by Avi
We came to the River, and the bridge. Except there was no bridge. It had become shattered wood and lay in a tangled mound in the riverbed. Water — still high from the rain — rushed over the pieces. Even as I looked, some were pulled away.
On both riverbanks were stumpy, jagged posts, which had held up the bridge. Villagers were standing on both sides doing nothing more than staring, as if not believing what they didn’t see.
With Raclaw leaning against me, I said, “The bridge is gone.” I’m not sure Raclaw understood.
“What happened?” I asked a woman who was near us, Mrs. Wukulski. A baker, she was a large woman, with big arms and a puffy face that looked like a round loaf of bread.
“When the Germans left,” she said, “chased by the Russians — fast as they went — they blew it up.”
“But . . . why?”
She shrugged. “Slow down the Russians.”
“Where did the Germans go?”
“West,” she said, with a wave of her dimpled hand.
Raclaw whispered, “I want to get home.”
Mrs. Wukulski looked down at him as if just noticing. “Is that Raclaw? The lawyer’s boy?”
I nodded.
“What happened?”
“Got shot.”
“By whom?’
“Russians. I’m trying to get him home.”
My face must have shown bafflement because Mrs. Wukulski said, “I have to go that way. I’ll carry him across.”
I turned to Raclaw. Unsteady on his feet, he seemed to be looking at the riverbed, but I had no idea what he saw. I said, “Mrs. Wukulski is going to pick you up and carry you.”
Raclaw gave a small nod.
The woman bent over, scooped Raclaw up in her big arms, and held him across her chest. Moving sideways, she all but slid down the riverbank, bracing one foot against the steep incline. I followed.
She reached the rushing water and kept going. Water curled white against her long dress and legs. I came close behind, the water’s chill making me shiver.
We walked across slowly. Mrs. Wukulski felt her way with her feet, adjusting to the strong pressure of the water’s flow. Every now and again, she paused to brace herself.
Raclaw, arms dangling, tried to keep his head up.
The water reached my waist. The current was powerful, and it was slippery underfoot.
Once on the far side, Mrs. Wukulski, with Raclaw in her arms, struggled to climb the steep, slippery slope. At one point, she seemed about to fall backward. I came up fast and helped by pushing her from behind.
We got to the top of the bank, and though Raclaw was dry, Mrs. Wukulski and I were dripping wet.
“Where’s Patryk?” called Raclaw.
“I’m here.”
Mrs. Wukulski said, “Do you want me to carry you home?”
Raclaw said, “I can walk.”
“I’ll go with him,” I said.
Mrs. Wukulski set Raclaw down on his feet.
“Thank you,” I said.
With Raclaw clinging to my arm, we moved toward his house. We had to make our way through bunches of Russian soldiers. They paid us no mind.
I saw a German machine-gun wagon that had been flipped over, the gun broken. I also saw two bodies on the ground. They looked to be dead but were so covered with mud that I wasn’t sure which army they belonged to. Then I realized one of them was a kid. He lay facedown in the mud, so I had no idea who he was. No one paid him any attention. I was afraid to stop.
Raclaw lived in one of the village’s better houses on the main street, a two-story brick building painted white. When we reached it, I could see that a window was shattered. I also saw holes in the wall, which, I realized, were bullet holes. The bullets had chipped away the white paint and exposed red brick, like a wound.
On his own — because he wanted to — Raclaw climbed the two stone steps — one at a time — that led to the wide door. He tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. After taking a deep breath, he banged on it. His mother opened the door.
“Raclaw!” she cried, then enveloped him in her arms and pulled him into the house.
Next moment, the door slammed shut.
Exhausted, I stood outside Raclaw’s house. For a moment, I thought of knocking on the door again and asking for that button I gave Raclaw. But I was uncomfortable with doing that. Anyway, I needed to go home and see my parents.
As I turned around, some armed Russian soldiers went by. It was then that I remembered the pistol in my trouser pocket. It felt bulky, obvious, and unsafe. I wanted, needed, to get rid of it.
I stole a glance toward the pump platform, relieved not to see any of my friends. I didn’t want them to know about the pistol.
Deciding what to do with it, I headed for home.
When I reached home, it seemed untouched. Even so, I hesitated about going in through the front door. I had no doubt that the German soldier was gone, but what if a Russian had come to replace him?
I went around by the back and stepped into my father’s workshop. He wasn’t there. Nor was my mother in the kitchen. I stood there, speculating where they could be. Should I look for them? Stay home? In the end, I decided to wait. Even so, to worry about my parents was something new.
I climbed my ladder to my sleeping place. Once there, I opened my wooden box and pulled the pistol from my pocket. It felt heavy and was wet from the river crossing, which made me wonder if it would still work. I didn’t care. Just wanting to get rid of it, I put it in my box. Then I closed the lid, sure that my parents — or anyone else — would never look into it.
Weary, I felt I had to wait for my parents to return. I lay back on my sleeping shelf and thought about all that had happened. The ambush in the forest. Raclaw. The walk back. The village houses that had been destroyed. It was as confusing as it was horrible. I understood so little of it. Then into my head came the clatter-clatter, the aeroplane sound.
