The Silver Sword

by Ian Serraillier

  ‘Oh no,’ said Frau Wolff, ‘he’s not as handsome or as young as that.’

  ‘Would he shoot us if he found us here?’ said Bronia.

  ‘He’d be more likely to shoot me for hiding you here,’ said the farmer. ‘But he’s such a poor shot he’d probably hit you by mistake. Of course our friend the ex-convict is the one he ought to shoot.’

  ‘Let’s talk about something more cheerful,’ said Ruth. She was admiring the smiling face of the young man in the photograph. She asked who it was.

  ‘That’s my elder son,’ said Frau Wolff, without looking up from her knitting. ‘Father took the photo on his last leave, before he went overseas.’

  ‘You never told us you had any children,’ said Edek.

  ‘We haven’t,’ said Frau Wolff. ‘Hans was killed in the desert at a place called Tobruk. Rudolf – he’s in the other photo – standing at the back, in uniform – Rudolf died later, fighting to keep the Russians out of Warsaw.’

  ‘You mean he was in General Model’s army?’ said Edek.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We might have seen him,’ said Jan, who was peering intently at the figure in the photo. ‘They all wore uniforms like that. They used to hide in the ruins and take pot-shots at us if we dared to come out of our rabbit holes. We hated them.’

  ‘I liked them,’ said Bronia. ‘They used to give me sweets.’

  ‘That was the Russians. You’ve got the wrong army,’ said Jan.

  ‘Some of the Germans were nice,’ said Ruth, ‘especially in the early days of the war.’

  Jan looked at Frau Wolff, quietly intent on her knitting; then at the farmer, whose eyes had a gleam of sadness he had not seen before; then back at the photo. That there could be any connection between these homely folk and the soldier in the photo was beyond his understanding.

  After a moment he turned to the farmer and said, ‘You and I ought to be deadly enemies.’

  ‘The only deadly enemy you have,’ said the farmer, ‘is the Burgomaster, and even he has not given you much cause for complaint as yet.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have hated Rudolf, Jan,’ said Frau Wolff.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because he loved Ludwig in the same way that you do. He trained him to be the best watchdog we ever had. He pined away when Rudolf was called up, but now that you’ve come he’s almost as fit as he used to be. You’re like Rudolf in other ways, too.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jan.

  ‘He was sent to Warsaw to kill us,’ said Ruth. ‘I don’t suppose he wanted to very much. If he were here now, he would treat us as friends, as you do, Frau Wolff. It all seems so stupid and senseless.’

  ‘You’d like to be our mother, wouldn’t you, Frau Wolff?’ said Bronia.

  ‘Yes, my dear, I would. I’d like to have you all. But you’ve got your own mother, and the most we can do for you is to try to help you find her.’ She turned to Jan. ‘You have no mother, Jan. Would you like to stay here?’

  ‘Yes, I would. Because of Ludwig. But I’d rather go with Ruth. Anyway, the sword wouldn’t let me stay here, however much I wanted to.’

  ‘What sword?’ said Frau Wolff.

  Having mentioned the sword, there was nothing for it but to go and fetch it from his treasure box.

  ‘It’s beautifully made,’ said Frau Wolff. ‘Where did you get it?’

  He told her how Joseph Balicki had given it to him long ago; how Ruth had discovered it; how it had been ever since a pledge that Joseph was still alive and waiting for them; how, when their spirits flagged, it gave them hope and inspired them to go on. Then he put it on the mantelpiece beside the photo of Rudolf, and a shaft of sunshine from the window caught it and made the silver blade sparkle.

  Next day Edek and the ‘ex-convict’ were stooking hay together when a jeep swept past on the road, throwing up a cloud of dust behind it. It was travelling twice as fast as it should have been and had just vanished behind a clump of trees when there was a loud explosion, a grinding of gears, a yell, then silence.

  ‘Must have hit a tree,’ said Jan.

  ‘It’s a tyre-burst,’ said Edek. ‘Come on. We’d better go and help. Someone called out – he may be hurt.’

  ‘No. You don’t know who it may be. Edek, come back!’

