The Search

by Maureen Myant

  The plans are made. Jan discovers that the man who gave them the lift has agreed to lend him his cart and horse. “It’s costing a lot of money,” says Marek, “but we’ll manage.”

  Jan remembers the coins he stole from the fountain. “I have money,” he says.

  Marek raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

  Jan runs to his bundle and takes out the money. He spreads it out in front of Marek. “Take it,” he says.

  Marek lifts up one of the coins, examines it and smiles. “We can’t use this in Poland. No, Jan, you keep it. You’ll need it when you’re on your own in Germany.”

  Jan’s disappointed. He wants to help Marek, feels shame that he is costing him money. Then he remembers. He feels in his pocket; it’s still there, down at the bottom. He pulls out Zygmund’s ring and gives it to Marek.

  “What’s this?”

  “It was beside Zygmund’s body. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he fell.”

  Marek hands it back to him. “Keep it… to remember Zygmund.”

  “No, you have it. You can sell it, use it to buy supplies.”

  “What would Zygmund want you to do?” asks Marek.

  Jan considers the question. He wants Marek to have the ring, doesn’t want the partisans to go short because Marek has paid for his transport to Germany, so he has to be persuasive. Got it. “I think Zygmund would want you to have it.” He pauses and smiles. “For the greater good.”

  Marek laughs and takes it from him. “All right. If you’re sure.”

  The plan is simple. Marek will go back to the old man’s village and pick up the cart and horse. He has told the man he wants it to carry furniture from one house to another, for a friend who is moving. The man wasn’t keen, but the money offered was good, and he agreed, but on condition that Marek gave him his ration book as security as he was worried he would never see his property again. Anatole will drive the cart and horse across the border with Jan hidden under vegetables. He is used to crossing the border, but he does not usually have transport.

  Jan can hardly concentrate as they talk about the plan and everything that has to be done. He has such mixed feelings about it all. It’s been hard living with the partisans, some of the men were rough, but he’s fond of Marek, looks up to him like an older brother, and he knows he’ll miss him greatly. He’s scared too of what’s ahead. Anatole has agreed to drive him some distance into Germany, but they will only have the cart for two days, and so he cannot go all the way. He brings out another map; It is very detailed, more so than the one Jan has already seen, and he spends some time teaching Jan how to read it.

  “This here,” he points to a green patch. “This is open countryside, and where you see this symbol” – he shows Jan what looks like a rough drawing of a tree – “this shows that there’s woods. You can take cover there.”

  Jan studies the map. It’s all very hard to follow, some lines are paths, other thicker ones are roads, those that have lines through them are railways, a cross is a church, if it has a circle underneath it means there is a steeple. He’ll never remember it all.

  “Do you remember the name of the farm?” asks Marek.

  For a frightening moment Jan’s mind goes blank. He’s forgotten. This is terrible; he’ll never find Lena if he doesn’t know the name of the farm. Marek must have noticed the puzzled look on his face, for he speaks to him softly. “It’s all right, it will come to you.”

  And it does. “Grunfeld,” he stutters. “That’s what it’s called.”

  Anatole examines the map, he stabs his finger on a spot near the middle of the page. “Got it!”

  Jan looks over his shoulder at the map, and there it is, Grunfeld farm. He takes a deep breath. In a few days’ time he could be with his sister once more.

  The day arrives. Early in the morning Marek sets off to get the cart, and Jan gathers together his small bundle of belongings. He has very little: the clothes he is wearing, a spare pair of pants, trousers and a shirt. Anatole has given him a jumper. It’s too big, and it’s been made from scratchy wool, but it will keep him warm at night. There is also the money, enough to buy some basic provisions for him and Anatole when they reach Germany, and there will be some left over for when he finds Lena.

  He and Anatole sit in the autumn sunshine and wait for Marek. Jan is sleepy and closes his eyes. He allows himself to dream of the days ahead. First of all a day’s drive in the cart and horse; followed by a day’s walk to the farm. He tries to picture Lena’s face when she spots him, how happy she’ll be to see her big brother, she’ll jump into his arms, and he’ll hug her tight, but, no matter what, he cannot remember her face. In horror he opens his eyes – what is he going to do?

