The Silver Sword (15 page)

Suddenly, in one huge downpour, the sky shed its burden of rain. It lashed the lake and beat upon their bare heads and soaked them to the skin. In great blinding sheets it fell, so that they could not see where they were. Their ankles were deep in water. Had they stumbled into the lake, or was the shore flooding?

Ruth felt for Bronia’s hand and clung to it. She felt for Jan’s too, but he was trying to grip Ludwig’s collar and calm him. She caught hold of his shirt, but he broke roughly away.

“We must go back to Edek,” she said.

This was easier said than done. Her head was numb with the force of the rain, her eyes half closed. She bumped into a fallen tree, then, feeling her way with her one free hand, groped along the shore. It was some time before she realized that she was going in the wrong direction. Back again, slowly, with head bowed and feet floundering in mud and water and swirling pebbles.

In the hope that the rain would ease off, they sheltered under a small cliff — till the muddy overhang broke off and almost smothered them. She was running now, pulling the yelling Bronia and shouting to Jan to keep close.

They came to a place they did not recognize. A river had burst through the shore and was hurling itself into the lake.

“We’ll never get across. Oh, Edek! Edek!” Ruth cried.

And they stood there with Bronia, watching helplessly as the current swept all kinds of things headlong into the lake — old oil tins, tyres, planks, a wooden seat, part of a landing stage, whole trees. A canoe went by, bottom upwards. A dead sheep. A bough with a cat standing on it, its back arched in terror.

Suddenly she realized that the rain was easing and that she could see across to the other side. A sudden pang of anxiety struck her. This raging river was the little trickle of a stream they had crossed so effortlessly an hour ago. Edek must be on the other side.

But Edek was not there. Nor was the boat which she had told him to shelter in if it rained. Trees were standing in water, there seemed to be hardly any shore at all, and the water was all round them, up to their knees and rising higher.

With an effort she pulled Bronia clear, and they flopped down on to some muddy ground that the water had not yet reached.

“Where’s Jan gone?” panted Bronia.

“I don’t care where he’s gone,” said Ruth bitterly. “I told him to stay with us, but he went after Ludwig. Oh, Edek! Edek!” Brushing the wet hair from her eyes, she peered out into the lake. If he had stayed in the boat, he must have been washed out with it. In all the flotsam and jetsam tossed about on the mud-stained waves, she could see no sign of the boat.

“Jan’s on the cliff behind,” said Bronia.

Ruth turned. It was hardly a cliff, little more than a bump of ground clear of the water.

“Can you see him from up there, Jan?” Ruth called.

“He wriggled out of my arms and got away,” Jan cried, and he was looking inland.

“I mean Edek — can you see his boat?”

But Jan didn’t answer. He was thinking of Ludwig.

Ruth ran up to him. She wanted to shake him to pieces for being so selfish. But Bronia was calling.

“I think I can see Edek’s boat out in the middle of the lake — it’s miles away!”

Again Ruth swept the hair from her eyes. The boat was hardly more than a dark smear on the waves, but her instinct told her that it was Edek’s and that he was in it. The fear that she felt now was greater than any fear she had ever known before. The boat vanished, and she sank down with her head in her hands.

And all the while the rain poured down and the ever-widening river carried with it more trees, more animals dead and alive, more shore junk, far out into the lake. It brought with it a rowing boat too. Bronia was the first to see it.

At once Ruth jumped up and waded out for it. It was quite close to the bank, bumping along sluggishly, for it seemed half full of water. Nevertheless, when she caught hold of the side, it almost carried her away. It would have done so if Jan had not waded in to help.

“Go away and look for your dog,” said Ruth bitterly. “You don’t care about Edek. Go away — I hate you.”

But Jan clung on. Together they dragged the boat clear of the current and on to the mud. They managed to tip out some of the water. They found an oar jammed under the seats. In the locker at the stern were some rope and a baler. There were no rowlocks. They worked to make her as shipshape as they could. Ruth knew what she wanted to do now, but she did not speak of it. Instead she lashed Jan with her tongue.

“You never have cared about us. All you ever think about is your blessed animals. Look — there’s Ludwig up there by the road. Run after him and don’t come back. Bronia and I can save Edek without you.”