“Please go away,” I whispered.
I thought about the button contest. As far I was concerned, the English button had to be the best. Raclaw had it. That meant the contest was done. Which meant Jurek would not get to keep the cane.
My worry eased.
Though I tried to stay awake to see my parents, I was so tired, I fell asleep.
I slept through the night, woke, sat up, and looked down into the kitchen. The light told me it was morning. My mother was at the table, cutting up potatoes, putting pieces into her ever-cooking pot. She heard me stir, stopped her work, and looked up.
“We were worried. Where were you yesterday?”
“With my friends.”
“Where?”
“Just around.”
“You need to tell us where you go.”
“I will.” I thought of telling her all that had happened to me, but knowing she’d be upset, I said nothing. When I glanced at my wooden box — with the pistol — I knew I mustn’t tell her about that, either.
She said, “Did you see . . . ? Those Germans have gone. And the Russians are back.”
I nodded.
“There was terrible fighting on the street. Bullets everywhere. People were killed. Not just soldiers. Homes destroyed. Did you see any of that?”
“Yes.”
“We were terribly worried about you. You must always tell us where you are.”
“I promise.”
“Pray God this will be the end of it,” she said, then added, “but no one knows.” She put her knife down and rubbed her hands. “It’s treacherous to even walk about.”
“Do you need me to get water?”
“I got it. That friend of yours, Raclaw, the lawyer’s boy, his family is leaving the village.”
“How do you know?”
“At the pump, someone told me.”
What would happen to them? Maybe I should go to Raclaw and ask for the button. “Will we go?” I asked.
“We may have to.”
“Where?”
She shook her head. “Your father will decide. East
, I suppose.”
“The bridge is gone.”
“Then west. It doesn’t seem to matter.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“All night. Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“I’ll get you something.”
She took out a loaf of bread and cut off a big slice. Then she got a tin cup, ladled some of her soup into it, and set it on the table.
“Your father is trying to find out what’s happening. So many things ruined. Destroyed. Now come down and eat.” She set down a tin spoon.
I climbed down. “Were you here when the Russians came back?” I asked.
She said, “We hid in the workshop. Then, when it got worse, we rushed out to the fields. Promise me you won’t disappear the way you did. We were very frightened. We must stay together.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They say some of the Germans were killed but they carried them away. Which boys were you with?”
“My friends.”
“Jurek?”
I nodded.
She pursed her lips and then said, “He’s wild. Keep away from him.”
I ate some soup and bread, which made me feel better.
“You need to talk to your father. He should be home soon.”
But as soon as I finished eating, I said, “I’ll be right back.” Before she could say anything, I ran out through the front door and made my way to the main street.
Weaving among Russian soldiers, I headed for the pump platform. Jurek, Makary, and Ulryk were sitting there. As soon they saw me, Makary shouted, “Did you find Raclaw?”
“At the ruins. He was shot.”
“Who shot him?” asked Jurek.
“The Russians.”
“Why?”
“You were there. The Germans made him go into the forest. Then there was that ambush. I took him home.”
Ulryk said, “We went to his house. They wouldn’t talk to us. Is he in a bad way?”
“I think he’s all right.” I climbed up onto the platform and took my regular seat.
I said, “Remember that English soldier who was with the Russians? He was near Raclaw. Killed. I suppose the Germans did it. I made the sign of the cross over him.”
Ulryk said, “Not sure you’re allowed to do that.”
“Well, I did.”
“Raclaw’s lucky,” said Makary. “A lot of soldiers died here. It was scary. My family ran away and hid.”
“So did mine,” I said.
Jurek said, “The Russians came in one side and the Germans went out the other. It had nothing to do with us. Just them fighting. See what happened to the bridge?”
I said, “When Raclaw and I got back, we had to wade across.”
Jurek said, “They blew it up. Just like that.”
Ulryk turned to me. “Did you hear? Drugi died.”
No one spoke until I said, “I liked him.”
“I hope somebody killed that Austrian soldier,” said Makary.
Ulryk asked, “You think the Germans will come back?”
I almost said, “Ask Raclaw’s father.” I didn’t.
“People say so,” said Makary. “I don’t want to be around.”
I said, “My mother told me Raclaw’s family is leaving.”
For a moment, I thought again of telling them what Raclaw had said about his father, that it was him who told the Germans that the Russians were leaving. That what he told them made the aeroplane come.
“Father Stanislaw is praying that all the soldiers go,” said Ulryk.
“Hope God listens,” said Makary.
“He must be busy,” said Ulryk.
We sat still, everybody caught up in their own thoughts, until Jurek pulled out the Austrian button he had taken from the dead soldier’s cap. “Then I guess I won,” he said, and held the button out in the palm of his hand.
“Won what?” said Ulryk.
“Button contest.”
It was as if I’d been punched. “No, you didn’t,” I said. “Raclaw has the best button. It’s English,” I described it.
