No Safe Place (8 page)

She picked up a discarded newspaper, kept her head down and headed out on the next part of her journey.

A cushion hit Abdul on the head, waking him up.

He jumped to his feet and found himself standing toe to toe with a glaring Rosalia.

“Keep away from me,” she said.

“I wasn't bothering you.”

“You were watching me sleep. I will throw you off the boat.”

Rosalia snatched up the little bag of black pebbles, stuffed it in her trouser pocket and stomped away.

“I wasn't bothering you!” he called after her. She cursed back at him in three languages from the other end of the boat.

“She's really angry.”

Abdul heard Jonah's voice.

“I'm up here.”

Jonah was sitting on the roof of the wheelhouse.

“Be careful up there.” Abdul said, as he climbed up and sat beside him.

“You sound like my mum. She was always saying things like that.”

“That's what mothers do. When did she die?”

“I was eight. She died just before Christmas. Happy Christmas to me.”

“Was she sick?”

“She took a lot of drugs.”

“Oh.”

“Is your mum waiting for you in England?” Jonah asked.

“No. She's dead.”

“Your dad?”

“He's dead, too.”

“So you're alone then?”

“I guess I am.”

“Why are you going to England?” Jonah asked. “England's nothing special, but people always want to go there.”

“There's something I have to do.”

“Like a job?”

“Isn't that why most people go to England?”

“Maybe you don't need a job,” said Jonah. “Maybe you're already rich. You never paid my uncle.”

“No. I didn't.”

“So you owe him. But he's dead. So now you owe me.”

Abdul laughed.

“You want me to pay you? That's not going to happen.”

“You owe me,” Jonah said. “If you don't want to pay me money, you could just…take care of me.”

“Take care of you?”

“We'd take care of each other,” Jonah said quickly. “I'm a hard worker. I could make your tea and run to the take-away.”

“Find someone else. I'm no good at taking care of people. Ask Rosalia. Ask Cheslav.”

“Cheslav doesn't like me,” said Jonah. “And I'm afraid of Rosalia. So that leaves you.”

“No. It doesn't. England is your country. People there will take care of you.”

“Strangers.”

“I'm a stranger, too,” said Abdul. “And I'm hungry. Do you want to help me make supper for everyone?”

“No! I don't want to help you. And I don't want to live with you, either. I can take care of myself!”

“Jonah…”

“Go away. I don't even want to sit with you.” Jonah turned his back to Abdul. “My uncle was right. You're just a dirty Arab.”

The words hit Abdul like a slap. He climbed down from the roof and left the boy alone.

Rosalia was in the wheelhouse at the controls.

“I'm taking us out of here,” she said, turning on the motor.

“Jonah's on the roof.”

Rosalia yelled at Jonah to get down so he wouldn't fall when the boat started to move. Jonah did as she said but went to the farthest place he could go on the deck and kept his back to them all.

“Who started the boat?” Cheslav came into the wheelhouse.

“I want to get to England,” Rosalia said. “England is north. I'm taking us north.”

“We could pass England and go straight into the North Sea,” said Cheslav. “If we go straight west we will go out into the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Northwest, then,” said Abdul. “If we miss England, we'll hit Ireland.”

“Northwest,” Rosalia decided. “I will do this. You will back away and stop crowding me.”

Cheslav took a step toward her, but Abdul took his arm and led him out of the wheelhouse. He'd had enough of people being angry for one day.

/ / / / / / / /

Down in the boat's tiny kitchen, Abdul opened cupboard doors and slammed them so hard they bounced open again.

“I am so sick of these people!” He took down a bag of macaroni noodles and a can of tuna. “I'll make a hot meal for myself. I don't care if they starve.”

He turned to fill a pot with water and saw Cheslav leaning in the doorway.

Abdul felt foolish for talking out loud, even though he'd been speaking in Kurdish and doubted Cheslav could understand him.

“Do you eat tuna in Russia?” he asked in English.

“In Russia, we eat caviar.”

Abdul laughed. He found the can opener. He could feel the Russian's eyes on him. Cheslav was watching him the way his younger cousins watched him back in Iraq.

“If you're going to watch, you might as well work.” He handed over the opener and the tuna and turned his attention to the noodles. He emptied them into the boiling water and turned to see Cheslav holding the can opener, a look of confusion on his face.

