by Avi
“Yes,” said Raclaw, sobbing. He tried to smear his tears away, but only managed to streak his face. Not knowing what to do, we stood still, staring. Makary, who was close to me, was trembling.
The soldier told the officer what Raclaw had said.
The German officer looked over his own men, as if counting.
He spoke to his soldier. To Raclaw the soldier said, “You will stay in front of us and lead us to where you saw the Russians. Absolutely no talk. None!”
The officer gave Raclaw a hard shove forward.
Stumbling, blubbering, Raclaw went past the hole with the dead soldiers.
I looked on the ground for his glasses but couldn’t find them. I did see his cap and picked it up.
The soldier turned to me, Jurek, and Makary. He made a waving motion with his hand. “Go home!” he said in Polish. “Go.”
We scooted to the edge of the road.
The officer — his voice low — gave orders to his soldiers. They broke up their lines and spread out, three feet between them. Rifles in hand, they walked toward the forest, moving in crouched positions, as if ready to duck. The officer had his pistol in his hand.
Jurek, Makary, and I stayed back and watched. Though the Germans were led by their officer, Raclaw was in front of them all. The officer kept smacking Raclaw’s shoulder hard — I could hear the smacks — forcing him forward. Raclaw, head down, was sobbing.
“I want to see what happened to Wojtex,” Makary announced, and he began to run back in the direction of the village.
“Anybody else a coward?” said Jurek, looking right at me.
Wishing I had gone with Makary, I watched him hurry down the road. Then I looked at Raclaw’s cap, which I was still holding. I couldn’t leave him. I stayed. But I didn’t look at Jurek. Instead the two of us watched the Germans edge into what had been the forest. I could no longer see Raclaw.
I said, “What’s going to happen to Raclaw?”
“Don’t know,” said Jurek, “but I want to see.” He ran down the road after the Germans. I followed, my stomach churning with fear.
When we reached what had been the forest edge, Jurek and I stopped. It was hard to see the Germans. They were spread out, rifles in hands, creeping forward among the burned-over trees.
I said, “I’m not going any farther.”
Jurek went on for a few more yards, then he too halted.
We stood and watched. I saw nothing of Raclaw, but I was still holding his cap, squeezing it. All I heard was my pounding heart.
There was a sudden burst of loud, rapid gunshots — bang, bang, bang — followed by what seemed a hundred more bangs. Gunshots. The shots echoed and reechoed then stopped. The silence was terrifying.
Jurek and I stood and stared into the forest. I saw nothing.
“What . . . happened?” I whispered.
A cloud of gunpowder drifted over us. It had an acrid smell.
“Some kind of fight,” said Jurek, his eyes big. For once I thought he was frightened.
“What about . . . Raclaw?” I whispered.
“They’re coming!” Jurek cried. “Run!” He raced off the road into a farm field. Not seeing what Jurek had seen but reacting, I ran with him. In seconds, we were in the middle of a field of tall rye. Once there, we flung ourselves down and lay as flat as possible, my face pressed hard against wet ground. My heart was thumping so hard it hurt. I found it difficult to breathe. Within moments, I heard the sound of fast running feet, lots of them.
I didn’t dare move. Instead, I waited until everything became silent again.
Jurek said, “Stay down. I’m going to look.”
“Be careful!”
He rolled over so that he was on his knees but still low. Cautiously, he parted the tall rye with his hands — as if opening a curtain — and peeked out.
“Nothing,” he said.
Next moment, he stood up. “The Germans are racing down the road toward the village,” he told me. “Just six of them and they’re carrying a soldier.”
“What about Raclaw?”
“Don’t see him.”
I stood in time to watch the last of the Germans rushing toward the village. Then I shifted to look toward the forest, but couldn’t believe what I was seeing: Russian soldiers — maybe two hundred of them — rifles in hands — were racing down the road in pursuit of the Germans. Commandant Dmitrov was in the lead, pistol in hand.
“Get down!” I cried, and dropped.
Jurek did, too. “What was it?” he whispered.
“Russians! Hundreds of them. Going after the Germans.”
“I told you,” he said. “Ambush.”
We listened as the sound of pursuing soldiers — like a herd of galloping horses — went past.
I was afraid to move.
It became silent again. We waited a while, then Jurek and I stood up, but slowly. When we looked down the road, there was no sign of soldiers, neither Russian nor German.
I said, “Where do you think they’re going?”
“After the Germans. They’ll try and take back the village.”
“Was that really . . . an ambush?”
“Sure.”
I said, “We . . . we let it happen.”
“Nothing to do with us,” said Jurek. “They made us.”
I shook my head. “Buttons,” I said.
Jurek shrugged.
We walked out of the field onto the road and looked toward the village. I saw no one. But from that direction, I began to hear more gunshots. Then there was an explosion. A column of black smoke rose into the air.
“What . . . what do you think they did?”
Jurek said, “I’m going to find out.” He took a few steps, stopped, and turned. “You coming?”
“What about Raclaw? He might need us. Be hurt.”
“He can take care of himself,” said Jurek, and he started, only to stop. “Coming?” he yelled.
“I need to find Raclaw.”
