Soon

by Morris Gleitzman

  With a weary sigh, Gogol waves Anya away.

  Her head flops forward with relief as she realises she can go. I try to give her the baby again. Gogol slaps me. I manage to hang on to the bundle, but I have to sit down on a pile of mats.

  Gogol grabs Anya’s arm.

  ‘Tell them,’ he says to her. ‘When they see the boy and the brat nailed to trees, tell them this is what will happen to them all if they interfere with our work.’

  Anya nods.

  She looks at me. I give her a pleading look back.

  Please, take the baby.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, then hugs her coat tightly round her and hurries away across the playground.

  I stand up.

  I’m young, I’m fit, my legs have never felt stronger. I could run, even with a baby . . .

  Gogol shakes his head.

  ‘Don’t make me shoot you here,’ he says. ‘I want you where people can see you. One thing I learned from killing Nazis, bodies are easier to transport when they can still walk. But if I have to kill you here, I will.’

  I can see he means it.

  I sit back down.

  Gogol lies back down and starts lifting again.

  The other men take off their jackets and do some training themselves. Weights, punching bags, chin-ups on bars. None of them is more than half a metre away from a gun.

  I glance over at their truck, still parked by the school fence.

  It would be a fifty-metre dash, and if me and the baby were still alive when we got there, and if I could work out how to drive it . . .

  Hang on, what’s that under the truck?

  I stare harder and my mouth falls open. A rubber tube is snaking out of the truck’s petrol tank and disappearing underneath.

  Something’s moving under there.

  Something pink.

  I can’t believe it.

  She’s stealing their petrol.

  An innocent baby is lying here with a death sentence, and for her it’s business as usual.

  I try not to let despair get to me. But sometimes you can’t help it. When armed men casually shoot innocent strangers, for example. Or when normal people pretend not to notice as their neighbours are hunted down. Or when you see petrol being more important than babies.

  I just want to give up when I see that.

  It makes me wish the war had destroyed every­thing so the world can start again. So maybe in a billion years there’ll be some humans who’ll know how to be loving and generous and—

  An explosion rocks the playground.

  Roaring sheets of fire fling Gogol’s truck into the air, splitting it and twisting it and crashing it down, spewing flame and smoke.

  I’m on my back on the ground, ears hurting, still clutching the baby.

  What’s going on ? Are we under attack ? Where’s Anya?

  Gogol and his men are on their feet, yelling.

  Gunfire erupts all around us.

  The men dive flat. I try to put my body over the baby without smothering him. Bullets are hissing everywhere.

  I try to see who’s shooting, but I can’t.

  A thought hits me.

  Maybe nobody is shooting.

  What if that was petrol exploding ? And there was ammunition in the truck ? Is the heat from an explosion enough to make ammunition fire itself ?

  I don’t know for sure, but I’ll take the risk.

  I don’t wait to ask the men where they store their bullets. I don’t wait to see if Anya’s OK.

  This is our one chance.

  I grab the baby and run.

  , I hope, we can get out of this sewer.

  But not just yet.

  Patience, little bundle. I know this is a very slow way home. I know we’ve been down here for hours. But a wise Jewish man said to me once, when you’ve got murdering brutes breathing down your neck, take your time.

  I think it’s worked. I haven’t heard Gogol’s men yelling for ages. I think they’ve gone to get another truck. To find more Ukrainians to kill. And wait for the day they can catch me on the street.

  We’re not worrying about that now.

  We’re looking on the bright side. Isn’t it good how most of this city’s plumbing has been broken for years so there’s not much liquid down here? A bit of slime, yes, but that’s better than poo water up to your pelvis.

  Which you’d know about, little bundle.

  And see this daylight ahead? By my calculations, this is a bomb crater about two blocks from our place. We can climb out of the tunnel here and we’ll almost be home.

  Well done, little bundle. If you’d stopped sucking the sugar water and started crying, we’d probably be dead by now.

