Prince of Ponies

She hoped she’d covered herself and that no part of her body was sticking out because she didn’t have time to adjust it – the men who’d been working their way along the corridor from stall to stall had reached Prince’s door. She heard the bolt being slid back and then, from her hiding place, she peered out at the shiny black boots of the Nazi officers, standing right there in front of her in the straw!

“So.” The voice was that of Dr Rau. “This is him, then? The one you told me about?”

The Colonel cleared his throat. “Yes, Dr Rau. This is Prince of Poland. He is purebred Polish Arabian, descended from the very best bloodlines that we possess here at Janów Podlaski. He is the finest horse in these stables.”

Dr Rau gave a hollow laugh. “You are being arrogant, Colonel. You dare to tell me which is your best horse? Such decisions are mine to make and mine alone. This is why the Führer appointed me. This is why he gave me my title: Master of Horses. You understand what it means?”

“I-I meant no insult,” the Colonel stammered. “I simply meant that I think him to be my best horse.”

“Your best horse?” The Master turned this phrase over slowly on his tongue. “He is not your best horse, Colonel. He is not your horse at all. None of them are yours. I come here tonight on the instructions of Hitler himself. These horses belong to the Führer now. They are to play their part in his plan for the glory of the Third Reich.”

“I am sorry, Dr Rau.” The Colonel sounded confused. “I do not understand. I thought you were coming to inspect the stud farm. What is this plan that you speak of?”

“Ahhh.” The Master almost purred with pleasure to be in possession of such top-secret information that the Colonel clearly did not know. “You are aware, Colonel, that the German army have made it part of their mission as a conquering nation to secure the very best artworks in the world? In our hands now are masterpieces by Raphael, Rubens and many more. They are works of such great beauty, the Führer demands that we ensure that they be taken by the SS and kept in secret, to ensure that when the war ends, they will belong to Germany.”

“But these are horses,” the Colonel objected. “They are not priceless paintings or sculptures.”

“Yes,” Dr Rau replied. “Horses are an even greater treasure. They are living, breathing art.”

Beneath her rug in the corner, Zofia saw Dr Rau shuffle his feet in the straw and take a step closer towards Prince. He had his gloved hand on Prince’s halter! Zofia’s heart was pounding.

“This horse, Prince of Poland, has all the traits of the Aryan race. In time he will be pure white like his father. And his bloodlines are impeccable …” The Master hesitated, seemingly unsure as to whether he should unfold the whole plan to the Colonel, but was unable to resist. And so he continued.

“As we speak, my men are gathering together the very best horses in the whole of Europe – Lipizzaners from Austria, Thoroughbreds from France, and now from Poland we take these Arabians. All of them are a part of the Führer’s grand scheme. For it is not just the humans, the Aryan race, who will bring glory to the Third Reich. We will also create a new super-breed of horses. The horses in your stables will be moved to Dresden. Here we will open a new stud farm, with all the best stallions and the very best mares from every breed. We will combine these horses and create the perfect, ultimate war horse.”

The Colonel’s voice was anxious. “You mean to say you are taking my horses?” he said. “To Dresden?”

“As I’ve already told you, Colonel,” the Master replied, “they are no longer your horses, and be calm – I do not intend to take them all. Only the best stallions will serve the purpose of the Führer.”

He stroked Prince’s muzzle.

“You were right when you said this one is the very best horse in the stable,” he said. “He is magnificent.”

Underneath the rug, watching him touch her horse like that, Zofia felt a fury that made her sick to her stomach. And then the Master continued and things became so much worse.

“Prince of Poland is truly the greatest horse in your possession,” the Master said. “So great, that he is not going with the others to Dresden.”

“But I thought you said—” the Colonel began, but the Master cut him dead.

“In the morning, he will travel with me, back to Berlin. Hitler himself has a special plan for this horse.”

The Master gave Prince a hearty slap on his neck to confirm his decision, and then he wheeled about.

“Now,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I think we are done with the inspection. I should like to eat.”

And with that, he marched back out of Prince’s stall, with his SS officers in his wake, leaving the bewildered Colonel to bolt the door behind them.

In the darkness once more, Zofia waited until her heart stopped pounding and she was certain they had gone before she emerged from beneath the rug. She was still shaking, and as she lifted her hands up to take hold of Prince’s halter, she realised just how close she had come to being discovered. At the same time, though, she knew it had been lucky that she had been in the stall to witness this, for now she knew the Master’s plan.

“Did you hear what he said?” Zofia whispered to Prince. “It is worse than we ever imagined, Prince. Hitler, the Führer himself, wants you.”

Prince’s ears swivelled as she spoke to him. He was listening intently. Did he realise the danger they were in? Zofia knew now that there was nothing else for it and no time to waste.

“When the Master comes for you in the morning, you’ll already be gone,” she said to him. “You and I, we have no choice. We must run. We leave tonight.”

Berlin 2019 (#ua6ce73fb-f17d-52df-aceb-ad201324b9b7)

(#ua6ce73fb-f17d-52df-aceb-ad201324b9b7)

Mira took a tight hold of the leather leash and felt Rolf strain with all his tiny might against her control.

“Be good!” she warned the dachshund. “Or you will not get any treats.”

