Part 6 (1/2)

He steps aside and she dips her head to go through the wooden door, thankful that she has been given another chance. Bent over like that, for a moment she is reminded of Sunday church visits with Ja.n.u.sz's family. She instinctively lifts her hand to cross herself. She will work harder. No more daydreaming. She's so fired up by her convictions, she turns back and asks the foreman if she can stay behind and sew for a few more hours.

'Go home,' he says, not unkindly. 'Go on, get on with you.'

'I don't want anyone looking at my son.'

Ja.n.u.sz sighs. 'It's just a doctor.'

'There is no need to get other people involved,' insists Silvana. 'There is nothing wrong with Aurek.'

Ja.n.u.sz will not be talked out of his decision. He explains they need to know how to stop the child fighting at school, how to stop him making odd noises and acting crazy. What he really wants to know is how to make the child love him.

When Ja.n.u.sz looks at Aurek it is as though he sees the boy through a curtain, a fine curtain that you cannot take hold of in your hands, a curtain like a fast-falling flurry of snow that changes landscapes and blocks out all chance of understanding. He wants the doctor to show him how to see through it, how to bring the child into the light.

In his mind he sees a lively, chatty little English lad with his pockets full of cigarette cards, conkers, string, penknives and homemade catapults. He wants a boy who asks him to explain how aeroplanes work and machines turn.

Somewhere behind that snowy, hemmed-in world Aurek inhabits is his real child. Of that Ja.n.u.sz is sure. A doctor will know what to do. Modern medicine will give Ja.n.u.sz back his son, and he will be able to teach him how to ride a bicycle and make model planes. They will play cricket together in the back garden and go to football matches.

Ja.n.u.sz and Silvana sit in a crowded waiting room with the child between them, surrounded by the sounds of legs crossing and uncrossing, magazine pages being turned, the wet gurgles and wails of babies and the dry misery of hacking coughs and stifled sneezes. Ja.n.u.sz checks his watch.

'There is nothing wrong with him,' insists Silvana.

'That's what I hope.'

Aurek has started humming, a rumbling purr, like the drone of bees. Ja.n.u.sz tries to catch Silvana's eye, wanting her to stop the boy making that noise, but she is staring at the exit as if she is planning to escape at any moment.

Beside the door, a young woman sits, swinging her foot. Her tan stocking is darned at the ankle. She reminds him of Helene. He can't help staring. The woman looks up from her magazine and their eyes meet. But she is nothing like Helene. It is a mistake he makes all the time, seeing her in other women, tiny fragments of recognition in the brim of a hat, the movement of an ankle, a collar, the curve of a neck, a wave of the hand. It's a weakness in him that won't go away. A shameful hunger in him, like a man who has long ago stopped drinking but still dreams of the taste of vodka burning his lips.

Ja.n.u.sz can feel the woman's gaze s.h.i.+ft to take in his wife and son beside him. She turns back to the magazine on her lap and he suddenly feels foolish. It is a relief when they are finally ushered into the doctor's office, a small, dark room lined with books in gla.s.s cabinets.

The doctor is a tall man with a stooped back and a head of thick grey hair. He moves methodically, steadily. Ja.n.u.sz has confidence in him. Like so many English men of the middle cla.s.ses, the doctor's clothes are shabby but still look expensive: a thick wool jacket wearing thin at the elbows, over-washed white cuffs, discreet gold cufflinks. Polished black leather shoes that s.h.i.+ne like oil.

He is gentle with Aurek, approaching him slowly, spreading his hands as if to show he has nothing to hide. No sudden movements. Calm and steady.

Blood pressure, weight, height, head circ.u.mference, pulse.

Aurek, in his vest, nervous as a stray dog.

'Nothing wrong with him as such,' says the doctor, taking off his stethoscope and laying it on his desk. He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a sweet. 'There you are, young man. A barley sugar for your troubles. That's it; let your mother get you dressed again.'

'Is it normal...' Ja.n.u.sz hesitates. He doesn't know how to say this. 'Is it normal that he doesn't seem to know me?'

The doctor reaches for a pipe that lies on his desk and begins filling it with tobacco from a small leather pouch beside it. He glances up at Ja.n.u.sz.

'You've been apart for a long time. You and your wife can help him of course by showing him that you are happy together. That's important for the child's development. But, really, there's nothing terribly wrong with the boy.'

'I say this,' Silvana b.u.t.ts in. 'I say this, but he won't listen.'

Ja.n.u.sz coughs, s.h.i.+fts his weight from one foot to the other. 'I just want to make sure the boy is all right.'

The doctor lights his pipe, sucks on it, continues speaking.

'Your son is underweight and small for his age. He shows signs of having rickets; his chest, that knotted look to his sternum. But it's to be expected given his history. Unfortunately we see this a lot at the moment.'

