Soon

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘What do you think?’ says Gabriek.

  I stare.

  I think it’s amazing.

  It’s a baby cot, beautifully built by Gabriek from bits of wood. But it’s not like any baby cot I’ve ever seen. For a start it’s on cleverly designed wooden rockers. And it’s got a roof that slides shut with little wooden animals dangling from it.

  ‘Sound-proofing,’ says Gabriek. ‘For when Pavlo’s having a bad night.’

  The cot walls and roof have lots of tiny holes drilled in them. Scientifically designed, I’m guessing, so they’re small enough for air to get in but not for much sound to get out.

  ‘Brilliant,’ I say, trying not to let Gabriek see how emotional it’s making me feel. And how lucky to be in a family with somebody as kind and loving as Gabriek.

  I think Pavlo agrees. He’s lying on his blanket in the cot, gurgling happily. Specially when Gabriek rocks him.

  Suddenly I’m starting to hope it could be OK.

  We’re safe, the three of us, here in our hideout. We’ve got food and security and each other.

  I’m sure a baby can survive on bread soup as long as it’s got plenty of cabbage juice and mashed sardines in it.

  ‘We need to get Pavlo a few things,’ says Gabriek. ‘Rubber teats for his bottle. More blankets. Little clothes for when he starts to grow. I’ll have a word with some of my customers tomorrow. Get them to keep an eye out.’

  I stare at Gabriek, horrified.

  If he starts putting the word around that we’ve got a baby, sooner or later a careless customer is bound to shoot their mouth off.

  And sooner or later, but probably sooner, Gogol will hear.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ says Gabriek.

  ‘We need to have a talk,’ I say miserably.

  ‘Good,’ says Gabriek. ‘I want to hear how you went with the doctor.’

  I tell Gabriek about Gogol.

  And Anya. And Doctor Lipzyk.

  The paintings. Everything.

  Gabriek listens silently. Grimly. Drinking a lot of vodka.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say miserably. ‘I should have told you before.’

  Gabriek doesn’t reply at first. Just has another big swallow from his mug. He rubs his head, as if this is too much for one human brain to take in.

  And one human heart.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

  ‘You did your best,’ says Gabriek. ‘Perhaps it might have been better if you’d found a baby somewhere else, but you didn’t. And Pavlo’s ours now, and that’s that.’

  I want to hug Gabriek.

  I don’t.

  ‘Here’s what we do,’ says Gabriek. ‘You lie low here with Pavlo. We don’t need baby milk from an individual who gets kids to do his stealing for him. There’s other powdered milk in this city we can get our hands on through honest black-market trading. And if this Gogol causes trouble, I’ll have a word with him.’

  Gabriek gets to his feet.

  Unsteadily.

  He goes over to his bed and reaches behind it.

  I give Pavlo’s cot a rock and try not to look. I know what Gabriek is doing. I wish he wasn’t.

  Gabriek opens his battered old suitcase.

  And takes out his gun.

  ‘When the war ended,’ he says, screwing the barrel of the rifle into the wooden stock, ‘I said I wouldn’t kill again.’

  He’s having trouble getting the barrel properly fitted in. And he’s slurring his words a bit.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘looks like the war’s not quite over.’

  It’s very late.

  I can’t get to sleep.

  Gabriek and Pavlo are snoring peacefully in Gabriek’s bed. Turns out Pavlo likes the cot to play in, but not to sleep in.

  I wish I could fit into the cot myself. And pull the sound-proof lid shut and stay in there for ever.

  Every time I close my eyes, I see poor Gabriek shouting a challenge to Gogol. Waving his gun. Slurring his words a bit.

  I see the awful expression that dawns on poor Gabriek’s face as he realises what he’s up against. A ruthless, powerful, sober, cold-hearted killer. And as he realises he doesn’t stand a chance.

  What’s that noise?

  Was that from next door’s roof?

  Is somebody up there?