  Anatole senses his agitation. “Is something wrong?”

  “I can’t see her face. Lena. I don’t know what she looks like. It’s over a year since I saw her. How will I recognize her?”

  “What age is she?”

  “Nearly four, no, what am I talking about? She’ll be six now.”

  “So she’ll be about this high,” Anatole holds his hand up to Jan’s chest. “And what colour hair does she have?”

  “Blonde, curly.”

  “Well, it might be a little darker now.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Blue,” says Jan. “Like cornflowers, my father used to say.”

  “See, you do remember,” Anatole drinks his coffee. “It will be fine, Jan. You’ll see.”

  Jan closes his eyes once more; he hopes Anatole is right.

  Marek has arrived. They start to get the vegetables ready. Sacks of potatoes mostly, with some carrots and a few worm-eaten onions. Jan will also be in a sack and will be placed near the front of the cart with the vegetables carefully placed on top of him. Marek reassures him it’s only until they’re across the border. The border guards are likely to open a sack or two, but from Anatole’s observations at the border, it’s only ones from the top or round the sides that they pick.

  “Once you’re safely in Germany, you can get out and ride up in front with Anatole. You’ll be hiding for two hours, perhaps three, then Anatole will let you out.”

  “But is it safe?”

  “Nothing’s safe these days, Jan, but we’ll take the chance.”

  Jan looks at the sack they’ve made for him. It stinks of turnips, but he has no choice. He steps inside it and waits for the two men to help him up onto the cart. They place him carefully, making sure he has room to breathe.

  “Good luck, Jan,” says Marek.

  Jan wants to cry, but he mustn’t. He manages a squeaky thank you, and pulls the sack over his head as they build up his hiding place around him.

  Jan has had many uncomfortable journeys: the truck from his village, the train into Poland, the rubbish lorry from the children’s home. None of them were as bad as this. The road is uneven, and he is tossed from side to side as the horse canters along. Potatoes and turnips tumble over him; he’s sure he’ll be covered in bruises. He’d hoped to sleep, but there’s no chance of that. His back and legs ache from lying so still.

  The horse slows down, and Anatole shouts, “Ready to go.” This is a signal that they are almost at the border, and he has to keep very still. This won’t be a problem. He’s so stiff and uncomfortable that he thinks he’ll be lucky ever to move again. But he gets himself ready anyway. His breath is uneven and loud; his nerves have taken over. He breathes slower to try to control himself. They stop. All around there is the bustle of a border crossing, voices, the sound of cars and trucks, the smell of petrol. Footsteps approach the cart. This is it.

  “Was haben Sie hier?”

  “Kartoffeln,” says Anatole. Potatoes.

  “Show me.”

  Anatole jumps down from the cart. Jan holds his breath. The weight on his back is lessened as a sack is taken from the pile and opened. He feels exposed. A pause as the contents are checked.

  “These are carrots.”

  “I… Yes. It’s mainly potatoes though.”
/>   Carrots, potatoes, thinks Jan. What’s the difference, they’re both vegetables.

  “Wait here a moment,” the voice says.

  It’s unbearable not knowing what’s going on. Jan strains to hear, but it’s so noisy with traffic that he just has to lie still. Is it his imagination or does Anatole say it’s fine, don’t worry?

  More footsteps, a different voice. “Are you taking these vegetables to market?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alles gut. You can go,” says the voice.

  As easy as that. Too easy. Jan’s still too scared to breathe. But no, they’re off, the horse trotting briskly along a road that is better than what they’ve left behind in Poland. It’s not nearly as rough. Jan allows himself to drift off. He hadn’t thought he would sleep, but he must have because Anatole is shaking him awake.

  “You can come up front with me now,” he says.

  “Is it safe?”

  “How often do I have to tell you? Nothing is safe, but it will be more comfortable.”

  Jan struggles out of the sack. His limbs are as rigid as those of an old man. He remembers how his grandfather used to complain just before he died about pains in his joints. He’s got cramp too. When he jumps down from the cart he flexes his calf muscles to try to ease the pain. Within a few minutes he’s all right, but he wants to walk for a while.