  I tuck him inside my coat, ready for the climb.

  Luckily this bomb crater is in the middle of a pickle factory. The pickles are long gone and so are the workers, so nobody will see us.

  Except what’s that?

  Noises above us.

  Oh no. It sounds like somebody creeping over the smashed tiles in the factory.

  And I don’t think it’s just anybody.

  Gogol’s tricked me.

  What was I thinking?

  I should have known that a man who’s killed as many people as he has wouldn’t ever give up.

  Footsteps coming closer.

  He’ll be sliding down the crater slope any second, planning to add us to his total.

  No point trying to run. You can’t run along a sewer. Not with a baby and slime.

  I grab a broken chunk of brick. I’m not a fighter, but I’m all this baby’s got. And I won’t let him die without a fight.

  Dust and small bits of rubble clatter down the slope. Should I hide the baby under this concrete ledge in case I lose the fight?

  What would Gabriek do?

  Apart from have a drink.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I whisper to the baby as I put him under the ledge. ‘I won’t leave you.’

  ‘Felix?’

  That doesn’t sound like Gogol. But it’s hard to tell with the echo down here.

  ‘Felix.’

  I go weak with relief. I pick the baby up so he can see it’s OK.

  ‘Anya,’ I say. ‘Down here.’

  She clambers down the slope. There’s not much light so I can’t see if she was hurt in the explosion. Her coat seems to be all in one piece and the rubber petrol hose looped over her shoulders seems to be too.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I say.

  Anya nods, which is also a relief.

  But there’s a question I have to ask her.

  ‘The truck,’ I say. ‘Was that an accident?’

  She looks at me, her eyes bright in the gloom.

  ‘What do you think?’ she says.

  I look at her for a moment.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  Anya gives a little shrug. She’s staring at the chunk of brick in my hand.

  ‘How did you know we’d be here?’ I say.

  ‘Easy,’ says Anya. ‘If I had a deranged killer after my guts, I’d come home by sewer too.’

  She takes the chunk of brick from me.

  ‘We think alike,’ she says. ‘You and me.’

  That might be true, but it doesn’t explain how she knows I live in this exact part of the city.

  Anya tosses the chunk of brick away.

  ‘Gogol will be after you too now,’ I say.

  ‘He didn’t see me,’ says Anya. ‘I could have been a Ukrainian. Or a Jew. Fighting back.’

  I nod. She could have been.

  But will Gogol think so?

  ‘You’re the one,’ says Anya. ‘He’ll really be after you now.’

  ‘I’ll lie low,’ I say. ‘Me and the baby. It’s very secure where I live. You should lie low too, wherever you live.’

  Anya gives me a look. I don’t think she likes people telling her what to do.

  ‘Where will you get all that stuff you need?’ she says. ‘The powdered milk and the orange juice and the dia
mond-studded toilet paper.’

  It sounds crazy now, that list. What was I thinking?

  ‘Just powdered milk,’ I say. ‘So far he’s been living on bread soup and sugar water.’

  ‘I know people who’d kill for a meal like that,’ says Anya.

  ‘He’s a baby,’ I say. ‘He needs milk.’

  He and I both need it. I need it to show I can look after a baby. So when I ask if the baby can live with us, there’s a chance Gabriek will say yes rather than have a seizure.

  Anya is silent for a moment.

  ‘Felix,’ she says. ‘There’s milk at my place. But if I take you there, do you swear to keep everything about the place a secret? ’

  I’m stunned, but I manage to nod.

  ‘I know about security,’ I say.

  ‘Come on,’ says Anya. ‘We’ll go through the alleys. Almost as safe and twice as quick.’

  I can’t help smiling.

  We do think alike.

  I follow her out of the tunnel, baby in my arms, careful not to lose my balance climbing up the crater.

  This is incredibly generous of her.

  Yes, I’m in her gang, but powdered milk is like gold. And these days you don’t invite anyone home, not even so they can get bits of their bath out of your kitchen.

