by Anne Holm
“Exactly. Heaven knows what kind of a circus it is!”
“I’m quite sure there is no circus. Can’t you see there’s something mysterious and wrong about it all? At first I imagined he’d run away from school or something of the sort, but to judge from his speech you’d think he came from a family that would have moved heaven and earth long enough ago to find him. Yet there’s not been a word about a search being made for a child of any of the people we know. So where does he get his speech from? And he doesn’t speak like a child at all. His conversation is completely adult, and he often fails to understand what the children mean until they explain to him … He really makes you think he’d never before spoken to another child!”
“Wherever he comes from, Elsa, we are deeply indebted to him, and since it worries him to be questioned about his background, then I think we ought to let him alone. And I can’t see either that any of the things you’ve mentioned make him unsuitable company for our children. He talks beautifully, he has really charming manners — often better than our own youngsters’. Elsa, Elsa, why don’t you use your eyes? He can’t be a bad influence. David’s the gentlest boy I’ve ever seen in my life! And he’s had an effect on our own children — I haven’t once seen them fighting since he came!”
“No, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to say I wish you had! You ask me what I have against David: I object to his attitude to Carlo, and I object to his relations with Maria. Haven’t you seen that David hates Carlo? Not like boys who fight and then forget about it because there is really nothing serious to fight over. David hates Carlo as a grown man hates. He talks to him only when he has to, and then he speaks politely and coldly and refuses to look at him. Try watching Carlo a little more closely tomorrow! He’s grown quite subdued, and when he sees David and Andrea chattering together, he just stands there looking miserable. He seems to know that if he joined in, David would immediately bring the conversation to a polite close and go off elsewhere. Carlo’s a good boy. He’s a little wild and somewhat domineering; but otherwise there’s no harm in him. Do you suppose it gives me any pleasure to see my eldest son trying to ingratiate himself with a lying little vagabond and being rebuffed with hatred and contempt?”
“No, of course not. But don’t you think you might be mistaken? Suppose we asked David …”
“And I like his influence over Maria just as little. Maria worships the ground he treads on. Everything David thinks and says and does is right. She is aware of the existence of her own brothers only when it suits David. What she likes best is being alone with David — the other day she sat quite still for a whole hour listening to the gramophone with him: Mozart’s violin concerto! What do you think of that? And Maria’s about as musical as a sucking pig!”
“Well, yes, but … it can’t do any harm, my dear. Small girls often admire boys a little older than themselves. And you remember that it was David who rescued her from the fire. It’s quite natural for her to admire him. She used to admire Carlo and Andrea as well.”
“But not in the same way. She admired the two bigger boys because they were stronger and more daring. With David it’s himself that she admires. She seems to want to know and understand everything he thinks so that she can learn to think the same way herself. Giovanni, I won’t have it! I’ve listened to the two of them together when they didn’t know I was there. With the rest of us David is silent and reticent, but he talks to Maria because it never occurs to her to question him, except to ask him what he thinks about things. He tells her the most abominable things — about wickedness and misery and brutality … and treachery. And he’s told her how you can die so that it doesn’t hurt. I don’t know where he gets it all from, and I don’t care either. That boy must go!”
“I should never have thought David had a brutal mind or an inclination to cruelty.”
“He hasn’t. He tells her about such things so that she can take care of herself and so that she may know how fortunate she is. But I’ll not have Maria’s innocent, carefree childhood spoilt by a knowledge of evil she had no idea of. Children have their own troubles — they mustn’t be expected to bear the miseries and sorrows of the grown-up world.”
“Well, since you feel so strongly about it, then … But don’t you think perhaps I should speak to the boy about it?”
“Do you think that anything at all that anyone could say to David would alter by one jot what he thinks? Do you think anybody in the world could stop David being David?”
“No, my dear, I don’t think they could, and I must say I respect him for it. The lad isn’t obstinate or headstrong, and he wants to learn, but he reserves the right to think for himself and he’ll not surrender his personality. And that’s good: it shows strength of character.”
“Giovanni, I’m not heartless. I really am grateful, and I’ll willingly do anything for the boy but keep him here. I don’t believe there’s any real harm in him, and I can see that a great deal of what you say about him is right. If he weren’t a child I should most probably like him for those very things. But I don’t understand him, and I won’t have him influencing my own children. Can’t you find out something about him? Try to tell him we wish him well and see if you can discover where he comes from? If he’s done something wrong, then you could use your influence with the police. We could send him to a home or a monastery or something of the sort, and pay for his education. But he’ll have to tell you the truth so that we can decide the best thing to do.”
“All right, Elsa, as you wish.”