“He’ll be fine!” cried Jurek, and he began to run toward our village.
I watched him race down the road, then I turned and looked the other way, toward the forest. I didn’t want to be alone, but I didn’t want to leave Raclaw.
My hands mashed his cap.
I shifted around and began to walk toward the forest, first fast then slow, slower, then I stopped. I glanced back over my shoulder. I could no longer see Jurek. I started up again, toward the forest. I was shaking. I could almost hear my father saying I needed to help the weak.
“I don’t want to be strong,” I yelled to no one. I looked back to the village one more time, then continued to walk toward the forest.
A lot of soldiers had gone by. The earth was mucky, churned by boot prints. The forest appeared the same as before: burnt out, bare. The only colors were different shades of grays and blacks. The air smelled of rot. Silence was total. Nothing appeared alive. It was as if the whole world had died.
As I stood there, clutching Raclaw’s cap in both hands, I realized I had no idea where to find him, or even if I could. What if he’s hiding? What if the Germans took him back to the village, and we just didn’t notice? What if he’s been shot? Or wounded? What if he’s dead . . . ?
I could think of only one place to go: the ruins.
Guessing which way to go, all the while looking around me, the word ambush continually poking into my thoughts, I walked with care, following those footprints.
I came upon the body of a German soldier. He was lying facedown in ashy muck. I gasped, stopped, and made the sign of the cross over my heart.
At first I was so fearful I couldn’t do anything but stare at him. It took me a few moments before I moved forward and stood right over the body. That’s when I saw a bullet hole in his back, from which a tiny ooze of blood had flowed. Still wet, it glistened.
I squatted down. “Sir?” I whispered, though it felt stupid to say such an ordinary thing.
When there was no reaction, I leaned forward, took hold
of his jacket sleeve, and gave it a tug. When he still didn’t move, I shook harder.
No response.
I let go a puff of breath, unaware I was holding it back. All the time, I was staring at the dead soldier, trying to make sense of it. Who was he? His uniform told me he was a German, but that’s all. Then — it was the pistol in his hand — I realized it was that officer, the one who had struck Raclaw.
All I could think was: He was alive a short time ago. I hated him. Now he’s dead. And I feel sorry. I didn’t understand my own feelings.
I gazed around as if there might be some answer visible. I saw two more German soldiers on the ground. They too looked to be dead. It was as if I was in a cemetery, the bodies not yet buried. I found it hard to breathe.
I made the sign of the cross over the dead officer, doing it the way I saw Father Stanislaw make the motion over Cyril at his funeral. I did the same for the two other dead soldiers.
I stood up. Though I wanted to go home, I looked for the ruins. All the while I was thinking, What if I find more bodies? What if there are soldiers hiding? What if they — whoever they are — shoot me? How much farther should I go? Where is Raclaw?
“Raclaw!” I shouted. “Raclaw!”
There wasn’t even an echo.
I forced myself to keep walking. It was as if I was falling deeper into the silence.
To my relief, I finally spotted the chimney ruin, although I had to stop and stare to make sure I was seeing it, that it wasn’t another shattered tree. I edged forward, my breath rapid. When I reached the first of the old walls, I stopped and gazed about.
In the middle of the area lay another soldier’s body. He was all twisted, like a cloth doll that had been tossed away. He was on his back, face up, brown jacket in tatters, skin exposed, torn, and bloody. I stared at him but didn’t feel much emotion. I was getting used to the dead.
It took some gazing before I realized the man was the English soldier, the one who had been with the Russians, who was there to see how brave they were. It wasn’t just his brown uniform: he was still wearing his necktie. Why, I wondered, would he ever wear such a thing?
Under him, just visible, I noticed the butt of his pistol, which he had carried. I also saw that dangling by a thread from his torn jacket was a small, golden button. In all that gloominess, it was like a bead of sunlight.
Leave it alone, I told myself.
But it might be a good one, I thought the next moment. The only English one. Get it and the contest will absolutely be over. No way I couldn’t beat Jurek.
Though my thoughts made me uncomfortable, I moved toward the body, hesitated, bent down, and plucked at the button. It fell into my hand like a ripe berry.
I looked at it closely. It was a fine one, polished and new, the image of an old-time cannon — on wheels — clear as anything. I thought, My father would like the wheels. Over the cannon was a crown.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Raclaw.
My heart gave a jolt.
He was sitting on the ground, back propped against one of the old stone walls. Not moving, eyes closed, his arms were by his side, palms up. The welt that had been made when he was struck by that German officer was distinct on his pale face, like a red scar.
My first thought was He’s dead.
Terribly frightened, I made myself draw closer.
“Raclaw . . . ?” I whispered.
To my enormous relief, his eyelids quivered and then opened. He gazed at me with dazed eyes.
“It’s me,” I said, my voice ragged. “Patryk.”
When he made no response, I said, “Do you know who I am?”
“P . . . Patryk.”
“Were . . . were you shot?”
He made a slight gesture with his right hand toward his left arm. It was enough for me to notice the blood stain on his sleeve.
“Got your cap,” I said. I held it before his face. He didn’t react, but I plopped it on his head, where it sat crookedly.
