by Avi
“Where will we go?”
“With the bridge down, going west will be easiest. I’ll bring my tools. There will always be wheels to fix, somewhere.”
“We must stay together,” my mother said.
“On the road west,” said my father, “there are mile markers. If we become separated, wait at the fifth marker. Understand. The fifth. That should be safe. Wait two days.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“We’ll go on,” said my father.
I worked with my father for most of that afternoon, deciding which of his tools to take. We didn’t talk much, and I didn’t think a lot about what I was doing. Instead, I kept worrying about Jurek and how he had taken the pistol. Did he just take it, I kept asking myself, or was he intending to use it?
That night I told my parents I wanted to say good-bye to my friends. “I might not see them again.”
“Come right back,” my mother said.
I went out.
The evening was much like the night when I went back behind Jurek’s house and got that first button. No clouds or smoke, so the moon was brighter, which let me see a good bit more. Some stars were out, too. When I reached the main street, no one was about, not even Russian soldiers. The abandoned, wrecked houses were dark and lifeless. Even the tavern was closed. The village felt hollow.
When I turned toward the pump, I saw one person sitting there. I assumed it was Jurek. That made me stop. I had decided not to tell him that I’d warned the French soldier that he might show up. But as I stood there, I changed my mind. If something bad happened to him, it would be my fault. I’d remind him about the French soldier’s warning. Then Jurek could decide for himself if he wanted to go or not.
But as I drew closer to the pump, I realized it wasn’t Jurek sitting there, but Makary.
“Where’s Jurek?” I asked, trying to sound casual as I took my place on the platform.
“No idea.”
“You been waiting long?”
“Some.”
“Why you here?”
He didn’t answer. All he said was, “You change your mind about going?”
I said, “I’m not going.”
Makary said, “Then it’s just Jurek and me. But I can’t let Jurek win.”
“Don’t go,” I said.
“Why?”
“What about that French soldier warning us not to. He had a pistol.”
“Doesn’t mean . . .”
After a while I said, “Where do you think Jurek is?”
Makary shrugged.
Deciding I had to stop Makary, I said, “Remember I said I had that English soldier’s pistol?”
“What about it?”
“Jurek came to my house. Stole it from me.”
Makary looked at me. “You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Don’t know.”
We sat there without talking.
“Maybe,” said Makary, “he’s the one who got scared. Ran off.”
“Doubt it,” I said.
“Then what?”
“He’ll use it.”
“How?”
“What makes you think I know everything?”
“You’re his best friend.”
“Am not. I hate him.”
“Me too.”
I’m not sure how long we’d remained at the platform when Makary stood up.
“You going home?” I asked.
He said, “I just told you: Just because Jurek got scared off doesn’t mean I have to be. I’ll get some French buttons and then I’ll be king. We’ll be done with this stupid thing.”
“Going alone?”
“Sure. I know the way. I run fast.” He took a step away, then paused. “Come on with me.”
I shook my head.
“Why?”
I took a breath. “I spoke to the French soldiers. They said if anyone tried to steal from them, they would shoot.”
That held him for a moment. “When did you do that?”
“After we were there, I went back. Told them someone might come.”
Makary studied me. Then he said, “I don’t believe you. First you said Jurek took that pistol. Then that the French would do something. You’re trying to scare me off. Just like Jurek. Make yourself the winner. I’m going. You don’t have to.”
“Don’t go!”
“You know what?” he yelled. “I hate this button business.”
“Then why you doing it?”
“Told you. Because I hate Jurek. I don’t want to have him lording over me.”
“Pay no attention to him!” I shouted back. But Makary was already walking down the street, going west.
“Don’t do it,” I shouted. “Don’t!”
He kept going.
I watched him go, then fell into wondering where Jurek was. It wasn’t like him not to show up. I had a feeling that something was going on I didn’t understand. Makary was just about out of sight when I leaped off the platform and began to follow him, though by then he wasn’t much more than a dark shape.
No one else was on the road. If I hadn’t known it was Makary up ahead, I’d have no idea who he was. Still, his shape was enough to allow me to keep in step. He was walking slowly, and as far as I could tell, he never looked back, so I’m sure he didn’t see me.
It was when he drew near the old barracks that he stopped. I supposed he was trying to decide what to do. I was hoping he was changing his mind. I considered calling out, but there was some light inside the building that looked like candles. If there were French soldiers on guard, things might go badly for him, and me.
I stepped off the road and stood near some bushes. A good thing, too, because the next moment Makary looked back. I saw his white face. I was sure he didn’t see me because he turned around.
For a while he remained standing still, as if trying to make up his mind whether to go on or not.
In my head I yelled, Don’t go!
Then I saw him move forward into a deeper darkness, toward the barracks, until I could no longer see him.
I crept forward and peered into the darkness to figure out where he had gone. Seeing no sign, I guessed he must have already gone behind the barracks, where the French uniforms might be. For a moment, I thought I saw him again, but couldn’t be sure. Then it occurred to me that maybe someone else was there.
