I Am David

by Anne Holm

  He did not understand either why they did not regard mealtimes as gracious occasions. They would often spill things on the white cloth, and sit so restlessly and be so clumsy and awkward with their knives and forks that they soon brought disorder to the beautifully arranged table.

  But the most dangerous thing about them was that you could not follow what they were thinking about. They always wanted to be playing, and David had particularly wanted to learn how to play. And he could play a little now. He knew how to play ball. A ball was round and satisfying to hold, and it had colours, good bright colours. He liked throwing it to Andrea and catching it again. Racing with Andrea was good, too, and climbing trees and jumping over a rope, higher and higher … He liked the sort of games that made him aware how well his body would obey him. And the sort where you had to make something, turning a few bits of wood into things you could use.

  But the children often wanted to play at being other people. One would pretend to be the grocer and another would come and buy from him. Or they would be a mother and father and children; or they might be pirates. When they said David could choose first what he wanted to be, he always answered that he would be David, who had come to watch them.

  Once they wanted to play a game where some of them had to be soldiers and take the others prisoner.

  “And I’ll be captain over the soldiers!” shouted Carlo, hastily adding, “That’s if you don’t want to be, David.”

  David looked straight at him. “I will not play anything evil and horrible,” he replied.

  Maria said at once that if David would not play, she would not either, but Andrea said with some irritation, “You’re a strange chap, David. What’s wicked about that?”

  David waited until he was sure his voice would not tremble. “I’m not very good at playing, but I can see when you play you try to imitate what’s real, and I won’t have anything to do with pretending to take people prisoner … it’s horrible and evil. No one has any right to take other people prisoner. Everybody has a right to his life and freedom.”

  “Yes, but, David” — Andrea’s voice was no longer irritated, only interested — “what if there’s a murderer, shouldn’t he be put in prison either? Or a thief, or something like that?”

  David frowned. “I don’t know. Yes, a murderer, he should go to prison to stop him murdering more people; but no one should lay hands on him or starve him. No one has any right over other people.”

  “Yes, but Father and Mother have a right over us,” Andrea said.

  “No, it’s not a right — at least, I don’t think so. It’s more of a … a duty. I mean, since they’re your parents, they must give you food and clothes, and teach you all the things you don’t know, so that you can manage for yourselves when you’re grown up. What they do is something good. That’s not what I mean by right over people. Having right over others is something shameful. It’s using force.”

  At that point the two little boys began yawning. “Aren’t we going to do anything?” they asked impatiently. “David can decide what to play if he wants to.”

  David felt relieved. He had to answer Andrea, of course, and try to explain things to him. But Andrea still did not seem to understand what he was driving at, and David was always afraid that if he talked too much he might be led into saying something he should not. And anyway he did not care to talk when Carlo was there.

  The first day or two, Carlo had tried to wheedle himself into David’s good books, but David was only too familiar with that kind of approach. He spoke to Carlo politely whenever it was necessary, just as he had always done to them, but Carlo had by now realized that he could not expect any more of him.

  Nevertheless it was unpleasant. Carlo was so good at deception that you could hardly credit he was only a boy. He had made such an effort to convince David that he was not bad, and when he had realized that David was not going to let himself be impressed, he pretended to be hurt by it. It was a good thing David had seen so much deception in the camp that he was not taken in, as Andrea and the two little boys and Maria were. They did not know Carlo was evil. Because of that David felt uncomfortable in his presence.

  David liked the two little boys. He did not understand them, and he felt quite sure he had never been so small himself. But they were nice, rather like two little animals tumbling about noisily and never still for a moment. He knew, too, that if he had been a proper ordinary boy, he would have liked Andrea very much indeed. He was friendly and fair, and when you pointed out that something was beautiful, he could see it was. He did not ruin things the way Carlo and the two younger ones did. But it would be dangerous to be too friendly with him — David might forget to be careful what he said, and then Andrea would think him odd and begin to ask questions.

  It was only with Maria that David felt quite at ease. She never left him, and she could always guess when anyone said something to make him uneasy. At such moments she would divert attention from him by saying something herself, or she would answer for him so that all he had to say was, “Yes, that’s what I meant.”

  Yet he never felt ignorant when he was with her. She wanted to know what he thought about everything and she never seemed to think him strange. There were many things he could help her with, too, for she was not very strong. And then she was so pretty to look at, and everything about her was so gentle and delicate, that he felt he had to take care of her.

  When he wanted to listen to music, she would put the gramophone on for him, and she was always ready to go round the house with him and tell him about it.

  Most of the things in it were very old — two or three or even four hundred years old, and the children’s father and mother had had them from their father and mother, and they in turn had had them from their father and mother, and so right back to the time the things were new. And they had always been there in the one place. He could talk for hours with Maria about the people who had lived there long ago — about what they had looked like, what clothes they had worn and what food they had eaten, and what they had thought about.