'He hides food around the house.' Ja.n.u.sz can hold back no longer. 'He's not like other children. He pleases himself. Sometimes he talks quite normally. Other times he makes bird noises. What's wrong with him?'

'He's been through a war,' says the doctor wearily. 'Give him time, a secure home, proper food and plenty of discipline and he'll be right as rain.'

The doctor shakes Ja.n.u.sz by the hand and gives him a prescription for cod liver oil and malt extract.

'I suggest liquid paraffin for the lice. He's got quite an infestation. Leave it on his hair for thirty-six hours and take care to avoid him approaching any naked flames.'

Silvana does not shake the doctor's hand. She holds Aurek tightly, guarding him in a way that makes Ja.n.u.sz think of the prisoners of war he has seen, the ones who fear their boots and coats will be stolen.

On the way home, Ja.n.u.sz tries to feel hopeful. There is nothing wrong with the boy. All he needs is a home and time to settle in. That sounds right. For all of them.

At break time, Aurek slips between the school railings, runs across the road, around the back of the co-operative dairy with its sign that says milk in giant glossy blue tiles, past a big house with broken gla.s.s in its windows, and stops at the main road. A policeman is walking towards him, and Aurek ducks into the garden of the empty house.

Through overgrown bushes where brown seeds stick to his clothes and weeds p.r.i.c.kle his skin, he makes his way to the back of the derelict house. n.o.body will look for him here. All he wants is to be left alone. To be allowed to wander through the easy hours of the day and sleep through the dark nights curled up against his mother.

Climbing through a window, he drops into the gloom of a large room. Cupboards full of dust and dirt stand with doors hanging from their hinges. He kicks at layers of bird droppings and old leaves to reveal a red-tiled floor. A pigeon flaps across the room and out of the window.

This is a forgotten place. He'd like to live in this house. Just him and his mother. No separate bedrooms. They stayed in a house once, a cottage in the woods. He wanders through the dim rooms, sc.r.a.ping lacy cauls of pale mould from damp walls. Stopping at the kitchen, he finds a tall wall cupboard, its doors long since fallen off. He climbs inside, settling himself among the dust and pigeon mess.

He takes his wooden rattle from his schoolbag and sets it down beside him. He knows it's a stupid baby toy and not for a boy his age, but his mother says the rattle is full of Polish magic. It was carved from magic wood. He is sure she is wrong, but still, he is careful with it. Just in case.

He stares at his hand-me-down shoes and reties one. They are a size too big and his narrow feet slip around in someone else's footsteps. Aurek kicks at the wall, scuffing his shoe over and over. Birds fly in and out of the house and he listens to the applause of their wings, their rumbling coo. It's a lovely sound. Peaceful. There are no other children to call him names. No adults to force him to sit up straight and write his letters.

His voice starts as a vibration in his throat, like a kitten purring. He c.o.c.ks his head on one side, trying out different notes, a musician tuning up. When he has the right tune, the same lilt and fall in the song as the birds roosting above him, he opens his mouth and raises his voice. The house echoes with the sound of pigeons.

When the day begins to fade, Aurek sees a man standing in the doorway of the old house, like a black shadow. The enemy has found him.

'Aurek?' says the enemy quietly. 'Come with me, son. It's time to go home.'

Aurek climbs out of the cupboard and follows him through the leaves and broken tiles out into the street with his hands in the air, surrendering. He's not going to admit it but he's glad they are going home because he can feel the failing heat in the hedges and pavements and smell the night descending. Aurek is afraid of the dark. He likes to close his eyes to it and keep them closed until dawn.

He picks up a stick and holds it like a gun, shooting at windows and doors. He presses it close to his side, then swings around and shoots people in the back as they pa.s.s. Sticking his head round the door of a pub, he sprays machine-gun fire into the half-empty saloon bar. A boy about the same age, sitting at a table, stares straight at him. He has a face full of brown freckles, cheeks the colour of bacon.

The boy gives him a grin, nods his head, folds his fleshy chin into his solid neck. Aurek shoots him dead. A bullet to the heart. The boy gives a thumbs-up and falls off his chair in a swoon, clutching his hand to his chest. Aurek is transfixed. Then the barman is shouting at him to clear off and Aurek runs ahead, waving his stick in the air the way soldiers do when they want to move people quickly. By the time he gets home, Aurek has killed everybody.

He sits at the kitchen table eating bread and dripping, and Ja.n.u.sz breaks his stick gun into pieces.

'No more war games,' he says. 'I don't like you playing like that.'

Aurek thinks it's a useless thing to break his twig gun. He knows there are enough sticks and twigs in the world for him to make guns out of until he's an old, old man. Surely the enemy knows that too?

Poland