A small house came into view on the east shore. And another beyond it. Roberto’s mouth went dry. He put on his glove, got to his knees, and paddled for the opposite shore.
A shout came across the water.
Roberto looked in panic. Two small boys waved at him from the shore. Their faces wore wide grins. Roberto swallowed his fear. He was dressed totally in peasant clothes; he could be a Ukrainian boy himself. He waved back.
The boys waved until he was out of sight.
Roberto paddled slowly now. The village was small, and of the houses Roberto could see, maybe half were abandoned. Like in the big town. What was going on?
A woman stood at the shore with a small herd of goats. Roberto didn’t hesitate this time. He waved wildly at her. She stared at him. He grinned and kept waving. Then he paddled furiously.
The village was behind him now. He looked over his shoulder. No little boats had slid into the water; no one followed.
He paddled all the rest of the day. The wind blew from the south now—a wet, heavy wind. He felt he recognized it. Was it wind off salt water? Was it, already?
Roberto passed another settlement, no larger than his boy’s, without seeing a soul. A road ran through the settlement and off over a hill in one direction and then along the side of the river to the south. But Roberto was lucky—the road had no traffic.
Up ahead a bridge crossed the river. Another small settlement appeared. Roberto paddled steadily, alert and ready.
He passed under the bridge. The road went through the village and continued south. Both road and water were still untraveled. The river widened with each passing kilometer. Roberto stayed in the center.
A half-hour later, Roberto came to another town—always on the east bank. This one was big—about the size of the town that he’d spent the night in last night. And it was much busier. And what was that? The road along the river was piled high with sandbags—higher than a man’s height. Roberto remembered the soldier at the farm camp laughing at how the Soviets hid behind sandbags. These people were ready for battle. If they saw Roberto on the river, they might not wait for him to wave. They might shoot on sight.
Roberto quickly paddled over to the opposite bank and hugged the shore, staying in the shadows of the trees as the sun set. The foliage was dense, and with luck he wouldn’t be seen.
There were boats on the town bank. Large ones. The river had turned markedly deeper. Of course: This town was a port. Roberto dipped his hand in the water and tasted: It wasn’t very salty, not like the Adriatic Sea off of Venice, but it was seawater, for sure. Roberto had finally arrived at his first goal—the Black Sea. It should be a moment for celebration—but his mind couldn’t savor the victory. It spun on.
What next? He needed a plan. When he’d first thought this all through, he’d imagined walking the whole coast of the Black Sea. But he had the boat now. If he stayed close to shore, he’d be safer in the boat than walking. And even with the waves of the sea, it would be a lot faster. No matter what, he’d arrive at the strait through Turkey to the Mediterranean Sea within a week—or ten days, at the very most.
The Mediterranean Sea. His own Mediterranean Sea. The thought made his throat thick with longing. It was far—from here all the way to Venice had to be close to two thousand kilometers as the bird flies. Going by water, staying close to the shore, it could be double that. Triple maybe.
But he could do it. So long as he stayed on water, he could do it.
Roberto climbed onto the shore and pulled the boat behind him. He pushed it under bushes. Then he turned it upside down. He would sleep under the boat. He got down on his knees and started to crawl under the bushes. That’s when he felt a blow across the back of his neck.
FEVER
Roberto fell on his chest and rolled quickly to the right, kicking out his legs in defense.
“Damn!” The soldier who stood over him pointed a pistol. And he was wearing an Italian uniform. Italian! He looked quickly back at the river, then at Roberto again. “What’s the matter with you people?” he hissed. “That whack was hard enough to knock any normal person out. Is a bullet the only thing that stops you? Does everything have to be death? I’m sick of you. I’m so sick of all of you.” He shook his pistol as he talked, and he kept looking over his shoulder at the river every few seconds.
Roberto put his hands in the air and backed up. He kept his eyes on the pistol, but his mind raced. The man was definitely Italian. Roman, in fact. Roberto recognized his dialect from the radio. And he realized with surprise that he understood it much better now than he ever had before—a benefit of the work camps.
What was an Italian soldier doing here in the bushes?
