One Crow Alone Page 5

  Finally a door at the back of the room opened: a large man leaned on the door handle and hung into the room. “This way.” His voice echoed against the bare walls.

  Ivan sat up, unfolded his crumpled hat, put it on, and picked up his bag. The man ushered them silently through dimly lit corridors. Unlocked a set of doors. Icy steps led up onto the dark street.

  The cold night air hit them in the face. A small minibus was idling by the side of the road. A man was leaning against it, smoking.

  “Two more for Bartholomew, Jan,” the guard called across the street.

  Magda’s heart beat fast. The man by the minibus beckoned.

  Ivan said to follow. If he runs, should you go too? But then you will never hear of Stopko and the others.

  “Now, Magda!”

  And Ivan ducked and jumped a heap of snow and ran. She had no time to think. The guard grabbed her shoulder. There was only the driver—smoking by the van. He was not expecting it.

  “Hey!” He dropped his cigarette and gave chase.

  But he was too slow.

  Ivan ran between the buildings, leaping nimbly over the banks of snow with his heavy coat flapping and his hat pulled low. Running leaping stumbling: for one second he turned his head. “Magda!” he shouted.

  “Ivan!”

  But Ivan had disappeared into the shadows beneath a block of flats, and was gone.

  The driver shouted and swore in the darkness.

  “Stupid bugger!” He bent over coughing. “He won’t get far.” He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket. “Hello. Hello. Jan over at thirty-four. Displaced youth’s just done a runner. Don’t know. No. About seventeen.” He looked at Magda. “Yeah. All right, I won’t be long.” He put the phone back into his pocket. “Don’t you go getting any clever ideas. It’ll be minus twenty tonight. In you get.”

  He slid open the door of the minibus and helped her up into the back. There were other children sitting inside. The windows were thick with frozen condensation.

  Magda found a place. Squeezed onto the cold vinyl bench between the bundled coats of the others. She peered out the windows as the door slid shut. She wondered about the dog, Azor. Was he still waiting on the side of the road? Waiting for everyone to come home. And Ivan? But if he had made it from the Ukraine in this weather he would be all right.

  The engine started with a judder. She felt a numb weariness. It wasn’t just the cold.

  She sat silent as the bus made its way through the warren of buildings on the Nova Huta estate, with banks of dark windows in every block of flats like blind sentinels. They passed vehicles creeping along the icy streets, fat snowflakes flashing in glaring headlights. It felt a very long way from home.

  Eventually they pulled up in front of a two-story building. The driver jumped down from the cab and slid open the door. It scraped and clunked into place. “We’re here. Come on, there’ll be something to eat.” He helped them down.

  A woman from the building stood out on the snow and beckoned to the line of disoriented children. They filed in through the door and found themselves in a chilly entrance lobby with a high desk that ran along one wall. The desk was covered in files and paperwork, and on the wall a faded poster proclaimed:

  Their Future, Foster a Child Today.

  The woman led them across the hallway and opened a door into a large room with benches lined up across the floor.

  “Quiet now—it won’t take long. Then you can have a bit to eat and get to bed. I need to take your names.”

  A small boy started crying.

  Magda felt it too. She reached out for the boy and he slid up onto her lap. With every nerve in her body she wanted to be back in the village: to smell Babula’s kitchen, hear the tick of the clock on the shelf, crawl under the heavy blankets on her bed, fall asleep listening to the logs collapsing in the stove.

  The woman wrote down their names and villages in a large book.

  “Now, let’s get something for you to eat and I’ll take you upstairs. Your parents will probably arrive tomorrow.”

  The lights went out.

  There were loud exclamations that sounded from other parts of the building, shrieks and laughter. The woman fumbled her way out of the room. They heard her talking to someone in the entrance hall. “It’s getting earlier every day. Do you know where the paraffin is?”

  A door closed. The children were left alone, hiding their snuffling fears in the dark. Then there were footsteps and the striking of a match and the woman reappeared with a small lamp glowing in her hand.

