Soon

by Morris Gleitzman

  The girl calls after me.

  ‘Apart from the limp,’ she says, ‘you look to me like somebody who has a pretty good food supply. I’m guessing at home. So you’re lucky. But luck doesn’t last for ever. And that’s when you need friends.’

  I don’t reply.

  It’s none of her business.

  I’ve got friends. Good friends. Most of them just happen to be dead, that’s all.

  I keep walking.

  , I hope, all these people will get what they need and go home.

  Before somebody gets hurt.

  This welfare office is worse than food-drop square. There are just too many people, yelling and pleading and waving bits of paper and suitcases and babies in the air.

  The officials at the counters look like their brains are hurting. Every time they start talking to one of the pleading people, someone else pushes in.

  No wonder the officials are shouting a lot.

  I’m not doing any baby-waving. My baby’s too upset. I don’t think he’s seen human beings behaving like this before. He’s probably thinking the same thing as me.

  Everyone calm down.

  Form a queue.

  But we both know it’s not that sort of world any more.

  So far I haven’t spoken to a single official. Not about America or Canada or anything. I haven’t even got close enough to be shouted at. At this rate this poor little orphan will be an old-age pensioner before he starts his new life.

  And I can feel his bundle getting soggy.

  Come on, little one, I know your bladder’s not very big, but make an effort. That’s my blanket you’re peeing on. I know you haven’t experienced this yet, but other people’s pee isn’t very nice.

  Wait a moment.

  Brilliant idea.

  Good thinking, little pensioner.

  I clasp the baby tight to my chest and we push and wriggle our way through the crowd towards one of the military guards standing to attention in front of a doorway.

  This is going to be risky, but I can’t think of a better way.

  I hold the baby low down in front of me so nobody can see what I’m doing. Luckily everybody’s so frantic, they’re not even looking.

  I undo my trousers at the front.

  I go up to the guard, who can’t see what I’m doing either. I start peeing on the ground between his boots, making it look like the wee is leaking out of the bundle.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to the guard. ‘It’s the sugar water. It goes through him like turnip juice. Is there a toilet, please?’

  The guard takes a couple of moments to realise what’s happening.

  He yelps and jumps to one side, getting his boots splashed on the way.

  With a painful effort I stop the flow. I read somewhere it’s not medically advisable to do that, but sometimes you have to take a risk.

  ‘Quick,’ I say to the guard. ‘A toilet. There’s more coming.’

  The guard looks around, flustered. Then he grabs me, opens the door and pushes me and the baby through.

  ‘Be quick,’ he snaps, before stepping back out and closing the door.

  I’m in a long corridor. There’s carpet all the way to the end and not a single bullet hole or pile of rubble anywhere. I’m impressed. When armies finish blowing things up, they do really good repairs.

  Before me and the baby do what we’re here for, I need to finish my pee.

  I spot a door with a small silhouette of a man on it. The man is wearing a posh hat. I don’t have a posh hat, but I go in anyway.

  And stop. And stare.

  The floor and walls are covered with gleaming white tiles. They go up twice as high as me. All around are sinks with no cracks. And taps with no rust. Peeing troughs, completely unstained, that are actually attached to the walls. Cubicles, each one with a door.

  I’ve never seen anything like it.

  Only the pain in my private part stops me gazing around for hours.

  I lay the baby on a bench and finish my pee, sighing with relief. Then I unwrap him and use toilet paper, actual white toilet paper not boiled rags, to mop up some of the dampness.

  His flea bites are coming up now, but there aren’t as many as I’d feared and they don’t seem to be bothering him too much. I wish I could say the same for mine.

  I dab a bit of cabbage vodka on his, just to be sure. Pat him dry again with toilet paper.

  ‘There,’ I say to him, ‘you’re going to be fine now. You’re going to be really well looked after here.’

  The baby stops complaining about the vodka and chuckles.

  He likes toilet paper. Who wouldn’t? Most people have a choice between a roll of toilet paper or eating for a month.

  I bundle him back up.

  Suddenly I have a distant memory from when I was little. I leave the baby on the bench and go over to one of the sinks.

  And turn the tap.

  Water comes out. I stare at it. I let it splash over my fingers. I wonder if there’s some way I could smuggle Gabriek in here, so we could all live here and never have to haul water up the ladder again.

  I wash my hands. The soap smells wonderful. It reminds me of Mum and Dad and makes me feel sad, but good.

  I bring the baby over to the sink and gently wash his hands. So he’ll have this memory too.

  While I dry his hands he stares at me as if he’s amazed. His eyes are even bigger than usual. His mouth is open and dribble is quivering on his lips. He’s probably thinking what a strange world it is where a complete stranger will look after you.

  ‘It’s not,’ I say to him. ‘It’s happened to me several times. And it’s going to happen to you lots.’

  I have a drink from the tap and give the baby more sugar water and tuck him under my arm and we go out to get him a happy future.

  All the offices along the corridor are empty, except for one at the end.

  A man in a very clean suit is sitting at a desk reading a piece of paper. His shirt is even whiter than the paper. If he took his jacket off and went into the toilet, he’d disappear.

