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June 1942, a sleepy day in the village, the summer sky clear, save for a charcoal funnel of smoke rising from the steelworks in the nearby town. Above the fields of growing corn the hot air shimmers, languorous and heavy with pollen. Jan feels the sun burning his neck and forearms as he crawls through the prickly stalks. He is careful to keep his head down. Although the crop is abundant this year, it has not yet grown tall enough to hide him, and he knows he could be spotted at any moment. The ground is rough, and he bites his lip to stop a cry when his knee grinds into something sharp. He rolls onto his back to rest for a moment, feeling the warm blood run down his leg. The pain nags at him, and he risks raising his head enough to examine his knee. A small piece of glass is protruding from his leg. Gritting his teeth, he pulls it out and presses hard to try to stop the flow of blood. He glances at it briefly, just enough to assure himself it isn’t a deep cut, but he doesn’t examine it. Blood makes him feel dizzy – it always has, since he was a small child and saw his father slice off the tip of his thumb when he was gutting a rabbit he’d caught in a trap. After a few minutes he decides to go on. He has nothing to bind the cut, and no option but to continue: they are too close behind, and could catch him at any moment.
Ahead of him there is a copse, near to Horak’s farm. It will provide some cover. He crawls on, trying to keep his wounded knee off the ground. It makes for slow progress, and he thanks God he had such a good start. At last he reaches the edge of the field, with the trees only a few yards away. He risks raising his head. They are at the other end of the field, maybe a hundred and fifty metres away. He ducks down, but it’s too late: they’ve spotted him. There’s nothing for it but to run as fast as he can. He springs to his feet, wincing at the pain, and darts towards the trees, twisting round them, stumbling as his foot catches on a root. Two minutes and he’ll be out of here.
Jan’s chest tightens as he runs, squeezes his heart, forcing his breath out in short, painful gasps as he dashes into the yard at Horak’s farm. There must be somewhere he can hide. He looks round. Blinded by the sun, Jan doesn’t see the elderly mongrel slumbering near the barn. It staggers to its feet, barking, but when it recognizes him as a friend it sinks to the ground, its tail making swirls in the dust. Jan leans over to pat it, taking the chance to catch his breath. There’s a pain in his side, and he pushes into it with his fist, to make it go away. The dog lies panting, its eyes begging, but Jan has nothing for it. He scratches behind its ear, whispers sorry and straightens up. His heart still pounding, he scans the farmyard. The barn? No, too obvious. The old cherry tree? No, the leaves aren’t thick enough, and he’s wearing a red shirt: they’d spot him at once. Of course – the rain barrel. Jan rushes over to it, his legs weak from all that running. Not much time. He glances around. No sign of them – there should be time to get into it.
The barrel is chest-high. Jan grasps the top and tries to haul himself up. His feet scrabble to get a grip, but the barrel is moss-covered, slippery, and he slides down, his finger catching on a rough piece of wood. He sucks at the splinter, pulling it out with his teeth, as he looks round for a stone to stand on. There’s one nearby, but if he moves it, it’ll be a dead giveaway. Nothing for it but to try again.
Nearly there. The muscles in his arms burn as he clambers onto the top. He kneels on the edge for an agonizing second before swinging his legs round to the inside. The barrel’s almost empty because there’s been no rain for weeks. He shimmies into it, landing with a light splash in a few centimetres of water. The strain has opened up the cut on his knee, and he can feel the blood trickle down his leg. He brushes it away with his fingers and wipes his hands on his shorts, wishing he had a hanky with him, something to cover it up with. Just thinking about the blood makes him giddy. He takes a deep breath to try to calm himself, but his heart hammers on.
Jan crouches, waiting. Minutes pass. There’s a rustling right beside the barrel. He tenses, only relaxing when he hears the chirp of some chicks. Water, from the small puddle at the bottom, seeps into his shoes, and he shivers. But it’s a small price to pay for such a good hiding place. He sniffs up the drip dangling from the end of his nose. The air in the barrel is stale. It smells like fish, like carp going off. If he doesn’t get some fresh air soon, he’ll puke.