  “Are the lights going to come back on?” one of the girls asked.

  “Not tonight. But you’ll get used to it. Now let’s get some food. This way. You older ones, help the little ones. Watch out for the steps.”

  * * *

  In a dimly lit room, sitting in rows on long hard benches, they ate some sausage and bread. The sausage was fatty and hard. There was milk for the smaller children and tea for everyone else.

  Magda could hear the sound of footsteps on the floor above. When they had eaten, they made their way up the stairs, following the woman and her lamp along a corridor.

  “These are the sinks.” She waved her hand at an open door. Children were standing at a row of sinks, little ones on tiptoes, big ones looking at the new arrivals.

  “The hot water only comes on for a few hours in the morning, so no wasting time. Here we are.”

  She pushed open a door to a long room with metal bunkbeds jammed so close you could barely walk between them. Paraffin lamps hung from the ceiling. The air smelled bitter with smoke. There were children everywhere, climbing into bunks, sitting on the beds, talking in the aisles.

  “Quiet down! Now come on, girls—find a spare bed. You older ones can help the little ones get ready. Make sure they keep their belongings under the pillow.”

  And with those words she turned and left.

  * * *

  The children climbed into their beds. Magda had not undressed, but lay on the narrow metal bunk, her thoughts drifting.

  Far off, away across some remembered meadow, across a wide sea of rippling grass, a bell was ringing. But Magda could not tell from which direction the sound came, or which path led home. Home to good sensible Babula, with a cool, soft hand on her brow: The wind blows where it chooses, but we never know where it comes from, or where it is going. We are just one more stalk amongst that swaying grass. One more stalk. Not the first. Not the last.

  Magda thought of the boy, Ivan, running into the dark. Magda did not know why Ivan was running. Or what had happened to him.

  It bothered her.

  And Mama. How far away London seemed.

  And even if the authorities found Bogdan Stopko, would he come looking for her? She turned on her side with her hand under her head.

  She was a pulled tooth. Rootless. Alone.

  A landed fish thrashing on the bank.

  8

  It happened then, that three weeks later—without warning—Bogdan Stopko arrived at Bartholomew Displaced Children’s Center.

  Thinner and paler, Magda stood awkwardly in the cold hallway. “Pan Stopko!”

  Stopko did not look like the man she had known in Morochov. He bowed his head. Muttered. Averted his eyes. Hid his dirty hands in the hat he held in front of him. The director of the children’s home led them to a room and left them alone.

  “How did you find me?” Magda said.

  “A boy I did not know told me that you were looking for me.” Stopko sat down on a chair. Looked about the bare room to avoid her eyes. “He told me where to find you.”

  “Ivan!”

  “He didn’t tell me his name. I didn’t ask.”

  “It must be. But where are the others from the village?”

  “Kowalski had family in Lodz. He went there with his wife somehow. The others, I—I don’t know now.”

  “The Dudek brothers?”

  “Aleksy has work at the Zory coal mine. Same as me.”

  �
�Brunon?” she asked.

  “Brunon? I don’t know where he is. Why didn’t you come with us that night? Did you bury your grandmother, girl?”

  “I was frightened when I saw the men. And I hid in the cellar. Yes, I buried Babula.”

  “Have you called your mother?”

  “I have tried every day. They only let me make one call—but her telephone is always dead. They don’t help me. They know I am sixteen. They say they cannot let me stay here forever. The other children. Their parents come. They have been split up on the transports or they have family. But for me there’s no one.”

  Magda’s voice broke and she hung her head. She couldn’t help herself.

  Stopko, fiddling with his hat, looked embarrassed. “Come on now. Crying won’t help.”

  Magda looked up, wiped her eyes. “I have a paper for your pony.”

  “My pony?”

  “Yes. I took the pony from your barn. And your dog. To get to Karlikov. That’s where I found the trucks.”

  “A paper?”