  I knock on the open door.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘This baby’s parents are dead and he needs looking after. Is this the right department?’

  I know it’s a long shot. But Dad used to be a great believer in thinking positively.

  The man stares at us.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ he says.

  ‘Medical emergency,’ I say. ‘A urinary one.’

  The man gives a little snort. A fairly friendly one, not like one of Gogol’s.

  ‘I need the department that looks after babies,’ I say. ‘The one that sends them to loving parents in America or Canada. Even somewhere like Alaska or Australia would be fine.’

  The man smiles. But it’s a sad smile.

  ‘You and several million others,’ he says.

  That doesn’t sound good, but perhaps the department is a big one.

  ‘The repatriation people are totally swamped,’ says the man. ‘And I’ve got my hands full with other important projects. Finding long-term homes for Nazi war criminals, mostly. Very small homes with bars on the windows.’

  I know he means jails, which is good news.

  The bad news is he can’t help us.

  ‘Can you give us directions?’ I say. ‘To the right department?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be worth it,’ says the man. ‘You’d just be in queues for months and wasting your time. And you’d probably get hurt in the crowds. Go home. The young fella’s better off with you.’

  Desperately I try to think of something that will get my baby a bit of special treatment.

  But I don’t get the chance.

  The military guard with the wet boots bursts in and grabs me.

  , I hope, my neck will stop hurting.

  That military guard didn’t have to be so rough. He could see I wasn’t going to put up a fight. Not with a baby.

  I squat down on the stone steps of the welfare office, hugging the baby in his bun
dle. It’s a crowded place to sit. Hundreds of people are still churning around, lots of them carrying babies and children, all of them trying to get into the building, all desperate for help.

  ‘No more fairy stories,’ the guard said as he threw me out.

  Rude pustule.

  He knows this isn’t a fairy story. He only has to look around.

  I take a deep breath and try to calm down and think what to do now. I can’t waste energy getting angry and calling people names.

  The baby’s gone very quiet.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I say, peeking into the bundle.

  He’s asleep. The excitement must have tired him out. His little face is so peaceful. Poor thing doesn’t have a clue how much trouble he’s in. How desperate his future is. How much he’s in the poo, and not just in his bundle.

  It’s not fair. It’s not his fault his parents were foreign. It’s not his fault murdering thugs think Poland would be a nicer place if he was dead.

  I think of what Gogol would have done if I hadn’t taken him.

  Shot him. Or stabbed him. Or smashed him against a wall.

  No.

  That’s not going to happen.

  I won’t let it.

  It won’t be easy, and Gabriek won’t like it, but I know this is what Mum and Dad and Zelda and Genia would have done.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I whisper to the sleeping little bundle. ‘I’ll look after you. You’re my baby now.’

  She’s where I hope she’ll be.

  I spot her pink coat across food-drop square, which is starting to empty now the trucks have gone.

  I hurry towards the girl.

  She’s with an elderly man. He’s showing her something in his armpit. She peers at it. He buttons his shirt up and they talk.

  What’s going on?

  The man hands the girl a bundle of something. Money, probably, because she counts it and puts it in her pocket.

  She hands something to him. A small bottle, I think. If it’s petrol, it’s barely a squirt. And what does petrol have to do with armpits? I’m pretty sure it’s no good for repelling fleas.

  The elderly man scurries away. He doesn’t look well. I hope whatever he’s paid for gives him some medical relief for his armpit.

  The girl glances around again and sees me.

  I decide not to get bogged down asking her if she’s had the experience to be treating armpits. And charging for it. I’m here for something more important.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say to her. ‘I’ll join your gang.’

  The girl looks at the baby.

  ‘Not in America yet?’ she says.

  ‘His parents are dead,’ I say. ‘He’s only got me. There are things I need. Powdered milk and nappies and disinfectant and real soap and real orange juice and real toilet paper.’

  The girl frowns.

  ‘No solid gold nappy pins?’ she says.

  I sigh. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, it’s a medical fact.

  ‘Do you want me or not?’ I say. ‘Medical and break-in services in return for baby supplies.’

  The girl thinks about it.

  She looks at the baby again.

  ‘I’ve got a babysitter in my family,’ I say. ‘So I’ll be available all hours.’

  Actually I haven’t got a clue how I’m going to persuade Gabriek to be a babysitter. I haven’t even got a clue how I’m going to persuade him to let the baby live with us.

  The girl grins.

  ‘Alright,’ she says.

  I’ve just volunteered for a life of crime, so I don’t have anything to grin about. But I find myself grinning back. It’s another one of those awkward things that happens when you’re thirteen. I don’t stop, and the girl doesn’t either.

  Which is how come neither of us is keeping an eye out for danger.

  Big hands grab me from behind.

  I struggle in the powerful grip, desperately trying not to drop the baby. Images flash through my head of Gogol doing terrible things to us.

  The girl looks like she’s in shock.

  She must know Gogol’s reputation.

  Then I realise these aren’t Gogol’s hands. They’re too big and hairy. And the voice hissing in my ear about cheats and locks isn’t Gogol’s either.

  ‘Mr Dimmi, sir,’ I say. ‘It’s OK. It’s fixed.’

