Shoes for Anthony (14 page)

‘Chuck a stone at him,' said Ade, still holding out the pistol.

Bozo bent down and picked up a small flint. It bounced off the man's back. Still nothing. We all crept closer.

‘Oi!' called out Ade. ‘You're in our den. And you're under arrest, innit?' We all turned and stared at him. Ade shrugged. ‘Grab some sticks, in case he comes alive.'

I took a metre-long switch from our den stick box and held it, end tucked into my armpit, whittled end pointing towards the man on the floor. He still hadn't moved.

‘Kick him again, harder, like,' said Fez, going down onto one knee and holding his stick out. ‘And speak in German. He might not understand otherwise.'

‘
Achtung
Hitler!' Ade shouted. ‘You're our prisoner. We've captured you!' He kicked the man's boot again, this time landing a harder blow. There was a groan.

‘He's alive,' said Fez, crouching. ‘Stay sharp, boys.'

‘Christ,' said Bozo, shoving his glasses up his nose. ‘We've caught a bloody German.'

‘Don't take your eyes off him,' said Ade, taking the pistol with both hands. ‘There's no knowing how slippery he is.'

The man let out a long pained breath, coughed and turned his head towards us. He was squinting, the morning sun shining in his eyes.

‘Steady, Adolf,' said Ade, squeezing the pistol tightly. ‘I've got a gun. So no funny business.'

The man rolled onto his back and sat up. He coughed again and spat onto the floor. He looked at us all in turn. ‘I surrender,' he said, putting his arms up into the air.

‘He speaks English,' said Bozo. ‘We've got a gun!' he shouted, pointing towards the pistol.

‘Yes,' said the man, ‘I see that.'

There was a short, awkward silence. Nobody blinked.

‘Right, then,' said Ade, waving the pistol towards him. ‘Shall we march him up the mountain to the Home Guard? Or down the mountain to the cop shop?'

‘Or take him to the RAF?' said Fez. ‘They're probably the best when it comes to Germans.'

‘I'm not German,' said the man, still squinting. ‘Do you have water?'

We all stared at him. ‘Slipperiness,' said Ade, shooting us a sideways glance. ‘He is a German. We all saw the swastika.'

‘No. Polish. I'm Polish prisoner of war. I was just in a German plane. Please. Do you have water? Very thirsty.'

‘I don't trust him,' said Bozo, clutching his crotch.

‘There's a stream runs down between two rocks over there,' I said, pointing over my shoulder. ‘I can get you some water from that.'

‘Don't be mad, man!' yelled Ade. ‘He's a German. It'll be a trick.'

‘It's okay to give Germans drinks. Bopa told me,' I said, reaching into the den box for an old tin. ‘I'll get it now.'

The man smiled at me. ‘Thank you,' he said. ‘Really, not German. Not even German uniform. Check my tags.' He reached into his shirt and pulled out two metal tags on a leather necklace. Pulling them over his head, he threw them towards us. ‘There. Read them.'

Ade, still keeping the pistol trained on the man, bent down and picked them up. He tossed them to Fez. ‘What do they say?'

‘Dunno. Can't make it out. Skar … bow … itz. Piotr. What does that mean?'

‘My name. Piotr Skarbowitz. Polish.'

Ade was shaking his head. ‘I don't like it. We need to get someone up from the village. Ant, run down and fetch someone.'

‘He's the slowest in his wellies,' said Fez. ‘You go, Ade. You're the fastest.'

‘You're right,' said Ade. ‘Ant, you take the gun. Keep it pointed at him. I'll tell your mam. All the men are underground. She'll know what to do. I'll be back!' And with that, he pelted off across the hillside, like a fox with a scent.

I stared down at the gun in my hand. I wasn't entirely sure I wanted this responsibility. I looked at the man sitting on the floor. He didn't have a bad face, an evil face. He had the face of a working man – straightforward, strong jaw. His eyes were pale green in the sunlight, his hands dirty, stubble coming through on the edges of his chin, his lips dry and cracked. He looked tired. I still had the empty can in one hand. I saw him glance at it. ‘I'm really very thirsty,' he said. ‘And I think ankle is twisted. I can't run away.'

‘Fill that up with water, Fez,' I said, passing him the can. ‘It's all right. I'll watch him.'

Fez nodded and clambered back up the hillside towards the thin stream. Bozo sat down on his haunches, elbows on knees, and stared at our prisoner. ‘If you are Polish,' he began, ‘how come you were on a German plane, like?'

