rediscovery of the Przewalski’s horses, for they are identical to the horses in the paintings made by French cavemen more than seventeen thousand years ago.”
“But why,” asked Kalinka, “are they called Przewalski’s horses?”
“That was the name of the man who rediscovered them, of course. Nikolai Przewalski was a Russian explorer.”
“I see.” Kalinka nodded. “Yes, I can see why people like your baron got so excited. The horses on the reserve—they’re exactly like the ones in these cave paintings.”
“They’re a living fossil, is what they are,” explained Max. “It was like finding a Neanderthal man or a saber-toothed tiger. You see, little Kalinka, there’s so much inour world that changes very quickly. Quicker than seems comfortable, sometimes. But whenever I see a Przewalski’s horse, I think of one of these cave paintings and I know I’m seeing exactly what our ancient forebears saw.” He shrugged. “I like the way that makes me feel small. Like I don’t matter very much in the scheme of things. I suppose that’s why I’m so fond of these little cave horses.”
He shook his head.
“Not that I always was,” he admitted. “At first, I cared not a bit for them. For one thing, they kick and bite like the very devil. And I suppose I much preferred the more obvious breeding and beauty of the big Hanoverian horses that enjoyed lives of enormous privilege and comfort—better than many peasants—in the baron Falz-Fein’s well-appointed stables. A bit like the baron himself, if the truth be told. But as I listened to and learned from the baron—who had read every book and paper about the wild horses, ever since Colonel Przewalski had rediscovered them—I found myself becoming as enthusiastic about the cave horses as he was.”
Kalinka tried and failed to restrain a yawn. She felt warm and comfortable and, above all, safe for the first time in many months—certainly since she had run away from Dnepropetrovsk. The old man’s voice was so soothing and friendly that it was hard to keep her eyes open. He might have looked frightening—there was something wrong with his neck that stopped him from turning his head properly—but there was no doubting his kindness.
“You’re tired,” said Max. “You need to sleep for a hundred years, like Sleeping Beauty, and get your strength back.”
He picked her up like she weighed no more than a feather and carried her over to the bed, where he covered her with a thick fur rug. Instinctively, Taras climbed up onto the bed beside the girl, licked her face and then snuggled up close to her in order to help with the important business of keeping their guest warm.
“But why did the horses become extinct at all?” asked Kalinka, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. “They seem much too clever to be so easily wiped out. And why are the SS shooting them now?”
Max relit his pipe, drew up a chair by the bed and sat down.
“Over the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that it was their cleverness that was their undoing,” he said. “Because they were almost impossible to catch and domesticate like other horses, it was simply easier for ancient tribesmen to kill and eat them—especially since the horses competed with cattle for what was sometimes rare and valuable grazing. And driven away in small scattered herds all over Asia, the horses decreased drastically in number, to the point of extinction that we see now.”
He shrugged. “The Nazis,” he said, “now, they’re a very different story. They think that anything that’s not German is second-rate. German people are superior and so are German horses. Anything else is to be enslaved or exterminated.”
He was going to tell her exactly what Captain Grenzmann had told him about the Przewalski’s but stopped himself as Kalinka was already asleep.
“Poor child,” said Max. “I reckon she’s had a pretty rough time of it, Taras. How did she ever walk all the way from
“But why,” asked Kalinka, “are they called Przewalski’s horses?”
“That was the name of the man who rediscovered them, of course. Nikolai Przewalski was a Russian explorer.”
“I see.” Kalinka nodded. “Yes, I can see why people like your baron got so excited. The horses on the reserve—they’re exactly like the ones in these cave paintings.”
“They’re a living fossil, is what they are,” explained Max. “It was like finding a Neanderthal man or a saber-toothed tiger. You see, little Kalinka, there’s so much inour world that changes very quickly. Quicker than seems comfortable, sometimes. But whenever I see a Przewalski’s horse, I think of one of these cave paintings and I know I’m seeing exactly what our ancient forebears saw.” He shrugged. “I like the way that makes me feel small. Like I don’t matter very much in the scheme of things. I suppose that’s why I’m so fond of these little cave horses.”
He shook his head.
“Not that I always was,” he admitted. “At first, I cared not a bit for them. For one thing, they kick and bite like the very devil. And I suppose I much preferred the more obvious breeding and beauty of the big Hanoverian horses that enjoyed lives of enormous privilege and comfort—better than many peasants—in the baron Falz-Fein’s well-appointed stables. A bit like the baron himself, if the truth be told. But as I listened to and learned from the baron—who had read every book and paper about the wild horses, ever since Colonel Przewalski had rediscovered them—I found myself becoming as enthusiastic about the cave horses as he was.”
Kalinka tried and failed to restrain a yawn. She felt warm and comfortable and, above all, safe for the first time in many months—certainly since she had run away from Dnepropetrovsk. The old man’s voice was so soothing and friendly that it was hard to keep her eyes open. He might have looked frightening—there was something wrong with his neck that stopped him from turning his head properly—but there was no doubting his kindness.
“You’re tired,” said Max. “You need to sleep for a hundred years, like Sleeping Beauty, and get your strength back.”
He picked her up like she weighed no more than a feather and carried her over to the bed, where he covered her with a thick fur rug. Instinctively, Taras climbed up onto the bed beside the girl, licked her face and then snuggled up close to her in order to help with the important business of keeping their guest warm.
“But why did the horses become extinct at all?” asked Kalinka, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. “They seem much too clever to be so easily wiped out. And why are the SS shooting them now?”
Max relit his pipe, drew up a chair by the bed and sat down.
“Over the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that it was their cleverness that was their undoing,” he said. “Because they were almost impossible to catch and domesticate like other horses, it was simply easier for ancient tribesmen to kill and eat them—especially since the horses competed with cattle for what was sometimes rare and valuable grazing. And driven away in small scattered herds all over Asia, the horses decreased drastically in number, to the point of extinction that we see now.”
He shrugged. “The Nazis,” he said, “now, they’re a very different story. They think that anything that’s not German is second-rate. German people are superior and so are German horses. Anything else is to be enslaved or exterminated.”
He was going to tell her exactly what Captain Grenzmann had told him about the Przewalski’s but stopped himself as Kalinka was already asleep.
“Poor child,” said Max. “I reckon she’s had a pretty rough time of it, Taras. How did she ever walk all the way from
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