The boy smiled at him. He lifted a small sled off big iron hooks that stuck out from the side of the house.
“Fantastic!” Roberto hugged him. “You’re wonderful.” He went into that house and took the pillows, the quilt, a pot, bowls, spoons. He came out and piled a layer of firewood on the sled. Then the extra provisions. He pulled the sled out to the place where they’d left the pillowcases. He put the pillowcases on top, using his potato-sack blanket to cover the whole thing. Then he tied it all up tight with his rope.
“Meow.” The cat stood in the snow.
The boy picked up the cat and put it on top of the pile. He looked at Roberto with big, defiant eyes.
Roberto nodded. If the boy wanted the cat, that was fine with him.
The boy turned around and ran back to another house.
Roberto waited. He didn’t care how much time the boy took; whatever he brought back was bound to be worth the wait.
The boy was gone a long while. He came out the door carrying something big and square wrapped up several times in a quilt.
Roberto ran to help him carry it. But the load was amazingly light. “What is it?”
The boy flapped his arms.
Roberto gaped. “You caught the canaries? How are we going to attach a birdcage to the sled?”
But the boy had already produced a rope and was going to work.
“The birds will die in this cold.”
The boy tied the cage to the top of it all, leaving room enough for the cat to sit beside it. He lashed the ax to the side.
So they marched out of the village: two doomed canaries in a cage in a quilt, one orange and brown cat perched on the pillowcases, and two boys bundled up so much that they waddled.
Roberto looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see the whining dog.
And he wasn’t disappointed.
THE SLED
The dog had to be coaxed to eat potatoes. But the boy was patient, and in the end he prevailed.
Roberto forced himself to keep quiet about the food. After all, without the boy, they wouldn’t have any potatoes at all. So if he wanted to share them with the dog—and the cat, too, but the cat ate less—it wasn’t Roberto’s right to object. Survival came at different costs for different people. And some costs were too high to pay. The boy wouldn’t abandon the animals even if it meant less food for him. What wouldn’t Roberto do?
They covered a good distance; Roberto was sure of that. The land started out gently rolling. It was just past the first little knoll that Roberto and the boy passed the German jeep. Even with the layer of snow on it, even with pieces exploded off, even all charred, it was immediately recognizable. The villagers must have set a mine in the road. Four German soldiers had been killed, their bodies strewn helter-skelter. But the rest of the force had passed on. The villagers had paid dearly for that jeep and those four soldiers.
Roberto and the boy looked at the jeep, but they didn’t stop moving. They walked and walked. The path was distinctly downhill now, and the snow was only a thumb deep, if that. The wind was always behind them, which helped, too. They didn’t talk, but now and then the boy sang, his voice muffled in the scarf across his chin and mouth. His songs and eyes were without a trace of happiness—Roberto knew he sang just to keep his mind occupied. Maybe to keep from thinking about his lost village.
They came to a stand of woods in early afternoon, and their going slowed down. The floor of the grove had very little snow, for the thick branches had kept it out, along with most of the sunlight. But in its place was ice. Melting snow dripped from the top branches and froze when it reached the dark ground.
Pulling the sled was harder now, too. It snagged on icy roots and low branches. Sometimes the underbrush was so thick they had to make detours. It was close to evening by the time they emerged from the woods. The clearing in front of them seemed endless. And it was obviously warmer here than the land on the other side of the woods had been because most of the snow had melted away, leaving only scattered white patches.
Roberto took a few steps out into the clearing. The ground was soft. Over to the east side, bulrushes and cattails waved in the slight breeze. This land was almost marsh. It would be hard to cross. His heart sank.
“Let’s camp here for the night.” Roberto pulled the sled back to the woods’ edge and tied it to the trunk of a thin pine sapling.
The boy shook his head.