  I slip out of bed and grab my glasses and go over to the curtains and peer through a crack.

  Dark shapes and shadows in the moonlight.

  I stare for a long time.

  I don’t think it’s anybody.

  But will I ever be sure? Is this what it’ll be like, night after night, waiting for Gogol to come and kill us?

  I don’t have any choice.

  I have to do something.

  , I hope, my part in this criminal operation will be over. So I can get back to Gabriek and Pavlo. Before they wake up, if I’m lucky.

  If I’m extra lucky, Gabriek won’t ever find out.

  But I probably won’t be that lucky.

  I crouch behind the bricks next to the wooden cart and peer across the street.

  Dimmi and his father are leaving their apartment for their early morning visit to the food drop.

  While we wait for them to go round the corner, I think about Richmal Crompton, my favourite author when I was younger. Her character William was in a gang, and they got into all sorts of trouble.

  Not like this.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ says Vladek. ‘Shall we start?’

  ‘Wait,’ says Anya.

  She jumps up. Runs to the back of the building we’re in. Over some rubble and out of sight.

  The boys look at each other, grinning.

  One of them makes a medically rude hand movement about girls needing to pee a lot.

  I don’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure Anya’s not doing that. I think she’s doing something else. As she rushed out, she had the same expression on her face as she did kneeling by the roses.

  After a few minutes, she comes back, pale.

  Gives me a warning glare.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she says.

  We sprint across the street. We’re all carrying piles of bedsheets.

  ‘If we ever do any more art thefts,’ says Vladek, looking at the sheets, ‘let’s hope we’re still living in a luxury mansion.’

  I don’t reply.

  I won’t be doing more. I’m only doing this one to get a killer off our backs. Which is why I’ve made sure Anya has planned it properly.

  We stop and catch our breath in the foyer of the apartment building. It’s one of the least-bombed foyers I’ve ever been in.

  Anya goes over and drags the lift door open.

  Is she crazy?

  Lifts need electricity. The only electricity in this city is in the desk lamps of military officials. Even if you could get your hands on it, it wouldn’t be enough to run a lift.

  ‘Come on,’ says Anya, and goes into the lift.

  We follow, and I see something that Gabriek would be fascinated by.

  If he ever speaks to me again.

  Wooden steps have been cleverly built inside the lift shaft, spiralling upwards.

  We climb after Anya.

  Gabriek would give this ten out of ten for smart thinking.

  ‘All this effort,’ pants Bolek, ‘and there’s not even food up there.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Vladek, ‘but wait till you see what is up there.’

  ‘Shhh,’ whispers Anya.

  On the top floor we step out of the lift shaft and stand in front of an apartment door.

  I recognise the lock. It’s been well fitted by some­one who knows carpentry. Which is a shame. If it was badly fitted I might have been able to get the whole thing off from this side.

  Instead I open my medical bag and take out the lock-picks Gabriek made.

  He didn’t make them for breaking in. He made them because most of the locks we salvage have lost their key, and we have to get them open so we can make a new one.

  I st
and close to the door and slide the two thin pieces of metal into the keyhole.

  Then I close my eyes.

  You have to do it by feel. It’s delicate and difficult work. You have to shift the pins in the right order. It usually takes a few goes, but it’s easier when you know a lock as well as I know this one.

  It’s also good practice. I hope one day to operate on people’s insides, and I might have to close my eyes then too if I don’t want to look at too much blood.

  There’s a click as the last pin shifts.

  I open the door.

  The others push past and scramble into the apartment.

  I don’t.

  With the screwdriver I have in my bag, I take out the lodging screws from the back of the lock and prise the lock out of the door. Then I scrape and gouge the rim of the hole to make it look like the lock was ripped out.

  I don’t want Dimmi to know the lock was removed by somebody who knew it well.

  Somebody who could only be Gabriek or me.

  I put everything back in the bag, including the lock. I’d rather not steal it, but it’s better if Dimmi doesn’t get to examine it.