‘We were being transported. Me and also other Polish soldiers. We were picked up in France and were to fly to camps. But we overpowered the guard, took gun from him. This gun.' Piotr nodded his head towards my hand. ‘One of Polish soldiers said he could fly plane. Fly to Scotland. Polish army in exile there. But flying by night, we got lost. We didn't know where we were. In fact, where am I?'

‘Don't tell him, Ant,' said Bozo, seeing me open my mouth. ‘We don't know he's telling the truth yet.'

Piotr smiled. ‘Quite right! Don't tell me. We ran out of fuel. Plane started coming down. I grabbed parachute and managed to jump out. I'm guessing the others weren't so lucky?'

I shook my head.

‘Ah,' said Piotr. He fell silent, his eyes drifting off skywards.

Bozo stood up. ‘Parachute? That's proper treasure, that is! Where'bouts is it, then?'

‘I'm not sure. I landed badly, hurt ankle. I crawled quite a distance then found this shelter.'

‘It's our den. Not a shelter,' said Bozo.

‘It was dark. Up the hillside. That way, I think …' He gestured with his thumb. ‘Go find it.'

‘If there is a parachute, that means he did jump out the plane,' I said, letting the pistol fall to my side. Piotr eyed it. I raised it again.

‘Doesn't mean he's Polish, though,' said Bozo, pulling himself up onto the ridge to see if he could see silk billowing anywhere. ‘Hey, Fez!' he called out. ‘Can you see a parachute up b'there?'

‘No!' I heard him call back. I looked again at Piotr. Father says you can always tell a man by his face: whether he's a man of the land, or a man underground, or a man who's never had to sweat and toil, smart types, like. Perhaps there was a smart man inside that uniform, an honest man? He was so dirty and scuffed and crumpled it was hard to tell.

Bozo jumped back down. ‘Can't see nothing. Sounds like cock and bull to me.'

Piotr shrugged. ‘I can't make you believe. I'm not sure where I landed. Wind carried it. It could be a mile away.'

Fez had returned with the water. ‘There you go,' he said, handing the tin down.

Piotr took it and drank voraciously. Water dripped down his chin and onto his shirt. He ran a hand over his mouth. ‘Thank you,' he said, handing the tin back. ‘Do you mind if I try and stand? I'm a little stiff.'

I shot a glance towards Fez and Bozo. I wasn't sure what to say. Piotr placed one hand on the makeshift bench beside him and pushed himself upwards with a grunt. We all instinctively took a step backwards. ‘I'm not going to hurt you,' he said. ‘You're the one with gun. Could you pass me bigger stick?' he added, gesturing towards the whittling box. ‘Perhaps I could use this as crutch?'

‘Your English is dead good,' said Bozo, tilting his head to one side. ‘Whys'at, then?'

‘English grandmother,' Piotr explained, hopping uncomfortably. ‘She brought me up, really. So my accent isn't that terrible. Perhaps it is.'

I could feel myself softening. Even if he was our enemy, he wasn't so bad. He hadn't been unkind or aggressive. He hadn't told us off or shouted at us to go away. Perhaps he was who he said he was? I let the pistol drift downwards again.

‘Keep the gun on him,' said Fez, handing him a lengthy stick.

‘Nah,' I said. ‘He's all right. Besides, my arm is aching.' I slipped the pistol into the waistband of my shorts, the butt tucked out, just like I'd seen in the flicks.

‘Have you knife?' said Piotr, examining the stick.

‘There's one in the—' I said, pointing towards a tin near the back of the den.

‘Shuddup, man!' yelled Fez. ‘That's a weapon, like!'

‘I like to cut this bit down,' said Piotr, holding out the stick and pointing to a few twig-like branches gathered round a gnarled knot. ‘Then I can put it under armpit. For support.'

‘It's in the tin at the back,' I said, ignoring Fez. ‘I'll get it for you.'

I went past him to the old biscuit tin that was tucked under the bench, and pulled out the penknife we used for whittling. ‘There you go,' I said, handing it to him. I stood back.

Piotr lowered himself onto the bench, stretching out his bad leg. He placed the stick between his thighs and, opening the penknife, ran his thumb over the blade. ‘Not bad,' he said. ‘This should do it.'

