One Crow Alone (6 page)

“Ivan—” Magda reached out for him. “Ivan.”

He looked down at her hand on his arm.

“I am afraid,” she said.

“That won't help you, Havemercy.”

Magda took her hand away.

“Come on,” he said, pulling her up. “It won't be that bad. Just keep your eyes open. And follow me. And don't let go of your food. Or that paper for the pony.”

“Out you get,” said a soldier.

“You are treating us like cattle!” shouted an old man. “Where are we going to stay?”

“They took my donkey,” said another. “How am I going to get compensation?”

“Don't worry, Grandpa. You will be looked after.”

The weary villagers found themselves inside a snow-blown courtyard enclosed by wire fences. The courtyard was surrounded on two sides by low buildings, and the banks of metal-framed windows reflected only a grimness of gray and ice. Bored-looking soldiers manned the entrance gates.

“Patience, patience. We have beds for you. If you have relatives, you will be able to go to them. Now, come down slow and orderly. We are here to help. Hand me your bags. No need to worry, no need to worry, Babcia,” said the soldier.

Magda and Ivan jumped down onto the snow.

“Who are you with, children?”

“Nobody,” Magda said.

“That boy wasn't with her,” said the driver of the truck, pointing at Ivan. “We caught him in our camp. Trying to steal food.” He grabbed Ivan's arm. “He had a gun.”

“Where are you from, boy?” The soldier's face turned hard.

Magda stepped up. “He's—he's my brother. We were separated after they took the villagers. It was my father's gun. He is Ivan Krol. I am Magda Krol. From Morochov.”

Another truck came grumbling into the courtyard. It ground its way through the icy ruts, sounding its horn loudly.

The driver climbed up on the step to the cab.

“Well, just keep your eye on him, soldier—”

Out on the snow a man was sitting behind a small table. The villagers crowded around him impatiently. Magda and Ivan were marched to the front.

“Two unescorted children.”

The official looked up from his work, stamped his cold feet under the table.

“Names?” His lips were dry and cracked.

“Magda and Ivan Krol. From Morochov,” said Magda.

“Parents?”

“Just my mother, Maria Krol.”

“Is she on another convoy?”

“She is in England,” said Magda. “I need to call her.”

The man looked up again. “Any other relatives?”

“No. I must find Bogdan Stopko from Morochov.”

She was aware of her shabby winter coat all of a sudden. Of smelling of smoke and winter clothes, her hands dirty, her hair unwashed.

The man wrote something down. “You'll have to go to Bartholomew.”

“Bartholomew?”

“Displaced children's center here in Nova Huta. Over there.” He pointed to the door of a building. “Wait in there for the transport.” He waved them away gruffly.

*   *   *

Ivan scanned the courtyard. Looked at the high gates closing behind the trucks.

“We have to get out of here.”

“How?” Magda said.

“Leave it to me.”

“But they'll help us, won't they?”

“You don't understand anything.”

She followed him across the yard to the doors of the building. Inside, it was painted like the school in Karlikov. Official paint—gray-green to shoulder height and white above. There were grubby streaks of hand marks against the wall. They sat on a wooden bench. Alone in a bare, echoing room.

“When we get our chance,” Ivan said, under his breath, “we'll run.”

“Why? How will we find somewhere to stay if we run?” Magda said. “At least it is warm here.”

“I can look after myself.”

Magda shifted on her seat. Stared out the grimy window.

Somewhere in the building a door slammed.

“Where have you come from, Ivan?”

“The Ukrainian border.”

“The Ukraine? That's so far away.”

“Yes. And if you think it's bad here … just wait.”

“My mother is in London,” Magda said. “I need to find her.”

“And you think they'll help you?”

“Why wouldn't they?”

“Trust me.” Ivan looked out the window, his gray eyes distant. He closed them. “You have no friends here.”

Then he crossed his feet at the ankle and folded his arms over his chest, crushing his hat underneath them. Opening one eye, he said: “I won't wait for you. When the chance comes.”

