فصل 8

chapter EIGHT

Fernohr was a little mountain village, built round a single road with a wooded slope above it on one side and a staggering view down into a valley on the other. The road from Interlaken ended there, or practically ended. It continued up the hillside as an unpaved track, giving access to half a dozen dwellings, and finally to the Gasthaus Rutzecke.

The first Rutzecke house had been built by Ilse’s grandfather as a vacation spot for the family, but between the world wars her father rebuilt it on a larger scale, as a guesthouse. It had eight bedrooms and a couple of lounges, and a terrace in front where there was a telescope and a pole flying the Swiss flag.

The Swigram had stopped operating it as a guesthouse when the Swigramp got ill. The only person living there apart from family was a handyman called Yone, even older than the Swigramp. He also looked after the animals—chickens and two cows that ambled round the sloping meadows with bells round their necks—and shot game for the pot. He had an old shotgun he tended lovingly.

The Swigram was white-haired and plump. She spoke little English, and seemed a bit in awe of Pa and more so of Martha, who spoke to her kindly but rather in the way she’d spoken to the daily help back home.

There was snow the second day, but it thawed almost immediately. Ilse said it was warm for the time of year. I looked longingly at the rack of skis in one of the sheds, and meanwhile Andy and I explored around. The terrain was fairly dull above the chalet, cropped grass and boulders, but more interesting below the village, where there were pine woods and some good climbs. The lake was visible down in the valley, and we could watch boats crossing, through the telescope. It was coin-operated, but the box was open; so you just put the same twenty-centime piece through over and over again.

We also helped Yone with the chickens and cows. The chickens sometimes laid astray, and we had to hunt for the eggs. And the cows had to be found and brought in at night. I tried to talk him into letting me use the shotgun, but he wouldn’t. It wasn’t a wildly exciting life, but pleasant enough. The Swigram was a better cook than Martha, too.

Her husband, the Swigramp, lay all day in the big double bed in their bedroom, except in really good weather when she and Yone moved him into a daybed on the balcony. I sat with him sometimes but never knew what to say, and he didn’t talk either. But he always smiled when Angela came into the room. I didn’t know if he had any idea what had brought us here, or if he even knew about the Tripods.

Swiss radio and television were in French and German; Ilse had to tell us what they said was happening in the outside world. It seemed that in most places the Capped were now in charge, but the Swiss weren’t worried. For hundreds of years they’d been surrounded by dictatorships and empires and such, and had managed to disregard them. They had the protection of their mountains, and an army in which all male citizens served. The Tripods were a nuisance, but so had Napoleon and Hitler been. They felt all they needed to do was sit tight and go on being Swiss.

They were taking some precautions. They’d rounded up their local Trippies at the beginning and put them into camps under armed guard. The few who had escaped the original sweep and tried to distribute Caps were quickly caught and imprisoned. Ilse, who had only seen things from the Swiss viewpoint, was sure the Tripod craze would soon die away. Pa wasn’t so optimistic, but hoped the Swiss might be able to cut themselves off from the rest of the world, as an oasis of freedom.

In the village we at first encountered similar anti-foreign feelings to those in Geneva and Lausanne. The villagers made a point of ignoring us, and the shopkeepers—there was a combined dairy-bakery, and a general store—were surly and unhelpful. When it came to renewing our permit, the village policeman, a man called Graz, hesitated a long time. In the end he said he would stamp a renewal only because we were related to the Rutzeckes: the Swigramp was well known and respected.

Some of the local boys carried things further, and followed us, chanting insults. One of the leaders was Rudi Graz, the policeman’s son. He was only thirteen but well built, and he picked on Andy in particular.

The third time it happened, when we were leaving the village on our way back to the gasthaus, Andy stopped and turned round. The Swiss boys stopped, too, but Rudi said something in the local dialect, and the rest laughed. Andy walked back to him and spoke one of the few German words he knew: Dummkopf, meaning “idiot.” The fight lasted about five minutes. Andy was cooler and a better boxer, but Rudi was a hitter and got some nasty punches in. One opened the cut over Andy’s eye, and he bled quite a lot. It was Rudi, though, who eventually stood back. They looked at one another, and after a moment Andy put a hand out. The Swiss boy ignored it and turned away, his mates following. It didn’t make them any friendlier, but they stopped chanting after that.

