Two days after the attack on the soldiers, Jan and Zygmund are sent to a village to pick up supplies. They’ve never been sent so far away before, it will take them most of the day; Marek tells them it is twenty kilometres, maybe more. He walks with them to the edge of the forest and gives them directions. Jan wonders if they will ever find their way back as the directions are complex. But Marek makes them repeat them many times before allowing them to go. At last he is satisfied that they know what to do.
“Take care,” he warns. “Stay by the edge of the road, so you can hide if you hear anyone coming. There aren’t any troops stationed anywhere on the road, so you should be all right, but be on the lookout anyway. When you get to the village, go to the baker’s. He’ll tell you what to do after that.”
The two boys set off down the road. The sun is shining, and for a time it feels almost as if things are normal. They walk briskly, chatting as they go along about school and how they miss it. Jan thinks he must have changed a lot. Two years ago, he hated school, despised his teacher and lived only for the afternoon when they were free to leave the classroom and roam the village. Now he would give anything to sit at a desk knowing that he could go home to his parents and their nagging about learning to read and write so he can better himself.
“Were you clever at school?” he asks Zygmund.
“So so. Not the top of the class, but nearly there. I wanted to be a doctor.”
“And now?”
“Now, I want only for this war to end. After that I’ll think about what to do. If I’m young enough I’ll go back to school, and we’ll see what happens then.”
Jan falls silent. He can’t imagine the war ever being over. Yet surely one day it must be. At night the talk is of Allied victories, and Marek has said that it won’t be long now before the Russians get here. Marek is always upbeat, trying to motivate the men, but Jan isn’t sure if he believes everything he says; sometimes there’s an air of desperation surrounding him, the look of a man being hunted.
They continue to walk along the road, kicking up dust as they go. It’s good to be out in the sun for once. It heats them through. Even in summer the forest can sometimes be chilly. And dark. Out here in the open, Jan remembers how light it can be. Although he is now used to the forest and its gloominess, he misses sunlight, the open expanse of sky. It’s a joke among the men that he follows the patches of sun around their part of the forest as much as he can. But one of the problems with so much sunlight is that they get thirsty. Marek has given them each a bottle of water, but it soon becomes apparent that it will not last for the twenty kilometres they have to walk.
Zygmund takes a tiny sip of his water and sighs. “I want to gulp all of this down. All of it. In one go.”
Jan looks at his bottle. Less than half a litre left, and they’ve only been walking for an hour. Even at their quickest pace, that’s only about six kilometres. And they haven’t been walking particularly fast. “We’ll have to find a stream. There must be one somewhere.”
Zygmund shakes his head. “No, I don’t think we should wander from the road. It’s complicated enough as it is. We’ll just have to ration ourselves.”
“I wish we’d thought of it sooner,” says Jan, holding up his bottle to the light. No matter how much he stares it doesn’t get any fuller.
They continue to walk along the road, listening for any sound of traffic. There’s nothing, only the sound of a blackbird singing as it builds its nest. The cheerful song makes Jan feel better, but then, underneath the song, drowning it out, there is something else, a rumble. “What is it?” asks Jan.
“I don’t know,” says Zygmund. “But we’d better get off the road.” He drags Jan to the side of the road where they drop down into the ditch. For several seconds they crouch there listening as the rumble gets louder. It’s much louder than a truck, then a screech of a horn alerts them to what it is. “A train,” they say simultaneously.
“Might as well get back on the road. There’s nothing anyone can do if they see us from a train.”
Jan frowns. “They might report us.”
“On what grounds? Two boys out walking on a summer’s day; what’s suspicious about that? No, the only problem is if someone stops us and starts questioning us about where we’re from, where we’re going, that sort of thing. Your accent would be a giveaway.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right. Let’s get on with it.” Jan springs out of the ditch and back onto the track.
A few minutes later they realize why the train sounded so loud. The railway line is very near the road. Jan frowns as he looks at it. “Marek didn’t mention a railway line.”
“No,” agrees Zygmund. “I wonder why not.”
“Do you think we’ve lost our way?”
“I don’t think so,” says Zygmund. He thinks for a second. “No, we couldn’t have. We had to turn left at the first fork in the road, then right at the next one, and that’s what we did. No, it’ll just be that he forgot or didn’t think to mention it.”