The Roman shook his head. “A kid.” He looked at the river one more time, and Roberto dared to lift his eyes from the pistol and study the man. He was in his mid-twenties, short and slight, with a black stubble of a beard. His army jacket had a long rust-colored stain down one arm, and his cuff was ripped. His eyes moved back to Roberto, and Roberto’s eyes returned instantly to the pistol. “A kid all alone.” The words came out in a single loud breath, as though finally exhaling after being underwater a long time. He sat on the ground and kept shaking his head. “What am I supposed to do now?”
The Roman spoke as if Roberto could understand him. Roberto had a tremendous urge to speak back, to finally be understood, to ask for help. But he forced himself to stay silent. It was better that the Roman thought he was a local. Who knew what he’d do to Roberto if he understood that Roberto had run away from the work camp? This way Roberto could listen if the Roman kept speaking his thoughts—he could be a step ahead. He could take care of himself.
The Roman’s eyes moved jerkily; the bags under them were dark and deep. His stomach growled loudly. He leaned over, his pistol still pointed at Roberto, and pulled a duffel bag out from under a bush. With his left hand he fumbled around inside and produced a can. He set the pistol on his thigh and glowered at Roberto as if to say he could grab it in two seconds if Roberto dared to move. Then he opened the can by twisting a metal key. The smell of sardines filled the air. He ate with his fingers right out of the can.
Roberto stared openmouthed at the fish. The thick odor coated his tongue. The oil glistened.
The Roman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes flicked across Roberto’s face. He paused a moment and knitted his brows. Then he took out another can and threw it to Roberto.
Roberto caught it in amazed gratitude. He clutched it to his chest, afraid for a moment that the soldier would think better of it and snatch back the precious food. But the soldier wasn’t even looking at the can—his eyes moved nervously from Roberto to the bushes to the river and back to Roberto. Still, Roberto had been with soldiers enough to know that food was always in short supply. He almost said grazie. He bit the inside of his cheek to remind himself not to talk.
Roberto took off his gloves and shoved them in his pocket. He nodded his thanks and ate. When he finished, he rubbed the back of his neck where the Roman had hit him. It hurt horribly.
The Roman blew between closed lips, so that they made a blubbery whisper. Then he took his pistol in his right hand and stood up.
Roberto tensed for action. He had nothing, nothing he could use to defend himself. But he could run for the bushes if he had to.
The Roman pulled a bit of ripped cloth from inside his duffel bag. He walked backward to the water, stooped, and twisted just enough to dip the cloth in the river. Then he squeezed the dripping cloth and handed it to Roberto. “Put it here.” He pointed at Roberto, then at the back of his own neck, then back to Roberto. “Go on.” He gestured over and over. “Go on.”
Roberto took the cloth. It was freezing cold. He held it to the back of his neck and kept his eyes on the gun.
The Roman squatted. He ran his hand wearily from his forehead down his cheek and across his mouth. “Poor dumb Slavs. Look what Stalin did. All the farmers are off in Siberia and the people left behind have noth
ing to eat.” He took a box of biscuits out of his duffel bag. He opened it and tossed one to Roberto. He took a bite of his, then locked eyes with Roberto for the first time. “I can’t believe you fight so well on empty stomachs.” He brushed biscuit crumbs from his jacket front and sat on the ground again.
Roberto’s fingers closed tight around the biscuit. He didn’t know anything about Stalin, really. He’d heard the name in school, of course—Stalin was the Soviet dictator. But he didn’t know Stalin had sent farmers from around here to Siberia. He didn’t know that was the cause of the famine. He thought about the abandoned buildings in the town last night and again in the settlement he’d seen on the river today. Those empty homes were evidence of misery—like so many graves. The people in this part of Ukraine were starving.
And, oh, how had his boy managed to get hold of that big sweet bun? In a burst of clarity Roberto realized that he must have used his ingenuity to get the bun—maybe he’d even stolen it—just to make Roberto’s guard so hungry he left his post. That’s why the boy hadn’t taken a bite, but only sniffed the bun loudly. He probably had to sneak the bun back to where he’d stolen it before it was missed. The boy had risked a lot in order to help Roberto escape.