  ‘Felix.’

  I look up. Anya is coming towards me along the apartment hallway.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I say. ‘I’m finished.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ says Anya. ‘We need your help carrying the paintings.’

  I glare at her. That wasn’t part of the deal.

  ‘An extra kilo of powdered milk,’ says Anya.

  I think about this, then walk past her into the apartment.

  A kilo is a lot of milk powder, but that’s not why I’m staying. It’s because of what I can see on the wall at the other end of the hallway.

  A painting, an old one, of a woman and a baby. They’re in a garden, leaves dappled with sunbeams. They’re gazing at each other with such love the whole painting seems to shine with golden light.

  There’s no rubble in the picture, or sadness.

  Anya stands next to me. She murmurs an Italian name, the artist’s probably. I don’t reply. I just want to enjoy how the painting is making me feel.

  And I want to see more.

  I go into the living room, which is full of boys wrapping paintings in sheets.

  There are lots that haven’t been wrapped yet, stacked against the walls. Dimmi and his father must have been to every bombed-out art museum in central Europe.

  I go from one old painting to the next, gazing at the people in them. Their faces. Elderly people, young people. Their loving faces. It feels like being in sunlight, even though this apartment is quite dark.

  I know that lots of other paintings have been done of anger and violence and war, I’ve seen them in books. But there are no cruel paintings here.

  Even this one, for example, which shows an elderly sick man in a bed, has the patient surrounded by loving faces.

  This is amazing. Here, in the middle of a wrecked city, are hundreds of years of love.

  Anya thrusts a sheet into my hands.

  ‘Get wrapping,’ she says. ‘We need to be out of here.’

  I stare at a painting of a beautiful girl who looks a bit like Anya but without the grubby coat. She’s playing with some babies in a stream. There are water lilies and animals and they’re all having fun.

  ‘Come on,’ says Anya. ‘Get to work.’

  I take one last look at the unwrapped paintings, at what we humans can do when we have the chance to be loving and generous.

  Then I throw a dusty sheet over the nearest one and get on with the work of stealing them.

  , I hope, Gogol will be getting a delivery that will make him so happy, he’ll stick to his side of the bargain.

  And not kill me and Pavlo.

  So at least if Gabriek finds out I disobeyed him and ruined his reputation and wrecked his business, I can tell him the good part.

  That Pavlo will be safe.

  If Gogol sticks to his side of the deal.

  I shiver, partly at the thought of what will happen if he doesn’t, and partly because Doctor Lipzyk’s hallway is so cold.

  The chandelier is still here, huge and spectacular, but the candles aren’t alight and its glittering crystals look hard and cruel. If it fell on you, no doctor could save you.

  Come on, Anya, where are you? I want that powdered milk so I can get out of here. I want to get back to Pavlo.

  Anya comes in through the front door.

  ‘That’s the penicillin on its way,’ she says. ‘Vladek will get it to Gogol by tonight.’

  ‘Vladek?’ I say. ‘I thought Doctor Lipzyk would deliver it.’

  Anya shakes her head.

  ‘Doctor Lipzyk is busy,’ she says. ‘Admiring his paintings.’

  I don’t want to hear that. I don’t want to hear that a brilliant doctor has a selfish and greedy side. Plus I don’t want to hear about a gang kid with medicine worth tens of thousands of zloty in his pocket.

  ‘What if Vladek jumps on a train to Paris?’ I say.

  I’m not sure if you can do that, but I don’t even want him to try.

  Anya gives me a weary look.

  ‘I trust him,’ she says. ‘His friend Morek had typhus and Vladek stayed with him for days, even though he didn’t have to, right up till Morek died.’

  I nod.

  ‘Can you get my milk now,’ I say. ‘I want to go.’

  I can see she’s hurt by how unfriendly I am.

  Too bad. That’s what happens in this world if you deceive people and use them.

