Camp X (8 page)

“Shut up, Jack, or you can deliver your own papers.”

He held up his hands as if he was going to surrender. “Watch out for that dog at one-seventy. Don't even go on the property unless he's tied up.”

“I won't,” I promised.

“Good. See you in a few minutes.”

Jack started down the cross street and I moved on confidently. Imagine him thinking that I couldn't remember which houses he delivered to . . . although they did look pretty much the same . . . and some of them didn't even have numbers yet. Maybe this wasn't going to be as easy as I thought.

I tried to remember which houses were which. I knew he delivered fifteen papers in this section—ten on this side and five on the other. I knew the houses on the other side a lot better because I usually delivered those for him. Maybe I should do the side I knew first and then come back and do this one . . . no, if I did that Jack would be finished first and he'd know I didn't know what I was doing. I'd just have to concentrate.

I looked at the first house on the street, which of course looked like the second and the third. I knew I wasn't delivering to any of those, though. The first house on Jack's route was partway down the block and—I recognized the curtains. I took a newspaper from the bag and whipped it up at the
house. It hit the front door with a loud bang. Right house, and good throw. I could do this.

I pitched a paper at the next house. It was a little wide of the door, but close enough for them to see. The next house got a paper as well. I threw that one underhand and it skittered up the walkway and bumped into the front step. The next houses were across the street. I crossed over and delivered another paper.

“Hey, paper boy!”

I jumped slightly into the air and spun around at the sound of the voice. There were three kids walking down the driveway of one of the houses I'd just passed. They looked about my age . . . maybe a little bit older.

“Wait up!” one of them called.

I stood there waiting as they came toward me. There was something about them that made me nervous. Maybe it was the way they were walking, or the look on their faces, but something didn't seem right. They stopped right in front of me.

“Got any extra papers you don't need?” one of them asked.

I shook my head.

“Come on, that bag looks pretty full,” another of them tried.

“I . . . need them all,” I stammered.

“That seems pretty greedy, not sharing. You gotta have one extra paper. Here, let me have a look.”

Before I could even react he grabbed the bag and started to pull it off my shoulder.

“Don't do that!” I practically shouted as I gripped the bag with both hands.

A second kid grabbed it as well and they ripped it from me.

“Give it back!” I pleaded.

“Shut up or we'll do more than just take a paper away from you!” the biggest one threatened.

I shut my mouth and stared down at the sidewalk.

“You don't mind if we take one paper each, do you?” he asked.

I didn't answer.

He reached out and poked me in the shoulder. “You don't mind, do you?” he asked again. “I hope you don't mind this!”

I looked up at the sound of Jack's voice and saw him smack the biggest kid right in the side of the face! He went down like he'd been shot, and his nose practically exploded. Blood was spurting out and onto the sidewalk.

“My nose! My nose!” he screamed. He'd dropped the newspaper bag and was clutching his face with both hands, like he was afraid his nose was going to drop off.

Jack bent down, grabbed the bag and handed it to me in one quick motion.

“And do either of you mind what I just did?” Jack yelled.

The other two started to back away. They looked shocked and scared and confused all at once. Jack stepped forward. He was big for fourteen, and strong, from working with our father on the farm. He was going to take them both on, right there and then, and I knew that they didn't have a chance.

Everybody back home knew Jack, and knew that I was his brother. These three boys were going to find out why nobody ever bothered us.

“So you think it's funny to pick on somebody when you've got him outnumbered three to one, huh? How about the two of you against me? How about it?” Jack yelled.

“We didn't mean nothing,” one of them stammered. “Nothing.”

It looked as if they were going to turn and run and— suddenly a car squealed to a stop at the curb. It was a police car! Inside was Chief Smith!

“What's going on here!” he demanded as he climbed out.

Nobody answered.

The Chief lumbered toward us. He was a big man—tall and heavy—and in his uniform, with a gun strapped to his side, he loomed even larger.

“I know you three,” he said, pointing to the boys. “What have you been up to?”

“We didn't do nothing!” one of them protested.

The largest of the three staggered to his feet. “He hit me!” he cried, pointing at my brother while still clutching his nose with the other hand. Blood continued to flow through his fingers.

Jack was going to be in trouble now. Maybe I could explain how he had to do it because—

“If he did hit you, then you probably deserved it!” Chief Smith said.

I couldn't believe my ears.

He turned to my brother and me. “Were these three bothering you boys?”

“They were trying to—”

“They weren't doing anything,” my brother said, cutting me off. “At least, nothing that we need any help with. We're okay.”

The Chief snorted. “It looks like things were going okay. You three, beat it!” he bellowed.

“But he hit me!”

“Get out of here before I hit you too!” the Chief roared.

The three boys didn't need to be told again. They all turned and scampered away.

“I don't know you boys,” Chief Smith said.

“We haven't lived here that long,” Jack explained.

“Long enough to get a job delivering papers. Where do you live?”

“Chambers Avenue . . . one-ninety,” I answered.

“And your names?”

This was the second time in two days that somebody in a uniform had asked us the exact same questions.

“I'm Jack Braun, and this is my brother George.”

“Braun?” he said nodding his head. “The name is German, but you two don't look German.”

People often told us that because they expected Germans to have blond hair and blue eyes. Our hair was sandy brown, and we had our mother's dark eyes.

“That's because we're not German,” Jack said. “We're Canadian.”

“I meant your heritage,” Chief Smith said. “Don't take offence. I'm of German blood too.”

“We know,” I said.

“Do you?” His voice became deeper and his brow furrowed. “And how would you know that?” “Well . . . Mr. Krum told us,” I explained.

He smiled, and I suddenly felt better. “Those boys weren't bothering you because you have a German name, were they?” “They don't even know our name,” I said.