How strange life was. The boy was Roberto’s friend. A Ukrainian friend.
Roberto hoped with all his heart that his boy and all the people he’d seen today wouldn’t starve.
What was wrong with Stalin to have starved his own people?
What was wrong with the world?
Roberto’s neck hurt less now, but his head hurt instead. He didn’t want to think anymore. He gnawed on the hard biscuit. It was slightly sweet. It soothed him. He felt himself falling asleep.
The Roman kicked Roberto’s shoe.
Roberto blinked and pulled his knees to his chest.
“May God forgive me. But I have no choice. Kid or no kid, that’s how it is.”
The words horrified Roberto. What was the Roman going to do to him? He squeezed his arms tight around his knees.
The Roman stood up and tied his duffel closed. Then he pointed at Roberto. “I saw you paddle.” He gestured paddling the boat. “Get your boat. We can be in Romania in a day and a half, the way you paddle.” He pointed his pistol at Roberto with his right hand, and with his left he pointed at the bush where the boat was hidden. “Put that boat in the water.” His voice was rough now. He gestured paddling again.
Roberto stood slowly, keeping his eyes on the pistol. He pulled out the boat. He was exhausted, and now that he was standing, he felt slightly faint. He didn’t believe he could paddle for more than ten minutes without falling asleep.
“Hurry.”
Roberto couldn’t hurry. He could barely move.
It was so late.
And it was so hot. Just like that, the world had turned hot.
Roberto took off his hat and threw it in the bottom of the boat. The wind off the water felt good on his bare head. It helped to cool him. He wondered suddenly if he should have acted as though he didn’t understand what the Roman wanted. He glanced sideways at him. But the Roman was looking out across the water, scanning for movement.
“Hurry.” The Roman helped slide the boat into the water. He looked all around one last time; then he got in and lay on his back with his knees bent. From outside the boat no one could see him. He held the pistol with both hands, aimed at Roberto’s chest.
Roberto knelt in the stern and leaned over the side. He splashed his face with seawater. The shock of the freezing water helped to wake him. He paddled hard. The pain in his neck burned again. In fact, his whole chest burned. It must be the air. How could the air off the Black Sea be so warm when the water was freezing? Just this morning everything had been cold.
“Don’t think of pulling any fast ones. I can see the tops of the trees on this shore.” The Roman pointed to his eyes, then to the trees, then back to himself and then back to the trees again. “If you try to cross the river to Nikolajev, I’ll know.” He slapped his pistol as if it alone could make Roberto understand what he said. “Don’t make me shoot you.” His voice broke. “Oh, Christ, please don’t make me shoot a kid.”
Roberto paddled. They made it out of the harbor and turned west to stay along the north shore of the Black Sea. There was no sign of life anywhere. That was a blessing because Roberto could hardly see in the rapidly deepening night. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears. And he was hot and getting hotter every moment. He put down his paddle and pulled off his outer sweater.
“Paddle!”
Roberto paddled. He licked his lips. They were so cracked now, the skin curled out in thin chips. He blinked and paddled. Where were the other soldiers from this Roman’s troop? Would they shoot on sight? He wanted to hide in the bottom of the boat, like the Roman.
Hours passed. Roberto didn’t know where his energy came from. It was as though he paddled in his sleep. But at least he was paddling in the right direction. If he ever managed to get away from this soldier, he’d be closer to Italy.
It was black night now. He looked up. There were no stars behind them. The eastern sky was as cloudy as before a storm. But it should have been colder if a storm was coming. Instead, it was so hot. Roberto’s back ached. His neck ached. His arms were beyond feeling. He paddled and paddled.
“Good. We’re going good.” The Roman’s voice trembled a little. “This is crazy, taking a kid away from his home—his country. What am I thinking?” He cleared his throat. Roberto could see the outline of the pistol in the dim moonlight. “I only need you till Romania.” The Roman spoke in a strained, quiet voice. Roberto could hardly hear him. “From there I can go it alone. You can turn the boat around then and go back. That’s it. You’ll make it home again, I’m sure. You’ll make it.” He rested the gun on his belly.