“Mmm. Yes, you’re right. And most probably it will lead to the village, so we can follow it.”
Zygmund shakes his head. “I don’t think so. We should follow Marek’s instructions exactly. Otherwise we could get completely lost.”
It’s nearly midday now, and the boys are hungry. All they have with them apart from the water is some bread. Jan wants to stop and eat it, but Zygmund insists they carry on. “We should try to get at least halfway, maybe more, before we eat anything. We won’t get anything else to eat until we reach the village.”
Jan scowls, he knows his friend is right, but, nonetheless, he’s starving. He kicks the dust on the road, raising it into a cloud, which catches in his throat and sets off a coughing fit. Damn, now he’ll have to use some of his precious water. He gets out the water and takes a sip. He swirls it round his mouth, feeling the dryness disappear, even if only for a moment. Reluctantly he screws the lid back on. Zygmund is watching him. “I know it’s hard, Jan,” he says. “But we have to be sensible.”
Jan nods, he doesn’t want to waste energy speaking.
They carry on in silence. Jan stares at the ground as they walk. His feet are sore, his head aches from the sun. The forest’s coolness would be most welcome now. He thinks of the tall pine trees with longing. How they stretch up into the sky, the sharp scent of the needles rising from the ground. You never feel thirsty in the forest. Out here in the open it’s so dry and dusty, and a wind has sprung up making the dust swirl round. Jan has rarely felt so hot and miserable. He’s so sorry for himself he doesn’t notice that Zygmund has slowed down, is pulling at his shirt to slow him down too.
“What is it?” he snaps, when he finally realizes.
“Up there, there’s a train, stopped.”
“So what?”
“We need to be careful, going past.”
“I don’t see why. Nobody’s going to get out and come after us.” Jan quickens his step. He really is in a bad mood. Zygmund has to run to catch up with him.
“Look, Marek put me in charge. You’ll do as I say.”
“Will I? You wouldn’t even help him when he asked you. I don’t know why he put you in charge.”
Zygmund holds out a hand to Jan. “I don’t want to fight with you, Jan. I’m bigger than you, it’s hot, we’re hungry and tired. There’s a thousand reasons we shouldn’t fight, not least because we’re on the same side.”
Jan turns away. He knows Zygmund is right, but he doesn’t want to admit it. He waits to see what Zygmund will do now.
“Jan?”
“What?”
“Are we friends?”
Jan goes to kick at the dust, then remembers just in time what happened when he last did it. He raises his foot so that it skims over the ground. Despite his ill temper he can’t help smiling at himself. When Zygmund sees the smile, he takes it as a positive response and gives Jan a friendly thump on the back.
Jan shrugs it off. “What are we going to do now?”
Zygmund is about to answer when they pick up a noise coming from the direction of the train. “Ssh, do you hear that?”
They listen, trying to make it out. It sounds like someone crying. No, it’s louder than that. Sounds like many people crying. Someone calls out for help and is joined by what seems like a hundred other voices.
“Is that crying, do you think?” says Jan.
“I don’t know. It’s horrible – I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” Zygmund is frowning. “Should we go and see what it is?”
The two boys stay where they are, locked in indecision, then Zygmund starts to walk towards the train. He beckons to Jan to follow him. Together they approach the last of the wagons. As they get nearer, they can smell something foul, a dirty, animal smell, worse than the smells they are used to in the forest. Jan tugs at Zygmund’s arm.
“I know what these wagons are. I’ve seen them at home. They’re used to transport animals when they’re going to slaughter.”
Zygmund sighs and shakes his head. “Oh Jan, it isn’t animals that are in these wagons. When did you ever hear an animal shout help, or ask for water.”
“Then what is it? What’s making that noise?” whispers Jan.
“It’s a transport.”
“I know that!” Jan is indignant.
“No, I don’t mean it’s a form of transport, I mean it’s a transport of Jews to the concentration camps.”
“Oh,” Jan is silenced. “What will happen to them?”