“It could be a long way till we get to trees again. And if we’re out in the open, the wind will chill us. It’s a breeze now, but it could pick up. And snow could fall again. And anyone who came along might see us.” Roberto unlashed the ax as he talked. He cut down the lower branches of a pine. “Anyway, the ground is all marshy. We’ll face it tomorrow—after a good night’s sleep. I’ll tell you another bedtime story. How does that sound?” He turned around.
The boy had untied the sled and pulled it out into the clearing.
“Hey!” Roberto ran after him. He grabbed him by the arm. “It’s safer in the woods.” He looked at the boy’s silent, firm face. “Really. I know.”
The boy pulled his arm away. He gestured that they should go forward, across the clearing.
Roberto snatched the pull rope of the sled. “I’m exhausted. I’ve been traveling longer than you. I’ve been traveling for days.” He wanted to use a coaxing voice, but he was too tired to manage anything but plain words. “We’ll cross the clearing in the morning.”
“Khody! Tse nedaleko,” said the boy. He stamped his foot.
Roberto shook his head. “No. We’re staying here.”
The boy reached for the rope.
Roberto held it behind his back. “No!” He pulled the sled back to the tree. He tied it again. He turned and faced the boy. “We’ll build a fire and eat. And then we’ll tell stories. And then we’ll sleep.”
The boy walked over slowly. His shoulders slumped.
Roberto used a cut branch to sweep away snow and leave a circle of exposed earth. What next? The branches he had cut off were green. The dead branches on the floor of the grove were soaked through. He had no kindling, and the logs on the sled wouldn’t start without lots of kindling—he’d learned that lesson already.
Well, then, he’d find a tree with dead branches still attached. That way they’d be dry. Maybe he’d even find a whole dead tree still standing. Back at the last work camp, the boys learned to tell a dead tree from a live one even after the leaves had fallen off, just by knocking on the wood and listening. Samuele had been the one to teach them. He’d read about it in his nature books, of course. Roberto smiled to himself; Samuele was still helping him, even now. He picked up the ax. “We need dry wood. Want to come?”
The boy stared at him.
Roberto didn’t want to leave the sled there, where the boy might try to take off with it again. But he couldn’t very well pull it behind him as he searched for dry wood. And, anyway, he’d be back soon. The boy couldn’t get far, especially since it would be hard to pull the sled across mud. Still, Roberto went to the tree and tied a harder knot in the sled rope. “I’ll be right back. Stay here, okay? Don’t act crazy.”
He set off into the woods. But it was later than he’d thought, and evening came swiftly, adding to the natural dark of the trees. He knocked on trunk after trunk, limb after limb, listening for the hollow sound of dead wood. By this time, he could hardly see. Without a single branch, he headed back for the edge of the woods.
They didn’t really need a fire, after all. The pillowcases were full of food in jars, food that was already cooked—meat and vegetables and even fruits, from the looks of them. So they didn’t have to cook. And they had good clothes, plus the potato-sack blanket and the quilts. They’d be warm enough without a fire.
Roberto walked through the woods. He should have been at the clearing by now. He must have gotten turned around. He called out, “Ragazzo! Where are you, Ragazzo?” No answer. But the boy might not answer even if Roberto was only ten meters from him.
> He went faster. Now he ran, stumbling over roots. He slammed into branches. “Ragazzo!” He tried to get a view of the sky that might orient him, but the trees were too thick. Anyway, he didn’t know enough about the stars. “Ragazzo!” He fell. Stabbing pains cut through his right knee. He got up and ran again.
And suddenly he burst out onto the clearing. He limped along the edge of the woods, searching for the boy and the sled. And then he spied the tracks of the sled in the hardening mud; they were just visible in the early moonlight. He looked out where they led, but he couldn’t see anyone. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Ragazzo!”
He slapped one fist into his palm in frustration. He had been stupid to leave the boy alone with the sled. Stupid stupid. And he was even stupider now to call out to him. Voices in the night air carry far—who knew what ears that one word would reach? He should turn around, go back and climb a tree, wait for morning. But the thought of spending another night alone in the wild undid him.