  ‘It’ll take a few minutes,’ says Anya. ‘Wait in the library.’

  I do. It’s still an amazing library, even if it is owned by somebody who isn’t quite as wonderful as I thought he was.

  I run my hand along a row of beautiful books.

  I could spend months in here.

  Years.

  But I’ve only got a few minutes. Last time I was here I wasted the visit collecting vomit information for someone who won’t let me help her, so now I’m going to spend the time on something else.

  Baby health.

  Some of these books are extremely old. Which is very educational. Even hundreds of years ago, when babies looked different on the outside, they were the same on the inside as they are now.

  I see some very ancient books on a top shelf. In beautiful ancient leather binding.

  I go up the ladder to have a look.

  Oof, heavy. You shouldn’t really put books this heavy on the top shelf. Professional book people like Mum and Dad would never do that. A person could injure themselves up here just opening one.

  I’m going to move these down.

  First I’ll clear some space on the bottom shelf.

  Hang on, what’s this down here? Some sort of little cupboard. It’s very low down. An older person could sustain a spinal injury just trying to open it.

  And this is a very big lock for a little cupboard. It’s not double-action like the one on the front door. A person who knew how could crack this one.

  I stare at it.

  Then I do something I would never have done before today.

  I push out of my head everything Mum and Dad and the nuns taught me about honesty and good manners, open my medical bag, take out the lock-picks and get to work.

  I don’t know exactly what I expected to find in here.

  Gold, maybe. Or jewels.

  Something that would help me take care of Pavlo. Something that would be only fair for me to steal from Doctor Lipzyk because he’s got beautiful paintings that aren’t his that are probably worth millions.

  But it’s just photos.

  Horrible photos.

  I know a doctor’s work can be gruesome when it comes to blood and meat. I saw plenty of that as Doctor Zajak’s assistant with the partisans. But I’ve never seen anything like these photos.

  People walking around with their leg muscles showing.

  Other people trying to pick things up with their arms half cut off.

&nb
sp; People crying with their feet and tummies very badly burnt.

  At least these poor people weren’t left with their war injuries on a battlefield or a bombed-out street. These photos look like they were taken in some sort of hospital or laboratory.

  And each photo has got the same word stamped on the back.

  Dodoczne

  I don’t feel good about these photos. I shouldn’t be looking at them. Only a very experienced doctor can look at photos like these without getting upset.

  Quickly I put them away and lock the cupboard and put the books back in front of it and the tools back into my medical bag.

  Just in time.

  Anya comes in with my three kilos of powdered milk.

  I put my coat on, turn my back and put the bags of milk into the inside pockets.

  I nod to Anya and head to the front door.

  She comes with me. I can see she’s still feeling hurt by my behaviour.

  What does she expect? That I’ll hang around for her to come up with some other way to use me? To get something else Doctor Lipzyk wants so he’ll let her stay on here?

  I know using and lying is how people treat each other in the modern world, but I don’t have to accept it, even if I am a thief.

  I step out the door.

  I should just walk away. But for some reason I think about how Mum would feel if she’d seen my behaviour today.

  It’s probably because of that first painting.

  I can’t change the things I’ve done, but at least I could try to be a bit more understanding of other people. And I have to admit, now I’m thinking about it, if I was sick I wouldn’t want to be living on the streets either. I’d probably do just about anything to be allowed to stay.

  I turn back to Anya.

  ‘I hope you get better soon,’ I say. ‘Whatever it is you’ve got.’

  She just looks at me.

  For a long time.

  ‘There’s no cure,’ she says, and shuts the door.

  , I hope, Pavlo will wake up.

  Then I can get busy again. Washing him and feeding him and showing him around our hideout. Which will take my mind off things and I won’t feel so worried and scared.

  I could wake him up myself, but I don’t want to. His little face is so peaceful while he’s asleep.

  So at the moment my whole mind is on things, completely on them, and I’m feeling very worried and extremely scared.