Maybe

by Morris Gleitzman

Ecstatic team members are crowding around, hugging me and Gosling. If they weren’t holding me up, I’d be slumping miserably down onto the grass.

  ‘Stand on the table,’ says Mr Scully.

  I don’t want to, but I don’t argue. At least this time I’m fully clothed.

  I climb up onto one of the tables in the dining room. Gosling climbs up next to me.

  All around us, boys clap and cheer and stamp their feet.

  I sigh. The match was three days ago. You’d think all the fuss would have died down by now.

  But no. Mr Scully just announced after dinner that he has something special to show us from our famous victory. So here we are, up on the table. At least Gosling looks like he’s enjoying it.

  ‘All hail,’ says Mr Scully, ‘to our heroes.’

  I sigh again.

  It was just a cricket match. If you’ve ever met a real hero, someone for example who sacrifices their life to try and protect children, you’ll know that it’s extremely unlikely for a cricket match to produce one hero, let alone two.

  Mr Scully picks up a newspaper.

  It’s just a local paper, but from the way he spreads it out and holds it up so all the boys can see it, he obviously feels it’s more important than The New York Times.

  MIRACLE CATCH ENDS DROUGHT FOR BOYS’ HOME

  That’s what the headline says on the page he’s showing them. And there’s a smaller headline.

  FROM WAR WAIF TO AUSSIE HERO

  Underneath is a photo of me and Gosling.

  I’ve got a strange expression on my face in the photo. Seeing it now, I know why. I can remember exactly what I was thinking on Saturday while it was being taken.

  I was thinking about Anya. About how much time is ticking away. I was wondering if the nuns are getting ready to take her baby.

  I was also wondering if copies of The Taranga Bugle ever turn up in Polish libraries.

  The boys didn’t notice my tense expression on Saturday and they haven’t noticed it now in the photo. They’re just cheering and stamping.

  I’ve never seen Mr Scully look so happy.

  ‘Come in, boys,’ says Mr Scully.

  Now that we’re in his office, he doesn’t look as happy as he just did in the dining room.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘We’ve had our celebration, now I want to talk to you about something else.’

  He’s not looking happy at all.

  He can’t blame us that it took fourteen years to beat the Taranga town team. That would be crazy.

  ‘Salinger,’ says Mr Scully. ‘I was watching you on Saturday when you were fielding on the boundary.’

  Gosling, standing next to me, shuffles his feet. I wish he wouldn’t.

  Feet that size can give things away.

  ‘I was puzzled,’ says Mr Scully. ‘Something about the way you were standing. Something about the way you were watching the batsmen. A little movement you made every time a batsman hit the ball hard.’

  ‘I taught him that, sir,’ says Gosling in a wobbly voice. ‘I taught him a good fielder is always alert.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ says Mr Scully.

  Gosling swallows noisily.

  ‘Since Saturday afternoon,’ says Mr Scully, ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. And this morning I realised what was going on. You weren’t being an alert fielder, Salinger. Not for our benefit, anyway. You were planning to escape.’

  I try to look shocked.

  ‘No, sir,’ I say.

  I wish Mr Scully was staring hard at Gosling instead of at me. Gosling is looking genuinely shocked. And terrified.

  Mr Scully picks up his springy leather strap.

  Gosling gives a little whimper.

  ‘I know it was just you,’ says Mr Scully to me. ‘Gosling doesn’t have the intelligence or the bravery to plan an escape. Whereas you, Salinger, with your exotic background, you’re perfectly capable.’

  I don’t say anything.

  There’s no point.

  Mr Scully is right, and he knows he is.

  ‘So I’ve brought you both in here to explain something to you,’ says Mr Scully.

  He starts slapping the strap onto the palm of his hand. Hard.

  I swallow.

  The last time Mr Scully brought me in here to explain something, I was in pain for days.

  ‘If,’ says Mr Scully, looking at me with an icy expression, ‘and it’s a big if, but if at any point you do manage to escape, I will flog your friend. I will flog Gosling each day you are absent. Fifty times.’

