Alexander Altmann A10567 (9 page)

“It’s everyone’s battle.” The priest’s voice was brittle.

“Well, if that’s true,” Alexander said, looking into the priest’s colourless eyes, “then your best revenge is to survive this.”

“I don’t want revenge.” The priest shook his head. “I want them to see the error of their ways.” He held out the food.

“The error of their ways?” Alexander batted the bread away. “I just saw my commander whip a boy to death for stealing a carrot.” His voice cracked. “They don’t have a conscience. They don’t feel guilt; they’re not like us.”

The priest smiled weakly. “They’re exactly like us but they’re given a gun and a uniform and orders they can hide behind.” The priest turned his head to look at the guard standing in the doorway, hurrying the returning inmates towards their bunks with the butt of his rifle.

“Without that uniform on, he’s just a bundle of straw,” Father Jablonski whispered. “Take off his coat and he’d fall in a heap.”

The room was still cast in shadow, and dawn a few hours off, when the Rat dragged in the coffee tureen and Alexander had his first cup of coffee. He sold his cigarette to a skinny Russian covered in scabs and drank his second cup, demanding the man’s bread crusts as well, before handing it over. He felt full and it surprised him. He hadn’t thought he’d ever feel full again and all it had taken was two cups of coffee and a few crusts of bread. Alexander ran his hands over his belly. He was full but his stomach felt uneasy. He’d sold nicotine to a dying man and taken his food.

The Horse Platoon entered the yard in the dark. Alexander smothered a yawn and followed the kapo into the stable. The air in the barn was warm and leathery-sweet and Alexander longed to sink into the straw beside Serafin and close his eyes.

“Commander Ziegler won’t be riding today so you’ll need to exercise Serafin after you feed and water him.” The kapo followed Alexander into his stall. He clapped a hand on the stallion and Serafin rose to his feet. “And have Chestnut ready by the time the children arrive.”

Serafin stamped his feet, impatient for breakfast.

“Get moving!” the kapo said.

Alexander grabbed a bucket and ran to fill it with water. He set it down heavily so that the contents splashed against the sides of the bucket and spilt over the edges, drenching his hands. He backed away from Serafin and sucked on his fingers, listening to the stallion lap the cool, clean water. He was a haughty horse but still Alexander longed to ride him. He wanted to be up in the saddle, the wind in his face, the blurred ground flashing under him.

Alone in the feed room with the door closed, Alexander mixed Serafin’s feed. He’d just dug his hands into the bucket of oats, poured a fistful of grain into Serafin’s bucket and a handful into his mouth, when he heard a squeal. The second cry was louder and, certain it came from a horse, Alexander grabbed the bucket and ran to Serafin’s stall, relieved to see his nose still in the water bucket.

He ran between the stalls, peering into them as he passed each one until he glimpsed the horse who needed his help: a tall grey mare with swollen udders. He pushed past the men crowded around the stall door as she let out another high-pitched shriek.

“Don’t!” Isidor grabbed Alexander’s arm. “If anything goes wrong, you’ll get blamed. Let
him
handle it.” A stablehand stood by the mare’s side. Alexander looked from the boy to his horse. Sweat streaked her swollen belly and she was breathing hard. He shrugged Isidor’s arm away.

“Is she ready to deliver?” he asked the boy.

“I think so … I don’t know. I haven’t done this before.” The boy shrugged. The horse fell to her knees and rolled over onto the straw.

“Has a vet been called?” Alexander asked.

“Yes, but he’s in Krakow. I don’t think there’s time.”

Alexander ran through the list of all the things that could go wrong – the foal could be breech, it might be jammed or sitting sideways or too large for its mother. He had two choices. He could either get his hands dirty or walk back to Serafin’s stall and shut the door. Walking away was smarter. It was safer. He’d promised his mother he’d make it back home. He’d promised Sari too. The mare’s ears flicked in Alexander’s direction. She was breathing hard.
You know what to do
. His father’s voice snaked through his head.
You’re a horseman. They can take your farm from you and your horses too, but they can’t change who you are. You’re a horseman and you can’t let that horse die
.

Alexander wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and kneeled down beside the mare. The stablehand was crouched over her, running his hands over her muzzle, trying to quieten her. She lifted her head, looked at her flanks and flopped down again.

“She hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning,” the boy whispered.

“That’s normal,” Alexander said, pulling the boy from the horse and waving away the men who had gathered around the door. “She’s getting close.”

The boy shuffled to a corner of the stall and Alexander took his place beside the mare. He scratched her behind her ear and she nickered gently. When Sari had given birth to Paprika the spring before last, Alexander had stayed with her through the ninety-minute labour and sung to her. He couldn’t sing in here and, even if he were allowed to, there was no song left in him. So he talked to her. He talked while she groaned and he whispered in her ear as her waters broke. He told her about the farm at six Gregor Lane as her legs stiffened and her belly contracted. He talked to her about milking cows and stacking hay bales and what it was like cutting through the woods on Sari’s back.

He stopped talking when she started to push.

“Easy girl,” he said, moving to the mare’s hind legs. He crouched beside her and as she shuddered, Alexander saw first one stick-thin leg wrapped in a white, filmy sack poke from her, then the other.

“What’s wrong, why isn’t it coming? Is it stuck?” The stablehand rushed at Alexander.

“Give her space.” Alexander pushed the boy back. “She’s resting, that’s all.”

Alexander paced the stall. He had to get back to Serafin and exercise the horse before the children arrived for their pony rides. As the light of dawn filtered through the windows, the mare pushed again and a nose and a head emerged followed by the foal’s shoulders. Alexander shifted closer, tore the membrane away, grabbed the foal’s spindly front feet and pulled out a slippery-wet colt, still attached to its mother’s cord.