*   *   *

Hours passed. In the fading light Magda waited fearfully, her hands nervous in her lap. She could not close her eyes like Ivan.

Finally a door at the back of the room opened: a large man leaned on the door handle and hung into the room. “This way.” His voice echoed against the bare walls.

Ivan sat up, unfolded his crumpled hat, put it on, and picked up his bag. The man ushered them silently through dimly lit corridors. Unlocked a set of doors. Icy steps led up onto the dark street.

The cold night air hit them in the face. A small minibus was idling by the side of the road. A man was leaning against it, smoking.

“Two more for Bartholomew, Jan,” the guard called across the street.

Magda's heart beat fast. The man by the minibus beckoned.

Ivan said to follow. If he runs, should you go too? But then you will never hear of Stopko and the others.

“Now, Magda!”

And Ivan ducked and jumped a heap of snow and ran. She had no time to think. The guard grabbed her shoulder. There was only the driver—smoking by the van. He was not expecting it.

“Hey!” He dropped his cigarette and gave chase.

But he was too slow.

Ivan ran between the buildings, leaping nimbly over the banks of snow with his heavy coat flapping and his hat pulled low. Running leaping stumbling: for one second he turned his head. “
Magda!
” he shouted.

“Ivan!”

But Ivan had disappeared into the shadows beneath a block of flats, and was gone.

The driver shouted and swore in the darkness.

“Stupid bugger!” He bent over coughing. “He won't get far.” He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket. “Hello. Hello. Jan over at thirty-four. Displaced youth's just done a runner. Don't know. No. About seventeen.” He looked at Magda. “Yeah. All right, I won't be long.” He put the phone back into his pocket. “Don't you go getting any clever ideas. It'll be minus twenty tonight. In you get.”

He slid open the door of the minibus and helped her up into the back. There were other children sitting inside. The windows were thick with frozen condensation.

Magda found a place. Squeezed onto the cold vinyl bench between the bundled coats of the others. She peered out the windows as the door slid shut. She wondered about the dog, Azor. Was he still waiting on the side of the road? Waiting for everyone to come home. And Ivan? But if he had made it from the Ukraine in this weather he would be all right.

The engine started with a judder. She felt a numb weariness. It wasn't just the cold.

She sat silent as the bus made its way through the warren of buildings on the Nova Huta estate, with banks of dark windows in every block of flats like blind sentinels. They passed vehicles creeping along the icy streets, fat snowflakes flashing in glaring headlights. It felt a very long way from home.

Eventually they pulled up in front of a two-story building. The driver jumped down from the cab and slid open the door. It scraped and clunked into place. “We're here. Come on, there'll be something to eat.” He helped them down.

A woman from the building stood out on the snow and beckoned to the line of disoriented children. They filed in through the door and found themselves in a chilly entrance lobby with a high desk that ran along one wall. The desk was covered in files and paperwork, and on the wall a faded poster proclaimed:

Their Future, Foster a Child Today.

The woman led them across the hallway and opened a door into a large room with benches lined up across the floor.

“Quiet now—it won't take long. Then you can have a bit to eat and get to bed. I need to take your names.”

A small boy started crying.

Magda felt it too. She reached out for the boy and he slid up onto her lap. With every nerve in her body she wanted to be back in the village: to smell Babula's kitchen, hear the tick of the clock on the shelf, crawl under the heavy blankets on her bed, fall asleep listening to the logs collapsing in the stove.

The woman wrote down their names and villages in a large book.

“Now, let's get something for you to eat and I'll take you upstairs. Your parents will probably arrive tomorrow.”

The lights went out.

There were loud exclamations that sounded from other parts of the building, shrieks and laughter. The woman fumbled her way out of the room. They heard her talking to someone in the entrance hall. “It's getting earlier every day. Do you know where the paraffin is?”