Bozo had crouched down again, as if he wanted to be ready to spring into action. Fez was hanging back, biting his nails. He looked anxious and kept glancing down the mountain. I stood, quietly staring. I wondered what Father would make of this man, this situation. Piotr took the penknife and began trimming the bark from the top end of the stick. His face was relaxed. He was not worried or afraid. These were the things Father would notice, I thought. I believed him.

The sun felt so warm. I stared up, a few thin trailing clouds lacing across the sky, and looked for the red kite. No sign. A songbird was trilling somewhere, busy and purposeful; below, another ewe was leading her lamb downwards, over the purple heather sparkling with dew-covered webs. Our mountain was still our mountain. And yet …

I lay down, hands behind my head, and closed my eyes. Behind me I could hear Piotr whittling; to my left, Fez shuffling, Bozo sniffing. I bent my knees upwards, my wellingtons making that dull rubbery squeak they always did. I could feel the metallic cold of the pistol against my belly. I was tired. I'd have liked to drift off, sun on my face, birdsong in my ears. It was odd I felt so relaxed, so unagitated, but no one is your enemy until they prove themselves to be, and nothing about this man made me afraid.

I don't know how long we all sat, waiting, but I stayed lying on my back, watching the sun shift in the sky. Fez saw them first and called out, and I sat up and turned to see Ade running back towards us with Mam and two old men in tow. I raised a hand to my brow to shield my eyes from the sun. It was the Baptist minister, Jones the Bible, and the grocer, Mr Hughes. Jones the Bible was carrying a large candle, Hughes had a spade, and Mam, I could see, had brought her rolling pin. They were creeping down the path to the den, weapons aloft.

‘He's in here,' said Ade, panting.

‘Right, then, right, then,' said the minister, brandishing his candle. ‘What have we here? Boys, get behind me. Now, then. Steady on. Steady on.'

His shoulders were hunched, his arms splayed, candle in one hand, the other open-palmed as if preparing to wrestle. Dressed in a black three-piece suit, he was a stout man, his drum of a belly protruding from the edges of his jacket. He had greased-down hair, a thin moustache that tended to disappear when he sang, and little round spectacles that were far too small for his face.

Behind him, Mr Hughes was similarly bent over, spade in both hands and held aloft. He was in his shop scrubs, apron on, and had a brown felt cap teetering on the side of his head. He also had a moustache, but his was more fulsome, melting down over either side of his mouth like cheese dripping off a crust.

I glanced at Mam. She had a wild look in her eye as if she had no idea how this was going to play out. To be honest, neither did I.

Piotr, who was still whittling, saw them and stood up, penknife in hand.

‘He's got a knife!' yelled Ade, pointing.

Jones the Bible let out a short, shrill scream, at which Mr Hughes leapt forward and made a swipe at Piotr with the spade. Piotr recoiled back, avoiding a blow, and Mr Hughes, losing his footing, stumbled sideways, whereupon the spade slipped out of his hands and hit the minister on the shin.

‘Good grief, man!' yelled Jones the Bible, clutching his leg. ‘What you do that for? Bloody hole in my trousers, now. And I'm bleeding. Look at that!'

‘Sorry 'bout that,' said Mr Hughes, picking his spade back up. ‘I panicked.'

‘He's just trimming the stick, Mam!' I called out. ‘He's not even German.'

‘So he says,' said Ade, eyeing Piotr suspiciously.

Piotr placed the penknife on the bench and held his arms out, palms of his hands facing up. ‘There,' he said. ‘Nothing that can hurt you.'

The minister lowered his candle and straightened his back. ‘Now, then,' he said, clearing his throat. ‘I am the Baptist Minister of Treherbert. I trust that you will respect my standing as a man of the cloth. We shall have no bloodshed here.'

‘Apart from your leg, Mr Jones,' said Fez, hands in pockets.

Jones the Bible shot Mr Hughes, who was looking sheepish, a sharp look. ‘Yes, well,' he said. ‘Mr Hughes was a little over enthusiastic, but there it is. Now, young Adrian here tells me you are claiming not to be a German, is that correct?'

‘Yes. Polish POW. The boys have my tags. No official papers. Germans took them in France.'

‘Let me see, lad,' said Mr Jones, holding out his hand in Ade's direction.

‘I've got them, Mr Jones,' said Fez, pulling them out of his pocket.

‘I see …' said Jones, holding the tags in the palm of his hand. ‘Actually, I can't see. These aren't my reading glasses. Hughes, can you …?' He passed them across, gave another cough and put his thumb into his waistcoat pocket.

‘Can't make head nor tail of these,' said Mr Hughes, frowning.