The Memory Man (12 page)

Bruno was always hungry. His grandmother pretended to have no appetite so that she could give him most of her share. But even that wasn’t much. He was growing too fast, she said. He began to get up very early, before light, to go and see if he could meet up with those farmers who still occasionally brought food in from the neighbouring villages. He went to the easternmost edges of the city and further and began to make himself useful. He carried boxes of potatoes or cheese or dill for gnarled women in coloured headscarves. He scavenged old bottles from city streets and
brought them to red-cheeked farmers who filled them with vodka or some brandy-like concoction that cleared your nose with its fumes alone.

Men with strong arms were scarce. They had been recruited for Russian labour or had disappeared into the military where they might at this very moment be serving time as prisoners of war… Bruno had seen a sorry trainload of these prisoners one day,
waiting
to be moved from the Russian to the Polish gauge of train: which was what happened just beyond the Przemysl station, where the Germans and Poles took over from the Russians.

Not yet a man, Bruno’s energy was a commodity in short supply. He was happy to supply it and in return earn some
potatoes
or cheese or a large round loaf or a sausage that he rushed home to his granny with in triumph. She was grateful. But she told him he should be going to school. He argued with her. What was the point of Latin and Greek in the midst of all this? She told him all this wouldn’t last very long, and he would have wasted his time. That was on the good days. On the bad days, she said nothing. Sometimes when he looked at her, he had the distinct sense she was fading in front of his eyes. She started to talk about his mother. Talk as if she might never see her or Anna again. Everything always returned to the subject of her poor daughter Hanka and dear, sweet little baby Anna. He promised that he would try and get across the river as soon as it was possible.

Winter had come early. It was colder than anyone could
remember
. Colder than the mountains in Austria. Colder than your feet turned if you had been skating too long on a bad day. In their rooms, you could see your breath. Bruno scavenged for coal, for firewood, for anything that burned. He met a boy who told him that if they went to the coal cooperative, one of the many
cooperatives
the Russians had set up, and could give the men a little extra on the side – woollen mittens, say, or children’s hats, or sweaters, even some warm cloth – then coal would find its way to them.

His grandfather wouldn’t allow Grandma to work, even though the extra coupons she could earn would prove useful. Bruno knew she could knit, probably even sew. She had made wonderful berets for him when he was little, and Anna’s wardrobe was scattered
with her products. With his new friend, Tomek, he scoured the city and beyond for suitable materials. In the cellar of a derelict building they came across a treasure trove – abandoned bales of cloth, still wrapped in stiff brown paper that had since gone mouldy and was now frozen with the cold. They split the loot and helped each other to cart the fabric to their respective homes, stealthily, at night, always alert to the Russian soldiers and
policemen
, who turned out – when Bruno and Tomek were once stopped – not to be averse to bribes.

Now Bruno began bartering in earnest. He made friends with the workers in the various cooperatives. He acquired large
scissors
, needles, thread. He traded chunks of fabric for whatever he could find, rationing it to last. Grandma sewed, slowly,
meticulously
; but the clothes she fashioned fetched good prices. Though food was as scarce as ever, they now had enough coal. There were also a few new chairs, some brandy for Grandpa, and for Grandma a lamp for reading and sewing by, when the electricity functioned, and some new books to feed her imagination. He even managed to get her a chunk of the butter for which she had yearned for so long, instilling into that single foodstuff all the pleasures peacetime now represented.

When he gave the butter to her, she didn’t eat it straight away. She just stared at it, letting the light from the small lamp play over the glistening square. Then she carefully dabbed a small amount onto a slice of bread and handed it to him. Her face was wet with tears.

Sometimes he would catch her looking at him from the corner of her eye and shaking her head. She had begun to treat him more as a man than a boy, though she often said to him: ‘You’re not yet thirteen, remember.’ He knew she disapproved of his activities, though she refrained from asking him what he was actually up to. His grandfather had no such compunction and gave advice
wherever
he could.