  But Edek was half way across the field already. He ran through the copse and found the car between two trees, at right angles to the road. The windscreen was cracked, and a middle-aged man was fumbling with one hand at the door-catch, with the other wiping blood from his forehead.

  ‘Tyre-burst,’ he said, as he stumbled out. ‘Flung me right off the road.’ He knelt down by the front wheel. ‘Cover’s ripped right through.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Edek in German.

  ‘Yes, yes. Have you got a handkerchief? This one’s getting rather messy.’

  ‘Afraid I haven’t,’ said Edek.

  ‘Never mind, I’ll manage with this.’

  The cut was not deep, and after a minute or two the blood was flowing more slowly.

  Together they checked the jeep for damage. Apart from the burst tyre and cracks in the corner of the windscreen where it had struck a branch, there was nothing else.

  ‘Today of all days – when I’m in such a hurry!’ the man exclaimed.

  ‘I’ll help you change the wheel,’ said Edek.

  Anxious to help, Edek forgot to be suspicious, and he set to work with the brace to unfasten the spare wheel, while the man, his handkerchief pressed to his forehead, stood by and watched. Out of the corner of his eye Edek stole a glance at him – and knew at once that it was the Burgomaster. The thought did not worry him unduly, for his German was sound enough to pass most tests.

  ‘Working for Kurt Wolff?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yes. He takes on extra help at this time of year.’

  ‘I thought all his refugees had gone.’

  Edek started to cough. The effort to lift the spare wheel from its casing was too strenuous.

  The man threw down his blood-soaked handkerchief and heaved off the wheel. ‘You take a rest,’ he said.

  Just then Ludwig turned up, and that meant that Jan was somewhere around. Wagging his tail, he licked Edek’s hand.

  While the man was jacking up the damaged wheel, Edek felt something drop at his feet – an acorn. He looked up and saw Jan high up in the leafy branches, making frantic signs to him.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ the man asked, as he unscrewed the nuts.

  ‘The north.’

  ‘Oh. I took you for a refugee. Can you give me a hand with the spare – I seem to have wrenched my arm a bit.’

  Edek tried, but the effort made him cough again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you. What about the lad up the tree – would he give a hand?’

  Edek was taken aback. ‘Someone up in the tree?’ he said lamely, then added, ‘It’s my brother. Come down, Franz.’

  But Jan, who thought the man had not noticed him, was most reluctant to come down.

  ‘Come down and lend a hand, Franz,’ Edek shouted, then explained to the man, ‘I’m afraid Franz is a bit deaf.’

  This time Jan came down.

  ‘So you come from the north, Franz?’ said the man, in a loud voice. And when Jan did not reply, he added, ‘Seems to be dumb as well.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edek, making a sign to Jan.

  Jan took his cue, acting blank and stupid while he helped the man heave the spare wheel on. Edek thought he was overdoing it, with his vacant looks and gurgling noises, but the man did not seem to notice anything unusual.

  The wheel was on and the man ready to drive off.

  Edek was congratulating himself on their success when suddenly Bronia arrived on the scene and spoke to them in Polish. Edek tried to cover it up by replying in German. He was surprised that the man still took no notice.

  Switching the engine on, the man thanked the boys profusely for their help, backed the jeep on to the road and drove off.


  ‘You’re a couple of worm-eaten lunatics,’ said Jan feelingly.

  ‘What did you want to climb into that tree for?’ said Edek.

  ‘To warn you it was the Burgomaster.’

  ‘I knew that – even a worm-eaten lunatic could tell that. Anyway, I think we got away with it.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ said Jan.

  21

  Orders

  THE FARMER WAS at the kitchen sink washing the morning’s grime from his face. His wife was always complaining that he left most of it on the towel instead of in the water. On this occasion he was running true to form, for his eyebrows were still white and foamy with soap when he reached out to dry himself. The towel wasn’t there.

  ‘Emma!’ he shouted. ‘Will you never learn to put out a fresh towel when the soiled one goes to the wash? Emma!’

  He heard heavy footsteps in the room, and in an unexpectedly brief time a towel was slipped into his hands.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said. And when he’d wiped off all the soap and it was safe to open his eyes, he saw before him not his wife but the Burgomaster.