Zygmund doesn’t answer, and Jan remembers what he has been told about Zygmund’s family, how they all died in a concentration camp. He feels stupid for having asked such an ignorant question, for not having guessed as quickly as Zygmund what was going on. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s all right,” says Zygmund. They are now only a few yards away from the wagon, which is at the back of the train. There are so many in front, they can’t see the engine. There is less crying now, more of an underlying moan, an extended groan, which makes Jan want to run away as fast as he can so he won’t have to listen to it. But he can’t run away. The road is right beside the railway track, and he has to pass this, has to get to the village to carry out his task. His steps falter and Zygmund has to pull him on.
“Don’t make this harder than it is,” begs Zygmund.
They are right beside the wagons now. They are made of bare, dirty wood. Some of the wood is broken, and when Jan glances over he is shocked to see faces peering through. Faces of old people. No, not all of them are old; there are children too, and young men and women. The smell is unbearable: unwashed bodies, faeces, urine. It’s all there. There’s another smell too, something rotten, terrifying. It makes Jan want to vomit. He knows only too well what it is: dead bodies. He has smelt this before, rats caught in traps on local farms in his village, sheep dying when they are trying to lamb.
“Water, please. Can you give us water?” The voice is weak, scarcely audible. A woman’s voice. It could be his mother, his sister. Jan doesn’t hesitate, goes over to the wagon and pushes his water bottle through the largest hole he can see. A hundred hands seem to appear from nowhere and grab the air around it, but the woman has it.
“Thank you, child,” she says, “but what are you doing here?”
Jan doesn’t know what to say, then thinks why not tell her the truth. Maybe the knowledge that there are people out there fighting the Nazis will give her hope, so he tells her.
“I wish you luck,” she says when he finishes speaking. “What’s your name?”
“Jan.”
“Jan. A Polish name, but you’re not Polish, are you?”
“No,” says Jan. “I’m from Czechoslovakia.”
“And why are you not still in Czechoslovakia? Are there no partisans there?”
Jan is silent for a moment, then says, “My village was destroyed by the Nazis, my father killed, my mother and sisters have disappeared.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. She disappears from view.
Another voice calls out for water. Jan feels desperate that he has no more to give. Then he remembers his bread and digs it out. Once again the hundred hands appear, snatching it away. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I have no more. I’m sorry.”
Zygmund has done the same with his bread and water. Now they have none, and more than half of their journey still to make. But at least they have some hope of finding some more. Zygmund joins him, pulls him away from where they are standing.
“We’d best go. There’s nothing more we can do here, and if the Nazis spot us, we’ve had it. Come on, you’ve done all you can.”
“But it’s nothing,” rages Jan. “Nothing. How can we leave them like this?”
“Jan, there is no more we can do.”
“We could try to unlock the doors—”
“You have the keys then, do you?”
Jan hits his head against one of the wagons. He bursts the skin on his forehead and feels the warm blood spill down his face.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Zygmund drags him back from the railway’s edge. He marches him along the road; they’re still beside the train for there’s no other way past. Jan tries to block out the voices, the cries and pleas as he passes. He counts twenty wagons; it’s nearly the end. As they reach the front of the train, the engine starts up once more. The sound of steam chuffing out of the engine almost drowns out the moans of the people in the wagons. Almost, but not quite. Jan had thought he would never again hear such desperation from human beings, had thought he had heard it all that morning in his village, and now, here it was, back, drilling into his mind, sending him mad. He must be going mad for he can hear someone shouting his name. Is it the woman he spoke with? No, it is not her voice. It is the voice of a younger person. Who amongst these poor souls could know his name?
“Jan, Jan! It’s me, Pawel!”
Jan comes to. “Pawel? Pawel? Where are you?” He looks frantically along the wagons, searching for a clue. Nothing. Then he spots a small brown hand poking through a hole in one of the wagons near the middle of the train. He runs towards it, conscious that the train could begin to move any minute. Zygmund is right behind him, trying to pull him back.
“Let me go, he’s a friend. I must speak to him.” He wrenches himself away from Zygmund, and in a second is by the wagon.
“Pawel, what happened to you?” Jan is trying to get the door to open. He scrabbles at it with his fingers, but nothing moves. He looks round for something to attack the door with, but there’s nothing but stones. He picks one up and bashes the door with it, but it doesn’t move.