Grandpa walked more slowly now. The indoor life didn’t suit him as well as their outdoor summers. He didn’t have his old fire. But none of this stopped him from insisting that Bruno now also learn at least a modicum of Russian, which would do instead of Greek, since the alphabets were so similar.

Time took on a strange quality through those days. It moved both with startling rapidity and excessive slowness. Perhaps, Bruno thought, it was because they were in a state of constant
vigilance
. They were always waiting, like animals with their ears alert, poised for the killing shot or the frantic escape. Expectant,
watchful
. Waiting for the next strike from above or running for their lives.

People still said the British would be coming at any moment. They would return the world to normal.

Meanwhile anything else could happen, and all of it would be terrible.

With the first breath of spring, he could wait no longer. He now had to make his way to Anna and Mamusia. His grandparents agreed. They trusted him. Grandpa made careful enquiries of
colleagues
. He hung out at the train station to try to pick up what information he could about the geography of German troops just to the west of the city. The railway bridge was now the only one that connected the city to the rest of Poland, so other means of crossing had to be found.

Together, he and Bruno studied maps and drew new ones, which added all the elements of the countryside Grandpa was familiar with. He showed Bruno the points at which the river was at its narrowest and might be swum safely if the current wasn’t too strong and if no soldiers were visible. Or more likely at this time of year, a raft or boat would be necessary. It shouldn’t be too hard to find one, since the farmers in that part of the world often made use of them.

In case he was stopped, Grandpa provided him with a pass that he had stolen from his office. Into this he now carefully wrote Bruno’s name in both Russian and Polish script. He told Bruno not to worry, but to be careful. The official Russian seal should do its work with any Germans who would bother with a mere lad. As for the rest, chances were, no one would be able to read it. The story was the true one but with no Polish addresses given, just in case. He was going to visit his family from whom he had been
separated
during the invasion.

Grandpa gave him a loaf of bread and some sausage for the
journey
and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy the fishing. And don’t forget. When you reach the other side, you’re not a Jew.’

Bruno left home at dawn, feeling like a soldier or an explorer on a dangerous mission. He went north first of all, to get away from the Nazi encampment on the western flank of the city and only then headed towards the river, which divided Russian- from German-controlled Poland. What neither he nor his grandfather had altogether realized was that clandestine passages across the San were constantly being made. Boatmen ran a lucrative trade in ferrying people.

As he walked carefully along the bank, he saw one rowboat
disgorge
far more passengers than it seemed safe to carry and two more speed along with the current. On the second of these boats, there was a commotion, a row about payment from what he could make out. The boatman hit one of his passengers with an oar. The man fell into the water and struggled towards shore. He didn’t swim well, and Bruno ran downstream to thrust a stick his way and help him up onto the bank. From his accented thanks, it was clear to Bruno that the man was a Jew. He was shivering,
frightened
. With a guilty nod, Bruno hurried along, reluctant to
confront
the rest of the party when they docked.

He realized he needed to choose a prudent strategy for making his way across the river. It seemed he could buy his passage, but that might prove treacherous. One could end up beaten and robbed of everything one had. He scaled a bank-side tree and sat amidst its branches, resting, waiting, watching. Then he had an idea. He found a longish stick on the bank and carefully tied the length of string his grandfather had insisted he pack in his small rucksack, together with a hook, onto it. A worm was easy to come by. He stretched out by the bank with his fishing rod in place, just as if he really was the young boy he was. It wasn’t long before he felt a tug, and a smallish perch flew out of the water. His
grandfather
had always said he was a lucky fisherman. Another soon
followed
and after it came a boatman.

‘What you got there?’ the man asked greedily. He was big, his hands gnarled, and Bruno didn’t think he was a match for him.

‘Lunch.’

Before the man could look around him to see if anyone was about to prevent him from stealing them, Bruno said: ‘They’re yours, if you just take me across.’

‘What else have you got?’