Makary said, “Sounds great.”
“How’d he get it?” Jurek said.
“Don’t know,” I lied.
Jurek said, “But he isn’t here. Can’t win unless he shows it to us.”
Wishing I had kept the button, I hated that we were still talking about the contest. To change the subject, I said “Anyone know what happened to Wojtex?”
“Don’t know,” said Makary.
Jurek turned to me, “Just don’t think you’ve won.”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“You said Raclaw got an English button. But he isn’t here, so my Austrian button is still best. Or, maybe Wojtex got something better.”
I said. “The contest is over.”
“Isn’t,” insisted Jurek. “The rules. Contest goes on for another day. Only fair. Have to find out about Wojtex. Besides, you see those soldiers with red trousers? French. They came with the Russians. I bet their buttons are good.”
Frustrated, I blurted out: “Forget buttons. I got something better.” Soon as I said it, I was sorry I spoke.
“What?” demanded Jurek.
“Nothing.”
“Come on,” said Jurek. “You have to tell. Once you start, you’re not allowed to go back.”
Jurek invented rules faster than any human being in the world. And they were always about what he wanted.
“Not telling.”
“Then don’t say you got something better,” said Jurek. “Means you’re a liar. The contest goes on one more day. Otherwise I win.”
I shook my head.
Makary poked me. “Say what you got.”
I shook my head again.
Ulryk said, “It’s a sin not to tell the truth.”
“Yeah,” Makary pushed. “What?”
Jurek gave my leg a hard swat.
I waited a moment, feeling their eyes on me. Then I said, “Remember that English soldier?”
“The one you said was killed?”
“Was . . . Well . . . I got his pistol.”
“His pistol!”
I nodded.
“You telling the truth?” said Jurek.
“Just said.”
“Where is it?” said Makary. “Show us.”
I shook my head.
“Not fair,” said Jurek.
“Don’t care.”
Jurek said, “It’s a lie unless you show us.”
I continued to shake my head.
Jurek looked at me. “You hid it, didn’t you?”
I kept my mouth shut tight.
“Where?” Jurek pushed. “Wait! I know. It’s in that stupid box you have on your bed.”
Furious Jurek had guessed, I kept silent.
Jurek said nothing more, but he kept looking at me with a grin on his face. It told me I’d better hide the pistol in another place. Fast. Wanting to end the talk, I jumped off the platform. “Going to Wojtex’s house,” I announced. “See what happened to him.”
We ran to where the bridge had been and scrambled down the bank. People were using the old bridge planks to make a walking platform across the water.
We waded across.
Wojtex’s father had his butcher shop on the main street. The family — Wojtex, his older two sisters, mother, and father — lived on the second level. Though it wasn’t a big shop, it was always busy. But when we got to the house, the windows were shuttered. Not only was no selling going on, there was a wagon standing before the door. Wojtex’s father and his two sisters were loading chairs, tables, blankets.
Wojtex wasn’t there.
We stood and watched. It was Jurek who called out, “Wojtex around?”
One of his sisters, who was putting a large kettle into the wagon, turned. She was crying.
She looked at us for a moment, her face showing pain, and said, “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“T
he Germans said Wojtex was a spy. They shot him.”
“Shot him!” cried Makary.
We stood there, open mouthed, shocked. For me it was no different from the time I saw the bomb drop on the school. I couldn’t fully grasp it. Couldn’t believe it.
“They really do that?” said Jurek. Even he was stunned.
Wojtex’s father nodded and worked to wipe tears away.
“But . . . why?” said Ulryk.
“He had a Russian button. They said it was a message. That he was a spy.”
I said, “Because he had a . . . button?”
One of the sisters nodded.
Ulryk made the sign of the cross over his chest. “God keep him,” he said.
“We’re leaving,” said Wojtex’s sister. “If the Germans come back, we can’t be here.”
“Are the Germans coming back?” asked Jurek.
Wojtex’s father said, “My boy was fond of you. All of you.
“But . . . please, it would be better if you went away.”
I managed to say, “I’m sorry . . .”
“Yeah,” said Makary. “Sorry.”
“We liked him, too,” Ulryk called.
Makary added, “And he wasn’t a spy.”
Jurek was, I thought. Raclaw’s father was. I said nothing.
Wojtex’s sister said, “Thank you.” Weeping, she rushed into the house.
We swung about and started back across the village without speaking until I said, “This button stuff is over.”
“Then I’m king,” said Jurek. “I keep the cane.”
No one said anything.
We waded across the River and without talking, headed for the pump. Once there, we sat in silence. I don’t know what the others were thinking. I thought about Wojtex. And the village. When I looked around, with its smashed windows, doors, and bullet holes, it seemed wrecked. I was frightened.
Jurek said, “Just so you know, my sister’s gone.”
“Where?” Makary asked.
“That German soldier. The one who stayed with us. I don’t know if she went with him or he took her.”
I said, “You going after her?”
Jurek said, “She can do what she wants.” Then he added, “Hate her.”
I said, “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing.”
