Headquarters, and they had sent three men secretly to Bozen. There, in February, they had met Mahlknecht and some of his friends. They had listened and they had questioned. Then they had left Bozen, to make their way back to the Allies. In April one of them returned with fuller instructions. He was working in Bozen, now, along with the Committee of that district. Besides his instructions, he had brought the news that as soon as the snows melted on the high meadows two men would arrive on the Schlern. They were coming to help to prepare the way for still more Allies to come.

  The Tyrolese listened with scarcely a flicker of emotion over their wind-tanned, hard-boned faces. Lennox knew them well enough now not to be deceived by such calm. His respect for them grew as he watched.

  For one thing, he had gradually become more convinced during this long waiting winter of the worth of Mahlknecht’s plans. At first he had been cynical; now he believed that they contained the germ of real help. For when the Allied armies drew near the difficult mountains of the South Tyrol—mountains which made South Italian peaks look like molehills—they would find people who were not only willing but ready to help. There was a list of men and women who could be completely trusted, a list of those who were neutral, a shorter but definite list of those who were enemies. They would find guides who could lead them over little known mountain paths in infiltration movements and surprise attacks on German set positions. They would find women who would shelter the wounded; people who had measured their food-supplies so that there would be enough; villages which could be responsible for order; men who would fight dependably and teach the tricks of th
e mountains. Practical help like that was something the Allied soldier could appreciate. When civilians didn’t malinger or cheat a soldier could get ahead with his job of fighting. That was all a soldier wanted.

  For another thing, there was a broader possibility to Mahlknecht’s plans. Last night Lennox had suddenly seen it. In his excitement he forgot all about his old dislike of responsibility. Perhaps the incident with the two pseudo-airmen had proved that there was a difference between taking responsibility and mere self-assertion. Anyway, he had risen to his feet and made a speech.

  “These ideas are good,” he had begun. “Why don’t you spread them across the Brenner Pass into the North Tyrol? The people there are of your blood; they could be organised as you are organising yourselves. They would listen to you. If our troops are to make quick progress they must find a population that is willing to help. They must find order, no politics being played, no nuisance refugees, and no mean profiteering at their expense. An army doesn’t want volunteer recruits who haven’t been trained in its way. Its striking power depends on being a single trained unit. But it does need people who will really help, and make themselves as little of a worry as possible. It needs people who will be dependable guides, people who will give accurate information, people who will use the supplies we send them to sabotage the right place at the right moment. If the North Tyrol will agree to that then you will have won us a battle. Remember that the North Tyrol borders Bavaria. And Bavaria is the back door into Germany.”

  That, Lennox decided as he lay under the quilt’s warmth and watched the sky lighten into a cold grey, had been quite a speech. It had sort of overpowered him at the end. He had begun with a plea for wider help and had ended with the key to Germany’s back door. It had sounded all right last night. And the Committee’s reaction had been flattering: already the men, who could travel into the North Tyrol in small groups of two of three, were being chosen to make contact with anti-Nazi groups there. As Mahlknecht had said, plans north and south of the Brenner Pass could be co-ordinated: the Tyrol would be united once again. But, Lennox wondered as he watched the long streaks of yellow light split up the grey sky outside, did it sound so well this morning? For a man who had been in revolt against authority for so many years of his life, he had certainly gone off the deep end. The Committee’s plans were already broadening to suit his idea: and on whose authority had he spoken? On his own. “By God,” he said, suddenly subdued.

  And then he wondered just for how many weeks the idea had been simmering in a secret place of his mind. Last night it had boiled over.

  Again the call of “Juch-hé!” sounded. This time it was near. A group of people must be coming down past this house. He rose quickly and went to the window. Day had fully broken. The birds were wide awake and chattering. The pine forest was a mass of black-pointed shapes with golden high-lights. The five lean cows were walking, in leisurely single file, out from the Kasal barn. The thin notes of the bells round their dun-coloured necks jangled in broken rhythm. The Kasal family, dressed in their very best clothes, were standing stiffly at the doorway of their house. They were looking towards the pine forest, waiting for those who were walking into the village.

  Then Lennox saw them too. Eight women and three men, five young boys and four girls. Today the men had given up their leather breeches and white wool stockings for tight black trousers tucked into high leather boots. The high white plumes on their slouched hats were held proudly. The women wore wide black skirts and bright aprons. They had thrown heavy shawls over their white silk blouses as a protection against the morning air. Their hats were broad brimmed, with the tight, rounded crown cut off flatly on top. Their hair was braided and twisted round their heads. Most of them were very fair. Lennox saw the gleam of pale gold under the black felt hats. They walked barefoot, with their white stockings and polished shoes carried carefully over the muddy paths. They would bathe their feet in some stream at the edge of the village, draw on their stockings and shoes, and then advance sedately towards the church. They would look as if they had just stepped out of their cottages, instead of having walked for ten miles through the night.

  One of the boys let out a yodel as he saw the waiting Kasals. From across the fields came the Juch-hé” call from another group. Higher up on the hillside there was a further burst of calls. It was the peasant way of contact and answer over mountain spaces. It was infectious. Even the birds had started to sing in a sudden frenzy of excitement. Lennox was tempted to lean out of the window, cup his hands round his mouth, and join in.