“Do . . . you have water?” he said in a small voice.
I shook my head. “What . . . happened?” I asked.
“What Jurek said. A . . . ambush with . . . with Russian soldiers. Lots of them.”
“Did the Russians shoot you?”
He gave a small nod, closed his eyes — as if to keep them open was tiring — then said, “I didn’t think anyone . . . would come. Do you have my . . . glasses?”
“I couldn’t find them. What happened to that English soldier?”
Raclaw didn’t seem to know who I was talking about.
“Can you walk back home?” I asked.
“Not sure.”
“I’ll help you.”
“I can’t see well.”
Trying to think what to do and unable to know who I should be more afraid of, Russians or Germans, I looked around. What if we’re attacked? I thought. What’ll I do?
I glanced at the body of the English soldier, and then back to Raclaw. His eyes were still closed.
I went back to the Englishman’s side and pried the pistol out from under his body, telling myself that I could at least try to defend us if we were attacked. Not that I knew if the pistol had bullets in it or even if it did, how to use the thing. All I knew was that you pulled the trigger.
Stuffing the gun into my trouser pocket, I turned back to Raclaw, hoping he hadn’t noticed what I done.
I got down on my knees and adjusted Raclaw’s cap, so it sat better. Then I put my arm around his waist and struggled to get up, pulling him with me.
He gave a small moan, opened his eyes, and rose until he was standing unsteadily on his feet. Breathing hard, he leaned against me. For a few moments, we stood together, he resting, me trying to keep him from flopping down.
I said, “The Russians chased the Germans away. But I think there was fighting in the village. And that English soldier . . . He was killed. But . . . I got a button. A cannon on wheels. And there’s a crown over the cannon.”
He didn’t seem to care. All the same, I said, “I’m putting it in your pocket. That way you’ll win the contest.”
“Just . . . want to get home.”
“We’re going,” I said. “Tell me when you need to stop. Come on.”
It took a long time to get out of the forest. We would walk awhile before Raclaw said, “Stop.” I’d stop. He would breathe hard and then after a while he’d say, “All right.” When we passed those dead soldiers, I don’t think Raclaw even noticed.
Upon reaching the road, it was the same: we’d go for a while until he said he was tired. We’d pause. He would stand still, head bowed, eyes closed, taking deep, slow breaths.
I kept watching the road, fearful that soldiers would appear.
“How far is it?” he asked any number of times.
My answer was always the same: “Close.”
At one point he stopped and said, “It was my father . . .”
“What about him?”
“He sent a message . . . to the Germans. . . .”
“About what?”
“He told them when the Russians . . . were going.”
“Why?”
“Hates Russians. That’s . . . why the German . . . aeroplane came.”
Shocked, I didn’t know what to say.
We kept on, not talking. As we walked, I was aware of the English pistol bumping against my leg. Afraid to look at it, I was sorry I’d taken it but wasn’t sure what to do. I kept telling myself to throw it away, but I didn’t want Raclaw to see it. Though the road was empty, I was also scared that someone would appear and see it in my hand. I dreaded that they — whoever they were — would think I was a soldier and shoot me.
The pistol stayed in my pocket.
Not that it mattered. In all the time we walked along the road toward the village, we met no one. Nor was anyone working in any of the fields we passed. The burn stench stayed in the air. But the skies were blue and birds were flying.
About a mile from the village, I saw
some soldiers on the road. There were four of them, all with rifles. Russians. Soon as I saw them, I halted. I wanted to throw the pistol away, but they were now looking right at us. I had to keep it.
We went forward. When we drew close to the soldiers, we stopped.
“You boys!” cried one of the soldiers. “What are you doing here?” He spoke in Russian.
I said, “We live in the village. My friend got shot.”
“How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. I just found him.”
The soldiers looked at one another, as if trying to decide what to do. Then one of them made a gesture. “Come along,” he said. “But from now on, you’ll need permission to go in and out of the village.”
“Yes, sir.”
We went on. It was late afternoon. As we walked, I began to wonder what we would find in the village.
It was at the village’s eastern edge that I first saw signs of fighting and destruction. Windows shattered. Doors broken. Holes in some buildings. Two buildings had been tumbled and looked like huge squashed bird nests. Villagers, faces filthy, eyes full of grief, were deep among the wreckage, pawing through splintered wood. But they hesitated, as if afraid of what would be found.
I saw no German soldiers but many Russian ones. I also saw some soldiers wearing uniforms I hadn’t seen before: blue jackets and red trousers. I had no idea who or what they were. Village people were avoiding these military men, moving with caution, casting apprehensive glances at the soldiers.
The Russians were armed, but none seemed worried or ready to fight. Many were sitting on the ground, as if resting. Others were in small groups, standing around, talking among themselves. Smoking cigarettes. They paid no attention to us. Or anyone else for that matter. The fighting, for the moment, seemed to be over.
We passed a house, which had a wagon in front of it, a horse in its traces. People were loading furniture into it. It was obvious; they were leaving.
I wondered if my family would leave. Had anything bad happened to them? Where, I wondered, would we — could we — go? I had the thought: I know nothing of the far world.