“Jan, leave it. There’s no point. Even if I did escape they’d only shoot me. And if they see you…”
“Where have you been?” Jan is breathless with excitement and fear.
“In the forest with partisans.”
“Me too!” The train is moving now, and Jan has to run to stay beside his friend. Behind him, Zygmund is shouting something. He turns to him. “What is it?”
“Tell your friend to lie about his age, you know, when he gets to the camp. He has to say he’s at least fifteen.”
“Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” says Pawel. “Why?”
“Never mind that. Did you find your parents?”
There’s a deep sadness in Pawel’s voice. “No. Look, Jan, you must get away from here, before they spot you.”
The train is going faster, and Jan stumbles back from the line, crying out his goodbyes to Pawel, before falling onto the ground. He lies there for a second, stunned, before he gets up. He is brushing down his trousers when he hears a bang and a warning cry from Zygmund. He looks up at the train to see a soldier standing at the window of one of the wagons, rifle raised and pointed straight at him. For a heart-stopping moment he thinks the soldier is going to shoot him, but the train is going too fast, and the soldier must realize he has no chance of hitting him. He lowers the rifle, and Jan lets out his breath.
“Jesus, Maria! That was a close thing.” He turns to speak to Zygmund. Zygmund is lying on the ground, arms splayed out across the road. This is no time to play the fool. Irritated, Jan kicks him on the ankle. “Come on you, get up.”
Zygmund doesn’t move, and Jan’s heart starts to beat faster. He leans over him and shakes him. “Zygmund, get up. We have to go.” His hand feels warm and wet. He looks down at it; it’s covered in blood. Jan yelps and wipes it on his shirt, on the grass by the side of the road, on the road itself, to try to get rid of it. All the time, he’s shouting at Zygmund to get up. But Zygmund doesn’t move, and the blood which has turned his dirty white shirt dark-red spills over onto the road.
Night has fallen. Jan doesn’t remember it getting dark, but the sun has gone long ago to be replaced by a peppering of stars and a hangnail moon. He sits where he has for many hours, terrified to move. For a long time after it happened he thought that Zygmund was merely wounded. He kept talking to him, chattering on about Pawel, what they’d done together, what great friends they’d been, told him the story of their escape, though he’d told it to him many times before. All the time he held Zygmund’s hand, telling himself it was still warm. But it was warm only from the sun. Now that the sun has gone, it is cold. Cold as the stones on which he is lying. He can no longer pretend. Zygmund has gone for good.
The night is a terrifying place to be. The hoot of an owl is sinister, the face of a friend becomes that of an enemy, the breeze in one’s hair becomes the touch of one who wishes you harm. Jan thinks of what he must do now. He has missed the meeting in the village. Marek would have expected them back before now. He wonders if anyone will bother to look for them or whether they will be forgotten within a day or two, replaced by other, fitter, stronger boys. No point in such thoughts, he moves away from Zygmund and lies down at the side of the road, hoping he’ll fall asleep.
In the morning it begins to rain. Huge drops fall on the road. The rain mingles with the dust to produce a musty smell, which reminds Jan of summer thunderstorms in his village. Within a few minutes the rain is hammering down. A blessing. Jan stands under it with his mouth open, tasting the sweetness of rain as it falls. He feels too as if it is washing away any blame for what happened yesterday. A baptism almost. Zygmund’s body lies where it fell. There is nothing he can do about it. Zygmund was bigger than him; he can’t carry it any distance, and he has no tools to dig a grave. He will have to return to the forest and tell Marek what has happened. A long way, and with no food and only the rain to nourish him, he doesn’t know if he can do it. He has to, though. But before he does, he must say goodbye to Zygmund. Jan kneels down on the ground beside his friend’s body. He closes Zygmund’s eyes and mouth, and whispers sorry to him, then stands up. As he does so, he notices something glinting on the road beside the body and bends down to pick it up. It is a ring, a plain gold band. Jan examines it; most likely it is a wedding ring, probably belonged to his mother. For a moment he considers leaving it with Zygmund, but that would be a waste; anyone finding the body would steal it. Jan weighs it in his hand: it’s heavy for such a small ring, and is probably worth quite a bit. He puts it in his trouser pocket, making sure it’s safe at the bottom. It’ll come in useful. He scans his surroundings trying to remember the way they came. Easy enough, the railway was on their left as they walked along. Jan turns round, so that it’s on his right and sets off to find help.