Angela sometimes insisted on coming with us to the village, and she sometimes did get a smile, I suppose because she was a little girl and pretty.

She also made friends with an old horse, which had been retired from the Swiss Army and grazed in a field not far from the bakery. One day, after she’d stroked and talked to it, she said, “He’s a bit like Prince. Don’t you think so, Laurie?” I said warily, “A bit, I suppose.”

“What’s going to happen—about Prince?”

“Nothing. I mean, they’ll look after him at the stables until we get back.” She swung round to stare at me, her blue eyes scornful.

“But we’re not going back, are we? They’re only saying that.”

I wasn’t sure what would come next—whether we’d have weeps—so I jabbered about not really knowing what was going to happen but everything coming right eventually.

When I’d ground to a halt, she said, “I wake in the night sometimes, dreaming I’m Tripping again. Though in a way it’s worse—I know what’s happening, and hate it, but can’t do anything to stop it. When I wake up properly, at first I’m scared, and then . . . I can’t really say how it is. Just, well, feeling good. Feeling safe.” She pulled a tuft of grass, and the horse nibbled it from her hand.

She said, “I hope Prince is all right.”

I said, “I’m sure he is.”

She looked at me again. “But you don’t have to pretend. I don’t want to go back there—not even for Prince.” We’d never before talked about anything serious—as I knew this was. And I knew she was being brave, as well as a lot more grown-up than I’d realized. I felt awkward, but wanted to let her know I understood that. We weren’t a family that went in for hugging, but I put an arm round her, even though Andy was with us.

I said, “Come on. The Swigram’s waiting for the bread.”

• • •

Everything changed suddenly when French and German armies invaded Switzerland without warning. One day the village was in a frenzy of excitement over the news, the next, deserted-looking, with all the men between eighteen and sixty called to the colors.

The attitudes of those that remained changed, too, perhaps because their hatred was now concentrated on the invading armies. They smiled at us and were even prepared to chat. And they were full of confidence.

Frau Stitzenbahr, the baker’s wife, whose two sons had gone, said, “It is terrible, this, but not for long, I think. French and Germans are fighting always. Swiss men do not wish fighting, but they are brave and love our land. They will chase the French and Germans quickly home.” Andy and I walked back up to the gasthaus. It was a gray, cold afternoon. Although the snow still held off here, the surrounding peaks were whiter from fresh falls.

I said, “Lucky Pa’s not Swiss or I suppose he’d have had to go, too. What do you think’s going to happen?” The path overlooked a drop. Andy threw a stone, and we saw it bounce off scree hundreds of meters below.

He said, “The Swiss think being patriotic makes them a match for anyone. They don’t understand what it’s like facing an enemy that’s Capped.” “Those at the airport surrendered as soon as the army began firing.”

“That was different. Why should the Tripods care about a tiny group like that? It didn’t matter what happened to them. But now they’re sending in armies—armies of men who don’t give a toss about being killed.” I thought about it—fighting and not minding if you got killed. You’d have to be Capped to feel like that. “Anyway,” I said, “I shouldn’t think the fighting will get as far as Fernohr.” Nor did it. And Frau Stitzenbahr was right, it was finished quickly. But not in the way she’d thought. Next day there were reports of retreats in the north and west, and by the following morning it was over. Ilse translated the news on the radio: everlasting peace had come to Switzerland as it had already to the rest of the world. The next bit even I could understand.

“Heil dem Dreibeiner!”

Two days later, looking through the telescope, I saw the familiar shape of the paddle steamer, furrowing a path across gray waters towards Interlaken. And something else, scuttling monstrously along the shore. I called out Pa and Andy.

When Pa had looked, I said, “There’s nowhere else to go, is there?”

Pa looked weary, and his chin had a stubble of beard, black with patches of gray. In the past he’d always shaved as soon as he got up. He shook his head, without answering.

We gazed down the fall of land towards the lake. You could see it, though less clearly, with the naked eye, lurching across farmland, not caring where it trod, or on what. Pa’s face had an expression of despairing misery. I hadn’t realized that misery maybe got worse the older you were.

