Run, Boy, Run Page 6

  When he opened his eyes in the morning, he didn't know where he was. His head hurt. He tried getting up and fell down. He crawled through the darkness toward the light from the door and pulled himself to his feet by leaning against the wall. The weather was gray and wintry. The farmyard didn't look especially poor. Although he wanted to knock on the door, he moved on.

  It wasn't far from one farmhouse to the next. Yet the distances seemed far greater than usual. Every step felt like his last. He had to force himself to pull his foot out of the snow and take another stride. His only desire was to lie down. Suddenly everything vanished and he saw only the gray sky. You have to stay alive, Srulik. Yes, Papa. He must have fallen. Mustering his will, he picked himself up. In front of him was a house with an old ruin next to it and a fence around part of a yard. These must be poor people, he thought. His vision grew blurred. He was seeing double. Rubbing his eyes, he made a supreme effort to climb the steps to the door. He knocked. And again. After a while, the door opened just a crack. Through the crack he made out a woman's face. She was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. Then everything went blank.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a soft mattress. The pretty woman, who seemed to belong to some dream, was leaning over him. Above her was the ceiling of a house. Slowly he realized she was not a dream but the person who had opened the door. She was looking at him anxiously.

  "You're awake?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The woman went over to a large pot on the fire. She's going to cook me and eat me, he thought.

  She lifted the pot and poured hot water into a wooden tub. Then she undressed him and examined him. What will she do to me now? he thought helplessly. Shaking her head, she examined his sores and put him in the tub. The water was very hot and he yelled. She scrubbed him thoroughly without sparing the soap. Then she took him from the tub, dried him, laid him in front of the stove, and smeared his body with a black salve. His sores hurt. He moaned and groaned.

  The woman went off for a while. When she came back she moved his mattress closer to the stove and added wood to the fire.

  Now she'll throw me into it, Srulik thought.

  But she merely covered him with a blanket. Though his whole body was smarting, he fell asleep with a hopeful feeling.

  That feeling was justified. In the days to come the woman took care of him devotedly and Srulik recovered his strength. She gave him good, warm clothes to wear.

  "What did you do with my old ones?" he asked.

  "I threw them out."

  He grieved for them until she took down Marisza's magnifying glass from a mantel and gave it to him.

  ***

  Christmastime came. Srulik could already say the Catholic prayers. He never touched his food until the pretty woman had said grace and he had crossed himself. Around his neck she had hung a cross and a medallion of the Madonna holding baby Jesus. One day she brought him a pair of shoes.

  They were big for him. She stuffed them with newspaper.

  "That's what my mother used to do," Srulik said.

  "Don't tell me anything about yourself," she told him. "It's better for me not to know. Just tell me how old you are."

  He thought for a moment.

  "I was eight last summer," he said.

  "What should I call you?"

  "Jurek Staniak."

  "That's a fine name," the woman said.

  She wouldn't let him go near the windows during the day. At night, after she lit the kerosene lamp in the main room, he had to stay in an alcove in the back. It was dark there and the windows were covered by thick curtains.

  "Why?" he asked.

  At first she wouldn't tell him. Then she did.

  "I have two sons in the partisans. Do you know what that is?"

  He nodded.

  "I had a daughter, too, but the Germans tortured her and hung her in the forest. She couldn't have told where her father and brothers were even if she had wanted to. She didn't know."

  Her eyes were dry as she told him this. Her face was pale and severe.

  "I think they've left me here as bait. They keep me under surveillance to see who visits me. That's why I have to hide you. It's too dangerous to run the risk of going out or being seen through a window. And at night, when the lamp is lit, you could be spotted even more easily. I'm afraid that you won't be able to stay here. If the Germans come looking for my husband or sons, they may kill you."

  She opened a trapdoor in the kitchen. A ladder led down from it to a basement full of vegetables. "Meanwhile, if anything happens I'll hide you here," she said.