  Gosling whimpers louder than he did when he was pig boy.

  ‘Each and every day,’ says Mr Scully. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I say.

  I do understand, completely.

  I understand that when I escape, which needs to be very soon, I’ll have to take Gosling with me.

  you can help me, Richmal Crompton.

  Please.

  Show me a way to get out of here.

  One that doesn’t involve triggering the fence alarm or waiting weeks for the next cricket match.

  One that gets me to Anya in time for the baby.

  Anything, Richmal Crompton, please.

  ‘Salinger,’ hisses Gosling in my ear. ‘Wake up.’

  I sit up, blinking, and fumble around for my glasses, careful not to knock my cricket bat over.

  The dormitory is dark. I can only just make out the shape of Gosling next to my bed.

  ‘What is it?’ I whisper.

  ‘There’s a bloke outside who wants to see you,’ says Gosling.

  I stare at him.

  My heart starts to hammer.

  It’s the middle of the night. Australians are friendly, but not that friendly.

  I do some frantic maths. I try to work out how many days since I left Poland. Whether it’s enough time for a revenge-crazed killer to bribe his way onto a plane to Australia.

  Lots of days. Plenty of time.

  ‘This man,’ I say to Gosling. ‘Does he have an accent like mine?’

  Gosling looks uncertain.

  ‘Not sure,’ he says. ‘Quiet spoken sort of bloke. I don’t think so. He might have.’

  I grab my cricket bat and hurry out past Gosling and his sheet of paper, which is still under the open dorm door.

  There’s no point in not going.

  If it is Zliv, he’ll find me anyway.

  Better to meet him outside, away from the other boys. If he couldn’t recognise me in the dark dorm, he might kill everyone just to be sure.

  I stop and stare.

  The main door of the dormitory building is wide open. I don’t understand. Are there supervisors up and about?

  Gosling is right behind me.

  ‘I’ve got a key,’ he says. ‘I carved it out of very hard wood. It took me seven weeks.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘I like to go outside some nights,’ he says. ‘I don’t mind living in this place as long as I can look at the stars.’

  I’m starting to realise there’s more to Gosling than I thought.

  Quickly I tell him about Zliv.

  Just the basics. Zliv’s killing career. And why he wants me to be part of it.

  I say I’ll understand if Gosling would rather go back to the dorm and hide under the bedcovers.

  Gosling’s eyes have gone big.

  But he doesn’t move.

  I pull him away from the door and make him stay behind me. This is my fight. Gosling can back me up if he wants to.

  Gripping the cricket bat hard, I step warily out into the night.

  I peer around.

  I can’t see anybody. I can hardly see anything.

  Yes I can.

  The moon has come out from behind a cloud. Across the quadrangle where Mr Scully counts us first thing each morning, I can see that a hole has been cut in the perimeter fence.

  Which shouldn’t be possible.

  Gosling said the fence is wired with electrical alarms. Why aren’t the sirens w
ailing? Why aren’t the lights flashing?

  I hurry over to the fence, looking anxiously around. I reach up and grab one of the sirens. It comes away easily in my hand. Just an empty tin cone with no wires attached.

  Mr Scully must have lied about the alarms.

  He must have installed fake security equipment to save money so he could build extra cricket nets.

  Has Gosling just discovered this and decided he’s kept the promise to his mother long enough?

  Did he cut the fence so we could both escape? It’s possible. But what about the man who wants to see me?

  Over my shoulder, Gosling gives a squeak.

  Before I can turn round, somebody grabs me.

  ‘Stay quiet,’ whispers a voice into my ear.

  Fear jolts through me. I struggle to get free. And unexpectedly, I do.

  The voice whispers again.

  ‘Sorry to startle you.’

  I realise the voice is speaking English. No Polish accent. I turn round.

  It’s a man I’ve never seen before.

  ‘Are you Felix Salinger?’ says the man.