Time ticks on, he risks sticking his head out. The farmyard is clear, no one in sight. Perhaps they’ve gone somewhere else. But then he hears a shout: “Got you!” There’s an answering scream, his sister’s from the sound of it. His fists clench, and he wishes he were bigger. He recognized the shout – it was Josef. He’s always after Maria. He probably pinched her or stole a kiss. They act silly round each other nowadays, either fighting or giggling at nothing. Jan hates it when they do this, feels left out. He glowers: it makes him mad to think about them – stupid Josef with his spots and fuzzy upper lip, and Maria pinching her cheeks to make them look red – they’re no fun any more. Jan spits into the barrel – never mind, there’s always the rest of his crowd, Frantisek and Vaclav and little Karl. He pushes Maria and Josef out of his mind. Confident of a few seconds before anyone will come, he sucks in the fresh air, tastes the scent of mown grass. Luscious. He hears someone running, and ducks down, feeling a thrill at the base of his spine.
“We’re coming to get you, Jan.” His sister’s voice, faint still. “You can’t hide for ever.”
“That’s what you think,” he whispers.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Josef’s voice joins in, nearer.
Jan trembles. Deep in his belly there is a squirming, a fluttering of excitement. He can scarcely breathe.
The other children run into the courtyard. Jan can’t believe they haven’t found him. It’s hard to resist sticking his head out, but he keeps as calm as he can. To distract himself he thinks of what he’ll have for supper tonight. Mother said she’d make pork with knedliche. His stomach grumbles; surely they’ll hear. A barrage of barking, and Maria squeals. She doesn’t like dogs. With any luck she’ll run off home, and the others will follow her – they always do.
Jan counts the seconds – nineteen, twenty. It is quiet once more; the only sound one last, lazy bark from the dog. Does this mean the others are going, or are they keeping their mouths shut to trick him into showing himself? Jan concentrates. He can hear nothing except the caw of a raven and the faint burr of a far-off motor. He relaxes. They must have gone. His eyes close, pulled down by sleepiness – it would be nice to have a nap.
A thump on the side and the barrel lurches, then starts to rock.
“Got you, Jan,” shouts Maria, her round face alight as she leans over the top. The sunlight forms a halo round her head. “Come on, out you come.” She tries to grab him, but he ducks out of her reach. The barrel rocks again, and he stands up.
“All right, I’m coming. Keep the damn thing still.”
It’s even harder getting out. His feet flail, hopelessly flapping as he strains to lift himself. Josef leans down to try to pull him out, but he doesn’t have the strength, and eventually the others tip the barrel onto one side and he crawls out. His shorts are wet from the water in the barrel.
Back in the sunlight, he blinks and glares at his sister. Maria’s three years older than him, much taller and fatter, nearly as big as his mother. She seems immense as she stands in front of him pointing at his shorts. “You baby. We’ll have to get a nappy for you,” she says.
The sun is hot on Jan’s face. He kicks at a stone with the toe of his shoe. “There was water in the bottom of the barrel. I got wet when I was coming out.”
“Yeah, right,” says Frantisek. “Piss water by the smell of it.”
“No, it isn’t!”
Frantisek pushes him. He’s a bit of a bully, likes to show off in front of the o
thers. “Piddle boy, piddle boy,” he chants, his voice a sneer.
Jan clenches his fists. One of these days he’ll be big enough to fight Frantisek, and then he’ll show him. One punch and he’ll be begging for mercy. His bottom lip trembles.
“Come on, let him be,” Maria says, pulling at Frantisek’s arm. “He’s nothing but a crybaby.” The corners of her mouth turn down, making her more like their mother than ever, and she scowls at Jan.
“No, I’m not.” He pushes her, but she’s immovable.
“You can do better than that,” she jeers.
The roof of his mouth is dry. A pulse throbs in his throat. He sees nothing through his tears of rage.
“What were you thinking of?” His mother wets the corner of her apron and wipes the blood off Maria’s face.
“She started it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Jan says nothing. His eyebrows almost meet in the middle, he’s scowling so hard. There’s no point in arguing. The others are all Maria’s friends when it comes down to it, and they’ve already told his mother he was to blame: “Like a wild animal,” they said, “he went crazy, we were helping him out of the water barrel at Horak’s farm, and he went for her.” More trouble. He’ll be lucky not to get a beating.