  Sometimes Maria would tell him about school, and then David would again be reminded of how different he was. Maria did not care much about going to school, and David thought it sounded wonderful. to think that there were people whose only work in life was to teach children the things they did not know! To be able to ask about everything you wanted to know without appearing odd and suspicious! It was quite plain that it was not one of their schools, since he gathered from Maria that the children were not told what they were to think. They learnt proper things — about history and the countries of the world — and they were taught to read quickly and write without making mistakes.

  David now began to wish he had invented a different story about himself, for his tale of a circus had led the children and their parents to believe he was familiar with many countries. If he had chosen another story, he would have been able to ask them about other countries, where they lay and what they were like. Now he could not and it was difficult to find out what he wanted to know from books.

  And it was now growing chilly of an evening: it was the time of the vine harvest — time for him to hurry on his way.

  Then one day he saw the globe. It stood in Andrea’s room, inside a cupboard. David did not know at first what it was. He saw a big ball fastened to a rod. He was curious and asked why it was fastened like that.

  “It’s a globe, of course!” Andrea replied in surprise. “It’s the world. Look, you can turn it round so that you can see everything.”

  David’s heart began to beat with excitement. Andrea had the whole world drawn on a ball — with all the countries!

  But there were no boundaries marked on it: you could only see where the mountains and valleys and rivers were. David felt quite sick with disappointment. But Andrea was always ready to talk whenever David wanted to discuss something. “There’s Italy,” he said, pointing to a long strip of land jutting out into the sea. “And there’s France,” added Maria, pointing in her tu
rn. When they saw how interested David was, they pointed to Spain and Germany, Austria, Switzerland and England.

  But they went through them so quickly! David wondered if he could possibly remember all they told him and wished he could see how far each country stretched.

  “Can you see Denmark?” he asked.

  It was quite a little patch of land, and David saw it was a long way from Italy. He could never go so far before winter set in, before they found him again.

  But he would have to leave. David lay in his soft warm bed and knew that he must go the next day, or at least within a day or two. The house belonged to the family and he had no part in it.

  They were still all very grateful that he had rescued Maria from the fire. And he was sure they were kind, all except Carlo, that is. But something was sure to happen soon which would make them realize how different he was. The children’s mother sometimes looked at him questioningly, and she no longer attempted to caress him. She would touch his hair lightly when they were going to bed, but David knew it was no longer because she wanted to. She did it only out of kindness so that he should not feel too different from her own children. David was not at all clear how he knew this: he just knew it.

  It was not that he liked anyone to touch him. He hated it: it made him feel tense inside. But sometimes when he saw the children and their parents touch one another, he felt a stab of pain and remembered Johannes. Perhaps he had been like everybody else to start with; perhaps it was only when Johannes died that he became different.

  David tried not to think about it, but he had to admit that when Maria touched him he did not hate it. Sometimes she would take him by the hand when they walked side by side, and her hand was small and soft, not in the least like a boy’s. And when Maria held his hand, it was as if they were speaking of pleasant things together without saying anything. Yet it always made him a little uneasy, like something important that had escaped his memory.

  David turned over in bed. There was something else he had forgotten — what was it? Something about Denmark, something he had been on the point of remembering the first day he was there.

  It had something to do with what the man had said about his having to go north till he came to Denmark. Suddenly he knew what it was — milk!

  The children’s parents were very good to them. They gave them everything they needed and talked a great deal about what would do them good. Every day the children were given milk and things called vitamins. David was given them, too. And he had had milk before …

  Twice a week, for as long as he could remember, on Tuesdays and Fridays, he had had to go across to the man’s quarters, and the man had given him something white to drink. It tasted horrible, but the man told him he must drink it or else he would shoot one of the prisoners. He also threatened to shoot a prisoner if David ever told anyone where he went and what he did. Nothing happened except that David drank the horrible white stuff. At the time David had thought that it showed how stupid they were as well as evil. It did not make him ill, and he did not die either. The man must have realized it was not poisonous enough to kill him and yet he went on giving it to David to drink.

  The milk he was given here did not taste unpleasant, and it was whiter, too, but it was the same for all that. And the first time David happened to bite one of the pills that were called vitamins and drank his milk right on top of it, it tasted horrible in just the way it used to in the camp.

  So the man had given him something that was good for him! Something to make him strong and not always ill and weak like the other prisoners.

  Why? David sat up in bed wide awake. Why had he been forced to drink something that was good for him? If he had been of some importance as a hostage, then obviously he must not be allowed to die … but in that case why had the man told David to escape? It had all happened as the man had told him: there had been the bundle lying beneath the tree, and he had got to Salonica, and there had been a ship there …

  David got up and dressed. He could not sleep, he could not stay inside the house. He must think …

  But no matter how much he thought, he could not find an answer. He walked quietly downstairs into the garden so that no one should hear him. But although he stared right out into the darkness and thought about the man as hard as he could, he still could not make head or tail of it. The man hated him. David knew all about hate, and he was sure the man hated him.