A light appeared up ahead. And another. Scattered twinkles lined the shore. Roberto wiped his brow. He was sweating. He looked down at the Roman again.
The Roman stared at him, the whites of his eyes glistening through the dark. From where he lay he couldn’t see the cultivated fields, which were already beside them, the buildings ahead. He had no idea they were approaching a town.
Roberto thought of pointing to warn the Roman. After all, the Roman had fed him. But, then, the Roman needed him to paddle the boat—that’s probably why he fed him. Would Roberto be better off if the Roman knew about the town or not? He was too tired to try to figure it out. So he just paddled. Paddled and paddled.
Sweat dripped down his temples. He could feel that his shirt, inside the one sweater he still wore, was soaked through, but he didn’t dare stop to take off the other sweater. He paddled. And now they were passing the first houses, dark and silent in the night. Roberto wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He thought he heard the brief lowing of cattle, but it might have been only the wind on the water, the wind, which was behind them, helping to move the boat. They skimmed along, the houses thick together now and a wall of sandbags in front of them all.
Sandbags. A wall against bullets. Everywhere Roberto went he was surrounded by war. He leaned over the side and splashed his face again. He watched the shore carefully. If he was going to have any chance at escape, he had to stay alert.
He paddled. His wet hands were slippery on the handle of the paddle. He was bathed in sweat. But he kept his eyes on the shore.
A bright light flashed on him from ahead and above. The danger came from the water, not the shore! How could he have not heard it approach? Roberto stared into the light of the patrol boat with a feeling of doom. Someone shouted at him in Ukrainian.
“Don’t let them know I’m here!” said the Roman. “Don’t let them kill me.”
Roberto couldn’t see the Roman’s face because of the glare of the boat light. He couldn’t see his gun, but he knew it was still pointed at him. He had to think hard. And fast. He didn’t want anyone to die.
The light moved down the boat. As it left Roberto, he swung the paddle and knocked the pistol from
the Roman’s hand. Roberto reached down and grabbed the pistol. The Roman was in full light now, curled on his side in the bottom of the boat, as though hunching that way would make him invisible. There were more shouts in Ukrainian.
Roberto stood in the boat with the balance of a gondoliere’s son. He leaned over the Roman and pointed the pistol at him, in full view of the patrol boat. The Roman stared at Roberto with desperation in his eyes. Roberto turned his face into the light and smiled. He waved his pistol at the men in the patrol boat. He was blinded by the light, but he smiled as wide as he could. He felt oddly euphoric. Invulnerable. He laughed.
Then he stuck the pistol in his waistband. He pulled his peasant hat out from under the Roman’s leg and slapped it on his head. He picked up his paddle. It almost slipped from his hands, they were so wet with sweat. But he caught it just in time. He waved the paddle at the patrol boat and smiled crazily and paddled.
The men in the patrol boat spoke quickly, several voices interrupting one another.
Roberto paddled past them. He waved again. He paddled. Their light followed him. He didn’t look back. His head spun. After a few minutes, the light turned away.
Could it have worked? Or would he be shot from behind?
Roberto paddled. He couldn’t see the Roman lying in the bottom of the boat. He couldn’t hear the splash of the water. He couldn’t feel the wood in his hands. It was as though his senses had died. He paddled and paddled and paddled, until he fell forward onto the Roman in a black, black world.
STONES
“Easy, take it easy.” The Roman held Roberto’s head in his lap and put a canteen to his lips. “That’s a bad wound. Very bad, kid.”
Roberto drank. The metallic-tasting water dribbled down his chin. He shivered. Dawn lightened the sky. Roberto breathed through his mouth and blinked at the rising sun. Now he realized he wore only his shirt. The left sleeve had been ripped open and the bandage had been removed. The dark, swollen bullet wound oozed. He grazed it with his fingertips. Even that slight touch sent knives of pain up his arm, through his armpit, across his chest. He tried to sit up. His stomach heaved. He sank back.
Stones in Water Page 13