“Just as well your father’s not home. Hitting Maria like that, and scratching her too. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“She’s older than me,” he mutters, glowering at Maria, who sticks out her tongue.
His mother doesn’t see this; she never does. “That’s enough. Go to your bed. No supper for you tonight.”
He wants to ask his mother why she always takes Maria’s side, but the look in her eye stops him, and he stomps off upstairs. He sits on his bed and rubs his eyes, pushing the tears away. He hates his mother, hates Maria, hates her friends. He wishes they were dead. His stomach gurgles like an ancient plumbing system. It’s hours since he’s eaten. It isn’t right to send a child to bed without any food. It isn’t fair. The tears spill over, run down his cheeks and gather in the corner of his mouth, where he licks them away. He wants to scream, but instead he kicks the door of the bedroom. His shoe dents the wood, another scuffed mark on the already shabby door. Downstairs his mother shouts: “Stop that nonsense and go to sleep.”
He won’t. It’s still light outside, and he’ll show them. They’ll be sorry when they come into his room in the morning and find him gone. He opens his bedroom window and looks down. It isn’t that far if he clings on to the window ledge, and lets go. He’s done it before, and they didn’t even come after him. It would serve them right if he disappeared for ever. Jan crawls onto the window ledge and lowers himself until he is hanging on by the tips of his fingers. When he looks down it seems much further than it did a moment ago, but it’s too late to do anything other than let go. Taking a deep breath, he drops down, biting his lip to stop himself crying out as he lands heavily in the backyard. He’s scraped his right knee: that’s both knees hurting now, and his ankle is throbbing too. He rubs it, pressing his knuckles hard on it, bone to bone. Carefully he stands up and puts his weight on it, waiting for a moment before trying to walk. It aches, but not too much. Before he goes, he takes one last look through the window. Mother is putting bowls in front of the others. Cabbage and potato soup, from her native Poland; it smells of garlic and herbs, makes his mouth water. His little sister, Lena, looks up, spots him, opens her mouth to speak. Jan puts his finger to his mouth, and she smiles. She’s a good kid.
The village is quiet at this time of night. Most people are inside, either eating or getting ready for bed. Jan slogs up the dusty road, occasionally kicking stones into the gutter, wishing he’d stayed put; he’s famished. If he were at home, he could have sneaked into the kitchen when everyone was asleep, or maybe mother would have relented, called him downstairs for some food. She won’t give him anything but trouble if he goes back now.
It’s getting dark. The sun set fifteen minutes ago, and the moon has yet to rise. Only a few stars spatter the dusk-laden sky. Jan wonders what to do. He’s not going back, but he’s tired. Looking around, he sees he’s near the Horaks’ farm. He can sleep there. Tiptoeing past the sleeping dog, he creeps into the barn and climbs the ladder. There’s enough hay there to make himself comfortable for the night. He spreads some out and lies down. The straw is full of insects that bite and make him itch, but he’s too tired to let it bother him. He scratches at a couple of spots, but within minutes he’s asleep.
Something’s coming to get him. He’s running, looking over his shoulder, but he can’t see what it is. He runs as fast as he can, but it’s as if his feet are encased in concrete. He can’t get away. Then he stumbles, falls down. He’s on the ground, crouching in fear from the thing. He looks up. It’s Frantisek, grown into an ogre twenty feet tall. He stands over Jan, roaring, his pimples standing out purple in his pale face. Jan whimpers. The roaring gets louder. Jan tries to get up on his feet and run, but he can’t. He’s stuck in the rain barrel, the water rising. With a cry he wakes up. For a moment he can’t think where he is, and his heart pounds painfully. Then it comes back to him, and he puffs out his cheeks, relieved. It’s only a dream, he can go back to sleep. He closes his eyes, but the roaring is still there. It sounds like some sort of heavy traffic – lorries probably. Sometimes they pass through the village on their way to Prague, but never at night, not that he can remember. There are other sounds too: shouts, men’s voices, rough and harsh. Jan sits up and strains to hear. The voices are closer, but he can’t make out what is being said. Something is wrong – why doesn’t he understand? He concentrates, and recognizes the word raus. Germans. What are they doing here late at night? Jan’s heart constricts. There’s been a lot of talk in the village, serious talk: men in the street, in tight groups, suspicion in their eyes, glancing round as they muttered words of warning, women pulling their children closer, the children aware that something isn’t right. Jan had listened at the door while his parents spoke in low voices, but he didn’t fully understand it all, something to do with an important German being killed. The Germans had been in their country now for some years, and many people didn’t like it, but they just had to get on with it, his mother said. This man had been blown up, and the Germans were very angry; they blamed the Czechs. This seemed to frighten the grown-ups, though Jan didn’t see why. His father has always told him there’s nothing to fear if you haven’t done anything wrong, and they certainly haven’t.