  He helped her to decorate the little Christmas tree she brought home. On Christmas Eve she lit some candles on the tree. He watched from the door of his alcove as she knelt and prayed, beating her breast.

  The next day she gave him a hat. He took fright.

  "Don't worry," she said. "I'm not sending you away just yet."

  She told him to go to his alcove, shut the door, and knock. When she opened it, he was to enter the big room, take off his hat, and say, "Blessed be Jesus Christ." Then he would wait for her to answer, "Forever and ever, amen." They practiced it a few times.

  Finally she said, "Very good. And what will you say when you're asked where you're from and who your parents are? You have to be prepared."

  "I don't know."

  She sat him down in front of her and told him, "You were born in a little village. You don't remember its name. You don't know how old you are. All you remember is that one day your father hitched the horses to the wagon, loaded all your belongings on it, and set out with you and your mother."

  "I don't have brothers or sisters?"

  "No. You're an only child."

  "I used to be the youngest," he said.

  "The three of you set out. The road was full of wagons, horses, cars, and soldiers. You don't remember how long you traveled. All of a sudden you heard a loud noise. A plane flew over you very low, on a strafing run. Bullets hit your wagon and your horse. Your parents fell and didn't move. They didn't answer when you called to them. Their clothes were sticky and red. Some people took you to their village. You don't remember how long you were there. But the man got drunk and beat you, so you left. Since then you've drifted from place to place. Can you remember all that?"

  "No."

  Every day she repeated the story to him. He didn't have to remember it exactly as she told it, she said. He just had to know some version of it by heart. When he was asked about himself, he had to tell as if it were true.

  One day she asked without warning, "Where are you from?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Where are you parents?"

  "They were killed when a plane strafed our wagon."

  "How old are you?"

  "I guess I'm nine."

  "Very good," she praised him. "Now I'll teach you what to do when the people you work for take you to church."

  "What people?"

  "Whoever."

  She explained what he should do when entering the church and leaving it. During the service, he should imitate the others.

  A few days later, she woke him one morning and told him the time had come. He had to go to another village, because his presence might already have been detected. During the night she had heard voices and footsteps outside the house. She sewed the sleeves of the wool jacket that he had shortened and helped him into it, even though he could do it by himself. Then she handed him a bag with some provisions and said, "If you're ever in bad trouble, you can always come back to me. And if you can't get here, go to a church and ask the priest for help." She regarded him. "You're an enchanting child, Jurek. People will always help you."

  He looked at the pretty woman. She didn't look so poor to him. She just looked very sad and lonely. Maybe, he thought, sad, lonely people could be trusted just like poor ones.

  The weeks of living with her had made him strong and healthy. He had even put on weight. Setting out into the snowy world that morning, he
felt not only better physically, but more confident. He now knew what to do and how to behave. He wasn't Srulik anymore. He was Jurek Staniak. He touched the cross and the Madonna around his neck, as if to verify this.

  The villages were not far apart. A few kilometers was all that lay between them. Two or three hours of walking in the snow brought him to the next one. This time he didn't go looking for a hovel at the village's end. He picked the biggest, wealthiest-looking farmhouse and knocked on the door. It opened. A wave of warmth from the heat inside enveloped him. Jurek Staniak took off his hat and said in a clear voice:

  "Blessed be Jesus Christ."

  The expected answer came at once. He was invited to come in.

  8. Jesus Was a Jew, Too

  The Wrubels were eating at the kitchen table. Pan Wrubel invited him to join them. Pani Wrubel filled a dish with potatoes and an omelet. Jurek remembered to cross himself before beginning to eat. The meal passed in silence, apart from the sounds of lips smacking and spoons clinking against tin plates. Jurek glanced at the plate of the light-haired boy sitting next to him. It had pieces of meat on it.

  When they were through eating, Pan Wrubel turned to him and asked, "What brings you here, son?"

  "I'm looking for work."

  "What's your name?"

  "Jurek Staniak."

  "What can you do?"