  I try to twist round to show him the lock in my bag. Which is very hard to do when both your hands are clutching a baby.

  Suddenly Dimmi relaxes his grip.

  I stumble and almost fall backwards. For a moment I concentrate on not dropping the baby, so at first I don’t see what’s happening.

  Then I do.

  Dimmi is standing there trembling, his eyes open wide.

  And his mouth, because the girl has her gun jammed into it.

  ‘Don’t hurt him,’ I say to her. ‘He’s a customer.’

  It’s good of her to help, but if that gun goes off it’ll be a disaster for everyone. For Dimmi and his father and for Gabriek’s business reputation. And criminal people like this girl can be unpredictable with guns, I’ve seen it happen.

  Gently I pull her away from Dimmi.

  The gun slides out of his mouth, wet with saliva.

  Before Dimmi can get violent again, I reach under my coat and take the lock out of my medical bag and put it into his hands.

  ‘There,’ I say. ‘All fixed. Sorry about the delay.’

  Dimmi stares at it for a moment.

  Then glares at me.

  ‘We’re never doing business with you ever again,’ he says, and stamps away, giving a last nervous glance at the girl.

  I look anxiously at the baby. Seeing all this violence isn’t good for a young person. But the baby is sucking his tongue and chuckling at the girl. Clever little thing must know it’s because of her I’ll be able to keep his tummy full.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say to the girl.

  She isn’t looking at me or the baby. She’s looking at Dimmi as he strides away across the square.

  ‘Interesting,’ she says. ‘Anyone who cares that much about a door-lock must have some serious valuables to protect.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘We can’t. He’s a customer.’

  Never steal from a customer. It’s Gabriek’s other strictest rule.

  I can tell from the girl’s face she doesn’t agree.

  ‘You’ve got a lot to learn,’ she says. ‘Lesson one, toilet paper doesn’t grow on trees.’

  She looks across at Dimmi again.

  For a second I think she’s going to follow him.

  But she doesn’t. Because a truck roars out of nowhere and nearly runs us over, and while we’re off-balance, we’re grabbed.

  This time it is Gogol’s men.

  , I hope, the baby will stop crying.

  ‘There, there, little bundle,’ I whisper to him. ‘It’s OK.’

  He doesn’t stop crying. Because it’s not OK. We’re in a truck bouncing along streets very fast towards a scary thug called Gogol.

  At least his men aren’t using sacks this time.

  Just guns to our heads.

  And at least they’re letting me hold the baby. His crying was getting on their nerves and they must have been told to deliver him alive.

  I stroke the baby’s head to comfort him.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say to him again, because you have to with babies. Plus there’s a tiny chance it might turn out OK if I can think what to do.

  As the baby whimpers and the truck speeds on, I glance at the girl. Her face is grim. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

  I silently plead with her to be sensible about her gun, which the thug who shot the German boy took from her.

  It’s stuck in his belt.

  She keeps looking at it.

  Think, I say to her with my eyes. Even if you could grab it before he stops you, there are six of them and two of us. Be reasonable. There’s a chance we can talk our way out of this.

  I stroke the baby’s head some more.<
br />
  I’m trying to comfort all of us.

  But I’m not doing a very good job because I can’t stop thinking about the person we’re being taken to. And what he’ll do to us if I can’t persuade him to be reasonable.

  Gogol is in a school playground.

  It’s a cold day, but he’s naked from the waist up, lying on his back lifting weights. Around him are other items of exercise equipment from the wrecked school gymnasium.

  The school fence is still standing, so the truck parks outside. The men take me and the baby and the girl over to Gogol.

  Gogol puts the weights down and stands up.

  He’s quite skinny, but the weights aren’t.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he says to me.

  ‘Felix,’ I say.

  I don’t say my family name. When a war’s been on, people don’t use family names much, there’s no point.

  ‘And yours?’ Gogol says to the girl.

  ‘Anya,’ she says.

  ‘Polish?’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  Gogol gives her a hard look, then nods.

  I can see Anya wants to know what’s going on. Why she’s here.

  Gogol looks at the baby and frowns.

  I hold the bundle tighter.

  ‘Please,’ I say to Gogol. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken him. I’ll make it up to you. If you let him live, I’ll work for you for as long as you like.’

  Gogol doesn’t look at me.

  He picks up a towel and wipes the sweat off his arms.

  ‘This doesn’t please me,’ he says, ‘what I have to do. But word gets around. And people must know what happens if they try to stop us doing our work.’

  I know what Gogol’s planning to do. I’ve known it since his men grabbed us in the square.

  ‘It’s just me,’ I say to Gogol. ‘I’m the only one you have to make an example of. Anya wasn’t involved. She didn’t try to stop you doing your work. It was just me.’

  I put the baby into Anya’s arms.

  ‘Please,’ I say to Gogol. ‘Let them go. Just do it to me.’

  Gogol takes the bundle from Anya and thrusts it back at me. Then he looks at Anya again as if he’s only just recognising her.

  ‘Petrol?’ he says.

  Anya nods.

  Gogol looks at his men. A couple of them nod too.