Abdul took it back, stuck it into the tuna can and gave the handle a couple of turns. Then he handed it all back to Cheslav. The utensil was awkward in the Russian's hands but, after a couple of turns, the can was open.

Abdul strained the tuna into the sink. After a while he fished a couple of noodles out of the pot, tried one to see if it was done and handed the other to Cheslav. Cheslav chewed carefully, then nodded. Abdul poured the noodles into a strainer, shook the water out of them and put them back in the pot on the stove with the heat off.

“My father taught me to cook,” he said. “He liked to give my mother time to paint when she wasn't at her job.”

“Someone always cooked for me,” said Cheslav.

“Your mother?”

“No!”

“Then who?”

“They cooked. They didn't talk.”

Abdul let it go. He added the tuna and some butter to the noodles, then handed a wooden spoon to Cheslav.

“Stir,” he said.

Cheslav stirred.

They divided the supper among four bowls and took them up on the deck. Jonah was still in a bad mood and refused to join them in the wheelhouse. Cheslav said he'd be happy to eat Jonah's share, and Jonah came in and ate.

After supper, Abdul took a turn at the wheel. Everyone stayed together in the wheelhouse. No one talked, but at least, Abdul thought, they weren't fighting. He suspected that they, like him, were thinking ahead to the next stage of the journey. Once they landed in England, they would go their separate ways. He couldn't say he was actually friends with Cheslav and Rosalia, but they weren't enemies, either. He wasn't really looking forward to being alone.

Though it won't be for long, he reminded himself. One last thing to do, then no more worries. No more loneliness.

“I'll clean up,” Jonah said. He gathered up all the empty bowls. “See? I can work hard.” He went below.

“What did he mean?” Cheslav asked.

“He wanted me to look after him in England,” Abdul said. “I told him no.”

“He's old enough to look after himself,” said Cheslav. He left the wheelhouse and went below.

“The English will look after Jonah,” Rosalia said. “They would not let you be with him even if you wanted to.”

“He says I owe him because I still have the money I didn't give his uncle.”

“That's right,” said Rosalia. “You still have money.”

“Do you have people in England? I mean…” He hadn't meant to do this, but now he couldn't see any way not to. “I mean, if you don't have any money, I could let you have some of mine.”

“In exchange for what?”

“For nothing. You could just have it. Because we are traveling together.”

“We are not traveling together.” She got up and stood at the wheel to look into his face. “We are all alone on this boat. I am alone. The boy is alone. You are alone. The Russian is alone. You have some idea that we are friends, but we're not.”

“Fine.” Abdul stepped away from the wheel so Rosalia could take over. He headed out of the wheelhouse, then turned back. “I don't know what happened to you, but you have no right to accuse me of wanting to hurt you. I don't know you, but you don't know me, either.”

Abdul went to the back of the boat and watched the water churn up from the motor. He could not wait to get to England and get away from these people!

He tried to calm himself. He curled his toes the way his father had taught him. As always, it helped.

He put the others out of his mind and tried to picture England so he could be prepared. It was hard to make a plan without knowing what he was heading into.

England would be orderly. That much he knew from the photos he had seen in books. The British liked stone walls, neat pathways and traffic laws. There would be hedges and street signs and little shops that never ran out of things.

It would make the most sense to look for a dark place to land the boat, so that meant countryside or a small town. Abdul wished he knew how much he would stand out. He knew there were people who looked like him in England's cities, but would he be too much of a stranger in the countryside? Would people see him and call the police?

After he got rid of Jonah, he would be free. Maybe there was a train or a bus he could catch, but that idea made him feel cooped up and trapped. If someone tried to come after him on a train or a bus, he wouldn't be able to get away.

It would be better to walk. It would take him longer, but time didn't mean much anymore. He'd walk at night, hide during the day and eventually, finally, he would get to his destination.

His fingers went to the thin chain around his neck and he absentmindedly rubbed the medallion.

He could spend his money in England. He could go into a store and buy food. He could even buy a way out of the rain — a cup of coffee in a restaurant, a ticket to a cinema. If he was careful, the money he had would be all he needed.