  "Anything."

  "Where are you from?"

  Jurek shrugged.

  "How come you don't know?"

  He told them how a plane had strafed their wagon.

  "Papa and Mama just lay there. They didn't talk. The horse was dead. At first some people took me to their village. But the man beat me, so I left. Since then I've been on the move. If someone beats me, I go somewhere else."

  "You poor orphan," Pani Wrubel said.

  "You must have been heading east to get away from the Germans," Pan Wrubel remarked.

  Jurek nodded. "I guess so," he said.

  "You poor orphan," Pani Wrubel repeated.

  "I'll take you on," said Pan Wrubel. "You can sleep in the barn or the sheep shed. We'll give you your meals."

  Mateusz Wrubel was a big, fat, bald man. His wife Mania was thin and stooped, with a wrinkled face and the hands of someone who had worked all her life. The light-haired boy seemed to be about twelve. A young man sitting next to him looked like his brother.

  At first, Jurek's only work was taking care of the pigs. He didn't mind it at all. They were fed a flour and potato mash that he often ate himself. After a while he was also given the chore of feeding the cows before milking, and the sheep if there was no one else to do it. The horses were reserved for Pan Wrubel and his eldest son. Jurek was afraid of horses. At the same time, however, he admired them and never missed a chance to step into the stable and pet them. Ever since the farmer outside the Warsaw ghetto had abandoned the wagon and sped off with him on his horse, he had felt grateful to horses. The memory of the big, warm body with its short, silky hair galloping beneath him had stayed with him.

  One day, noticing how he looked at the horses, Franek, the teenage boy, asked, "Would you like me to teach you to ride?"

  "Yes," Jurek said.

  "I'll let you know the next time I wash the horses," Franek said. "That's a good time."

  ***

  One day Pan Wrubel came to watch him at work and nodded with satisfaction.

  "How old are you?" he asked.

  "I guess nine."

  "So if I beat you you'll go somewhere else?"

  Jurek grinned.

  "When I was your age, I was sent away to work for the local squire. I only came home on Sundays. We were ten children. Whenever a new one was born, someone had to leave home to make room."

  He told Jurek about all the cows, sheep, and horses he had owned before the Germans came and took them.

  All week long Pan Wrubel was friendly. He slapped Jurek on the back and was kind to all of his animals, not just the horses. But on Sundays, when he came home drunk, he was a terror. Usually, he spent Saturday nights drinking with his friends until dawn. Everyone knew he was home because of the shouts, screams, and sounds of dishes breaking and doors banging. If his eldest son Viktor was there, he defended his mother. Pan Wrubel would have to leave the house and take out his anger on the animals, kicking the cows and chasing the pigs around their sty. If he caught Franek or Jurek, he slapped their faces, pulled their ears, and marched them in front of him with kicks in the rear. Monday mornings found him penitent and unshaven. Still dressed in his creased weekend clothes, he would look for Jurek and ask, "Say, how many times did I hit you yesterday?"

  Jurek would present him with the bill and receive a one zloty coin for every time. It was enough to buy candy in the village store and sometimes a box of matches. He remembered being without matches in the forest and decided to hoard them.

  One Monday, Franek heard his father ask Jurek the usual question. When Pan Wrubel walked off, he said, "Are you a dope! Why don't you add a few more slaps? That's what I do. I'd run away from home if he didn't pay me for hitting me, but this way it's worth it."

  The two of them went to the village store to buy candy. Pani Wrubel saw them returning together. "You see, Franek," she said. "You always wanted a little brother. Now you have one." She turned to Jurek. "Why don't you ever go to play with the village boys?"

  "Where?"

  "Franek will show you."

  Franek led Jurek to an empty lot behind the last house of the village. In summer it served as a soccer field. Now a circle of boys, ranging in age from tots to teenagers, was standing around two youngsters fighting with whips. They lashed at each other with a savage fury. Jurek had never seen such a sport. He and Franek joined the circle. The whip fight went on until one boy surrendered. Now, everyone turned to look at Jurek.