  “Yes. You will get compensation.”

  “Why?”

  “They shot it.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve, took the folded paper from her pocket. Handed it to him.

  “How much?” he said.

  “I don’t know. They told me to take the paper. That’s all.”

  Stopko folded it up and put it inside his jacket. Pulled on his hat and got up from his chair.

  Magda reached out for his arm. “Please. You will help me?”

  “Look, Magda, I am sleeping in a room with five other men. What can I do for you?”

  “Please, Pan Stopko. I have no one else. You cannot leave me here.”

  “But I don’t have anywhere for you to stay. You can’t share a room with five men.”

  “Then help me get to England?”

  “Listen to me, girl.” He pointed his stubby finger at her. “In Morochov I knew everything. Here I am just another hungry man from the countryside. I don’t understand it any better than you. But something has changed. They talk about war. We’re not the only ones without electricity or food. They say troops are moving east. They have taken eastern Kazakhstan. Some say the Russians won’t stop until they cross the border into Poland.”

  “But why?”

  “The only thing I know is that there are soldiers on every road from here to the Ukraine. You won’t get back to the village, much less to London.”

  “What will I do then?”

  He turned and stared out the window. “I will give you half the money for the pony. I owe it to you.”

  “Is that all?”

  Stopko put up his hands. “I can’t do anything else, Magda. I’m lucky enough to have a bed. And work that buys me a bit of food. If I could go back home, I would go back yesterday.”

  “You are just going to leave me here?”

  Bogdan Stopko was regretting his promise to give Magda half the money. She was, well—not quite nothing to him. But times had changed. Nevertheless, some part of his conscience stirred.

  “Listen. The other men have gone to the coal mines at Zory for their week’s shift. Tonight there is a bed and I will let you sleep and eat for one night. You can queue for the money. But after that I’ll be gone to Zory too. You’ll have to look after yourself.”

  * * *

  Before they left, Bogdan Stopko had to sign a paper saying he had taken her. He did not want to do it. He had to write his address. His cheeks became red. The woman opened the book for him. Showed him where to write. His writing was like a child’s.

  * * *

  “It’s a long walk. Can’t afford a bus for two,” he said when they were out on the street.

  Magda pulled her hat down. Slung her small bag over her shoulder. “I don’t mind a walk,” she said quickly.

  “Hmm. Well, don’t bother me if you get tired.”

  A small minibus loaded with people sloshed past them, spraying dirty snow from its wheels. The people inside were packed like mushrooms in a jar, bodies squashed against the steamy windows with bulging bags heavy on their laps.

  “Come on. This way.”

  Stopko stepped out onto the road and strode across it with his square-fingered hands in his pockets and his big square neck deep in his collar. And she slogged along behind him.

  9

  Bogdan Stopko was right. In Morochov he had been someone, and here he was just another man from the countryside. The city people, if they looked at all, looked distrustfully at the stocky man, and the thin country girl trotting at his heels.

  At last, they crossed the river. Tramped the cobbled pavements with houses leaning over them on every side. Stopko halted at a shabby building with a wooden door. He opened it with a key on a string in his pocket. From a dingy stone-flagged hallway he scuffed wearily up the creaking stairs, his short, dirty fingers clenching the dark banister. At the top of the landing he opened a door.

  “This is it.”

  Magda stepped inside a stale-smelling room, and Stopko let the door fall shut behind them.

  Ill-sorted beds were pushed against the walls. A large iron radiator under the window was covered in damp woolen socks. In the corner was a bathroom sink, an unframed mirror above it, a brown stain on the enamel under the taps. A melamine cupboard, attempting mahogany, clung lopsided to the wall. Underneath it on a small table was a battered kettle with a grimy handle, an empty vodka bottle, and several dirty mugs. From under the covers on one of the beds a large shape was snoring loudly. Stopko waved at it. “Don’t worry. Tomasz wouldn’t wake up if you lit a fire on his head.”

  Magda looked around the room.