And what if the boy got so far away Roberto couldn’t find him again? Everything Roberto needed was on that sled.
Roberto followed the runner tracks. The ground had hardened enough with the progressing night cold that he could walk across it easily, after all. Maybe that’s why the boy had gone ahead—because he knew the morning sun would make the crossing more difficult.
Soon the ground got fully solid and the tracks disappeared. Roberto strained his eyes in the moonlight. Which way? Which way? And there they were again—runner tracks visible in a patch of snow ahead. Roberto moved quickly. He wouldn’t allow himself to limp and he wouldn’t think about what else might be wandering in the night. He stood tall and walked and walked and walked. He was hungry, he was tired, he was angry. The boy should have waited for him out here. Roberto would have waited for the boy.
Then the air changed somehow. It wasn’t that he heard anything really, yet he knew there was something in the air. He stared ahead and saw the outlines of the town. This was bigger than his boy’s settlement, much bigger; there were buildings standing large in the night and roads and lights in houses and the feel of motors in the air—that was it—the tiny rumbles of all those things that go into making homes light up and factories run. Smoke puffed out of chimneys.
This town was alive. The German and Italian soldiers had not passed this way. No one waged war here. The world was suddenly familiar again. Familiar and wonderful.
Roberto ran toward the lights. He tripped and fell face forward onto a log. He got to his knees and felt around. A series of logs with a long strip of metal. It was tracks. Train tracks.
Roberto stood. Thank heavens for these tracks. They’d stopped him from his rash race to the town. What had he been thinking? This was Ukraine. He was Italian. His people were at war with these people, whether there were battles in this town or not. He had to go carefully, or he’d wind up a prisoner of war.
He looked up and down the train tracks. They ran almost due south—the same direction he’d been walking. He might have been parallel to these tracks all along. Why hadn’t he heard a train go by?
He stepped from tie to tie, and within minutes the answer came: He stood on the edge of a ditch. Someone had dug it deep and very steep at the edges. The tracks broke off here and picked up several meters away, on the other side. Why? Did the Germans and Italians do it to cut the town off from supplies? Or did the townsfolk do it to keep the invaders from coming in by train?
Roberto’s skin prickled. Either way, this town was part of the war.
He left the tracks and walked along the edge of the ditch. Why such a long ditch? It wasn’t just to stop the train. He thought back to the soldiers—the straggling line of tired men, the mules, the tanks. That was it: the tanks. Tanks couldn’t get across this ditch.
Roberto climbed down into the ditch. As he climbed out the other side, he heard something. He listened hard. Yes, he heard it for sure. There was water here. A river. He ran directly for it. That’s when he saw the runner tracks again. The boy and the sled and the dog had passed by here. How did they cross the ditch? Where?
Roberto followed the runner tracks. They didn’t go toward the water. And they didn’t go down toward the road Roberto could make out now, where a lone truck rolled along. They went straight to a house at the edge of town.
Roberto stood with the ax over his shoulder and surveyed the scene. There was nothing special about the house his boy’s tracks led to. But the house beside it had a stable out back. Roberto could sleep there with the animals. Then he could rise before dawn and, with a clear head, figure out what to do next.
He hunched over and walked as fast as he could toward the stable.
A shout came. He ran. The crack of a gun split the air. He fell.
BOOTS AGAIN
The pain in Roberto’s arm raged like fire. He sat naked on a wooden chair by the wall. He did his best to relax his whole body. When he was little and about to get his smallpox vaccination, Sergio had told him that if he relaxed, it would hurt less. Sergio said that was true about all pain. It seemed right. The pain was slowly transforming into a steady ache. If he relaxed more, maybe he wouldn’t feel it at all.
His boy lay asleep on a couch nearby. He was curled on his side, and he looked younger than ever. Yet he’d managed to get here from the grove by himself. And he’d found a way to cross that ditch with the sled. There was no telling what he could do.