The two girls jumped into the boat. It needed no pushing, for the water was already round it.

Jan was still gazing up the road at Ludwig. The dog was running round and round in circles, crazy with fear, half blinded by the rain — now making a sudden bolt inland. It was a bitter moment for Jan. More than anything in the world he wanted to go after Ludwig. But Ruth’s words had hurt him. They had stirred something deep down in his heart, and he hesitated. With a great effort of will he shed Ludwig from his mind and turned to his friends. In Ruth’s face he saw what he had hardly noticed before, though they had long been there — courage, self-sacrifice and greatness of heart. He hesitated no longer. He had lost Ludwig, but he had not lost Ruth. And the treasure box was still safe under his arm.

He threw the box into the boat, jumped in and seized the oar. Sliding the oar over the stern, he shoved the boat into the current.

In that moment of decision Jan began to grow up.

And the boat was caught up in the swirl of the water and thrust far out into the lake, towards the heart of the storm.

It was dark when Ruth opened her eyes. She was being lifted up.

A man’s voice said, “It’s a girl — thin as a string of seaweed and wringing wet. How you feeling, eh? We nearly ran you down in the dark.”

He spoke in a strange language which Ruth did not understand. She tried to speak, but no words came.

“She’s worrying about something,” said the man.

“Better take her below and get some dry clothes on her,” said someone else.

Her mind drifted to a blank.

When she woke again, she was lying in a bunk. There was a light above her, dry blankets round her, and a flicker of warmth in her limbs.

“Where am I?” she said.

Strange faces peered down at her from the sky. There was a cup at her lips.

“Feed her slowly,” a man was saying. “Don’t give her too much or she’ll be sick.”

The cup came back again, and biscuits too. She sat up.

“Edek! Bronia! Jan!” she cried.

“Polish names,” said a woman’s voice. “I said she was Polish. Anyone talk Polish here?”

“Tell her about the others,” a man said.

“Don’t know the language.”

There was a general cry of, “Anyone talk Polish?” and Ruth, frightened by the unfamiliar faces, cried out again, “Edek! Bronia! Jan!”

And suddenly from the back of the crowd came the echo, “Edek! Bronia! Jan!” in a deep voice. Dazed and bewildered though she was, she knew it for her father’s voice. Now she was gathered in his arms, smothered with his kisses. She tried to speak, to listen to what he was saying. But her head was throbbing and she was too tired to keep her eyes open.

When she woke again, her father’s face was close to hers.

“You’ve been asleep a long time,” he said. “Try to stay awake and I’ll show you what you want to see.”

The blankets pressed round her and she felt herself being lifted from the bunk.

“Look down there,” said Joseph.

She saw, in a nest of blankets, Bronia’s sleeping head. There was a flush of colour on the child’s cheeks and she was snoring.

“Nothing much wrong with her,” said Joseph, and he carried Ruth to the next bunk.

She looked again and saw Edek’s face. It was very white, and he was lying still and as straight as a post.

“Is he breathing?” she said.

“Yes, he’s breathing,” said Joseph, “But only just.” And he carried her quickly away and showed her Jan.

He was sitting on his blankets, dangling his legs over the edge of the bunk. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“They’re a feeble lot, the Balickis,” he said. “They would all have drowned if it hadn’t been for me. Ruth you’re crazy. Fancy going for a sail in weather like this — and thinking you could manage without me! You use an oar like a soup spoon, and when a little water comes in the boat you faint. I had to find Edek’s boat and steer ours to it. I shouted to him to help, but he’d fainted too. The water was nearly up to his neck. So I pulled him over the side into our boat — two seconds before his turned over and sank.”

Joseph patted his cheek affectionately. “Eat up your bread and cheese and stop boasting,” he said. “If you say any more, you’ll go off pop.”

Ruth reached out her arms to Jan and gave him a hug. “You ought to be made an admiral at once,” she said. “Thank God they’re safe, all three of them.” And then she flung her arms round her father’s neck.

“You’ve got your numbers wrong. I haven’t finished yet. Hey, don’t strangle me!” he said. And he carried her out of the cabin.

“There are only three,” said Ruth. “What do you mean?”

“The last and the best surprise,” said Joseph, opening another door. “I tried to tell you over the phone, but I couldn’t make myself heard.”