  Well. It could be worse.

  She remembered what the priest had said about Stopko, Good men don’t grow like brambles, Magda. He has two fields a tractor and a pony—

  She looked at Bogdan Stopko. He sat on the bed, wearily pulling off his wet boots—leaning them against the radiator. Brambles indeed. He saw her looking at him.

  “You don’t like it, huh?”

  “No, no. It’s not that. Just—”

  “Just what?”

  “Nothing. Nothing, Pan Stopko. Shall I make you a tea?”

  “Yes. If there’s electricity.” He reached over and put his hand on the radiator. “There’s heat so maybe there’s power.”

  Magda put her bag down in the corner and took off her coat. Stopko waved at the door. She hung it on an overcrowded peg there. Went to the sink, filled up the kettle. “The tea, Pan Stopko?”

  “In the saucer.”

  Magda looked down at the dirty table. There was an old saucer with a couple of used tea bags squashed onto it. The kettle started popping and crackling.

  “Make one for yourself,” Stopko said. “There’s bread and sausage in the cupboard too.”

  They sat at each end of the bed and ate their meal. “I need to sleep,” said Stopko, slurping at the tea. “I have to work tomorrow.”

  “But the paper. The money for the pony?”

  “Yes. Yes.” He dug the paper from his pocket. Held it out to her. “Half and half. Like we agreed.”

  She pulled it from his fingers. “But where do I take it?”

  “The administrative building on the corner of Spinka Street. It’s not far. Just ask.” He leaned toward her, grasped her shoulder. Narrowed his eyes like a horse trader. “You come back with the money!”

  “Of course, Pan Stopko.”

  “Mmm.” He released his grip. “Take some food too. You’ll be there all day.”

  “Pan Stopko. Do you—do you know where I can find Ivan?”

  “Who?”

  “The boy who told you where I was. Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “How did he find you?”

  “I don’t know, Magda. Now let me rest. I could sleep for a week and still be tired.”

  And with that he lay down, pulled the blankets over his head, and turned to the wall.

  * * *

  At the administrat
ive building, Magda took a number from a roll of tickets and stood with the jostling crowd. She peered down at the ticket. Two hundred and ninety-three.

  God in heaven.

  At the far end of the room was a counter with one woman behind a window. One by one she shouted the numbers out. People squabbled. There was a din in the cold, airless room, a din and the smell of unwashed bodies. A mobile phone rang. Someone shouted into it above the noise. A mother with two children tried to push to the front. An old woman with deep lines in her yellowing skin screeched angrily. The children cried.

  * * *

  At the end of a long day, Magda received three thousand zloty for Bogdan Stopko’s dead pony. She folded the worn notes and stuffed them into her jacket. Pushed her way through the crowds.

  Outside, it was dark already. She rested against a wall. Her feet, still damp from her long walk across the city, were frozen and aching.

  There weren’t many people about now. There were no lights. Shutters were closed.

  A Jeep crawled along the icy street, its windows darkened. A fat woman, bottle in hand, stumbled about in the middle of the road, slipped onto her knees, gulped from the bottle.

  Magda slunk quickly through the shadows. It wasn’t far to Stopko’s building. Her heart beat fast.

  “Psst.”

  She jumped.

  “Magda.”

  She peered into a gloomy doorway.

  “Magda. It’s me. Ivan.”

  “Ivan!”

  “You have the money?”

  “What?”

  Ivan stepped out of the shadows. “The money for the pony?”

  “Yes. But—how do you know? I mean, how did you know I would be here?”

  “I’ve been following you. I followed that oaf Stopko to Nova Huta too. I’m freezing. You’ve been in there for hours. How much did they give you for the pony?”

  “Three thousand.”

  “It’s not much. But maybe it will be enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “To get out of here, you foolish girl.”

  “You came to take my money?”

  A smile cracked across Ivan’s face in the shadowy doorway. He reached out and pulled Magda toward him. His hands were strong.