The heavy rain leaves puddles everywhere. Jan washes himself in one, and then drinks from the next one he finds. As he does so, he wonders whether it will make him ill. He feels sick already, but that is probably because of what happened to Zygmund, or hunger. Hunger, his stomach tightens at the thought of food. He is very weak, and his legs tremble as he walks along in the thunderous rain. The road looks very different from yesterday; the dust has turned to mud and makes his journey more difficult. Every step is an effort. It is useless, he needs to sleep, but if he lies down in this rain, he could drown. Jan forces himself to carry on, trying not to think of food, trying to keep the vision of Zygmund lying on the ground with his blood spread out like a cloak all around him, trying to remember the way back. His mind is so busy with this that at first he doesn’t realize he’s passing an orchard. The apples and pears hanging from the trees don’t register with him. Without thinking, he kicks an apple out of his way, the mud splashing over his shoes and trousers. He looks down at the smashed fruit in the road, then up at the branches above him. He ignores the pears; they are the size of bullets. The apples, although small and green, far from ripe, look promising. He reaches up and starts to pull them from their branches; he has to twist hard to free them from the tree. Some he shoves in his pocket for later, the largest one he starts to eat, wincing at its sourness, grimacing at its hardness. When he looks at it, there is blood on the flesh, his gums have started to bleed. But he perseveres, it will give him some nourishment.
A fork in the road, a choice to be made. Jan looks down both tracks, trying to remember which way he came yesterday, hoping he’ll recognize some landmark. But the countryside is unremarkable, fields stretching out as far as he can see. He closes his eyes and pictures himself and Zygmund leaving Marek. Marek making them repeat the instructions – these would need to be reversed. “Turn left at the first fork, then right at the second, go straight along the road until you get to a crossroads, then turn right, the village is about five kilometres down that road,” he mutters. “We never reached the crossroads so this must be the second fork, so I go left here.” He peers down the track wishing he knew for sure it was the way. Nothing for it but to try. He thinks he has about two kilometres to go before he reaches the first fork, then it’s not far from there. His grits his teeth at the thought of facing the men without the provisions he was supposed to pick up. A few sour apples will be no substitute.
He’s almost there, about five hundred metres to go. Jan slows his pace. Now he’s back, he’s frightened of what Marek will say, of what the others will do. Some of the men are very short-tempered and, without food, dangerous. Perhaps he was wrong to come back, he should have gone on, completed the mission. He slows his pace, not just because of his fears; it’s slippery underfoot. The rain has made the forest treacherous. Tree roots, always a nuisance, lie waiting to trip him up, for his feet to lose their grip.
He reaches the outskirts of the camp and stands behind the broad trunk of a pine tree to watch what is going on. The men are restless, huddled together in groups. There is whispering, looking round to see if others are listening. Something’s wrong; he feels it in the pit of his stomach. A twig crackles behind him, and he twirls round, Jozef is there, his spots more livid than ever. Jan nods to him, and he joins him.
“What’s going on?”
Jozef picks up a twig and throws it as far as he can. It lands twenty or so feet away. “Your guess is as good as mine. I tried to hear, but they cuffed me round the ear.”
“It doesn’t look good. Did you pick anything up at all?”
A grimace. “I’m not sure. There was something about moving.”
“Moving?” Jan doesn’t like the sound of this. He’s become used to this half existence in the forest. “Why would we move?”
“I don’t know. Where’s Zygmund? Did you get the supplies?”
Jan can’t answer him. He stares ahead, trying to see Marek. He’ll have to tell him before anyone else.
“Jan?”
Jan starts to move towards the main part of the camp; Jozef follows, muttering about Zygmund. He’s picked up that something’s wrong.
A cry rings through the forest, then a shout and the sound of scuffling. Jan’s heart pounds – what is happening? Have the Germans found them? He turns to Jozef and mouths “What’s going on?” Jozef paler than Jan has seen him, shrugs. They creep towards the disturbance and, as they get nearer, Jan sees that two of the comrades are fighting. Marek rushes over to pull them apart.
“What’s going on here?”