  But there was a knock, and he turned away from the window to open his bedroom door. Frau Schichtl, along with her brother and son, entered in full regalia. Lennox, in his grey flannel nightshirt, swept them a low bow. “Most elegant,” he said.

  Frau Schichtl’s face coloured, and she looked pleased. She smoothed her red silk embroidered apron over the wide black skirt, adjusted the fringed scarf crossed over her breast, pulled the edge of her black lace mittens more closely to her elbow, straightened the strange-crowned hat. She smiled self-consciously. Then suddenly she laughed and said, “If only you could see yourself, Peter.”

  Lennox looked down at his bare calves, and was inclined to agree. Then he looked at the elaborate costumes and thought that remark could cut both ways. He smiled blandly.

  Johann said, “Pity you’ve got to stay here. After mass and the procession the fun begins. Pity you couldn’t come down for the dance tonight.” He spun his hat, with its soft white feather, round on his hand. His gay clothes had affected his spirits. His high boots beat out a brief sole and heel rhythm. His face had lost the angry look it had kept last night after his uncle had talked to him about the Mussner girl. He patted his black velvet waistcoat with its pattern of red embroidered flowers, and pretended to polish the silver buttons. “Not a bad fit, either,” he admitted, proudly surveying his father’s clothes. “Well, we had better start. Mass is at half past six. Time’s shifting.”

  “You know where to find breakfast,” Frau Schichtl said, “I left the table ready for you last night. I wish you could come.” She looked at her brother.

  Paul Mahlknecht shook his head. He had adopted a new character with the traditional clothes: he was no longer the man from Bozen. He was a man of the Tyrol, as quiet and imperturbable as the mountains which brooded over the meadows. In this costume he was keeping faith with his father and grandfather and the fathers before them. This was the symbol of his fight. This was the outward sign of his inner loyalties. The man who wore these clothes so confidently, so proudly, was a man who would never become either an Italian or a German.

  Lennox was thankful he had resisted making that crack about fancy dress which had almost rolled off the tip of his tongue. He was now ashamed that he had even thought about it. He glanced nervously at Mahlknecht’s sombre face, and worried about mind-reading.

  But Mahlknecht was saying, “I’ll return here before the evening begins. We can talk together then.” Frau Schichtl and Johann were beginning to descend the stairs.

  Lennox said quickly, “Do you think I could take a short walk this afternoon through the woods? Everyone will be down at the village. And if Germans watch this house—well, they already know that a disabled soldier lives here.”

  Mahlknecht nodded thoughtfully. He hadn’t missed the urgency in Lennox’s voice. “A walk would do you good,” he said. “But don’t go far away. I’d rather not spend this evening looking for a man lost on a mountainside. I’d rather finish our talk. I shall have to leave here soon, you know.”

  “And what about the men you are expecting?”

  “They should have arrived yesterday or the day before. Weather permitting, they should have arrived then.”

  “Parachuting in?”

  Mahlknecht nodded. “I’ll give you instructions tonight about identifying them, in case they come when I am away from the Schlern.”

  “It would be better if you were here to welcome them yourself.”

  “They wil
l see me later. Besides they will want to talk to you.” Mahlknecht grinned suddenly. “Just to make sure that your colonel and I haven’t brought them here on a wild goose chase. You can tell them just what you think of us.”

  “I wonder why they didn’t send someone before this,” Lennox said, half angrily. “Devil of a way they’ve kept us hanging on.”

  “There was no need to have anyone here in the winter in addition to you,” Mahlknecht reminded him. “They did a much cleverer thing. They sent men to talk to me in Bozen. That was all that was needed while winter lasted.”

  Yes, that’s right: I was good enough as an outpost up here in the winter months when nothing happened, Lennox thought. But as soon as action starts and some real fun begins then out goes the poor bloody infantry and in comes the professional officer.

  Frau Schichtl’s voice called from downstairs, “We are all waiting, Paul.”

  “Coming.” Mahlknecht descended the staircase. Half-way down he called softly, “You’ll have your freedom soon, Peter. You can start your own plans again.”

  Then his light footsteps were crossing the sitting-room, and the door closed softly. Lennox could imagine the smile on Mahlknecht’s lips.

  He closed his bedroom door, locking it automatically.

  He deserved that last remark. He deserved the smile—if it had been there. He had wanted his freedom. He was getting it.

  He walked back to the window. The group outside the Kasals’ house had grown. They were waiting for Mahlknecht and his family. He watched the movement in the crowd—the white-plumed hats, the spreading black skirts, the tall men and women with their erect heads, the smooth golden hair of the laughing children. The older people walked first, the men leading the way. At the end of the procession he saw Johann. His hat was now jauntily set on his slicked hair. He was talking to Katharina Kasal, walking beside him with that long, effortless step which seemed natural to the women of this district. At the point in the winding road where it swerved behind a group of trees the Kasal girl halted. She turned and looked towards the Schichtl house. Then she went on.