  “Can I walk beside you, just for the next few minutes?” he says.

  Anatole nods and goes into his pocket. He hands Jan an apple. Jan eats it as they go along. The road is empty. Jan studies the countryside.

  “It looks just like Poland. Are you sure we’re in Germany?”

  Anatole laughs. “I’m sure. Did you think the countryside would change at the border?”

  Immediately Jan realizes how foolish he’s been. He finishes his apple in silence, then asks to join Anatole on the cart. Anatole helps him up.

  “What now?”

  “It’s about an hour to the next village, and there’s a market there. I want to try to sell the vegetables there. Once we’ve done that, I’ll take you as far as I can. And then, well, you’re on your own.”

  Not long then. Jan is terrified. His mouth is dry, and he can only think of the problems ahead. He bursts out, “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  Anatole considers the question. “No,” he says at last, “not stupid.”

  “But?”

  “Perhaps a little foolhardy.”

  “Why did Marek let me go?” As he says this, Jan wishes Marek were here so he could ask him himself.

  “He blames himself for the boy’s death. He thinks that he asked the two of you to do too much. You know, other groups chase boys away. They find them a burden, always following them around, eating food that the men need. But Marek took you and Zygmund in, gave you work to do.”

  Was that a bad thing? Jan isn’t sure. He falls silent. Anatole continues.

  “Marek thinks he should have sent you away at the beginning.”

  “But he protected us, gave us shelter.”

  “I know, but then because of what he asked you to do, Zygmund died.”

  It’s too complicated for Jan to follow. Most likely, Zygmund would have died if Marek hadn’t taken him in. He’d been homeless, a Jew, his family dead. Jan doesn’t really understand why Marek blames himself. He gives up and concentrates on watching the road.

  The village is a bit like his in Czechoslovakia, bigger and noisier, but the people look similar. When he whispers this to Anatole, he laughs and says, “What did you expect? Demons?”

  Jan doesn’t know what he expected. Not ordinary people like this, though. Old women in shabby dresses, scarves over their heads; old men with faces browned by the sun, wrinkled like apples left at the bottom of the barrel. He stands by Anatole at the cart as Anatole bargains to get the best price for his vegetables. It’s a struggle to understand the strange sounds around him. One old woman comes up to him and pinches his cheek while gabbling something at him. He looks at Anatole for help. Anatole shakes his head in warning, then speaks to the woman. She looks down at him and tuts in sorrow. She ruffles his hair before waddling away.

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Told her you were deaf and dumb.” Anatole ducks to avoid Jan’s indignant punch.

  When the vegetables are gone, they buy some bread and ham for lunch and eat it with some tomatoes they bartered at the market. It is the best meal he has eaten for months. It’s so long since Jan has tasted fresh bread he is overwhelmed. Anatole allows him to eat his fill, then gets up from where they are sitting.

  “We must be on our way,” he says. “I have to get back to the border tonight.”

  Jan gets up, brushing crumbs from his lap as he does so. A sparrow darts in near his feet and pinches a crumb, flying away as soon as he moves. He’s excited to be moving, but terrified too. Listening to the people in the market has reminded him of how poor his German is, far from fluent. He wonders what would happen if he were captured, whether he’d be sent back to a children’s home or to a concentration camp like Pawel. He dismisses the thought. It won’t do to be so pessimistic. Everything will be fine. It has to be.

  The rest of the journey flies past. Anatole is lost in thought, and Jan doesn’t want to disturb him with silly chatter. Instead he watches the countryside pass, takes out the map and tries to follow where they are. It’s hard to do this, though, when the cart is bouncing around on the uneven road. When they stop to let the horse drink he asks Anatole to show him where they are.

  Anatole studies the map. He finds the village where they went to the market and points it out to Jan, then the road, and finally the farmhouse where Lena is. “We’re here, I think,” he indicates a spot about halfway between the village and the farm.

  “How do you know?”