  "Who's that?"

  "He works for us," Franek said.

  "Come on, we'll see what you're made of," someone said.

  At first Jurek feared he would have to take part in a whip fight. But to join the gang of boys, it turned out, you only had to wrestle. A boy was chosen who seemed a fair match for him. Jurek pinned him easily. Then he had to fight a bigger boy. They wrestled for a long time, rolling on the ground to the cheers of the other boys. At first everyone except Franek cheered for Jurek's rival. Gradually, though, Jurek's grit won him sympathy. In the end it was decided to call it a draw.

  From then on, Jurek went to play with the village boys. Sometimes Franek came too. Jurek excelled at rag-ball soccer and tried to stay out of whip fights, though he took part in them when he had to. There were also spitting and peeing contests. Spitting was no problem. In peeing, though, he had to be careful to let no one see that he was circumcised. Fortunately, everyone was looking at where the pee landed. And at running Jurek was the champion. No one was faster.

  "I'll bring my big brother tomorrow," a boy said. "Let's see you beat him."

  The next day the boy brought his brother. A starting and finish line were drawn and everyone watched tensely. A whistle served as the starting gun. Jurek won. The older brother, humiliated, kicked him.

  "You dirty Yid!" he said.

  Franek and his friends didn't like that. "Watch it, Zygmunt," Franek said. "Call him a Yid again and I'll have my brother kick your ass."

  Zygmunt cursed and walked off. But he didn't forget the insult.

  When spring came and Pan Wrubel and his two sons were busy with the plowing and sowing, Jurek was given the job of taking the cows out to pasture. For the first few days, Franek went with him. He showed Jurek his sling shot and demonstrated his skill with it, killing two grouse in no time.

  Jurek gathered wood and arranged it for a fire. Franek took one look at it, scattered it with a kick, and looked at it scornfully.

  "Come here, you idiot," he said. "I'll teach you how to do it."

  He went to the nearby woods and came back with some twigs, some dry pine needles, and a few larger branches. Building a well-aired structure of the twig
s, he put the pine needles beneath them and lit them with matches. Once the flames took hold, he added the branches. Soon they had a merry bonfire. Jurek brought mud from the next field and they baked the grouse as village boys have always done.

  "Franek, how do I make a slingshot?" Jurek asked.

  "I'll sell you this one," Franek said. "I've got two more at home."

  "How much do you want for it?"

  "Ten zloty. You can earn them back in two or three Sundays."

  Jurek was thrilled to have his own slingshot. He practiced constantly, aiming at whatever did or didn't move—for the time being, without much success.

  Franek remembered his promise. One hot day he invited Jurek to come with him and the horses to the stream.

  "Bareback?" Jurek marveled, looking at the unsaddled horses.

  "What did you think?" Franek said. "You don't wash a horse with its saddle. Come on, I'll help you up. The spotted mare is easy to ride."

  Jurek sat on the spotted horse, looking for something to grab onto.

  "Hold on to its mane," Franek said.

  He mounted the other horse with a third in tow and they set out. Once Jurek got over his fear of swaying so high off the ground, he was joyful.

  They reached the stream. The horses were happy to be in the water and frisked about in it. Jurek and Franek waded in after them and Franek took some rags from his pocket.

  "Rub her down well," he told Jurek, pointing to the mare. "She likes it."

  It was hard work. But when the two of them rode back into the village on the horses, Jurek felt full of pride.

  From now on Pan Wrubel would sometimes let him ride the spotted mare to pasture. He rode her bareback, with a bit and reins to help control her.

  He still hadn't managed to hunt a grouse with Franek's slingshot. Meanwhile, he hunted smaller birds with a horsehair. Each time he set a trap for them he thought of Marisza—of her braids and her dress and her fingers tossing the jacks. Do you know why I'm nice to you? Thinking of those words gave him a good feeling.