I said, “We’re pretty remote, though, aren’t we? They may not come up here.” He shook his head again, slowly, as if the effort was painful. “Maybe not.” Martha and Angela came out, too. Martha was watching Pa rather than the Tripod; after a time she said in a more gentle voice than usual, “Use’s with the Swigramp—he’s not so good this morning. Why don’t you go and sit with her?” • • •

Over the next few days the men straggled back to Fernohr. There hadn’t been many casualties because the fighting had lasted such a short time. And then one morning, on the way to pick up the day’s bread, we saw that the villagers were wearing Caps.

I whispered to Andy, “What do we do? Get out fast?”

“It might draw attention. Look, there’s Rudi. He’s not Capped.”

We’d learned in Guernsey that people weren’t Capped under the age of about fourteen, probably because young children weren’t regarded as a threat. It seemed likely the same rule applied here. Rudi was a year younger than we were, so Angela was safe, but Andy and I could be at risk. We walked on, trying to look casual. In the baker’s shop, Herr Stitzenbahr was bringing in trays of fresh loaves from the bakery, and Frau Stitzenbahr, behind the counter, offered her usual greeting of “Grüss Gott.” It was all normal, but for one thing: the black Caps covering her braided white hair and his bald head.

Frau Stitzenbahr asked about the Swigramp and went on chatting while I ached to get away. At last we had the loaves and our change, and could leave. We headed up the village street, but within fifty meters met a group of men strolling down. One of them was Rudi’s father.

He didn’t look like a policeman. He was small and thin, with an unhealthy, sallow complexion. He had a policeman’s manner, though. He stood in front of us, blocking our path.

“So, die engliscben Kinder . . .” He looked at me closely. “Wie alt? Vierzehn doch?” He translated it laboriously: “How old, boy? Have you yet fourteen years?” So fourteen was the Capping age. I said earnestly, “No, sir. Not till next year.” “You must bring certification of birth.” He frowned. “It must come from England. This is unsatisfactory.” Unsatisfactory for him, maybe. With a lift in spirits, I realized it was something that could be played along, maybe for months. Still frowning, he turned to Andy.

“But you are already fourteen. This is certain.”

“No, sir,” Andy said. “Thirteen and a half.”

In fact he was only two months older than I was, but with two inches advantage in height and his grown-up look he could have passed for fifteen. Rudi’s father shook his head.

“I do not believe this. It is necessary you are Capped. Today Caps are finished, but tomorrow the mail van brings more. You will have one.” Andy nodded. “If you say so, sir. I’ll come back in the morning.”

“No. You will stay here. There are some foolish ones who do not wish the Capping. You will stay here, boy, till new Caps are come.” Andy tugged the hair at the back of his head, something he did when he was making his mind up. One of the other men, who happened to be the local wrestling champion, moved closer. Andy sighed.

“Whatever you say.” He looked at me. “You’ll tell them what’s keeping me?” “Yes. I’ll tell Pa.” I gave him a thumbs-up sign. “No sweat. It’s going to be all right.” Angela and I watched him walk away with Rudi’s father in the direction of the policeman’s house. I tried to tell myself there was a chance he might escape on his own, but didn’t believe it. He’d need help. The first priority was to get back to Pa and tell him.

On the outskirts of the village we met Rudi. To my surprise he stopped, and spoke. “Why is Andy not with you?” I saw no reason not to tell him, and had a feeling the news wasn’t a surprise. His father had probably talked about the English and Capping. But he didn’t look as pleased as I would have expected. He resembled his mother rather than his father in being big and blond, and like her he usually had a big empty smile. He wasn’t smiling now.

“He must stay, for the Capping?”

I nodded.

“Does he wish this?”

“I don’t know.” I got cautious. “But it has to happen, doesn’t it—to everyone?” He said slowly, “They say so.”

• • •

We found Pa and Martha in the residents’ lounge at the front of the gasthaus, drinking coffee. They were talking but stopped as we came in.

Angela burst out with the story, and I let her tell it.

When she’d finished, Martha said, “That’s terrible.” She paused. “But the Caps won’t arrive till tomorrow? I’m sure he’ll manage to get away before then. Andy’s resourceful.” I said, “There’s a room at the police house like a cell. Yone told us. It’s got a bolt and double locks, and the only window is ten feet up and barred. It’s not a question of being resourceful. He can’t get away without help.” She shook her head. “I wish there was something we could do.”