The taller one, Piotr, who only recently joined them, says, “He called my sister a whore.”
It comes to Jan, then, that Piotr’s sister is the girl who was going with a German soldier. But she was doing it for the greater good, he’s heard the men say this many a time and, because of her, eleven German soldiers were killed the other night, but he won’t think about that. That can go to the place where all his bad thoughts go.
Marek interrupts before either man can say anything. “We’ve no time for this now. We have to move, all of us.”
Jan pushes himself forwards. “Why?”
“Who said that?” Marek looks round, he frowns when he sees Jan. “Where have you been? I expected you back sooner.”
Jan splurts out, “Zygmund’s dead, shot.”
Marek shakes his head, closes his eyes. Jan waits for him to say something, but he is silent. “It wasn’t my fault,” he cries.
“You will tell me about it later. But now we must move, because the Germans have taken in Piotr’s sister for questioning.”
Piotr gasps, “What?”
Marek turns to him, his voice is soft as he speaks to him, as if he were trying to calm a frightened child. “I’m sorry, Piotr. Word came from your village early this morning. Apparently there should have been another soldier with the group we captured that night, but he was ill and couldn’t make it. When the rest didn’t return, he told his captain where they’d been going. I suppose they then put two and two together.” He ducks as Piotr tries to punch him. Two of the other men step in and pull Piotr back.
“I told you,” yells Piotr. “I told you it was too risky. But you wouldn’t listen, and now they’ve got my sister.” His face is scarlet with rage, and his eyes brim over with tears.
Jan whispers to one of the men, “What will happen to his sister?”
Piotr overhears and starts to cry. “You want to know what will happen to her? Go down to my village in a couple of days’ time and you’ll see. Her body will be hanging from a gallows. And they’ll torture her first. Why do you think we’re moving? They’ll break her down until she tells them exactly what she knows about us, then they’ll hang her or, if she’s lucky, shoot her.”
“Piotr,” says Marek, “it’s a risk we all take, you know that, and your sister knew… knows that too. She chose to do what she did, no one forced her.”
Piotr throws Marek a look of pure hatred. “Try telling my mother that. Kasia was all she had left.”
Marek sighs and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Piotr, I don’t know what else to say.” He turns to the rest of the men gathered round and starts giving orders.
“Gather together anything of importance. Make sure nothing is left that can identify us, for they’ll use that against our families. Guns, knives, ammunition, we need all of that. Wear two sets of clothes, if you have that many” – he grins as he says this, for many of the men have no change of clothes – “and bring as much food as you can carry. Everything else will have to be left. We have little time, so get a move on. We’ll meet back here in half an hour.”
The next thirty minutes are a blur of activity. Everyone rushing round collecting their belongings, getting ready to go. Everyone except Piotr; he sits staring into the dead ashes of the fire, tears streaming down his face.
After the time is up, Marek addresses the group of men. Jan counts them; he’s never seen them all together in one place before. There are twenty-four of them. “We have to split up. Those of you who have a safe house to go to, I suggest you go there. If you can take a comrade with you, then do so.” He pauses. “How many of you have somewhere to go?”
There’s a murmuring among the group, then a show of hands. Jan counts fifteen. Marek holds up a hand for silence. “Please don’t tell anyone where you are going. That way, if anyone is captured, they can’t be tortured into telling the Nazis where you have gone. The rest of you spilt into threes. You’re on your own for the next few days. The usual methods of communication apply. Look out for signs after a week has passed. With any luck they’ll have given up the search by that time.” He raises his clenched fist in the air. “Comrades, I salute you. Good luck to you all!”
Jan tugs at Marek’s shirt. “What about me?” he whispers.
“You can come with me.”
They are walking back to where Zygmund died. Marek wants to bury the boy; it’s wrong to leave him unburied. He and Jan carry spades as well as a little food. The others have dispersed to God knows where. The journey is tense. And slow. Marek insists on stopping many times to listen for the enemy. As they walk, Marek asks Jan about what happened. Again he tells him it is not his fault that Zygmund is dead, but Jan’s guilt lies heavy on him. If only they had not stopped by the train, they should have kept on walking, ignored it, or if only he had not run alongside the train to talk to Pawel. It’s all his fault.
“Do you really think that?” asks Marek.