  At last, I’ve met somebody in this tragic wreck of a city who still wants to be generous and get involved and take a risk.

  It’s our lucky day, little bundle.

  , I hope, we’ll be at Anya’s place.

  When we get there, I’m going to give this hungry little bundle the biggest drink of milk a baby’s ever had.

  ‘Almost there,’ says Anya.

  I stare.

  ‘Is that where you live?’ I say.

  She nods.

  It’s the only house still standing in this whole section of the street. One of the most amazing houses I’ve ever seen. And I’ve lived in a bunker in the forest with tree roots for walls and in a nunnery in the mountains with real nuns.

  This house is huge. If all the other houses around here used to be like this one, people must have needed telephones just to speak to their neighbours.

  As we get closer to Anya’s place, I see that the windows are boarded up, but apart from that there’s hardly any shell or bomb damage. Just a few cracks and scorch marks on the walls and a bit of guttering flapping loose.

  On the front gate is a large sign.

  Lipzyk Orphanage.

  It all makes sense. We’ve been talking about our parents and Anya’s were killed by the Nazis too. And orphanages probably get special supplies of powdered milk.

  I realise how lucky Anya is. There are hardly any orphanages, and millions of kids with dead parents. So the orphans are usually kicked out before they get to Anya’s age.

  I congratulate her.

  ‘What’s your secret?’ I say.

  She gives me a strange look. Doesn’t reply.

  I let it go. Because I see something at the side of the house. A wooden cart with two big wheels and two shafts for a horse to pull it. No chain or padlock or anything. I’m amazed nobody’s stolen it.

  Then I see why.

  A sheet hanging from a big tree stump in the front garden.

  A big red X painted on it.

  Typhus.

  I stop and glance at Anya, who suddenly doesn’t seem so lucky after all.

  If you’ve got a disease like typhus at home, you’re probably going to live about a week. So are the people in your family. Babies last about a day.

  I hold my baby tighter.

  Anya doesn’t have a rash, or a fever, or any signs of chronic brain swelling. Which I’m glad about for her sake as well as ours.

  Anya sees me looking.

  ‘That isn’t real,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s just for security.’

  I’m relieved. Normally I don’t approve of lying about illness, but these are difficult times.

  Anya ties a large handkerchief over her nose and mouth. I get what she’s doing. She hands one to me. I do the same, then pull the edge of the baby’s bundle up over his mouth so that if people are watching, it looks like we’re protecting him from germs too.

  This is excellent security. I’m impressed.

  Gabriek would be as well.

  I’m about to ask Anya whose idea it was, but she opens the front gate and puts her hand on my arm.

  ‘Tread only where I tread,’ she says.

  I look at her, puzzled. She leans closer to me.

  ‘Mines,’ she says.

  My tummy goes tight with shock.

  ‘Mines?’ I squeak.

  ‘Security,’ she says.

  I’m stunned. On the way here she wouldn’t tell me about her place. Just kept saying, you’ll see.

  Anya is already heading up the front path.

  I follow, treading only where she treads. She steps over two bits of paving stone, then walks on three, then misses one, then I lose count and just concentrate on putting my feet exactly where she puts hers.

  The baby whimpers in my arms.

  Poor little thing doesn’t have a clue how much danger we’re in. If there wasn’t powdered milk at the other end, and if I didn’t need it so much for a hungry bundle and a grumpy Gabriek, I wouldn’t be doing this.

  We arrive at the front door. I take a few deep relieved breaths through the hanky.

  ‘Where did the mines come from?’ I say.

  Now the war’s over, new mines must be hard to get. And second-hand ones can be very unstable. Hail storms can set them off, I’ve seen it happen.

  ‘Good question,’ says Anya. ‘The mines. Let me see.’

  She frowns, thinking.

  ‘From my imagination,’ she says.

  I stare at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘When I saw how impressed you are by security, I couldn’t resist.’

