Mr Chase ignores Anya.
‘I asked you a question, Felix,’ he says.
I tell them about Gogol’s death and Zliv blaming me. I tell them about my letter. Everything.
When I finish, Mr Chase and Mr Petrie don’t say anything for a while. They look a bit stunned.
‘The Australian officials in Poland,’ says Anya. ‘Did they arrest Zliv?’
Mr Chase shakes his head.
Anya swears in Polish under her breath.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ says Mr Chase. ‘Even if Dragomir makes it to Australia, which is very unlikely, he won’t have any possible way of finding out where you’ll be.’
‘Where will we be?’ I say.
‘Living arrangements have been made for you,’ says Mr Chase.
Living arrangements always make me nervous. The Nazis used to talk about them. When what they really meant was dying arrangements.
‘What sort of living arrangements?’ I say.
‘A place has been found for each of you,’ says Mr Chase. ‘In children’s homes.’
I struggle to take this in. I can’t even speak.
‘A boys’ home for you,’ says Mr Chase. ‘A girls’ home for you, young lady.’
‘We thought that was better,’ says Mr Petrie, still not smiling, ‘than the other way around.’
‘She’s pregnant,’ I yell at them. ‘Anya can’t have her baby in a children’s home.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ says Mr Chase. ‘We’ve chosen a girls’ home with very good facilities and a lot of experience in having babies adopted.’
Anya’s scream is so sudden and so loud that for a moment I freeze.
So do Mr Chase and Mr Petrie.
Until they see that in Anya’s hand is the half-full urine bucket, and she’s swinging it at Mr Chase’s head.
This car is like a Nazi car.
Big and black, with cruel and heartless people in the front. And completely innocent people in the back, handcuffed.
Me and Anya are doing what sensible people do in a Nazi car.
Staying silent. Not even a whisper. We don’t want Mr Chase or Mr Petrie to have a single clue about what we’re planning to do.
When they first made us get into this car, after Mr Chase had finished sponging his suit, I had the thought that me and Anya would be safe if we spoke in Polish.
But then, as we drove off into the night, I had another thought.
What if Mr Chase and Mr Petrie speak Polish?
That’s very likely.
If I was the boss of the government secret-agent department, choosing agents to deal with us, I’d go for Polish-speaking ones.
So we haven’t said a word.
For the first part of the journey Anya and I just kept looking at each other, making sure we both know what we’re going to do.
Then Anya held my hand and put her head on my shoulder, and she’s been asleep ever since.
Hours, driving through the night.
I’m listening to a sporting match playing quietly on the car radio. A sport called cricket, which I’ve never heard of.
The sporting match is being played in England. Which is much closer to Poland than Australia is, so it’s making me feel a bit homesick.
And after tonight’s conversation with Mr Chase and Mr Petrie, hearing that Zliv might be on his way, I’m also feeling a bit excited. And scared.
But not as homesick and scared as I would be without my precious things.
Zelda’s drawing.
Celeste’s letter.
Cyryl’s gold ring.
My baby book.
Mr Chase made the police give them back. I’m hugging them to my chest in a big police envelope. They’re helping me relax. So I can plan what I’m going to do after we drop Anya off and I get to where I’m going.
My very temporary home.
The car is slowing down. We’re turning off the road into a long driveway.
‘This is you, young lady,’ says Mr Petrie.
I give Anya a gentle shake, then I peer out the window to see what sort of place they’ve brought her to. I’m hoping it’s a place with nuns. I spent four years when I was little in an orphanage run by nuns. They were very strict, but mostly kind as well.
I want Anya to be as comfortable and happy as she can be while she’s waiting for me to come back and help her get out of here.
Good. As far as I can see in the moonlight, this place looks a bit like the orphanage in Poland. It’s an old stone building and some of the windows look religious.
And I think I can see a nun.
The car stops.
Mr Petrie gets out and opens Anya’s door.
Anya is still holding my hand. We look at each other. Her face seems to be shining, even though the interior light of the car is quite dull.
Shining with all the friendship we’ve shared.
And all the love.
As we let go of each other’s hands, I see Anya’s expression change. I feel mine change too. We give each other a look that’s not quite so soft and warm and friendly.
But very clear.
A fierce powerful promise that we’ll be together again very soon.
my new home will be less scary than it looks at a distance. I mustn’t panic too soon.
Dawn light always makes things look grey and shadowy.
Plus my eyes are very tired with all the effort of staying awake since we left Anya’s place. Trying to remember all the roads and turnings so I can find my way back there.
These dark unfriendly buildings we’re driving towards could actually be very religious and full of kind helpful nuns.
I hope they are.
No, they’re not.
Our car is going through some very unfriendly looking gates and now I can see every detail of the ugly stained concrete buildings.
No religious windows.
High fences with barbed wire.
Not a nun in sight.
‘This is you,’ says Mr Petrie.
A man in short trousers and a short-sleeved shirt is waiting for us in front of a building.