And there was no telling what he had already done. Had he told about Roberto? Was he responsible for Roberto’s getting shot?
Two men went through Roberto’s clothes, piled on the table. They argued over his German boots. They looked at him and barked questions. Roberto didn’t speak—not a word. He knew that his boy had no idea what language he spoke. So if he kept his mouth shut now, maybe no one would realize he was on the other side—that he was the enemy.
The kettle on the stove whistled. A dog howled. Roberto hadn’t noticed it before. It was the dog from his boy’s village, the potato eater. It came out from under the couch and howled at the kettle. The canaries in the cage on the floor beside the couch made little peeping screeches and hopped from perch to perch. They had actually survived the day, protected by nothing but a few layers of quilt. Roberto’s eyes searched the room for the cat. It was nowhere in sight. That didn’t surprise him; that was the cat’s trick.
A woman came into the room. This house was larger than the houses back at his boy’s village. It had at least two rooms. The woman poured the hot water from the kettle into a pottery basin painted with a profusion of red and yellow flowers. The embroidered throw on the back of the couch was bright, too—red and blue animals ran among flowers. And the braided rug on the floor by the table was red and black and blue and yellow. Even the stove was painted with flowers. The room would have been cheerful if Roberto was just a friend stopping by. He’d have been happy to be here.
The woman dropped a knife into the hot water in the basin. Then she picked up a small towel in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.
She came over to Roberto. She said something.
Roberto stared at the basin. She had dropped a knife in the water. A knife. Now he looked at the vodka. He thought of how his boy offered him vodka. He thought of how the two German soldiers at the work camp had died after drinking vodka. These people seemed half mad, to drink something so strong. The very smell of it made him woozy. But there was the knife. Maybe being drunk right now would be a good idea. Then he remembered vomiting after the grappa episode on Memo’s birthday. He shook his head.
The woman didn’t seem to notice his shaking head. She took his left arm by the elbow. She raised the bottle and poured vodka onto his wound.
The dull ache turned to searing pain. Roberto pulled his arm away.
The woman went back to the basin and fished out the knife with a wooden spoon. She came back and grabbed his elbow firmly.
Roberto looked away.
He felt the knife jab. He let out a yelp. T
he bullet dropped with a small clunk on the wooden floor. Then came the searing pain again, as the vodka rolled down his arm. And finally the woman wrapped it tight in a strip of white cloth. She tied it in place with a smaller strip.
Roberto wiped the tears from his cheeks. As the woman turned away, he took her skirt with his right hand. She looked at him. He pulled her as close as he could. His arm hurt so bad. But his gut hurt, too. He gestured eating. He pressed on his stomach. Anyone could understand hunger.
The woman hesitated. Her face was drawn; she was bone thin. She knew hunger—Roberto could see that plainly in her face. Her head tilted in a small, tired gesture of pity.
Then her eyes changed. With a sudden fierceness, she yanked her skirt free and went to the table. She talked to the men without looking at Roberto.
The language was gibberish to Roberto, of course. But he read the people’s faces, their shoulders, their pointing fingers. Everything seemed to come back to those German boots. And now one man went over to the sled that sat by the front door. It had been untied, and the various provisions from the pillowcases stood against the far wall. He picked up the potato-sack blanket and carried it to the table. The three of them talked and pointed at the German words printed on it and looked at Roberto and talked some more.
So they thought he was a German soldier. He should have thrown away the potato sack and, especially, those boots. After all, they’d been the cause of Samuele’s death. He should have stripped boots off a corpse in his boy’s village. He hadn’t thought to do it—probably because he didn’t want to touch the bodies. But, oh, he hated those German boots. And he didn’t want anyone to think he was a soldier.
But what difference did it make really? Whether he was a soldier or just a worker—it didn’t matter. He was the enemy. The fascist. He’d built the pen the Polish girl sat in all day. He’d built airstrips in two different places so that German planes could bomb Soviet towns. He was the enemy.
Stones in Water Page 11