Jan’s mouth is dry. He doesn’t want to be here any more. It’s time to go home to his mother; he longs to feel her arms round him. Pushing the hay aside, he begins to edge his way to where he thinks the opening of the hayloft is, but he can’t see anything, it’s so dark. Frightened he’ll fall over, he drops to his knees and crawls across the rough wooden floor, feeling his way inch by inch. It takes ages to find the ladder again. When he does, he clings to it and looks down into the black emptiness of the barn. He clenches his teeth as he turns his back to lower himself down the ladder. He counts as he goes, sure there’s twelve rungs; his heart skips a beat as he counts thirteen, fourteen. How can he know for sure he’ll find solid ground again? He could be entering hell. If he holds his breath, the next step will find him safe on the firm ground. It does. He leans against the ladder and thanks God.
His eyes are more used to the darkness now, and he can make out where the doorway is. The dog is barking, and he runs towards the sound. At the entrance to the barn, he stops to look out. The yard is full of menace. There is a small pool of light cast from one window of the farmhouse, but other than that, nothing. Only shadows of what? Trees? Men? Demons? With a moan, he hurtles into the courtyard, zigzags across it, dodges imaginary bullets, the clutching hands that reach from behind trees, the snares laid into the earth. Breathless, he reaches the road. He bends over to try to catch his breath, and looks down towards the main part of the village. About two hundred yards away there are a number of trucks; he can’t see how many. Their headlamps ar
e on, lighting up the scene, revealing dozens of soldiers and a few policemen. They’ve surrounded the main part of the village.
Without warning, a searchlight illuminates the road beside him. Jan turns round. There must be more soldiers further up towards the boundary of the village. He’s trapped. He throws himself down and flattens himself against the ground. The searchlight skims over him, and he waits for a shout. Nothing. He wriggles over the grass, wincing as his scraped knees drag on the rough earth, until he reaches a tree and hides behind it to watch.
A group of policemen march into the farmyard; they have six villagers with them, all men. Jan recognizes his uncle and presses his lips over his teeth to stop himself calling out. He longs to be with someone he knows, but like an animal he senses danger. The group passes near to where Jan is crouching. He covers his eyes, as he did when he was a small child, thinking this will make him invisible. They carry on past him, up to the farm. Three of the policemen march straight into the farmhouse without knocking. In a minute or two, the farmer and his wife are dragged out. Horak is pushed over to the small group of men, but his wife is not allowed to join them, despite her pleas. Two policemen have her by the arms; her feet barely touch the ground as she is hauled off towards the main part of the village. Jan licks his lips to moisten them. He feels emptier than ever, but this is more than hunger: a hollow feeling of dread, of knowing that something terrible is happening. He wonders whether to give himself up or to run and take his chance, but he can’t move. He shivers like a sheep newly shorn, though the night is warm. Another sweep of the searchlight; he’ll have to hide. There’s nowhere to go but up into the cherry tree he rejected earlier that day. He climbs as high as he dares, the bark rough underneath his fingers. It’s an old tree, and he stops at its heart, snuggling into the crook between several branches. From here he can see into the farmyard and down to the floodlit village, where the soldiers are dragging people out of their houses into the streets. From time to time another group are marched up to the courtyard. There are one or two women among them holding tight to their husbands, but most groups consist only of men.
The Search Page 1