He’s as old as Gabriek, but a different shape. Sort of plump. And it’s not just the man’s trousers and sleeves that are short. The rest of him is too.
I hope he’s nicer than he looks. I hope he’s just frowning grumpily because it’s so early.
Mr Petrie stops the car in front of the man.
Mr Chase gets out and opens my door.
‘Don’t be a smart alec with this bloke,’ he says quietly. ‘Not if you want to stay healthy.’
He stands back and I get out.
‘Name,’ says the man.
When he speaks, his cheeks jiggle. Although he’s got an unfriendly voice, I stay calm. The first part of my plan is not to look like who I really am. A boy who’ll be escaping from this place very soon.
‘Felix Salinger,’ I say.
‘Go through that door,’ says the man, pointing to a side doorway in the nearest building, ‘and take all your clothes off.’
For a second I’m not sure I understood him properly.
I stare at him, probably not looking much like a boy who’s going to be polite and obedient.
‘On the double,’ says the man.
I walk towards the building and go in through the doorway.
Into a small room.
So small, it’s almost like a little storage room, with shelves on the walls and hooks under them.
I pause.
Where I come from, because it’s often very cold, people don’t take their clothes off unless there’s a good reason.
I try to think of a reason.
It doesn’t take me long.
This is a boys’ home. All the boys here probably wear a uniform. That makes sense.
Except there isn’t a uniform on any of the hooks. Of course. I get it. This must be for hygiene. The people here probably haven’t got a clue about my previous life. For all they know I could have very poor washing habit
s. So I bet the first thing they do with every new boy is make him have a bath.
I take my clothes off.
Outside I hear the car drive away.
The man comes into the room. He looks me up and down, which feels a bit strange because I’m completely naked.
‘Follow me,’ he says.
He walks out of the room, into the harsh early morning sunlight.
I follow.
This feels even more strange, walking along in the outside air with no clothes on.
The man goes up some steps and unlocks some big wooden double doors.
I follow him in.
The man locks the doors again and we walk down a gloomy corridor. There are rooms on either side, but I don’t think anybody is in them. I’m glad, given that the only part of my body that’s covered is the part behind my hands.
This corridor is quite long.
I don’t get it. Why is the bath so far from the changing room?
More double doors. Also locked.
I’m starting to have an unpleasant feeling. One that’s even more unpleasant than being naked. I’m starting to think this place might not be as easy to escape from as I’d hoped.
The man unlocks the second lot of doors and I follow him through.
And stop.
We’re not in the corridor any more. We’re in a large room full of long tables. Sitting at the tables are boys.
All staring at me.
Every muscle in my body wants to turn and run.
I manage not to.
No matter what’s going to happen next, I still need to show I’m not a troublemaker.
I try to look relaxed and friendly.
I tell myself that in a room full of boys wearing shorts and shirts, it’s always the one who’s not that gets stared at.
‘Stand on the table,’ the man says to me.
I hesitate.
The man doesn’t. He grabs me under the arms and lifts me up onto the nearest table.
‘Hands on your head,’ he says.
Now I’ve felt how strong he is, I obey.
I stand with my hands on my head. The boys look up at every part of me.
I’m not feeling even a tiny bit relaxed and friendly now.
‘Boys,’ says the man in a booming voice. ‘This is Salinger. He’ll be living with us from now on. As you know, I don’t like secrets. A community thrives on honesty, which is why we have this little arrival ceremony. It reminds us that we have nothing to hide from each other. Remember that, boys, and please welcome Salinger.’
The boys all mutter ‘Gerday’.
They don’t look the slightest bit welcoming, not even the very young ones.
‘Get down,’ the man says to me.
I get down from the table.
Another man hands me shorts and a shirt, same as the other boys are wearing.
I put them on.
They’re old and a bit ragged. I wonder what’s happened to the clothes that Jack bought me, but I don’t say anything.
The other man takes me to an empty space at a table. I sit down. A metal plate and cup are on the table in front of me. There’s porridge on the plate and water in the cup.
None of the other boys look at me. They’re all eating, so I do too.
The porridge has maggots in it.
Where I come from that’s pretty normal so it doesn’t bother me too much. I feel sorry for the other boys, though, if they’re not used to it.
What a strange meal.
Nobody has spoken a word to me since I sat down. Or to each other.
When I went to live in the forest with the partisan fighters, they weren’t very talkative either. But that was mostly because when we were above ground having meals, we had to keep quiet in case the Nazis were listening.
Maybe it’s the same here. There’s a table at the end of the room where the man who made the speech is eating with about six other men.
If a boy drops a spoon, or his porridge goes down the wrong way and he has a coughing fit, the men glare at him. When that happens, the boy looks scared. So do the boys around him.
I eat my porridge and maggots slowly and carefully. Before I’ve finished, the man who made the speech stands up and blows a whistle.
All the boys stand up as well, so I do.