The cabin was small, and there was only one person in it. She had been waiting for the door to open. Her eyes were wide with expectation, her arms stretched out in welcome.

“Mother!” said Ruth, and with a happiness that no words can describe she slipped from her father’s arms into those other arms, so eager to receive her. It seemed like a hundred years since she had last seen her mother — on that sad and brutal occasion when the Nazi storm troopers had dragged her down the steps of their Warsaw home. She had been in a concentration camp until, after months of patient searching, Joseph had traced her through the Red Cross. But that is another story. Four years of suffering had turned her hair quite white, and there were deep lines in her face. But Ruth’s heart was so full that she saw only the joy and the happiness there. And she thought of the Daniel story, which she had so often told to her schoolchildren. Now for her, as for Daniel, deliverance had come at last.

“Mother was sitting beside you all the time you were asleep,” said Joseph. “She went away when you woke up. We didn’t want to give you too many shocks at once.”

There was a knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Jan came in, his mouth full of bread and cheese.

“Ruth, I meant to tell you I haven’t got my treasure box any more,” he said. “I was so busy rescuing Edek that I forgot all about it. I suppose it’s at the bottom of the lake now.”

“But the silver sword!” cried Ruth. “Is that lost too?”

“Everything in the box is lost,” said Jan, ruefully. “Now the fishes have all my treasures. As they’re not secrets any more, I’ll tell you what they were. Two cats’ claws, a gold curtain ring, and the buttons off a German uniform. Half a pen nib and an acorn. A stick of Russian shaving soap with some hairs from Ivan’s chin stuck in it. Frau Wolff’s tin-opener. A silver teaspoon from that house in Berlin where the English soldier lived — you didn’t know I’d kept that, did you, Ruth? The brightest feather in Jimpy’s tail — that was precious. And three dead fleas from the hairy chest of Bistro the chimpanzee. Bistro gave them to me himself, and I shall miss them dreadfully.”

For one who had suffered so shattering a loss, he did not look as grief-stricken as you might have expected. His eyes were prouder than his words.

“But the sword?” said Ruth, who had found it hard to wait for the catalogue to end. “I gave it back to you, I know I did. I saw you put it in the box and—”

“Ah, the sword,” said Jan, pulling a long face. He looked at Joseph. “If I’d lost the sword, we should never have found you again.”

He bared his chest. And there, hanging from a string round his neck, was the silver sword.

He untied the sword and handed it to Ruth’s mother.

“This was the most precious of all my treasures,” he said. “Joseph gave it to me, but it’s yours now. You can keep it for ever if you’ll be my mother.”

On a bare hillside in the Swiss canton of Appenzell a village was being built. It was an international children’s village, the first of its kind in the world. Before the war there was only an old farmhouse there, surrounded by fields with flocks of sheep and herds of cows with tinkling bells. Now the first house, with its broad gables and deep eaves, was already up. Others were going up at top speed. Swiss schoolchildren had collected 30000 pounds to help pay for the work. A great Swiss youth organization had provided more. Many of the workers gave their help free. Men and boys came from all over Europe. By 1946 Danes, Swedes, Austrians, English, Swiss, Germans and Italians were camping together and working happily side by side. A few months before, some of them had been in opposite armies fighting each other. Now they had joined together to build a village where abandoned and orphaned children could forget the misery of war, where their minds and bodies could be healed, and they could learn to live in peace. Here at last they would find a real home, with no fear of being driven out among strangers again. They would be educated in “mind, hand and heart”. When they grew up, they would be able to meet the future with goodwill and courage.

These ideals made a great appeal to Joseph Balicki, who had been one of the earliest and keenest helpers. In Warsaw he had been headmaster of his own school. Now he and his wife were chosen to be the house-father and house-mother of the Polish house. Each nation was to have its own house, where sixteen orphaned children could grow up with the family of the house-parents. They would be taught in their own language and join the children from the other houses for games and social activities.

Joseph had his family to help build the house, and it was one of the first to be finished. It had central heating, shower-baths, electric fittings in the kitchen, bright living-rooms and gay bedrooms. The children had never known such comfort. By the late summer of 1946 they had settled in with sixteen orphaned children from Poland.