  I nod. No point pretending. If he turns out to be Zliv in disguise I’ve got a cricket bat. The moon is still out and I can see the place under his chin that Yuli taught me about.

  ‘You’ve taken some finding,’ says the man. He smiles. ‘Thank God for cricket.’

  I’m starting to feel weak with relief.

  ‘The name’s Neal Fishbone,’ says the man. ‘I’m a journalist with a Melbourne newspaper. Chasing something the government seems to want to keep secret. An RAAF plane that came back to Australia with two young war survivors on board.’

  I look at the man.

  He’s got an honest face.

  That doesn’t always mean anything, but this time I decide it’s all I’ve got.

  Plus he’s from Melbourne, which is where I want to go with Anya.

  ‘The plane crashed,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ says the journalist. ‘Well, I suspected. After the end of the war there were claims some of our planes in Europe weren’t being looked after too well. Spare parts being sold on the black market, stuff like that. Could be why the authorities want to keep this plane crash a secret.’

  I take all this in.

  ‘My paper wants to publish the details of you coming here,’ says the journalist. ‘You can go on the record if you like, or be a background source, which means we’ll print the details but we won’t say we spoke with you.’

  I’m not sure what all that means.

  One thing I am sure of, and I tell the journalist.

  ‘The other young war survivor isn’t here,’ I say. ‘We’ll only tell you about our journey if we can do it together. Which means we have to go to where she is.’

  The journalist thinks about this. I can see he’s not totally enthusiastic, but tempted.

  In the moonlight I spot something under the trees on the other side of the fence.

  A car. It must be his.

  ‘We should leave now,’ I say to him.

  While he thinks some more, I turn to Gosling.

  ‘You have to come too,’ I say.

  Gosling looks panicked. I know he’s thinking about the promise he made to his mother.

  ‘Your mum,’ I say to him. ‘Sorry to ask, but was she married?’

  Gosling hesitates, then shakes his head.

  ‘So she was completely on her own,’ I say. ‘Looking after you and protecting you without any help.’

  Gosling looks very sad at the thought. He nods.

  ‘Same with my friend,’ I say. ‘And she needs our help, urgently.’

  Gosling doesn’t say anything.

  Just starts biting his lip.

  ‘I think your mother would understand,’ I say. ‘I think she wouldn’t mind about you breaking your promise. Not if it’s to help someone who’s dealing with what she had to deal with.’

  Gosling chews his lip some more.

  Then he grabs my cricket bat.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says.

  We get to the girls’ home just after dawn. Less time than I thought it would take, but I know why.

  When Mr Chase and Mr Petrie were driving me from here to the boys’ home, I was so anxious about remembering every road and every turn, the journey seemed to take forever.

  I’m glad I went to the trouble.

  The map I made during my first night in the dorm has brought us straight here.

  I tuck the map back into my envelope.

  ‘He’s extremely well organised,’ says Gosling.

  ‘I noticed,’ says Neal.

  Journalists probably like the world to be well organised.

  Neal gives Gosling a look.

  He’s done it several times during the trip.

  I think it’s because of the smell. He’s probably starting to worry now that we’ve pulled up outside the main gate of the girls’ home. He’s probably wondering how the nuns are going to cope when they meet Gosling.

  He doesn’t have to worry.

  We won’t be hanging around.

  ‘I’ll go and see the folks here,’ says Neal. ‘Find out if they can give us somewhere private for our talk with Anya.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘We can’t talk here. Anya has to leave straight away. We’ll only talk after you’ve taken us somewhere else.’

  Neal doesn’t look happy. Has he forgotten what I explained to him an hour ago? All the things Anya is up against. How the nuns will take her baby.

  Neal stayed silent when I told him, which at the time I thought was just him being shocked and horrified. Now I’ve got an awful feeling it was him having cold feet.

  ‘Come on,’ says Neal. ‘That wasn’t the deal.’