  An important hostage would have to be kept alive … but he must not be allowed to escape, must he? If only he knew more about it. If only he knew something about Denmark. If there were a king in Denmark, then he would have to try to get there. There must be some reason why he was told to escape. For one moment he thought he knew what it was. You could not bribe honest people, but they took bribes. Being bribed meant doing something you knew was forbidden just to get something for yourself.

  But who would bribe the man to let David escape? He was just David, a boy who had always been a prisoner. Someone he stood hostage for without knowing it? But who could it be? And if he had been an important hostage, then the man would never have dared to let him escape. In that country, they were all terrified of one another. Perhaps if the bribe were big enough … but if that were the answer, then they would be hunting for him, everywhere, and he would have to be on his guard day and night.

  It must not be true. David’s hands clutched his fast-beating heart. There must be a reason he could not understand: he did not want to be an important hostage for he could not go on being as frightened as he was. The next morning he would ask the children’s father if there were a king in Denmark. And if so, then he would leave at once, and he would travel by car as often as possible or he would not manage the journey. But it would not do for him to believe he was an important hostage, for if he did he would not dare ask for a lift or earn money or buy bread or anything.

  But he never got as far as asking the children’s father if there were a king in Denmark.

  He decided he would creep back to bed again; but just as he was going past the big living-room that gave on to the terrace, the light was switched on and the children’s father and mother entered and sat down.

  David pressed himself against the wall and stood still. When they began talking he would creep off in the other direction so that they would not spot him.

  Through the slats in the shutters he saw the children’s mother take up her sewing. She put it down again almost at once and turning to her husband said, “Giovanni, I think you’ll have to do something about David.”

  David moved with infinite care away from the slatted shutters: sometimes when you were looking at people they became aware of it. He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes.

  “What should I do about him, Elsa? Is there something the matter with him?”

  David would never forget what they said.

  “The matter … Yes, I … I mean, how long do you suppose he should stay here?”

  “Have you anything against the lad, my dear?”

  “Yes … no … Oh, I’m bound to love a child who’s saved my own child’s life. But I don’t understand him. If it didn’t sound so absurd, I’d be inclined to say he frightens me.”

  “He’s an unusual child, that I grant you. But I can’t see what you have against him.”

  “I … well, let me put it this way. I’ve nothing against David as David, but I do object to him as company for my own children. He must leave here, as soon as possible.”

  “Can’t you tell me exactly what it is about him that you object to?”

  “I don’t know who he is. I don’t know where he comes from and I don’t know where he’s going to. I don’t believe he’s truthful. That story of his about belonging to a circus — it doesn’t hang together properly, Giovanni! If he belongs to a circus there are things he ought to know which he obviously doesn’t. And at the same time the story’s so carefully worked out — as if he were a hardened little liar.”

  “With eyes like his, Elsa?”

 
“Yes … And his eyes frighten me, too. they’re the eyes of an old man, an old man who’s seen so much in life that he no longer cares to go on living. They’re not even desperate … just quiet and expectant, and very, very lonely, as if he were quite alone of his own free choice. Giovanni, a child’s eyes don’t look like that! There’s something wrong there. And his smile — if it weren’t so incredible, I’d be tempted to say he looks as if he’d never smiled before he set eyes on Maria. He never smiles at the rest of us: he just looks at us politely and with dead earnestness, and when he smiles at Maria, it’s …”

  “It’s very beautiful, Elsa. I’ve seen it myself. It comes so hesitantly and yet so tenderly.”

  “Oh, you make me feel so heartless! But I must put my own children first and think of their welfare. And there’s something wrong with a child who smiles like that. Where does he come from? You can tell he has no relatives, but he makes it quite clear he doesn’t like us to question him. He answers politely, but his face becomes watchful and he replies as briefly as he can. It’s not that I want to pry, Giovanni, but you must admit he’s a strange child! He arrives here out of the blue, dressed in a pair of trousers and a shirt both in such a shocking condition that even the poorest beggar would scorn them. He owns a knife and an empty bottle which he obviously regards as vital necessities. And yet he speaks Italian like a Florentine nobleman!”

  “Yes, and French like a senior member of the French Academy!”

  “He does what?”

  “I found him with a French book the other day and he asked me to read a few lines to him. I naturally thought he wanted them translated, but he only wanted to compare the sound of the words with their appearance in print! He’s obviously never seen French written, but he speaks it like a native. And like a very gifted and well-educated native, too!”

  “Yes, and then I suppose he explained it away by saying, “There was a man in the circus who was French”?”