A door closed. The children were left alone, hiding their snuffling fears in the dark. Then there were footsteps and the striking of a match and the woman reappeared with a small lamp glowing in her hand.

“Are the lights going to come back on?” one of the girls asked.

“Not tonight. But you'll get used to it. Now let's get some food. This way. You older ones, help the little ones. Watch out for the steps.”

*   *   *

In a dimly lit room, sitting in rows on long hard benches, they ate some sausage and bread. The sausage was fatty and hard. There was milk for the smaller children and tea for everyone else.

Magda could hear the sound of footsteps on the floor above. When they had eaten, they made their way up the stairs, following the woman and her lamp along a corridor.

“These are the sinks.” She waved her hand at an open door. Children were standing at a row of sinks, little ones on tiptoes, big ones looking at the new arrivals.

“The hot water only comes on for a few hours in the morning, so no wasting time. Here we are.”

She pushed open a door to a long room with metal bunkbeds jammed so close you could barely walk between them. Paraffin lamps hung from the ceiling. The air smelled bitter with smoke. There were children everywhere, climbing into bunks, sitting on the beds, talking in the aisles.

“Quiet down! Now come on, girls—find a spare bed. You older ones can help the little ones get ready. Make sure they keep their belongings under the pillow.”

And with those words she turned and left.

*   *   *

The children climbed into their beds. Magda had not undressed, but lay on the narrow metal bunk, her thoughts drifting.

Far off, away across some remembered meadow, across a wide sea of rippling grass, a bell was ringing. But Magda could not tell from which direction the sound came, or which path led home. Home to good sensible Babula, with a cool, soft hand on her brow:
The wind blows where it chooses, but we never know where it comes from, or where it is going. We are just one more stalk amongst that swaying grass. One more stalk. Not the first. Not the last.

Magda thought of the boy, Ivan, running into the dark. Magda did not know why Ivan was running. Or what had happened to him.

It bothered her.

And Mama. How far away London seemed.

And even if the authorities found Bogdan Stopko, would he come looking for her? She turned on her side with her hand under her head.

She was a pulled tooth. Rootless. Alone.

A landed fish thrashing on the bank.

 

8

It happened then, that three weeks later—without warning—Bogdan Stopko arrived at Bartholomew Displaced Children's Center.

Thinner and paler, Magda stood awkwardly in the cold hallway. “Pan Stopko!”

Stopko did not look like the man she had known in Morochov. He bowed his head. Muttered. Averted his eyes. Hid his dirty hands in the hat he held in front of him. The director of the children's home led them to a room and left them alone.

“How did you find me?” Magda said.

“A boy I did not know told me that you were looking for me.” Stopko sat down on a chair. Looked about the bare room to avoid her eyes. “He told me where to find you.”

“Ivan!”

“He didn't tell me his name. I didn't ask.”

“It must be. But where are the others from the village?”

“Kowalski had family in Lodz. He went there with his wife somehow. The others, I—I don't know now.”

“The Dudek brothers?”

“Aleksy has work at the Zory coal mine. Same as me.”

“Brunon?” she asked.

“Brunon? I don't know where he is. Why didn't you come with us that night? Did you bury your grandmother, girl?”

“I was frightened when I saw the men. And I hid in the cellar. Yes, I buried Babula.”

“Have you called your mother?”

“I have tried every day. They only let me make one call—but her telephone is always dead. They don't help me. They know I am sixteen. They say they cannot let me stay here forever. The other children. Their parents come. They have been split up on the transports or they have family. But for me there's no one.”

Magda's voice broke and she hung her head. She couldn't help herself.

Stopko, fiddling with his hat, looked embarrassed. “Come on now. Crying won't help.”

Magda looked up, wiped her eyes. “I have a paper for your pony.”

“My pony?”

“Yes. I took the pony from your barn. And your dog. To get to Karlikov. That's where I found the trucks.”

“A paper?”

“Yes. You will get compensation.”

“Why?”

“They shot it.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve, took the folded paper from her pocket. Handed it to him.