Was it a French soldier?
Was it Jurek?
I waited, holding my breath.
A gunshot exploded.
Shocked, I took a few steps forward and saw lights move about within the barrack. Next moment, soldiers burst out of the building, some of them carrying lighted lamps. They weren’t in uniform but I assumed they were French soldiers. Then, farther on, where the Cossacks were camped, lights also appeared.
Now scared, I ran down the road, toward the center of town, looking back over my shoulder to see if I was being followed. I saw no one. I reached the pump platform and, in a glance, saw that no one was there.
Wanting to know what had happened, I took my regular place at the platform, then sat there and waited, hoping I’d see Makary come running down the street.
He didn’t come. Even so, I waited.
I have no idea how long I sat by the pump. I just stayed there, my eyes on the road. No one appeared. I kept trying to guess what had happened. I knew I should be home, that my parents would be worried, but I had to know.
At some point, I realized someone was coming down the road in my direction — from where the barracks were. At first I couldn’t tell who it was. Then I realized it was a boy, but I still couldn’t see who it was. I kept praying it was Makary.
I wait and stared into the dark.
It was Jurek.
He came right toward the platform only to stop. He must have only just realized I was there, because his face showed surprise. It was as if he had not expected that it would be me sitting there — as if I were a ghost.
“
Patryk?” he called. It was as if he wasn’t sure it was me.
I didn’t answer but tried to read his face.
He said, “I . . . I guess you decided not to come.” There was puzzlement and confusion in his voice. He continued to stand in place staring at me.
I said, “Where’s Makary?”
“Makary?” said Jurek. “No idea. I thought it was him sitting here. But it’s . . . you.”
“Did you go to the barracks?” I asked him.
“Said I’d go, didn’t I?”
“Did you see Makary?”
Jurek shook his head. “Before, he told me — you were right there — you heard him — he wasn’t going. It was you who said you’d show up.”
I said, “We both changed our mind. I stayed. He went. I saw him go.”
Jurek stood very still.
After what seemed forever, he said, “I didn’t see him.” Then, after a moment, he said, “But I got a great French button.” He drew close to me and held out his hand. “Makes me the winner.”
I kept studying his face, trying to understand what had happened. A ghastly suspicion began to grow in my mind.
Jurek stood there, his hand open. I could see he had a button.
Not knowing what else to do, I took up his button and peered at it. It was about the size of the others we had gotten, brass colored, with crossed cannons. Between and over the cannon was a ball, which had what looked like flames coming out of it. I kept my head bowed and examined it. I didn’t even want to look at Jurek. All I knew was that it was a fine button and I hated him for having it.
“Great, isn’t it?” said Jurek. There was bit of sneer in his voice. “Nobody’s going to beat that. I’ve won, for sure.”
Still clutching the French button, I forced myself to look up. I said, “I want to know what happened to Makary.”
“No idea. Went home, maybe. Admit it, I won,” he said. “That button is better than anything you got.” He held out his hand. “Give it back.”
“Won what?”
“The contest, stupid. I’m king.”
“Maybe Makary got a better one.”
Jurek said, “Yeah, well, sure. Suppose. Except . . . I didn’t see him,” he insisted. “Didn’t see anyone. Though . . . maybe he got there before me.”
“Until we find him, you haven’t won.”
He shrugged. “Fine with me.”
I flipped his button back to him. He snatched it out of the air.
With that, I jumped off the platform and said, “I’m going to look for Makary. If I can’t find him, the contest will be just us. Whoever gets the best button — you or me — wins.” I started along the street.
He called after me, “Stupid! I’ll wait here. Get ready to bow down to me. I’ve got the cane.” He tapped his chest with something of his old bravado. “Button king.”
After a few steps, I stopped and looked back, suddenly remembering, I shouted, “Did you take my pistol?”
“What?”
“You took that pistol, didn’t you? The one I got from that English soldier. I put it in my bed box. At my house. You were there alone. My mother found you there. When I got back, it was gone. You took it, didn’t you?”
He looked at me but all he said was, “No.”
“You did!” I yelled. We stared at each other, but he hid whatever he was thinking. It didn’t matter; I was sure he had taken it.
For the second time, I said, “I’m going to look for Makary.”
“Do what you want.”
I kept going along the main street. As I went, I glanced back. Jurek was sitting on the platform, not looking after me but into his hands, at the button, I guessed.
I kept on, and as I did, I couldn’t keep that terrible thought out of my head: Did Jurek — thinking it was me at the barracks — use that pistol to shoot Makary?
As I kept walking, dawn began to show itself in the east, all red-purple, the clouds streaky. It reminded me of that day when I saw the first German aeroplane. Next moment, that clatter-clatter sound came into my head. As always, it made me cringe. But knowing it was just me, I didn’t turn to look up at the sky. Instead, I kept on, working hard to push the sound away.