The stablehand flopped beside Alexander, his blue eyes watery.

“Watch the cord!” Alexander shooed him away, slipping his hands under the colt and shifting him closer to his mother. The mare lifted her sweat-streaked muzzle and ran a soft tongue over her baby’s nose, before standing to sever the umbilical cord.

“Be sure to tell the vet to dip the foal’s navel in iodine.” Alexander beat back his joy at delivering the foal and turned for the door.

“Well, look at that!” The stablehand clapped his hands together and Alexander swung around. The colt was getting to his feet. He stood on his wobbly legs and took his first tentative steps.

“She’ll want to suckle soon,” Alexander said.

The foal stepped towards his mother, his mouth open at her teats, his legs splayed. Alexander peered over the stall door. The men had scattered and returned to their stalls. A single guard stood near the stable entrance, facing the yard.

“Guests first!” He pulled his cup from his belt and pushed the foal aside, wrapping his fingers around the mare’s small pink teats. “There’s plenty for both of us and the foal too, if we’re not greedy.” He squeezed the udder and peered into the cup. “The more we milk her the more she’ll produce.” His best friend Anton Hudak had sworn the stuff was better than cow’s milk. He’d milked his plough horse on a dare and drunk a full cup. “You milk her in the morning and I’ll take the afternoon.” Alexander beckoned the boy closer. “Not more than half a cup each or the foal will go hungry and we’ll be found out.”

He tipped the cup up and drank the sweet milk then waited for the boy to do the same. Alexander smiled as the boy finished his cup. They were in this together. Now that he’d drunk the milk, the boy couldn’t turn him in.

By the time he got back to Serafin, it was too late to exercise him. Alexander bolted to Chestnut’s stall, threw on her saddle and hurried outside. He’d have to come up with an excuse as to why he’d left Serafin indoors. Alexander scanned the yard. The guards sat in twos and threes drinking and playing cards. The kapo stood alone at the stable door, chewing on a piece of straw. Maybe no one had noticed …

Alexander lifted a little girl onto Chestnut’s back and started around the ring. The pony’s ears flicked back and forth, listening to her happy prattle. Alexander wished he could cover his ears. He didn’t want to listen to her babble.

“What’s your name?” she asked. Alexander pretended not to hear. “Your name?” she repeated. “I know Chestnut’s name but I don’t know yours. Mine’s Danika. Danika Therese Hoch. Danika means morning star. Does your name mean anything?”

Alexander turned around. A wisp of blonde hair had escaped her braid and stuck to her forehead. She was wearing a white sundress, red patent leather sandals and white gloves, which she wrapped around the saddle horn. She reminded him of Lili.

“I don’t have a name,” Alexander said, turning away from her. Danika Therese Hoch laughed and her father looked up from his book.

“Alexander. My name’s Alexander,” he said to quiet her, regretting it as soon as she spoke his name.

“Hello, Alexander.” She smiled, revealing a missing tooth.

Of course, she’d use my name. She’s a child. She hasn’t learned to hate.

Her face grew serious. “Tell me about this place.”

“This place?” he said, looking nervously at the stable where her father sat.

“Yes.” Her smile grew wide. “How many horses do you have? Do they know how to dance or do tricks? What do you feed them?”

Alexander offered her a tired smile. Twenty more steps and her turn would be over. “They eat carrots and apples.”

“Father said I could bring Chestnut something next time. Should I bring him an apple or a carrot?”

“I prefer apples,” Alexander said. “But ponies aren’t fussy.”

“Papi says
I’m
fussy.” The little girl screwed up her face. “I hate vegetables.” She laughed.

“What’s so funny?” the girls’ father said. He had come to the gate to help her from the pony. He reached into his pocket and drew out a cigarette.

“Oh, Papi.” Danika laughed. “We were just talking about food. Alexander likes apples.”

The officer’s face paled. He shoved the cigarette back into his pocket and pulled his daughter from the pony.

Alexander counted his cigarettes. Eight. He’d started with twelve but then the Rat had taken his cut and kept two for the kapo. But still – eight. Alexander held them up. “Karpowski,” he called, waving the cigarettes in the air. “What do eight cigarettes buy me?”

“Oi!” Karpowski hurried towards Alexander, his cardboard box tucked under his arm. “Don’t wave those around.” He swiped Alexander’s hand away. “Unless you want everyone here to know what you’ve got,” he paused, “before they steal it.”

Alexander lowered his hand and Karpowski sat down. “So, what do you need?” He smiled, wrinkles framing his mouth and eyes. “A toothbrush? Socks?” He riffled through the box.

“What’s that?” Alexander asked, pointing to a yellow and white square of wax paper winking from under a bottle of vodka.

“That,” Karpowski said, sidling closer to Alexander. “That’s a krowki.” He glanced at the cigarettes poking from Alexander’s hand. “They’re hard to get, very rare.” He looked down at the cigarettes again.

“What’s a krowki?” Alexander whispered.

“A krowki’s a slice of heaven. It’s fudge. It’s very good.” He lifted the wrapper from the basket. “You never had one?” Alexander shook his head, his eyes glued to the yellow and white paper.

“Normally I’d charge ten stubs.” Karpowski’s eyes slid to the cigarettes sweating in Alexander’s hand. “But I see you only have eight, so, okay, take it for eight.”

“Eight cigarettes?” Alexander could get a
whole
loaf of bread from the Russians for eight cigarettes. He looked over at Father Jablonski lying motionless on his bunk. The fool hadn’t eaten for four days. He was as frail as a bird, his thin fingers, claws, his nose a beak on his narrow face. Alexander had offered him bread but it hadn’t tempted him.