‘Nothing. But I know a really good fishing spot on the other side. And if you come back in a few hours, I’ll share the rest of my catch with you.’

The man considered this with a visible effort of mental
arithmetic
. ‘All right. Hop on.’

Bruno watched him carefully, his makeshift fishing rod at the ready, and jumped out almost before they had docked. ‘Okay, see you later. It’s about a kilometre that way.’ He pointed and hurried along. ‘Enjoy my lunch.’

After that, things didn’t go quite so smoothly. He blundered onto a road and saw two Nazi cars coming toward him. With a
pounding
heart, he leaped back into the shelter of trees and stood quietly until they had passed. It was difficult to get his bearings. The sky was overcast and he didn’t know the exact point of the sun or quite where he had reached on his grandfather’s map. In his mind, he rehearsed German. It was so long since he had used it. He walked and trudged, keeping to dirt tracks and woods, greeting the people he met as if he were just a youth on an expedition. Night fell before he had reached Mamusia. It was pointless to go on. He made a bed out of twigs to keep himself dry and forced himself to distinguish the forest sounds, the hoots and calls, as he remembered them. The effort put him to sleep, despite the chill air.

He was woken by the sound of voices. He lay motionless until they had passed, hoping his breathing didn’t give him away. Then, as soundlessly as he could, he scaled a tree. There, not very far from him, a small group of people were making a bonfire, roasting something. From his distance, their hair and eyes looked wild. Their clothes were torn and tattered. He moved away from them, stepping as silently as he could, hoping that the sound of the fire would mute his footsteps.

With the first milky light, he drank a little water and ate a hunk of bread. He wasn’t frightened, he told himself. He had a stout stick in his hand now, and he looked just like a peasant youth on his way home. He would soon be in familiar terrain. It was a bright day, and the sun would help him. He doffed his cap to a farmer in a field. Walked confidently into a wood and promptly got lost. Hours passed before he came across a turn in the land he definitely recognized. He almost shouted with joy. He restrained himself. If he were right, there would be some houses just round the bend. They were there. He marched past, waving to the old man and woman, who were chopping some wood.

When at last he reached the house with its pretty shaded porch, he could feel his heart racing. A woman was walking towards the little orchard to the far side. ‘Mama, Mamusia,’ he started to run and shout, but when she turned it wasn’t his mother, and he almost fell to the ground with the terrified pounding his heart set up.

He heard his grandfather’s voice counselling him. ‘If, by any chance, anything has happened to them, behave as normally as you can and find out what. But don’t get yourself into trouble, if
trouble
means being a relation. You understand?’

With what he felt was a superhuman effort Bruno doffed his cap. ‘
Prosze Pani
,’ he said politely. ‘I’m looking for a Pani…’ He stumbled and for some reason used her old family name. ‘Pani Torok.’

The woman gazed at him. She had dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. Suddenly from behind her, he heard a child’s shout. ‘Bru, Bru.’ Little Anna was racing towards him, leaping into his arms. He held her so tight. He didn’t know he could hold anyone so tight, so warm. But when his mother appeared before him, he
suddenly
felt shy, a stranger. Until she too stepped towards him and tripled their embrace. They stood like that for a long time.

‘I said Bruno was coming. Didn’t I? Didn’t I, Mamusia?’

‘You did, my brave girl. You did.’

‘But you gave his horse away.’

‘I didn’t give her, Anna. You know that. They took her.’ She turned to Bruno. ‘I…I’ve been so afraid for you. And…and the others?’ She lowered her eyes. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

He told her his grandparents were both well. The pallor stayed in her face, but her smile was radiant. She held on to his hand. She held it a lot that summer. And it was a happy time, despite the absence of his horse, despite the visits from the Nazis or their stewards who robbed them of their food.

Mamusia was worried that they would steal him away too. Boys his age under the new regime mostly no longer went to school, but to work. They were kidnapped away from their families, sent to labour in mines or factories in Germany. She determined to get Bruno a work permit, so that his stay in the house had
documented
sanction.