  “Look at this green patch with trees on it, that’s a forest and we passed by it a little while ago, do you remember?”

  “Yes,” says Jan, “but there’s a green patch there too.” He jabs at the map, hoping he’s right as it’s so much closer to where he wants to be.

  “Yes, but look at the road.”

  Puzzled, Jan looks down at the track beneath him.

  “No, not the real road, the one on the map. Look at it, and you’ll see that your green patch is on the wrong side of the road. It’s on the left, and the one we passed was on our right.”

  Jan nods. Dammit, Anatole’s right. He still has some way to go.

  “Put the map away,” says Anatole. “It’s another two hours before I have to leave you.”

  Jan wakes with a start. He must have fallen asleep. Amazing, considering the rough ride. They’ve stopped on the outskirts of a village. Anatole gazes at him.

  “Will you be all right?”

  Jan nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Now that the time has come for him to leave Anatole, he’s terrified. Tears prick at the back of his eyes, and he blinks to stop them spilling over.

  “Sure?”

  Jan manages a strangulated yes, and Anatole seems to accept this. He reaches into the cart to get Jan’s bundle and hands it to him. They look at the map together one final time, Anatole going over the route until he’s sure Jan knows where he’s going.

  Jan jumps down from the cart and holds his hand out to Anatole. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for bringing me here.” Before Anatole can answer, he’s off down the road, as briskly as he can, praying that Anatole didn’t spot his tears and can’t see how his legs are trembling.

  ‌25

  Friedrich looks at his watch. The train is due in ten minutes, and on it are the two boys from Berlin. He regrets taking Wilhelm so quickly to his old teacher, and thinks now that he was too rash, for it has taken over a month for the boys to actually come. Gisela sees Wilhelm regularly twice a week; the plan for her to work as Herr Knoller’s housekeeper has worked well, but it’s harder for Friedrich to see him. He has so much work on the farm to do, and it is so far into town, he has only managed to see him on
ce, the day before yesterday. Friedrich hasn’t said so to Gisela, but he was shocked by Wilhelm’s appearance. Before he went to Hans’s house he was thin, but now, now he’s skeletal, his eyes sunken, his jawline sharp-edged. And the look in his eyes: so dark and troubled. It frightened Friedrich. He wanted to ask Hans about him, but was too shy, too in awe of the man who had taught not only Wilhelm but Friedrich too. Instead he muttered his thanks and left, like a thief, furtively, eyes darting everywhere to see if he’d been spotted. He regrets it now, of course. What harm could it have done to ask, how do you find my son? Do you too see him fading away? Now it could be another four weeks before he sees him again, and God knows what state he’ll be in by then. He closes his eyes in despair.

  The screech of the train’s brakes brings him round. He moistens his lips. All week he’s been dreading this; it’s unbearable to have to put up two Hitler Youth in his home. In vain, Gisela has tried to remind him that it’s compulsory for all boys between the ages of twelve and sixteen to be members. He doesn’t want to know, walked out of the room when she dared to suggest that Helga, had she been spared, would have had to join the Jungmädelbund, the girls’ equivalent of the Hitler Youth. In the time since Wilhelm came home, Friedrich has changed from a passive supporter of Hitler to hating the man who has destroyed his family and that of so many others.

  Doors open, and Friedrich braces himself. Very few people alight; he counts them, fourteen. He scans them all, looking for the familiar light brown uniform. Nothing. Everyone is too old or too young. He runs along the platform, looking inside each carriage in case they’ve fallen asleep, missed their stop. God knows what the penalty is for losing two Hitler Youth, but he doesn’t want to find out, and he doesn’t want the authorities to turn their attention to his family once more. But there aren’t any boys of the right age. None. The train starts to move off leaving Friedrich standing alone on the platform, the passengers have all gone on their way.

  Friedrich takes the letter out of his pocket and reads it through again. Maybe he’s got the date or the time wrong. No, it’s there in black and white: Johann Fischer and Hans Dieter will arrive on the fourteenth of September on the twelve forty-five train from Berlin. He checks his watch, almost one o’clock, and stops one of the guards. “Please, what date is it?”