It wasn’t just Kowalski’s warning cry that failed to materialise, however. Neither he nor Adamek were anywhere to be seen. Where the hell had they got to? He took the cigarette case from his pocket and lit an Overstolz. Immediately he felt calmer. Not even the thought of Polish border officers could daunt him. Let them come, he’d make his excuses. He was a tourist who’d got lost while taking a stroll. They were sure to believe him, so long as they didn’t find his service pistol and identification.
By the time he stubbed out his cigarette on a stone, there was still no sign. Maybe they were talking and Adamek would take them to the hut after all? Maybe the old man just needed a little persuading in Masurian.
The sun was already low in the west. He headed back into the woods. It wasn’t so far to the clearing where Kowalski was keeping watch. Adamek hadn’t deviated much from the straight and narrow. He trudged on, but needed more than a quarter of an hour to reach a clearing. He wasn’t sure if it was where they’d left Kowalski or not. Either way, neither man was here.
He looked around, recognising the forked trunk where they’d emerged from the pinewood. No doubt about it, it was the same clearing. And those pines were in Prussia, so to hell with the secrecy.
‘Kowalski?’ he cried, as loud as he could. ‘Adamek?’ No response. ‘Kowalski! Adamek? Where are you?’
Nothing. No reaction. No sound. Just a few birds fluttering somewhere nearby.
‘Kowalski! Goddamn it!’
His voice echoed, but the woods issued no response.
The only possible explanation was that Adamek and the assistant detective had taken another route to Radlewski’s hut and they had missed each other. He went back towards the hut, calling their names at regular intervals. No response. By the time he reached the moor, the sun had disappeared behind the trees.
Something wasn’t right. Had they been picked up by Polish guards? Time and again the newspapers were full of border incidents, mostly in Silesia, but why shouldn’t it happen in East Prussia too?
But then he’d have been picked up too, wouldn’t he? The way he’d cried out just now?
There was another possibility, of course: the bastards had stitched him up. Why? Because Kowalski was too much of a coward, and wanted to forestall his command?
It was pointless thinking about it. All that mattered was that they were gone.
He gazed over the moor. Five hundred metres to Radlewski’s hideout, Adamek had said, but that was madness, he was alone here in the wilds. There was no way he was setting foot on that moor, even if the hut was only a stone’s throw distant. Assuming, of course, Adamek was telling the truth. Or was this revenge for their exchange in Pritzkus’s dive?
He returned to the clearing, retracing his steps without difficulty. Arriving at the border he lit an Overstolz, his second-last, and tried to take his bearings. The sun was setting in the west: wasn’t that where he needed to go? If he held slightly north, he’d be fine. North was to the right of west. No problem.
He entered the Prussian pinewood in good spirits, now assuming he was on the right track. At least he was no longer in Poland, and, if he didn’t reach the forest edge or the little lake, so long as he continued in a straight line he was bound to hit upon a path or perhaps even a road at some point.
That was the plan, but after an hour’s strenuous walking he still hadn’t made it out. In the meantime it had grown darker. Soon it would be dusk.
Damn it! He had no torch, nothing – but at least he had good shoes.
He couldn’t help remembering when he and Charly had got lost by the Müggelsee, and gradually his faith in his sense of direction started to evaporate. On that occasion it was actually Kirie who’d led them astray. Without her, his chances were probably greater. A compass would have been good; soon he’d no longer be able to take his bearings by the sun. Even now the diffuse light filtering through the treetops gave little indication of where it was setting, or, indeed, had already set.
He fought his growing sense of panic and yomped on. In the meantime his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and he could still discern the tree trunks that stood behind and alongside each other in unrelenting uniformity. There was nothing to suggest the forest was about to end.
‘Kowalski!’ he shouted again, knowing it was futile. ‘Adamek!’
The wood responded with brutal silence.
At last he made out a glimmer of light. The forest edge. Soon he’d be back by the lake, no need to panic, but when he emerged he stood at another clearing. Not, thankfully, his starting point: at least he hadn’t been going round in circles.
Apart from that, he had no idea where he was. Overhead the sky was full of stars, and a crescent moon beamed over the tips of the trees. Grounds for optimism at last. In spite of his disappointment he felt something akin to relief. On this clear evening he’d have enough light. Now, where did the moon rise? Was it in the east like the sun? Or west? Or somewhere else entirely?
He’d given up on finding his way back to Markowsken. By now it’d be enough to hit upon any path leading to civilisation. If, indeed, that’s what Masuria was. Where culture ends, there Masuria begins. In his present state even a peasant’s cottage without electricity or running water would look like paradise, and the prospect of being picked up by a Polish border patrol had lost its edge. At least they’d get him out of here.
The moonlight was so bright that he could see little beasts leaping in all directions to avoid his tread. Grasshoppers, he thought at first, but he wasn’t moving over grass, rather, soft moss, and, bending down, he saw that they were in fact tiny frogs. There was something reassuring about the sight, the place couldn’t be entirely unsuited to life. He yomped gamely on, wondering whether the moon really did rise in the east, when the moss under his feet gave way and he stepped into something damp and soggy. A mudhole!
Again, he recalled his Müggelsee adventure. On that occasion they had also found themselves in marshland, costing him a shoe. Well, not this time. The thought of struggling through this interminable forest in his stockings spurred him on. He just had to make sure he didn’t pull up his foot too fast. He tried, cautiously, but felt it sink deeper. He had to shift his weight somehow, and took a small step with his free right leg, straight into another mudhole. Everything below the layer of moss, on which the frogs had just now been hopping, seemed, suddenly, to swim.
He leaned forward and tried to reach his left foot with his hand. In vain: he felt himself sink deeper.
This wasn’t just some mudhole. How much moorland was there here, goddamn it? For there was no doubting the landscape was more idyllic than the spot Adamek had shown him; with its shrubs and moss carpet it reminded him of the Wahner Heath. There were no dead trees, no indication that the environment was unsuited to life. It couldn’t be Radlewski’s patch.
Don’t panic, he told himself, laying his forearms and hands on the undulating moss as he tried to get a hold, but there was nothing to hold him. The carpet of grass and moss pitched on the water and gave way under his weight. All he had achieved was to make the hole in which he stood larger still, as if he were digging a pond. The more he struggled, the firmer and colder the moor’s grip.
He was afraid of being swallowed entirely when he remembered his natural history. Buoyancy would prevent him from becoming submerged. The only mortal danger lay in not being discovered, as exposure could take hold in a matter of hours.