Abdul heard a sound behind him. Cheslav pushed a blanket-wrapped bundle ahead of him out of the entrance to the stairs.

“I cleaned out the cupboards,” he said. “I'm going to sell all this in England.” He took a screwdriver from the boat's tool kit and began to remove a brass bell that was screwed to the boat.

“How are you going to move around with all that?” Abdul asked. “Won't it slow you down?”

“I am not worried about that.” The bell clanged as he put it into the bundle, tied the ends of the blanket together and straightened up.

The smile on his face changed to a look of alarm.

“Lights!” he shouted. “Coming this way! We are being chased!”

He ran to the wheelhouse and shoved Rosalia away from the wheel. Abdul fell to the deck as the boat jolted forward at full speed.

“I'm not getting caught!” Cheslav yelled. He aimed the boat toward a bank of thick fog. “I'm not going back! I'm not going back!”

“I don't know what I'm going to do with him.”

The housemother looked down at Cheslav, standing between two policemen.

“It's the third time he's run away, and he's only been with us for two years.”

Cheslav stood on the front step of the Baby House, wet from the rain he'd been running in. He was too tired now to try to escape the grip of the officer's hands on his arms.

“He's not too big to tie to the bed,” one of the officers said.

“I don't like to do that with the older ones,” the housemother said. “At least he's nearly seven. Soon he'll be someone else's problem.”

The police officers handed Cheslav over to the housemother and left. Cheslav was marched up the stairs and down the hallway to the room where the older boys slept.

“No more outings for you,” the housemother said. “Get your pajamas on.”

Cheslav's fingers were numb with cold. He had trouble undoing the buttons. The housemother, impatient, yanked his shirt over his head.

“You won't find your mother by running around Cheremkhova. Now I have to wash these clothes. You are nothing but work.”

She left the dormitory. Cheslav heard the click of the door locking behind her.

He stood in the middle of the room and shivered. The dorm was cold and he was chilled from the rain. Whispers of children rose up around him.

“Chicken got caught! Chicken got caught!”

That's what they called Cheslav. Chicken. Because he was scrawny and bony and spent playtime running along the Baby House fence looking for a way out, just like the chickens the housemother kept.

“Chicken got caught!”

Someone threw a pillow at him. He picked it up and went to his mat — one of twenty that took up most of the floor space.

There was no blanket on his mattress. Another child had taken it. Cheslav curled up around the pillow to try to get warm.

“That's mine,” said the boy who had thrown the pillow.

Cheslav clutched the other boy's pillow closer to his chest. He wrapped his arms around it and held tight.

“Give it back.”

The other child started to tug. Cheslav heard the sound of feet running across the floor as boys left their mats to crowd around and watch. Several joined in trying to get the pillow back.

Cheslav was kicked and hit but he held fast to the pillow. His eyes were shut. He entwined his fingers together even as the boys tried to pry them apart. For long minutes, he took their abuse.

Then, in a flash, he was on his feet and swinging. The other boy's pillow flew out of his hands. But it was no longer about that. It was about hitting what he could hit. It was about getting relief from the rage that had built up inside him.

“What's going on in here?”

The dormitory door flung open. A shaft of light flooded in from the hallway.

“You again!”

Cheslav was lifted out of the middle of the fray by the housemother's strong arms. She carried him out of the dorm.

“I've had enough.” She tossed him into the supply closet and locked him in the dark.

Cheslav jumped and roared and clawed at his surroundings. Everything he could reach he yanked down from the shelves and threw against the walls. The blankets fell to the floor. The bars of soap and cleaning supplies ricocheted off the walls, often hitting him in the head but he didn't stop.

He threw himself over and over against the locked door.

Finally, he fell to the floor in exhaustion. He made himself a nest in the blankets. And slept.

/ / / / / / / /

“What about this one?”

The housemother brought Cheslav forward. A tall man in a military uniform peered down at him.

“He doesn't look big enough,” the man said. “We don't take boys before they're seven.”

“Cheslav just turned seven,” the housemother said. “He's small but he's strong. I think he's just what you're looking for.”

“What are these marks on his head?”

Cheslav still had scars from things landing on him in the closet.

“Playground injuries,” the housemother said. “You know how boys are.”