I reached the barracks. There was a cluster of French soldiers gathered around the front. A few Cossacks were there, too. They were all looking at something on one of the benches.
I stopped.
One of the soldiers noticed me. He beckoned me over.
I went forward.
They moved aside. On the bench was a body. I recognized him right away: Makary.
A Frenchman, in Polish, said, “You know this boy?”
I drew closer, my eyes fixed on my friend.
The French soldier said, “Shot.” Then he pointed to himself, and the other French soldiers, but shook his head, as if to say, Wasn’t us.
I nodded. I knew that.
Feeling ill and unsteady, I simply turned around and started back toward the village. I felt I had to tell Makary’s family what had happened.
As I passed through the village, a few disheveled people appeared on the street. I paid no attention, nor did they care about me.
Makary’s home was on the other side of the River. Which meant to get there, I had to go past the pump pedestal. I was hoping that Jurek would not be there. But he was.
I wanted to walk past him, not even look in his direction. That’s what I started to do.
“Hey, Patryk!” he called.
I kept walking.
He leaped off the pedestal, ran after me, and grabbed my arm. “Did you find Makary?”
I yanked free, spun around, and looked at his face. It told me nothing. I said, “He’s dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Makary. He was shot.”
Jurek didn’t react. I waited.
He said, “By . . . by those French soldiers?”
“They said they didn’t.”
“Then who?”
“You,” I said, struggling to keep from bursting into tears.
“That’s crazy.”
“You thought it was me coming. But it was Makary. In the dark, you didn’t see it was him.”
“You really are nuts.”
I replied, “Because you had that pistol. You want to be that button king so much.”
“I am the button king!” he shouted into my face.
“You’re not,” I yelled back. “Your rules,” I shot back. “Just the two of us. One more day.” I kept walking.
“Don’t think you’re going to get one of those Cossack buttons and beat me. You won’t! You’re too scared!”
I continued to walk. As I did I began to hear that clatter-clatter again. That time it seemed so real, I whirled around and looked up.
Out of the early western sky three aeroplanes were coming toward us.
Villagers heard them, too, and in panic, rushed out of houses, and began to flee in all directions. Russian and French soldiers appeared. Standing on the street, they began to shoot their rifles at the aeroplanes. It didn’t seem to matter.
I raced for my home and burst inside. Seeing that my parents weren’t there, I tried to guess where they could be. Were they in the fields? Had they fled the village?
I began to hear enormous explosions.
I ran out the back of the house and kept running. Behind me, the explosions kept coming, as did countless rifle shots. When I reached a field of potatoes, I threw myself down, my face pressed into the earth, hands clapped over my ears. It didn’t help: explosions, gunshots, screams, and cries filled my ears.
How long I lay there I don’t know. A long time. I do know I waited until the explosions and gunfire had stopped and I heard nothing from the aeroplanes. But the cries and screams remained — the sounds of people hurt, wounded, and dying.
I rolled over onto my back and stared up. It was daylight. All I saw in the morning’s blue sky were white clouds. I took a deep breath and smelled burning. I sat up and looked toward th
e village. It was crowned by flames and smoke.
I ran back to where my house was, hoping it wasn’t on fire. Since I was coming from the fields, I approached it from the back. When I saw the house the roof was on fire.
I reached the back door, yanked it open, and looked in. Swirling smoke poured out. With a hand over my nose and mouth, I plunged through the workshop and into the kitchen, and then the bedroom. Not finding my parents, I kept going, leaping out the front door, and looked up. The roof fire was getting bigger. Worse, along our alleyway, other houses were burning, blocking my way.
I tore back through the house. Eyes smarting, lungs hurting, I went out through the back beyond the fiery village. When I reached the edge of the growing fields, there were many people standing there, just looking, faces filled with horror and dismay. Many were crying.
I made my way along the back edge of the village, looking for my parents, until I reached the River. Believing they wouldn’t have crossed over, I headed back.
Most of the village was in ruins, and what was left was burning with sputtering flames. I couldn’t believe the destruction. It was like the forest. It was gone. Bodies lay on the street. A few people were stumbling about as if they were blind, creeping along the edges of the street, like beaten dogs.
More people appeared. Some had found wagons, horses, donkeys and were hurriedly loading them with what few possessions they had. There were even a few Russian soldiers, rifles in hands. I saw people standing amid a ruin looking for something. I joined them without knowing what we were looking for.
Even as I worked, I heard the sound of galloping horses. It was the Cossacks — perhaps half of the numbers that had come. They were galloping down the street. Going east. As they came, a shot exploded. A Cossack fell from his horse. The other Cossacks — without pausing — continued on and plunged down the riverbank, and emerged on the far side. Once on the eastern side of the river, they kept going.
The shot Cossack lay still on the street.
Who had shot him?
Fearful for my own life, I darted behind a smoldering ruin and peeked out.
Across the way, out from behind some rubble, I saw Jurek emerge. He had the English pistol in one hand. He ran to the side of the Cossack and bent down. He snatched something up and ran off.
