Prince of Ponies. Stacy Gregg

village had no part to play in this war. They could hardly be considered a strategic location for the Germans, who currently occupied Poland. The big main cities, Warsaw and Krakow, were miles to the west, and it was a long and dangerous journey from there in the middle of winter to this tiny village in the wilderness by the Russian border. On a night like this the visitors must have realised how deadly the roads would be and changed their minds. Otherwise they would be here already.

      Alone in the darkness, Zofia had mulled all of this over in her mind. She had got up and tried to prise open the skylight again to see out, but it was no use. She had looked at her watch and been maddened by how slowly the hands moved, and when the hands swept past midnight, and then began to edge towards the half-past mark, cold and lonely, she could take it no longer. The Colonel’s orders made no sense! No one was coming. What was the harm then in her leaving this miserable icebox of scratchy hay and going back downstairs?

      And that was how she had found herself wobbling down the ladder and feeling her way in the darkness, until she was finally at the fourth door.

      “I’m here!” she breathed through the gaps in the wood as she began to work at the cast-iron bolt. “Please. Don’t be angry. It was the Colonel who made me stay away from you! But now I’ve come …”

      The iron bolt protested as she tried to work the door open. Zofia’s delicate hands struggled to take a grip. She twisted her fingers round the nub of the shank, pulling with all her strength until finally the bolt was released with a dull thud.

      She was inside the stall now, and so completely cloaked in darkness she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face, let alone the shadowy form that moved around her in the stall, fretting and stamping.

      “Where are you?” she hissed. She tried to follow the sound of him as he circled her. He was moving nearer and, instinctively, she turned, thinking that she was facing him, and then realising she’d been wrong as he took her by surprise and she felt a hard shove against the small of her back.

      “Hey!”

      The blow pushed her off balance so that she fell forward into the straw on the stable floor. She still couldn’t see him in the dark but she felt his presence, standing above her.

      “That is not funny,” Zofia hissed. “I’m cold and tired and I’m not in the mood for your humour.”

      There was a soft nicker from the horse and Zofia immediately felt bad for snapping at him. He had only been playing! And she hadn’t meant it – she’d just been caught off guard was all.

      “I know.” She softened her tone. “I missed you too. It’s freezing in that hayloft …”

      In the blackness that cloaked them, even without her eyes, Zofia still knew by heart every groove and sinew of his body. The way the bloom of his dapples made concentric shadows against his dove-grey coat, and his soot-black stockings perfectly defined his graceful, slender legs. Prince had just turned seven, an age when there was still a smoky darkness to his colouring. Zofia was saddened to think that the pretty dapples would fade away completely in the years to come. That was how it was with horses, and she recalled how his father had been pure white in the end. His mother, whom Prince resembled in different ways, had been a blood-red bay, and everyone had wondered what sort of foal the pairing would produce. Prince had been their first and only son, and when he was born he’d been jet black. As he’d matured into a young colt, though, his black coat had become flecked with white and he’d seemed to grow lighter by the day, so that as a yearling he was steel grey. Then the dapples emerged, and his mane became streaked with silver. In the sunshine on a clear day, when he was at liberty in the yards here at Janów Podlaski, he shone and sparkled almost like a unicorn.

      “I’m here now …”

      Her fingers reached out to touch him and traced the solid slab of his jawbone, the way his nose had that dramatic dish as it tapered to the broad sweep of his nostrils, then widened out once more, flaring like a trumpet.

      His velvet muzzle sought her out now as Prince took in her scent. The soft-palate breathing as his nostrils widened, so distinctive to Arabians, made his breath in the darkness sound like the flutter of butterflies. Sweet exhalations of warm air brushed her skin, scented like clover honey. She paused for a moment there in the dark, happy to be back where she belonged, reunited with her horse.

      Her happiness, like all happiness, did not last. The soft fluttering suddenly became an agitated snort. Flashes of light outside the window startled the girl and the horse. There were headlights coming down the driveway! In the pitch black their twin beams glanced off the walls like searchlights, penetrating the bars of the stable-block windows, illuminating Prince’s stall.

      Zofia’s heart began hammering. The visitors! They were here after all! She needed to get back to the hayloft.

      She waited for the headlights to flicker past. She was just about to stand up when another set of lights came shining in through the window. A second car was arriving, and then a third.

      As the car doors slammed outside, Zofia crawled across the floor of the stall on her belly until she reached the wall below the window, and then, carefully, making sure that the headlights wouldn’t catch her shadow in their beam, she popped her head up just high enough so that she could see.

      The three black town cars were lined up in a row in the snow. On their bonnet each car flew a tiny flag with the red, black and white symbol of the Nazi swastika. Zofia saw the symbol and felt certain now that she was in real trouble.

      She should never have come down here. The Colonel had been clear in his orders to her to stay hidden and she’d stupidly ignored him. Now the house lights had been turned on and in the driveway she could see the men getting out of their cars. They were not ordinary German soldiers either – their uniforms were not like the ones the Colonel and his men wore. These were special police, officers of the SS, dressed in black greatcoats and long boots, with red armbands emblazoned with swastikas, matching the flags on their cars.

      She had to get out of here now! Run before it was too late and get back up the wooden step ladder into the ceiling then pull the ladder up behind her and close the trapdoor. Except such a sequence of actions in the cold silence of the night was not without risk. Even if she could make it up the ladder, she wouldn’t have time to drag it back up into the ceiling and if the officers saw it, they’d come looking maybe, knowing someone was in the loft.

      As she peered out over the window ledge one of the German officers looked in her direction and she ducked down, heart pounding, afraid she’d been seen. So now she couldn’t even look at them. All she could do was crouch low and listen to their voices in the cold night air, speaking to each other in clipped German.

      There were more car doors slamming, and laughter, and then she heard a voice she recognised. The Colonel. Zofia took the risk, poked her head up once more and saw him on the doorstep, wearing his full German uniform. It looked strange to see him dressed like this. In the time since the German army had taken control of Janów Podlaski, she had seldom seen the Colonel in his military clothes – he usually just wore his jodhpurs, like a civilian. And when the officers saluted him, he looked distinctly uncomfortable as he saluted back, arm raised straight out into the air: “Heil Hitler.”

      “Heil Hitler, Colonel,” one of the SS officers replied. “I apologise for the lateness of the hour, but the snow made it impossible for us to get to you any faster.”

      “Of course.” The Colonel nodded in agreement. “Your accommodation for the evening has been prepared and there is a meal ready. I’m sure you must be hungry. The horses can wait until morning.”

      “Ah,” the officer replied. “Thank you, Colonel. However, such matters are not my decision …”

      The officer turned his gaze to the second car in the row of three and at precisely that moment the driver’s door swung open and yet another officer in SS uniform stepped out with great formality to open the passenger door.

      The man who emerged was in a different uniform to all the rest of them. Bald, stout and not wearing a hat on his bare head, he did, however,