Drozde lay on Molebacher’s pallet and stared into the dark. She couldn’t sleep, even though the bedding was softer than she’d lain on for months. She was still alone. After feeding August and the other officers, Molebacher had decided it was too late to make a general issue to the men, even though that was the tradition on the first night in a new billet, and had fobbed them off with travel rations of black bread and weeks-old sausage. But he had softened the blow by sending the orderlies out with three casks of the good beer. And naturally he then joined them to help drink it.
The rain had set in heavily shortly after dark, and no one was in any hurry to return to their tents. They had commandeered one of the largest rooms towards the front of the house, with a solid floor and no obvious leaks, and dragged in benches for the sergeants; the rest of the men sat on the floor. Drozde could hear voices and laughter from there now, even a snatch of song. She was a little surprised at Molebacher: after the long march, the colonel might give the men some latitude, but they’d do well not to rely on it. The quartermaster was usually careful to keep on the right side of the officers. As if he had plucked the thought from her head, she heard Molebacher’s sharp voice, and the noise subsided.
It must have been near midnight when a general commotion in the corridors told her the enlisted men had been dispatched back to the camp. When the last of them had gone, she heard low voices in the passage outside her room, punctuated by Sergeant Strumpfel’s hoarse cough, and then the sound of another cask being trundled from the racks. Molebacher could don the persona of the convivial quarter-master like a second skin when it suited him, and whether disposed to carry on drinking for pleasure or indulging the other sergeants for reasons of his own, Drozde guessed that she wouldn’t see him again till morning. Relieved, she rolled over and closed her eyes.
She was woken by a pressure on the bedclothes at her side. She opened her eyes quickly and pulled herself up: Molebacher would expect her to be waiting for him after so many days apart, and when he was drunk was not a good time to thwart him. But it wasn’t Molebacher sitting on the bed. It was one of the ghosts.
She must have imagined the pressure. But this ghost was so distinct, so vividly present, it was easy to imagine that she had substance. Drozde had never seen a ghost of such solidity. She was young, maybe nine or ten years old by the look of her, and outlandishly dressed, as so many ghosts were. In fact the colours of her jacket and stockings—clashing pinks and reds—were so bright they hurt the eyes. Drozde wondered how she was seeing them when the room was so dark. But most astonishing was the child’s face. She was looking at Drozde with clear recognition—and with such unaffected joy that for an instant it caught at Drozde’s heart. She could make nothing of it. She stared at the little girl dumbly.
The child seemed to be waiting for her to speak. After a moment’s silence she laughed, as if they were playing a game, and laid her small hand over Drozde’s own. The slight warmth of it hit Drozde like a thunderbolt.
“Hello, Drozde!” the little girl said. “What shall we do now?”