“Yes… No, I don’t know,” says Jan. “But I should have realized that there would be soldiers guarding the train, and that they would have guns. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“But you could say that of Zygmund too. He should have realized about the guards too.”
Jan wipes his eyes. He doesn’t want Marek to see the tears, but it’s too late.
“Don’t cry, little one. You’re not to blame. You didn’t shoot Zygmund. He’ll have suffered very little,” says Marek. “He must have died immediately.”
Jan wants to believe this more than anything. He can’t bear to think that Zygmund was dying and he did nothing to help.
They reach the spot. Zygmund’s body lies where it fell. They’re about twenty metres from it. Marek stops Jan from running forwards. “They could be watching out for us. The guard will have reported it, and they may suspect that someone will come to claim the body. I think we should dig a grave for him, and when it is dark we can carry his body back and bury him properly.”
They retreat into a nearby wood, and in the middle of it, where they can’t be seen from the road, they dig a grave. Jan is used to the work for he has done it many times before. He had never thought he’d be doing it for a friend, though. When they finish, Marek sits down with his back against a tree and rolls two cigarettes. He lights them and hands one to Jan. “This is dangerous work,” he says. “I think maybe I was wrong to allow boys to join us.”
Jan says nothing. He draws on his cigarette and tries not to cough as the smoke reaches his lungs.
“He was only twelve when he joined us, some said it was too young, but I said he had nowhere else to go, and we should take him in.”
“But you were right. He did have nowhere else to go. I think you did the right thing.”
“Do you?” says Marek. “Do you think I should have made you stay? After all, it stopped you looking for your sister.”
“I still want to find her,” says Jan. His voice is shaky.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t know. I was lost, and you took me in. It was only right that I should work for you. I had to earn my keep.”
“But the things I asked you to do. Dangerous things, and now Zygmund is dead…”
With a jolt, Jan realizes that far from blaming him for Zygmund’s death, Marek blames himself. He doesn’t know what to say. Marek has always seemed to be so much in control. It’s worrying to see this other side of him.
Darkness falls. They wait for an hour for the moon to rise, but it’s waning and gives little light. Marek throws a stone onto the road to see whether there’s any reaction. He tries again, to make sure, and when it remains quiet he whispers to Jan to follow him, and they creep along the road to where Zygmund’s body lies.
“You take the legs, and I’ll take the upper half of his body,” says Marek. Together they lift him; Jan is surprised how light he is, but then everyone is thin these days. Perhaps he could have managed to carry him on his own after all. By the time they reach the place where they are going to bury him, though, he is panting, exhausted.
“We’ll rest for a moment and then bury him,” says Marek. He lights a cigarette, but doesn’t offer one to Jan. Jan wishes he would, for although they make him light-headed, the cigarettes take the edge off his hunger. Marek smokes in silence. The red tip of the cigarette glows red in the darkness. Jan watches, waiting for it to die.
“Right, let’s get on with it,” Marek stubs it out on the ground beside him and jumps up. “We need to be careful. If we put the body at the edge, we can roll it over, and it will fall down.”
Jan’s arms shake with tiredness as he lifts Zygmund for the last time. When Marek says the word, he lays him down and steps back to allow Marek to roll the body over. It lands with a thump at the bottom of the pit they’ve dug. Without a word, Marek hands him a spade, and Jan starts shovelling earth on top of Zygmund. He swallows to keep back the nausea that’s threatened him all day. Jan tries to think of pleasant things as he carries on with his task, but he can’t do it, and tears fill his eyes. At last they are finished.
“Let’s go,” says Marek.
“Aren’t you going to say a prayer or put a cross on the grave?” asks Jan.
“He was Jewish. I don’t think a cross is appropriate, do you?”
Jan feels the blush stealing up on him and is thankful for the dark. “But, a prayer…”
“I don’t know any Jewish prayers.” Marek is curt. He strides off into the night, back the way they have come.
Jan doesn’t know what to do. It seems so barren to leave Zygmund in this way, his death unremarked, with nothing to mark his grave. He looks round, but sees only stones. Quickly he gathers up a dozen or so and lays them on the soil in the shape of a Z. “Goodbye, Zygmund,” he murmurs, before running to catch up with Marek.