  Her eyes show she’s grinning under her hanky.

  It’s not funny. I’ve seen what mines can do to people, including babies. I’m about to tell her that, but before I can, her eyes stop sparkling.

  ‘Also,’ she says, ‘it was a little test. To see if you can do what you’re told.’

  I swallow uncomfortably.

  What does she mean?

  You know how when you meet someone who’s scary and then she saves your life and is so friendly and generous you feel like you’re getting to know her and you discover she thinks like you but then she starts behaving strangely and you realise you barely know her at all?

  I hope that doesn’t happen with every girl I meet, because it’s really confusing.

  I try to think of something else to say. Even though I’m confused, I want her to see I’m still grateful.

  Anya takes a key from her coat pocket and puts it into the lock on the front door. A very beautiful lock. Double-action lever, hardened steel, rare bitted key. Impossible to crack.

  ‘Great lock,’ I say. ‘Gabriek would love to see that.’

  Anya looks at me.

  ‘He can’t,’ she says. ‘I’m only allowed to bring kids here.’

  I frown.

  More security, I suppose.

  Sort of makes sense in an orphanage.

  I want to remind Anya I’m not a child. But I don’t in case she changes her mind and a desperate bundle stays hungry.

  , I hope, we can get out of here.

  I know it’s a bit early to be saying that as we follow Anya into the house. I haven’t met the orphanage adults yet or introduced them to this little bundle or thanked them for the powdered milk.

  Or been given it.

  But I’ve just had a horrible thought. Gabriek was expecting me back from the military welfare office ages ago. He asked me to come straight home to tell him where the baby was going.

  He’ll be worried. When Gabriek gets worried, he starts drinking. People with a lot of alcohol inside them don’t like unpleasant surprises, it’s a medical fact. So me coming back home with an unwelcome baby could be a disaste
r.

  I try to think of happier things. Like powdered milk. I hope the baby’s thinking about happier things too. He looks like he is. He’s gazing up at a beautiful chandelier above us in the entrance hall.

  I gaze too. It’s the biggest chandelier I’ve ever seen. A hundred candles at least. Before the war, when it was undamaged, it probably had two hundred.

  Amazing.

  A boy a bit younger than me is standing at the top of a step-ladder, polishing the crystal candle-holders one by one.

  Poor kid. He’s going to be there for hours.

  The boy is concentrating so hard on not spilling any wax and not falling off the ladder, he doesn’t notice us at first.

  ‘Hello, Bolek,’ says Anya. ‘This is Felix.’

  Bolek glances down.

  ‘Hello,’ he says.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, wondering where I’ve seen him before. He looks sort of familiar.

  But I don’t wonder about that for long, because suddenly I smell it. The musty woody leathery smell I’ve missed so much. The wonderful warm sweet dusty smell that only comes from one thing.

  Books.

  I breathe it in. You just don’t get this smell with a library of two medical textbooks.

  The last time I smelled this I was six.

  In our bookshop.

  With Mum and Dad.

  I can’t stop myself. I want to get closer to the books. See them. Touch them. Stick my nose right into them.

  I head up the hallway, not caring that visitors should let hosts lead the way in case any of the floorboards have got dry rot or bomb damage.

  I step into a large room.

  Walls of books, floor to ceiling. Almost none of the shelves are broken. And there are ladders so you can get to the top shelves.

  Just like we had.

  My eyes are going a bit emotional. I only realise there’s someone else in the room when I see a blurry movement.

  Suddenly I feel very rude. Wandering into some­body’s book room without being invited.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, rubbing my eyes.

  ‘No need,’ says a deep soft voice.

  I blink.

  A man is looking at me with an amused smile. He’s tall with neatly combed hair. He’s wearing a very clean suit without a single crease showing. The boy in the hallway must be good at washing and ironing too.

  ‘And who are you?’ says the man.

  His smile is warm and friendly, which you don’t often see these days.