The uniformed man was all sharp corners and straight lines, all shiny brass buttons and dangling medals. He bent at the waist to look at Cheslav more closely.

“Cheslav, is it? I'm the dean of the junior school at the Siberian Military Academy. Step forward, boy. Let's see how strong you are.”

Cheslav didn't like being stared at, but the man made him hold out his arms and keep his head high.

“Nice straight back,” the man said. “Parents?” he asked the housemother.

“Father dead in a mining accident just after Cheslav was born. His mother found herself an Australian husband and left the country.”

“She's coming back for me,” Cheslav said.

“I'm sure she is,” the man said. “And when she does, she'll be proud to see her little boy standing tall like a man, all smart and polished in a cadet uniform. What do you say? Would you like to come to my academy?”

The man was smiling. He looked right at Cheslav as if Cheslav's opinion mattered very much.

“My mother won't be able to find me if I leave.”

“We'll leave your new address with the housemother here. You don't want to stay at the Baby House forever.” The man raised himself up to speak with the housemother.

“We'll take him right away,” he said. “Best not to give him too much time to think about it.”

Cheslav was bundled into the dean's car that very morning, his few belongings packed into an old Aeroflot shoulder bag.

“You be nice to everybody,” the housemother said as she waved goodbye. “Then everybody will be nice to you.”

The academy was a few hours' drive from the Baby House, on the outskirts of Irkutsk.

“You look like a brave boy,” the dean said to Cheslav as they pulled into the grounds of the Siberian Military Academy. “You probably don't cry much. Am I right about that?”

Cheslav nodded. He cried at night sometimes, but the man probably couldn't know that.

“Good for you. Here's a piece of advice. Don't let the other boys see you cry. Ever. They will make fun of you, and I want you to enjoy your time at my academy. I was a student here, and they were the best years of my life. Do you think you can do that? Enjoy yourself and learn?”

“My mother will be able to find me?”

The dean sighed. “She'll find you.”

“Then I will learn.”

Inside the academy, Cheslav was handed over to his dormitory master, a boy named Gregor from the ninth form. Gregor took him to his dormitory.

“This is where you will sleep,” he said.

They stood in the doorway of a long, narrow room. Cheslav stared at the row of bunk beds lined up so close to each other that there was just a narrow space to walk between them. The walls were white. The blankets on the beds were gray.

Gregor took Cheslav down the row of beds until they came to one with a bare mattress. The sheets and blanket were in a folded pile at one end.

“Looks like you're stuck with a bottom bunk,” Gregor said. “But that means it will be easier to make up your bed.”

He started to unfold the first sheet. Cheslav stood back, watching.

“Do I look like a housemother?” Gregor asked. “You have to make your own bed and keep your space clean. Everyone does. I'll show you this time, but you'd better pay attention because if you do it wrong, you'll be in trouble.”

Cheslav didn't want trouble, so he watched and helped and tried to learn.

Against the other wall were small cupboards.

“Keep your clothes in here,” Gregor said. “Keep them folded. You're in the army now, and we keep things tidy in the army.”

Cheslav put the Aeroflot bag in the cupboard.

“Unpack it,” ordered Gregor. “Then hand over the bag. You won't need it again. You're not going anywhere.”

Cheslav's personal belongings were few. He had an old pipe that had belonged to his father, which Gregor took away because pipes were not allowed. He had an old biscuit tin that held odd rocks, plastic animals, a few marbles and a tiny metal car. And he had a glossy magazine.

“You're a little young for this,” Gregor said, snatching it away. “Whoa — look at them!”

The magazine was full of photographs of beautiful women dressed in nice clothes.

“There's only one thing to do with women like this,” Gregor said, and he made kissing noises at the photographs.

“That's mine!” Cheslav tried to snatch it back. “My mother is in there!”

Gregor looked at the magazine's cover.

“
Russian Brides for Elite Gentlemen
. Your mother is one of these women? Show me.” He handed the magazine back to Cheslav.

Cheslav knew the spot. He found the photo easily but he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying at the sight of his mother's face smiling out at him.

“‘Ivana Petrovka, 29, MA in Pharmacy Studies, likes to sew, cook and dance. Her ideal man likes fun, adventure and a happy home.'” Gregor laughed as he read the caption under the photo. “Your mother is a mail-order bride. Did she land a rich German?”