“We have to.”

“You don’t understand.” She looked tired and angry, and her face had that stubborn look adults have when they’re not going to listen to you. “We can’t.” I said, trying to be patient, “But we must.”

Martha said, “Yone told us about the Caps while you were gone. He met someone he knew with one. We’ve been discussing what to do. We can’t stay here, so close to the village. It will only be a matter of days before they come to Cap us.” “As far as Andy’s concerned, it’s not days, it’s tomorrow morning.”

She disregarded that. “Your father and Yone have a plan. You know the rail tunnel up to Jung-fraujoch?” I nodded. It was a trip I’d taken the first time I visited Switzerland. The track was on the far side of a deep valley separating Fernohr from the lower slopes of the Eiger. The train climbed through a tunnel actually inside the mountain, taking nearly three hours to reach the terminus station, three and a half thousand meters above sea level, where there was a hotel and ski station and an astronomical observatory.

“The hotel and the line are closed, because of the emergency,” Martha said. “Yone says we could hide inside the tunnel. We’d have protection from weather, and there may be food in the hotel. It would do for the time being, at least. Better than staying and being Capped.” “Sounds great,” I said. “I’m totally for it. As soon as we get Andy back.” Her face tightened into still angrier lines, which meant she was feeling guilty.

“We can’t. For one thing, we need time. Yone wants to make another reconnoitering trip before we all go. There’s something else, too. The Swigramp’s dying. He may last a couple of hours, or a couple of days, no more.” “I don’t see what difference that makes. If he’s dying, he’s dying.”

She said harshly, “Probably you don’t. At your age.” I suppose putting me down helped. “But it makes a difference to the Swigram, and Ilse. We can’t take him with us, and they won’t go while he’s still alive. We need those few days’ grace. If we try to rescue Andy, we’d be stirring up a hornet’s nest, whichever way it turned out. They’d be swarming here right away.” She saw my face, and said in a quieter voice, “I’m sorry. I like Andy.”

“What if it were me?” I asked. Martha didn’t answer. “Or Angela?”

I turned to my father, who hadn’t spoken so far.

“We’re not going to let him down, are we? He told me to let you know what had happened. And I said, ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll tell Pa.’ ” He didn’t look me in the eye. He said, “I’m sorry, too. But Martha’s right. We don’t have a choice.” • • •

Halfway to the village I stopped. A sense of my own stupidity hit me almost like a solid weight. Stupidity and ingratitude. I thought of all Pa had done to get us away from the Tripods—crossing to Guernsey, the hijack, bringing us here. And now he had this new plan to keep us safe. What made me think I knew better than he did?

Martha was right, too: a rescue attempt that went wrong would put everyone at risk, which also applied to my idea of going it alone. Even if Pa was prepared to abandon me rather than endanger Ilse and the others, I was still likely to draw attention to the people in the gasthaus.

I was aware of thinking it out, of being clearheaded, cool, rational. It was early evening, suddenly cold, with the mountains outlined sharply against a sky that was dark blue above, yellow in the west where the sun had gone down. A jay croaked, out of sight, probably looking for a late snack.

And I became aware of something else, behind the thinking out part. Nothing cool this time, but a feeling of relief so great I wanted to yell it to the silent mountain. I’d known I was scared of going back into the village, but I hadn’t realized how scared. Utterly terrified, in fact—even more frightened than I’d been when the plane was trying to get into Geneva.

I stood looking down at the huddled roofs of the village, with smoke rising almost straight from their chimneys. It was a picturesque and ordinary scene, except that the people beneath the roofs had lost what lay at the heart of being human: their individuality, and the power to act as free men and women. But in their case it had been forcibly taken from them; I was surrendering mine out of cowardice.

And I remembered what Pa had said, about Martha and the police car. There were times when all you could do was put your foot down hard on the accelerator, and take your chance. I knew the answer to the question I’d put to myself on the plane, as to whether it wasn’t better being Capped and alive than being dead. I took a deep breath of the frosty mountain air and started off downhill again.