“Good, because nobody is going to be doing that in my town. Anybody bothers you, then you let me know, okay?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You're welcome. Now, do you boys need a ride home?” he asked.

Jack shook his head. “We have to finish my paper route.”

“I'll let you get on your way then. I don't think those boys will be bothering you again today.”

“That's too bad,” my brother said.

The Chief looked a little bit shocked and then smiled. “If those three boys are half smart—and that might be a stretch—they'll never bother the two of you again. I'll see you boys around. And remember . . . us Krauts have to stick together.”

Chief Smith walked back to his car as we started back down the street. He passed by, honked his horn and waved. I waved back.

“He seems like a nice guy,” I said, feeling relieved.

“You think everybody's a nice guy,” Jack replied.

“Not everybody. Not those kids.”

“Besides those kids. You think Mr. Krum is a nice guy, and Chief Smith is a nice guy.”

“They seem nice to me,” I answered with a shrug.

“They both make me nervous,” Jack said. “And what did he mean ‘us Krauts have to stick together'?”

“I think he was just making a joke.”

“It wasn't funny,” Jack muttered. “And another thing . . . the next time somebody bothers you, just pop 'em in the nose. I can't be around to rescue you your whole life.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

WE DRIFTED AROUND ANOTHER
bend in the creek, and up ahead I could see the railroad trestle. It was deserted. No people in black clothing. No train. Just up ahead and off to the side was the large willow tree that had given us shelter before. I wanted shelter—the shelter of my house. I wanted to turn around. I wanted to go home, climb into my bed and pull up the covers. I wasn't going to get anything that I wanted.

I'd spent a good part of the day trying to convince Jack that we shouldn't be doing this. He hadn't even bothered to argue back. He'd just told me that I was a “sucky baby” and he didn't even want me to come along anyway. Finally he'd told me that if I said another word he'd just “clean my clock” worse than he'd done to that kid. That was the end of the discussion. I'd seen Jack in enough fights to know I didn't ever want to get in a serious one with him. Actually, I didn't want to fight Jack or anybody else.

The creek dipped and my stomach flipped. I paddled with my hands so I could manoeuvre the inner tube through the centre support of the bridge. It dipped again and the tube started to spin around, but I was able to stay in control and send it shooting through the right spot. Jack was right beside me.

I paddled hard again, sending the tube out of the current and into the little eddy where we'd beached the tubes the last time. Once we were into the shallow water I jumped off. At least I didn't have to worry about what was underfoot. I was wearing my sneakers. Jack and I had agreed to wear shoes this time. We waded out of the water and onto the bank.

“Right here,” Jack said, putting his tube underneath a bush.

I put mine in beside it, far enough from the shore to guarantee there was no way it was going to drift away this time.

Without a word Jack started off, and I fell in behind him. There really wasn't much to say, and besides, the quieter we were the better the chance that we wouldn't be seen.

I didn't have my watch with me—I didn't want to risk ruining it on the creek ride—but I really wanted to know the time. The only thing I'd got Jack to agree to was that we'd head back in time to be home before dark. I figured it had to be close to five-thirty already.

“This way,” Jack said.

I followed him through the wire fence again and then across the field and into the trees. I figured he had a pretty good idea where we were headed, but that didn't stop me from keeping one eye on the railroad embankment. As long
as it was in sight I knew where we were and, more important, how to get home.

“Let's stop and get a drink,” Jack suggested.

I cupped my hands and scooped a small slurp of water from the stream that trickled through the bush. Jack did the same. Of course I knew where we were now. This was just up from the spot where we'd hidden and watched those men being taken prisoner . . . or pretending to be taken prisoner . . . or whatever it was that we saw.

“Which way are we going?” I asked.

“That way. We'll walk on the edge of the field, close to the scrub and trees.”

“Wouldn't it be safer to stay hidden?”

“It'll take too long. We'll be okay as long as we move slowly and listen. As soon as we hear the sound of a jeep we can get into the bush before anyone sees us.”

Jack stumbled over the rocks and pushed through the brush to reach the edge of the field. I followed. Looking beyond him, I could see the land sloping gently down and away from us. It was bordered on the far side—it had to be at least a hundred yards away—by a line of trees and brush. Maybe there was another field on the other side.

We moved around the perimeter. The only sounds we could hear were the birds chirping from the surrounding forest. It was easy to forget that we weren't just out for a friendly stroll. Actually, so much of what we'd seen was so unreal that it would have been easier just to think that none of it had even happened. Maybe it was like a strange dream,
or a book that I'd read and partly forgotten. Or maybe I'd just imagined the whole thing in the first place!

“It's pretty here,” I said.

“What?”

“It's pretty.”

“I guess. I hadn't thought about that.” Jack stopped. “You hear anything?”

I halted in my tracks. What had he heard?

“Do
you
hear something?” I asked anxiously.

“I thought I heard voices . . . that way,” he said, pointing into the trees. “Do you hear it?”

I pricked up my ears. “Maybe . . . something.”

“Come on.” Jack changed course to head into the woods.

Part of me was grateful to be out of the open and heading back into cover. The other part thought it was plain crazy to be heading
toward
voices. We should have been going in the opposite direction. Besides, maybe those weren't even voices. And if they were, the way the wind was blowing, they could have been coming from anywhere.

“Holy . . .”

I was grabbed and pushed down to the ground by Jack.

“Did you see that!” I gasped.

“Of course I did. Why do you think I knocked you down?”

Just on the other side of the trees there was another field, and in the middle of the field were jeeps and a dozen or more men and a tower—a tower that must have been more than a hundred feet high!

“We've got to get away from here!” I hissed.