It was a hollow threat and they both knew it. Mira was not the one to decide anything in this relationship. Rolf was in charge and Mira was his girl, hired by Frau Schmidt to do the dachshund’s bidding.

At half past one, Rolf had greeted Mira, as always, at the back door of Frau Schmidt’s mansion in Roseneck, and from there she and the little dog set off on his preordained Monday-afternoon outing. The first stop on their itinerary was lunch – which was where they were heading now.

Roseneck was an aristocratic neighbourhood, the pavements were broad and tree-lined, trimmed on one side with mown lawns and on the other with elegant hedges and tall fences that blocked Mira’s view of the grand houses. Rolf blazed a trail through these streets with an almost comical sense of importance. Barrel-chested, pointy of snout and floppy-eared, his belly was so low to the ground beneath his long, silken coat it was almost as if he was levitating as he trotted on his stumpy legs. His lush feathered tail dusted off the concrete behind him.

Soon they reached the shops, passing the corner café where elderly ladies like Frau Schmidt would sit and chat for hours on the white leather banquettes and dine on the dainty fruit tarts displayed in the window. Beside the pretty café was another bakery; this was the one where Mira’s mother worked. It was a very modern bread shop by German standards – her mother made Turkish breads here too and Syrian flatbreads along with the traditional German pumpernickel and rustic farm loaves and pretzels, all of it displayed side by side on wooden racks in the plate-glass window.

Mira looked in, hoping for a glimpse of her mother, who had left for work at 4 a.m., long before Mira woke. There was no sign of her, so they turned the corner and pressed on past the florist’s, the windows filled with pink and white long-stemmed roses, and then the Pets Deli, the first stop of their morning journey.

The Pets Deli was busy – as always. Dogs swarmed on the pavement and Mira had to duck and swerve as Rolf beetled through the throng, darting between the legs of the low-haunched German shepherds, diverting round the broad-shouldered Dobermanns in their studded collars, and barging past the bristle-coated wolfhounds to get in the door.

“Good morning, Frau Weiss,” Mira greeted the woman, who was slicing venison on the machine behind the counter. “Can Rolf have his usual table, please?”

Frau Weiss grunted, “It is ready. Go on through.”

Rolf did not need to be told twice. He was already heading towards the rear of the shop, where the doorway opened to reveal the courtyard restaurant.

The dachshund jumped up on to his favourite chair and Mira sat opposite him. Around them, the dogs and their owners were browsing the menu, but Rolf didn’t bother. He knew what he liked and always had the same thing.

Frau Weiss was serving at the table beside them now, fawning over a woman whose blow-dried blonde hair perfectly matched the silken coat of her Afghan hound. Frau Weiss laughed a fake, tinkling laugh as she took their order. Then she came back and, without a word to Mira, she slapped Rolf’s meal down on the table in front of him.

Perhaps she never bothered to be nice to Mira because she didn’t think the girl spoke good enough German? It was true that Mira sometimes got the odd word confused but she spoke it so much better than her mama, who still struggled to make the most basic of sentences. Mira had the advantage because she’d lived here since she was seven and had to speak German at school.

Now she was twelve and it was still Arabic that she spoke at home. When they’d lived in Sonnenallee, all the local kids spoke Arabic too. Sonnenallee, the Arab district, had been their home for the first five years when Mira’s family had arrived in Germany. As part of the refugee programme, they had been given a place to live, a tiny one-bedroom apartment for all four of them. Her mother got a job at the cake shop on the corner of Sonnenallee and Weichselstrasse, a local hangout that specialised in Middle Eastern delicacies like pistachio slice and halva. Mira and her brother and sister went to school during the day and in the afternoons they ran loose with the other kids of the neighbourhood, playing football in the park on the corner of Reuterstrasse, dangling from the climbing frame, until it was too dark to see and they were forced to go home.

Six months ago, they’d moved to Roseneck to be near her mother’s new job. Her mother had said that Mira would get used to the neighbourhood but Mira still hated it here. Her mother had always worked hard before but now it was like she didn’t exist. She’d already left for work by the time Mira woke up in the morning and she was never home until after Mira had put her brother and sister to bed at night and was asleep too. The rent cost more here, Mira’s mother said, and working long hours was the only way to make a better life. But Mira wanted to know why they couldn’t just go back to their old life in Syria. Or at the very least back to Sonnenallee, where she had friends.

In the corner of the dog café, Mira sat at the table and watched Rolf as he polished off his luncheon, relishing each bite with a little growl of delight. He ate in stages, licking the gravy off the liver and veal first, then moving on to the main dish before toothily devouring the bigger chunks of chopped-up blood sausage. Finally his pink tongue circled the dog bowl to get the very last bits and then, licking his chops, he looked up at Mira.

“Ready to go, habibi?” She smiled at him. “Come on!”

Out on the street, Rolf immediately began straining at the leash. His tummy was full and he was keen for his morning walk. And for once they had perfect timing. The bus was waiting for them at the corner.

Mira took Rolf in her arms and jumped on board. They sat like that, her cradling the dog in a seat near the front. It wasn’t a long ride. Only three stops from the shops to reach the gates that led into the forest of the Grunewald.