“You’re not to count the cost — that doesn’t matter. He’s to have the best of everything — clothes, food, education — for Maria’s sake — and because I could have loved him so much if he would have let me …”
David sat down on the window-sill and stared into the darkness. Every word the children’s parents had said to one another was deeply engraved upon his mind. He had known that he must go, and go soon, but the fact that danger was so near at hand was something he had not realized. And now he had been made aware of all that was amiss with him … and he knew he could never put it right. He did not really think he was so amiss, but other people obviously thought so.
In the morning the children’s father would try to question him, and he would call in the police — in the belief that he could still take care of David even after they had laid hands on him.
He must leave that very night.
David took his bundle out of the cupboard, together with his bottle, his knife and his small scrap of soap. For one moment he considered taking a larger piece of soap from the bathroom. He would like to have taken a sponge and his toothbrush as well, and a candle and some fresh matches. But then he decided not to. He would have to go in Andrea’s clothes which he was wearing, for the children’s mother had never given him back his own and she had said he might have them. But apart from the clothes he would take nothing at all with him.
They were not evil people. They had been kind to him, and even though they were ready to give him up now, they were acting out of ignorance since they had no idea what would happen when they caught him again. He would have to be right away from the house before they arrived the next day, but he would write a letter so that he could at least say thank you. He had the paper and pencil he had bought. It would take a long time, and he would have to hurry so that he could be well on his way before morning, but it could not be helped.
David sat down and thought for a long time. Then he wrote, very, very slowly and very carefully.
“I heard everything you said. I shall go now, as soon as I’ve finished writing. I only wanted to stay here as long as you wished me to. I shall have to keep Andrea’s clothes because you have not given me back my own. I want to thank you for letting me listen to music and read books, and because everything is so beautiful here. And thank you for the food you have given me and for letting me sleep in a bed.
“I have never murdered anyone and never used force, nor stolen from anybody. I’ve taken no one’s joy or happin
ess or freedom or property away from him. And I’ve never betrayed anyone. I am telling you this because you want to know something about me and to let you know that that’s all I am going to tell. If the police catch me I shall die, but I shall tell them no more. It is important not to give in to people who love violence and think they have the right to take away another man’s life and liberty. And if you don’t let them change what you think and believe, then you have won. A man once told me that. And that is why I shall go on being David, always, for as long as I am still alive.
“I am glad I told Maria that evil exists. I don’t want her to be afraid, but it’s something you have to know about. Can’t you understand that children have a right to know everything that’s true? If there’s danger, you have to recognize it, or else you can’t take care of yourself.
“I am writing because I want to say thank you for the things you have given me, and to tell you of my own free will all that I’m going to tell, ever.
“David”
It had taken him a long time to write the letter. David looked at the clock on the chest of drawers. It was now half past one in the morning. He wanted to write something about Maria, something that would make them take great care of her, but he did not know how to do it.
Suddenly, as if she had overheard his thoughts, she was standing there in the doorway. She was looking frightened.
“David.”
“Sh!” David whispered in alarm. Maria came into the room, shutting the door behind her.
“David, I woke up so frightened. I thought you were in the fire and I couldn’t find you.”
“I’ve got to go away, Maria,” David said.
“Oh, no, David! Why?”
David told her everything her parents had said while he was standing outside within earshot. “So you see I must go now while it’s still night,” he concluded when she had heard everything.
Fortunately Maria never doubted that what he said was right. She made no protest: she just looked at him and whispered, “David, you’ll come back, won’t you? Even if it’s not for a long time — say you’ll come back?”
David looked at her dumbly. Then he said, “I can’t say that. If I can come back some day, then I will … but I don’t know, so I won’t promise because a promise is important.”
“But, David, who will tell me about everything when you’re gone?”
Ah, yes, who would look after Maria? But if he did not go, they would come and take him, and he would not be able to look after her anyway.
Then David did something he had never done before: of his own free will he touched somebody else. He laid his hands on Maria’s shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. Then he said slowly so that she could remember what he said and try to understand it, “You must do it yourself, Maria! You must teach yourself all about things. When there’s no one else to do things for you, you have to do them for yourself. You must listen carefully to the people you think are good — your father and mother and the people who teach you things in school. Then you must think over what they say and decide how much of it you feel is right. But you must be careful, because what is right is not always what you want, and if you make a mistake, you regret it afterwards.”
“But, David, I’m not clever enough. Oh, why do you have to go? I’d much rather you stayed! Will you take me with you?”
“It would not be right. Your father and mother would be frightened, and you’ve no right to make anyone afraid. In a way, it’s like using violence. Besides you wouldn’t like it. I often have no food and nowhere to sleep.”
“That wouldn’t matter if you were there.”
“You can think about me, Maria, and then I shan’t be quite gone.”
“Will you think about me, too?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“David, will you hold me fast before you go, so I can remember, what it felt like, when you were near to me?”