  ‘It was over the back of the chair,’ said the Burgomaster. And he sat down on the edge of the kitchen table, which was his usual perch when he came on business.

  ‘I envy you your farm, Kurt.’ It was one of the days when the Burgomaster was feeling sorry for himself. ‘It’s so peaceful – cows grazing, cocks crowing – sowing and reaping, the eternal rhythm of the seasons. You’re down to the things that really matter. You can have my job any day. All kicks and no halfpence. The Americans curse me day and night, and when I pay a call on our own people I know they’d cut my throat if they could get away with it. I’ve come to requisition their houses, their furniture, their radios, their food, or—’

  ‘Get to the point, Mr Burgomaster. You want something out of me. What is it?’

  ‘Another tiresome order – nothing to do with me, of course. All Polish and Ukrainian refugees are to be sent home, and tomorrow’s the final date allowed.’

  ‘Oh, that’s stale news. I lost the last of my refugees weeks ago, and you know it.’

  ‘You’re hiding Polish children here,’ said the Burgomaster, and he told him about the previous day’s adventure on the road.

  ‘Well, and if I am?’

  ‘They must go home like the rest.’

  ‘They don’t want to. Their parents are in Switzerland, and they’re going to find them.’

  The Burgomaster laughed. ‘I’ve heard that one before. Anyone in trouble at home always makes for the west – France or Switzerland. The Swiss are getting very choosy – too many nasty pieces have been getting through, political trouble-makers, secret agents too. Even if we let these children go – and there’s no chance of that – the Swiss wouldn’t play. Not without definite proof that one parent was alive and already in the country.’

  ‘Emma!’ the farmer called out. ‘Is Edek about the place?’

  Frau Wolff answered from upstairs. ‘He’s out in the yard.’

  ‘Will you tell him the Burgomaster would like to meet him?’

  The farmer took the silver sword from the mantelpiece and showed it to the Burgomaster. ‘Here’s proof that their tale isn’t moonshine,’ he said, and he told him the story of the sword.

  The Burgomaster laughed. ‘Only a fool would accept that as proof,’ he said. ‘The mother’s either dead by now or back in Poland, and there’s not a chance in a thousand that the father got through Germany alive.’

  ‘I know he’s alive,’ said Edek, who had just come in. ‘I know it in my heart.’ And he took the sword from the Burgomaster and put it back on the mantelpiece.

  The Burgomaster shook hands with him. ‘Thank you, Edek, for what you did for me yesterday. You have a generous spirit. I wish I could treat you as generously. Your German is faultless and your accent quite deceived me. Where did you learn our language?’

  Edek told him of the months he had spent in Germany during the war.

  ‘How you must hate us!’ said the Burgomaster.

  ‘I hate the Nazis who took Mother and Father away and blew up our home and destroyed our city. But all Germans are not like that.’

  ‘Were you in the fighting at Warsaw?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edek. ‘I was in the Boys’ Rifle Brigade. I joined when I was twelve.’ And he thought of the night he had fired from his bedroom window when they took his mother away.

  ‘Some weeks ago two of my villagers were shot by a Polish boy not much older than you. Like you, he had learned his job in the Boys’ Rifle Brigade. He climbed through the bedroom window and shot these people while they slept. He had nothing against them – I don’t think he even knew who they were. You understand why we have to be careful. There have been other cases too. Ever since the war ended, the woods have been the hiding place of refugees who loot mercilessly and murder for revenge. Of course, they are not all like that. But it is in everyone’s interest that they should go home. The Americans are inflexible on this point, and I don’t blame them.’

  ‘Will he let us go, Edek?’ said Ruth, who had come in with Bronia, Jan and Ludwig.

  ‘No,’ said Edek, and told them what the Burgomaster had said.

  ‘A lorry will come for you tomorrow at twelve midday,’ said the Burgomaster. ‘I shall expect you to be ready. Out of friendship I warn you not to try to escape. There is only the one road, as you know, and it’s guarded by patrol posts. The woods are patrolled too, and the Americans may shoot at sight.’

  Ruth, who had followed the gist of this, began to plead with him in Polish. She told Edek to beg him to take their case direct to the Americans.