  ‘We didn’t have a deal about this part of it,’ I say. ‘I just said that me and Anya would talk to you together. Which we will do, in the car, driving away from here.’

  ‘He’s extremely stubborn too,’ says Gosling.

  Gosling’s right.

  I am being stubborn. And bossy. But sometimes in life, when you’re arguing with a Nazi or dealing with a headstrong Polish chicken or trying to save your friend’s baby, you have to be.

  it’s best if you boys stay in the car,’ says Neal. ‘I’ll try to find out where Anya is.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Anya doesn’t know you,’ I say. ‘She can be a bit prickly with men she doesn’t know.’

  Neal sighs.

  ‘Alright,’ he says. ‘We’ll all go.’

  ‘Maybe it’s best,’ says Gosling, ‘if a journalist isn’t caught sneaking around in a girls’ home. Specially with two young blokes he’s just helped escape from a boys’ home.’

  Neal gives him a look.

  ‘You could end up in the papers,’ says Gosling.

  Neal doesn’t think that’s funny. But after he gives it more thought, he says he’ll stay in the car.

  ‘I thought that was very funny,’ says Gosling.

  We’re heading down a track that curves around towards the back of the girls’ home.

  It’s still very early. I can’t see anyone moving around near any of the buildings. But we keep our heads down just in case.

  ‘A reporter,’ chuckles Gosling. ‘In the papers.’

  ‘Shhh,’ I say.

  I just heard something.

  A clanking sound.

  I’m not sure what it is and I learned from the partisans to be extremely wary of any sound you can’t identify.

  ‘Keep your head down,’ I whisper to Gosling.

  I drag him behind a bush. We crouch and listen. The clanking gets louder.

  ‘I know that sound,’ says Gosling.

  We peek out.

  Two girls with sticks are herding cows along the track towards us. A couple of the cows have got big bells round their necks.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ says Gosling to me. ‘Cows are just like pigs, only bigger.’

  I ignore him.

  We need informa
tion. So let’s hope these girls won’t scare easily and raise the alarm.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the girls. ‘Are you from the home?’

  The girls look startled, which is understandable when two boys suddenly step out from behind a bush.

  ‘If we are,’ says one of the girls, trying to sound tough, ‘what’s it to you?’

  ‘We’re looking for our friend,’ I say. ‘She’s in the home too. Anya Goszinka.’

  Both the girls stop trying to be tough and start looking sad instead.

  ‘Poor Anya,’ says one.

  ‘I really feel for her,’ says the other.

  ‘Why?’ I say. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Come and see for yourself,’ says the first girl.

  The girls hide me and Gosling in among the cows. They steer us all together through a gate and into a large milking shed.

  The cows don’t seem to mind us being with them. I don’t either. It feels safe here, surrounded by huge slow-moving bodies and warm breath. Until a dog barks nearby and the cows get nervous and we’re almost knocked off our feet.

  ‘Watch out for the horns,’ mutters Gosling. ‘The front end of a cow is different to a pig.’

  The girls quieten the cows down. They take me and Gosling through a door at the end of the shed and into the main building of the girls’ home.

  Everyone is at breakfast, nuns included.

  With the girls guiding us, we creep past the dining hall and up some stairs.

  One of the girls points down a corridor.

  ‘Anya’s in the dorm at the end,’ she says. ‘We’re off to breakfast or we’ll be missed. Be careful, and if the nuns get you, leave us out of it.’

  I nod.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  I creep along the corridor, Gosling close behind. There are dormitories on both sides, all empty.

  Except one.

  A voice is coming from the end dorm.

  I signal to Gosling to be quiet. I try not to make a sound myself as I peep round the doorway.

  Anya is in a bed near the door, one arm across her tummy.

  A nun is standing next to the bed.

  ‘Is she there?’ hisses Gosling behind me.

  ‘Shhh,’ I whisper. ‘She’s got company.’

  I steer Gosling into an empty room next door. It’s a small office, with a window that looks out over the beds, including Anya’s.

  I pull Gosling down out of sight.