David nodded. He put his comb, pencil and paper in his bundle. He had everything now. Meanwhile, Maria stood watching him. Then she said, “David, wait here a moment.”
David stood and waited, quite sure that Maria would never give him away. A moment later she was back, holding in her hand a little cross of gold covered with tiny little seed-pearls. “That’s for you, David, to take with you.”
The cross hung on a slender chain, and she stood on tiptoe to fasten it round David’s neck.
“Thank you,” David said. “Now I’m going.” He put his bundle down on the table, put his arms around her and held her tight, just for a short moment. It was like the day when he had rescued her from the fire.
“Goodbye, Maria.”
“Goodbye, David.”
David went quickly, and, without looking at her again, shut the door softly behind him.
6
David tramped on and on. He was so familiar with the first part of the way that the darkness did not trouble him — he had often been along that road with the children. He told himself he would take his shoes off as soon as it was morning, for he had noticed while he was in the house that shoes wore out, and he ought to save them for later on when it grew colder or he was forced to travel at night when he could not see the stones.
He thought too, about the route he had to take. He would have to go into a town called Florence, for of course he had no food. Luckily he still had a lot of the money given to him by the American he had fetched petrol for, so he had no need to stop in the town to earn more. But thinking about food made him feel very uneasy, for it led him to think about milk and vitamins, and then to wonder again whether he might perhaps be an important hostage.
But he had learnt a lot from his stay in the house. The globe — he must remember to think about the globe all the time so that he would not forget where Andrea and Maria had pointed. He must get to Switzerland first, and then to Germany, and finally to Denmark. His clothes were a great help, too — they were much better than the ones he had had before, and there were more of them. They would help a lot now that it was growing cold during the nights.
Yet he was still unhappy in spite of recalling all the advantages he had gained from living in the house.
As the days went by he felt no better, although all the places he came to were just as beautiful as those he had passed through before he came to the house. There were beautiful round green hills, and valleys and rivers, and trees of all kinds. Everything looked the same as before and yet seemed different.
For the first few days he dared not risk travelling by car: he would not try asking for a lift until he was a long way from the house. He made haste to leave Florence, too, although there were so many things to see there — a broad river with great bridges over it, and on one bridge a narrow street complete with old houses on either side. And there was a square with big statues in it, and a church that looked like … David could find nothing to compare it with, it was so beautiful.
While he had been living in the house he had heard that in Florence there were thousands of magnificent paintings that everybody could see, and he would have liked to go and look at them. But the great thing was to get right away from the house as quickly as he could.
So far no one had questioned him. As long as he had money to buy bread, he had no need to talk to the tourists, and they were the ones who asked the most questions. The Italians only wanted to know what he was called and where he was going. David was very careful what he said about the circus now, but in spite of everything he still thought it was the best story he could find.
He thought several times of what the children’s parents had said about him. He was upset by it, but not very much, for he had known all along that he was strange and wrong. But he did not think the children’s mother had explained very clearly just what was wrong. His manner of speech, for instance: he had of course heard many Italians speak somewhat differently — but then the children’s parents spoke just as he did! Just like the Italian priest in the concentration camp. An
d the French he spoke was certainly good French, for that was Johannes’ own language, the language David was so familiar with that the French word would often occur to him before he could remember the Italian. And as Johannes, who was wiser and better than anybody else, spoke French in that way, then it must be the proper way. To speak the best kind of Italian could not be wrong, even if you were a tramp. The way you spoke had to do with the way you thought, not with possessions.
And as for hating Carlo, yes, it was true enough he did. He could well understand the children’s mother not liking it, for of course she did not know Carlo was evil. But he could not have stopped hating Carlo, not even if Maria herself had begged him to. You must always hate what was evil, or else you grew just like them.
He would beg a lift the next day so that he could get quickly to the town called Bologna: for since he left Florence the mountains had become quite high and the upward climb was taking him longer.
David began to think about Switzerland. There he would find lofty mountains capped with snow. That much he understood from Andrea when they had looked at the globe together.
But he seemed unable to direct his thoughts properly: they were full of heaviness and foreboding. Just before the bend in the road he had noticed a small town not far ahead, and he now decided he would try to pluck up enough courage to go into the church.
The houses had a friendly look about them, and as it was about noon there was hardly anyone in the streets. David stood in the open space that was always to be found in front of a church and wondered if he dared. He had wanted for such a long time to see what a church was like. A church was a place where you talked with God. In Italy, of course, he would only find the God of the Roman Catholics, but still — suppose his own God were on a visit there! And suppose he really met Him! But perhaps Gods did not visit one another … However, a faint hope that he would find some comfort there drove him inside.
The door was very heavy. He had to push hard to open it.