  ‘Quite hopeless,’ said the Burgomaster wearily. ‘It has been tried many times, and with no success. The only thing they would consider is a pass from the Swiss authorities, and that is out of the question.’

  ‘In twenty-four hours, yes,’ said the farmer. ‘But it might be obtained if you would grant them longer.’

  ‘The time limit has been fixed, and not by me,’ said the Burgomaster curtly. ‘Goodbye.’ He bowed stiffly and went.

  Ludwig, who was no fonder of the Burgomaster than anybody else, was growling and barking, and Jan clung on to his collar. ‘Shall I let him go, Ruth? I’d love to see him bite a hole in the seat of the Burgomaster’s trousers – and his shirt tail hanging out.’

  Ruth slipped her hand into Ludwig’s collar. She did not let go till she heard the jeep’s engine start up.

  In a cloud of dust the jeep sped off down the farm track towards the main road, with Ludwig an inch or two behind. And the hills all round echoed his indignant barking.

  22

  The Farmer Hits on a Plan

  THE FARMER DID not normally milk the cows himself – that was left to others. But when he felt depressed or in need of a little reflection, he sometimes took his turn. To sit on a stool with his forehead pressed against a cow’s flank and the milk splashing between his fingers into the pail – this, he found, was an attitude which inspired reflective thought.

  All afternoon he had been wondering how to beat the Burgomaster and get the family safely away. Telegrams to the International Tracing Service, to Berne and to the Swiss consul in Munich, a hide-out in a cave in the hills – these and other unfruitful ideas had flashed across his mind. Having by milking-time found no solution, he took himself to the cowshed.

  And there, at the fifteenth splash into the pail, the idea sprang into being.

  As soon as the milking was done, he assembled the family and took them up into the attic. Under a dusty heap of brown paper, broken cases, the boys’ skis, and some old boots, he found two long canvas bags. Their leather handles were green with mildew. It must have been years since anyone had touched them.

  ‘Ruth and Jan can take this one, Edek can help me with the other,’ said the farmer. ‘Mind – they’re heavier than they look. Bronia, you come down last and close the trapdoor behind us. Be careful not to fall down the ladde
r.’

  Wholly mystified, the family did as they were told.

  In a pother of dust by no means to Frau Wolff’s liking (she was rolling pastry), the bags were dumped on the kitchen floor. She made them take them into the yard.

  So out they staggered with their burdens. A few stray hens flew clucking away. And the children clapped their black hands against their clothes.

  ‘Gently, gently,’ said the farmer, as they fumbled clumsily with the fastenings.

  Ruth’s bag was the first open. On top of musty lengths of stuff – was it canvas, was it rubber? – lay a bundle of sticks with metal clasps at the end. Whatever could it be?

  Now the other bag was open, and the contents looked similar.

  ‘Don’t mix the two up,’ said the farmer. ‘I’ll assemble the one while you all watch. You can do the other yourselves.’ And when asked for the umpteenth time what it was all about, all he would say was, ‘Ah!’

  Out came the sticks first, and with the metal clasps the farmer joined them together – six sets of much the same length, which he fastened at the ends. The sticks grew into a skeleton. And before the farmer had started to give it flesh, Jan cried out, ‘A canoe!’

  ‘It’s a bit of a gamble,’ said the farmer, ‘but your only chance. Has any of you ever canoed before?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruth and Edek both together.

  ‘Father took us one summer in the Pieniny mountains,’ said Ruth. ‘We hired two-seaters to take us downstream, then sent them back by train.’

  ‘One of these is a two-seater,’ said the farmer. ‘They belonged to my sons. Have you tried wild water?’

  ‘The Dunajec wasn’t particularly wild, except in one place where there were some rocks sticking out,’ said Edek.

  ‘There are only two difficult patches on the Falken River,’ said the farmer, ‘the rapids ten kilometres below the village, and the part where the river joins the Danube. Keep to mid-stream and clear of the broken water and you’ll be all right.’ He did not tell them just how tricky the rapids were, and that it was a long time before he had allowed his boys to tackle them unaccompanied. Nor did he drop a hint of his other fear. The canoes were years old. Would they still hold the water out?