22 Britannia Road - Amanda Hodgkinson [21]
Janusz turned to Bruno. Already he preferred the older man to this boy with his hurried speech and uncoordinated limbs.
‘But how did it all happen so quickly? What date is it?’
‘October 8th,’ said Franek. ‘My mother’s birthday. I wanted to send her a postcard, but Bruno says we’ll have to do it when we get to France.’ He nodded at the freshly turned earth behind them. ‘What are you doing up there? What’re you digging for?’
Janusz looked at the old woman’s grave. He had no wish to tell them the truth.
‘I was burying a dead dog. If you’re hungry you’d better come this way. I can find you something to eat.’
He led them to the cottage, thinking about what they’d said. Had he really spent over a month here? He glanced back at the mound of earth. A mass of flies still buzzed above it. How he hated those insects. If it was already October, the coming Polish winter would soon kill them, and he’d be glad. The old woman would be able to rest in peace. Then she might finally stop haunting his dreams.
‘Come in,’ he said to the men, holding the door open. As they entered he realized he was glad they were there. He’d been alone too long.
Ipswich
Aurek has his own room. His mother told him it was just for him, and he wonders what he’s going to do with it. He doesn’t understand why he can’t share with her, why she has to sleep in another room where he is not allowed. He pulls his sheets into a ball, drags his eiderdown up to the headboard of his rickety iron bed and makes a nest. He’d rather sleep under the trees. He misses the feel of the shelter he and his mother squeezed into for so long.
With his knuckled spine pressed hard against the wall, sheets twisted around him, his eyes follow the upward tilt of hundreds of small grey aeroplanes flying in formation across the bumpy walls. There is a dark wardrobe he won’t open in case a man with an axe is hiding in it, and a bookshelf with heavy-looking English books stacked on it. The one thing he likes is the picture on the wall; a black-and-white print of puppies crowded into a basket with ribbons around their necks. That’s the image to concentrate on when the night comes and the wardrobe starts mocking him for sleeping alone.
He climbs out of the muddle of bedclothes, takes a leap past the wardrobe, and is up on the windowsill, face against the window.
There are other houses across the way, red brick with outhouses just like this one and long rows of gardens where washing lines flash and billow. The tree at the bottom of his garden is covered in new leaves tight as children’s fists. It’s a perfect tree for climbing and already a towering friend to Aurek. He can almost smell the earthy, beetle-shell scent of its bark and he longs to climb into its branches.
But he can’t go into the garden. His mother is down there, kneeling in the earth, planting seeds. The man she says is his father is working alongside her, digging a trench for potatoes. That’s the man who has taken his mother away from him.
The glass is cold against Aurek’s cheek.
‘You’re not my father,’ he breathes, a circle of mist appearing on the windowpane. ‘Pan jest moim wrogiem. You are enemy.’
In the garden, Janusz stops his work and wipes his face with his sleeve. He looks up at the sky, and Aurek wonders if he has heard his whisperings and is considering what he said. As Janusz slams his spade into the ground and begins turning over the soil again, Aurek leaps back onto the bed, pulling the covers over him.
Beyond the closed knot of his folded limbs, he is sure he hears the wardrobe door creak. He is shot through with fear. He huddles deeper into his nest and croons to himself, a soft birdsong to keep the enemy away.
In the first few months, Janusz struggles to find an order to their life. He leaves home early for work and when he returns, he teaches Silvana and Aurek English. They read together and then listen to the radio, mimicking the crystal-clear accents of the presenters.
He’s surprised and pleased at the way Silvana picks up the language. She looks better week by week. Her skin