The man signals to me to sit back down. The other boys all file silently out of the room. The man signals me to stand up again and to follow him.
He leads me down the corridor to one of the
other rooms, which is an office. We go in and he closes the door behind us.
‘My name,’ he says, ‘is Mr Scully.’ I’m not sure if I should reply.
‘Hello,’ I say.
Mr Scully gives me an angry look.
‘Sir,’ he says.
‘Sir,’ I say. ‘Sorry, sir.’
Mr Scully nods and his face slowly relaxes. Which makes me hope he’s decided that I’m not the sort of troublemaker who’ll be out of here in twenty-four hours, twelve if I can manage it.
Which is good.
‘Salinger,’ says Mr Scully. ‘You’ll find this is not a bad place to live, as long as you remember one thing. Here we practise fairness. For example, we all receive food and shelter here, so of course it’s only fair that we should all work to provide that food and shelter.’
He nods towards the window.
Outside, I see, boys are digging up potatoes in a field. Beyond the field are other fields, with other boys doing things like ploughing and chopping and dragging rocks.
I see something else.
All the fields are inside a fence.
A long high fence with barbed wire on the top. ‘Let me give you another example of what I mean by fairness,’ says Mr Scully. ‘The rules here benefit us all. If you break the rules, we all suffer.’
I nod to show I understand.
‘Rule-breakers,’ says Mr Scully, ‘are punished. Does that seem fair to you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I say.
‘Pull your trousers down and bend over the desk,’ says Mr Scully.
I look at him, confused.
‘You haven’t broken any rules,’ says Mr Scully. ‘But it’s only fair that I show you exactly what will happen if you do. Bend over the desk.’
I can see a worn patch on the shiny top of the desk. Slowly I pull my shorts down. As I bend over and my tummy and private part press against the worn patch, I wish that the uniform here included underwear.
‘I’m only going to do this once,’ says Mr Scully. ‘If I was actually punishing you, I would do it many times.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pick up a strip of leather. At first I think it’s a belt. But it seems to be springy, as if it’s got metal in it. And hanging from the tip are other pieces of leather, thin and knotted.
Mr Scully raises the leather object over his head.
I close my eyes.
I remind myself I’ve been in war and been punched and stabbed and almost blown up several times and had very bad pain and survived.
Mr Scully grunts. I hear a loud swish.
Oh.
‘You can stand up now,’ says Mr Scully’s voice from a long way away.
Before I do, I try to breathe.
Doctor Zajak always said that breathing is the most important part of dealing with pain this bad.
I take a breath, but it turns into a sob.
So does the next one.
‘Stand up,’ says Mr Scully, sounding annoyed.
I stand up, still sobbing more than breathing.
‘Stand up,’ says Mr Scully, sounding annoyed.
Not just because of the pain. Also because of something else.
Anya and I spent a lot of time in our gun turret in the clouds talking about how Australia would be full of good things.
We were wrong.
I’m wrong about this too.
It’s only my first night here, so it’s natural to make a few mistakes.
The mumbling and muttering I ca
n hear in this dormitory might not be boys awake. It might just be them having nightmares. About how hard it is to get potatoes out of sunbaked soil. And how it’s against the rules to complain. And what happens if you do.
Just thinking of Mr Scully’s leather strap makes me shudder. Shuddering makes pain stab through my injured parts.
I’m not waiting any longer. I’m getting out of here. Sometimes you have to take a risk and I’m taking one that these boys are all asleep.
I slide out of bed, careful not to gasp noisily as I have more strap pain.
I put my glasses on. My envelope of precious things is already inside my shirt. No point looking for my shoes, I haven’t seen them since I took them off in the changing room.
I’m ready for the journey back to Anya’s place.
Ow.
Bare feet are quieter than shoes on a wooden floor, but in the moonlight you can’t see splinters. I manage to muffle the yelp and creep past the other beds to the door.
This first part shouldn’t be difficult.
I listened carefully when Mr Scully locked the dormitory door. I didn’t hear him pull the key out. So it’s still in the other side of the door.
Crouching down, I slide Zelda’s drawing under the door so most of it is on the other side. Then I push a piece of thick fencing wire that I picked up in the potato field into the keyhole, probing until I feel the tip of it touching the end of the key. I push and dislodge the key, hoping it doesn’t bounce off the paper on the other side and clatter away somewhere.
I hear the key hit the paper.
No clatter.
Slowly I drag the paper towards me. The gap under the door is just big enough for the key to come through.
‘Thank you, Zelda,’ I say silently. ‘And Yuli.’
My partisan mother wasn’t my real mother, but she taught me lots of important things. This has turned out to be one of the most useful.
I put Zelda’s drawing back inside my shirt and as quietly as I can I unlock the door. Outside I lock it again and leave the key in the keyhole.
Here’s hoping I can do the same with the main door of the dormitory building.
I creep along the passage, reach the main door, crouch down at the keyhole and peer into it.
Moonlight. The keyhole is empty.