“Australian. And she's coming back for me.”

“You'd better study hard in English class, then.”

Gregor put the magazine in Cheslav's cupboard and closed the door. He took Cheslav to the quartermaster and left him there to be kitted out in his new uniform.

After getting dressed in his navy trousers, white shirt and navy jacket, it was time for lunch.

In the Baby House, he'd had his special seat at one of the low tables in the playroom. The housemother or one of her helpers would bring him his food on a tray. When he was done they'd take the tray away and wipe his face and hands with a wet cloth.

The academy had a dining room. No one had a special seat.

At his first meal, Cheslav got in line with the other boys, all looking alike in their dark blue uniforms but all different in size. There was a lot of pushing and butting in.

“Don't just stand there — pick up a tray!” Cheslav was told when he found himself in front of a stack of trays.

He had to push the tray along a counter he couldn't see over. A series of ladies in hairnets put things on it — a plate of stew, a piece of bread, a slice of cake, a glass of milk.

From the food line it was a short walk into the large dining room. It was hard for Cheslav to carry his tray, watch that nothing spilled and keep an eye out for an empty space at a table.

“New boy.”

Cheslav saw a blue uniform step in front of him. He stopped and looked up.

It was a much older boy, from the senior school.

“New boy, can I have your piece of cake?” the older boy asked.

Cheslav remembered what his housemother had told him, to be nice.

“Okay,” he said. The older boy took his cake.

“New boy.” Another boy spoke up. “Can I have your glass of milk?”

The boys around them started to laugh.

“Okay,” said Cheslav. The milk was taken, drunk, and the empty glass replaced on the tray.

Cheslav took a few more steps.

“New boy! Can I have your bread?” This one didn't wait for an answer. He just took the bread.

By now the whole dining room was quiet and watching.

“Oh, new boy,” came another voice in a sing-song, mocking tone. “Can I have your stew?”

Cheslav looked up at the smirk on the older boy's face and the meanness in his eyes. The boy was twice his height and had a thick neck below a large head.

He nodded. A hand reached out and took the plate of stew.

The boys in the dining room started to laugh. Then a chant rose from the tables.

“Cry! Cry! Cry! Cry!”

It went on.

Somehow, Cheslav managed to carry his tray to an empty spot at a table. Gregor was there.

“You didn't cry,” Gregor said. “That's something. Do you want some of my lunch?”

Cheslav wasn't hungry. “Will they do this again?”

“They don't usually stop until you cry.”

It happened again at supper. And it happened the next day at breakfast. Cheslav did not cry when he saw his food disappearing, but he was growing very hungry.

At lunch the second day, he got to the dining room in time to see the older boys reduce one of the other new boys to a crying heap on the floor.

The chant changed from “Cry! Cry! Cry!” to “Baby! Baby! Baby!”

Cheslav got in line, picked up his tray, got his portion of noodle casserole and sliced fruit, then began to walk into the dining room.

“Ah, here he is, and just in time, too. I'm extra hungry today!”

The older boy stood in Cheslav's way. “I'm tired of doing this bit by bit, new boy. Today, I want all your lunch.”

Cheslav was seven, and small. The tray was a little bit heavy for him, and awkward to carry.

It wasn't something he'd thought about before this moment, but somehow his hands knew what to do. They knew how to keep the tray balanced while they changed position. And they knew how to lift it up, turn it, and in one quick, fluid motion, smash it into the other boy's belly.

Afterwards, he didn't run away. He stood still as the tray clattered to the linoleum and watched the noodle casserole fall off the older boy's uniform.

There was silence in the dining hall.

Then the older boy, soaked with food, picked up Cheslav by an arm and a leg and, with a guttural roar, flung him across the room.

Boys ducked and fled as Cheslav flew through the air. He landed on a table-top and bounced onto the floor.

“Are you hurt?” Gregor asked as he helped him to his feet.

Cheslav kept his mouth shut. He concentrated on the pain in his knees and back. By thinking about it really hard, he kept himself from crying.

When supper time came, Cheslav got his tray. It was stew again, chicken this time, with dumplings. His body was bruised and aching and he shook as he carried his food.