The Mascot (7 page)

“She chased me round the cottage for them, that poor old babushka. I wasn't ever letting go of them.” My father chuckled. “I wish I could see her again,” he said. For the first time my father's eyes moistened slightly.

“So how long did you stay with her?” I asked.

“Only that one night. She'd settled me down on the floor near the fire, wrapped up in a thick woolen blanket. It was the first time I had felt this degree of warmth in such a long time. I felt myself nodding off, exhausted profoundly by all my time spent tied into trees. And then something happened that changed everything in a flash. The door flew open, and this enormous hulk of a man stormed in. I thought he was an ogre from a fairy tale that my mother had told me. He was filthy and smelly.

“He threw down the basket he was carrying and made a beeline for me. Before I knew what was happening, he'd grabbed me by both ears and dragged me out of the blanket. He lifted me off the floor so that my feet were dangling in midair. The pain in my ears was excruciating. I must have looked like a rag doll or a dead puppet.

“The babushka tried to intervene: she seized his arm, pleading with him to put me down, but he shouted at her violently. She retreated to the far corner of the room, looking worried and frightened. I heard him call her ‘Mother,' and then I understood why he'd barged in—it was his home and he was in charge of it.

“Finally he released his grip on my ears, but I was still immobilized by his enormous hand tightly grasping me by the scruff of my neck. I was petrified and moved as far away from him as possible, despite his grip on me. He yanked me closer. ‘So what have we got here? Let's get a good look at you!' He laughed out loud, looking me up and down very slowly and coldly, like a wild beast evaluating its prey. ‘A little forest creature? No. We've got ourselves a little Jew here.'

“I knew I was in danger because his tone was so threatening. The babushka must have sensed it, too, because she chose that moment to put a big bowl of soup down on the table for her son. He grunted, and for a split second he was distracted.

“I knew I had to get out of there. I made a dash for the door. But he just reached out and grabbed me around the neck and then savagely kicked me across the room like I was a football. I lost consciousness.

“When I came to, the pain was so bad. There was this terrible ache in my hand. While I was out of it, he'd tied my hands together with rope and then tied the rope to the leg of the table. His feet, in big heavy boots, were resting on my back, pinning me to the floor. I tried to move to relieve the pressure, but he dug his heels into my back. ‘Stay there,' he warned me. I did as I was told while he went on eating his soup.

“When he'd finished he undid the ropes and yanked me up by the arm. Then he lifted me into the air as if I were a rag doll and put me into his wooden basket. He tied me tightly in. I couldn't believe it. I struggled to free myself but it was pointless.

“He sat down by the fire and glared at me with a hideous smile. ‘Tomorrow,' he said in a whisper, and then he indicated his throat being cut. I understood his meaning.

“When I woke before dawn I was still tied into the basket. I remained there silently, listening to the ogre's snores. I dozed on and off. The babushka was pottering by the fire.

“I saw her look furtively at her son. Reassured that he was still sleeping, she then moved nearer to me and slipped me a piece of bread. But he stirred at the next moment and, fearful of him, she snatched the bread away and retreated to her corner of the room.

“The son rose and then slung the basket with me still in it onto his back and set off from the cottage. As we moved away I saw the babushka's face at the cottage window. She waved to me and then with a somber expression she made the sign of the cross. I had no idea where we were going.

“By this time I'd been in the basket for hours. The pain was excruciating. I again struggled to free myself. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, and raised his hand, saying, ‘Do you want this again?' I held my breath, even though I wanted to groan from the pain.

“After quite some time he stopped abruptly at a gate. We'd come to a small yard next to a tiny schoolhouse. It was dusty but there was a smattering of snow on the ground. He slung the basket down and untied me. The next thing I saw were people slumped against the rear wall. They were mainly men. Of all ages.

“A moment later I was able to take in the entire situation. On the opposite side of the yard there were about a dozen soldiers. Some were squatted down on the ground, smoking, laughing and joking among themselves, and swigging something from a big flagon.

“Another soldier appeared. His face was grim. He said something to the soldiers, but it was in a language I'd never heard before. The soldiers slowly got up.

“They all had rifles with bayonets. They began to line up. Two of them prodded the people by the wall with the tips of their bayonets, shouting and kicking at them. At that moment the babushka's son seized me around the waist, strode across the yard, and tossed me down in front of the soldiers. He laughed and said, ‘Another one for you! From the forest.'

“I cowered before them. All I could see were the soldiers' boots. I waited, unsure what would happen to me, and then I decided—I don't know why—to raise my head up so I could get a clearer view of their faces.

“I was surrounded by them. Smiling, but not in a friendly way, they all stared down at me. One of them started to kick me, forcing me to crawl toward the wall to join the others. I sat beside an old man. I felt his arm go around my shoulder. He spoke the same language as me and told me not to be frightened.

“I held on to him. One of the soldiers ordered us all to stand up straight. Then another shouted an instruction and the other soldiers raised their guns. I knew what was to come next. I'd seen this before, in my village.”

My father paused and then said, “I thought, ‘I'm hungry. If I am about to die, then I want something to eat before that. I want to taste bread.'

“At that moment my eyes met the eyes of one of the soldiers, the one who appeared to be in charge. I broke away from the old man and I ran toward him, exclaiming defiantly, ‘Bread! Give me bread!' I don't know what prompted me to do it—something much more than hunger, I suspect.

“One soldier hurtled toward me and roughly propelled me back into the line. The old man tried to pacify me, but something got into me. I dashed forward again. This time another soldier came at me, pointing a pistol at my head. Even now I'm sure he was going to shoot me, but before he could pull the trigger I heard the lead soldier shout out so that he lowered his weapon and the soldiers all lowered their rifles, too.

“A few of them began muttering among themselves, seemingly resentful because the lead soldier had intervened and they couldn't get on with the shooting.

“Instinctively I knew that I had to do something at that moment to make the atmosphere less tense. I stepped forward and thrust out my distended stomach to emphasize how hungry I was. To make sure they all understood, I started to mime eating a piece of bread, all the while chanting, ‘Bread! Bread! Give me bread!'

“It must have looked comical because I saw the glimmer of a smile cross the lead soldier's face. I was scared but I trusted him. He had warm eyes. I started to think of him as the good soldier. Then some of the other soldiers burst out laughing. They were distracted by my jigging about. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that some of the prisoners had begun to sidle away. I hoped they'd escape. But just then the good soldier noticed them, too. Immediately he fired his pistol in the air and everything went deadly quiet. The other soldiers rounded up the escapees.

“At that point, the good soldier took me by the wrist and led me across to the building. Even though I felt I would be safe in his hands, I still struggled against him, digging my heels into the ground. He yanked me even harder until we reached the entrance. Then he turned back to the soldiers and indicated that they should hurry up with their task.

“The good soldier pulled me farther into the schoolhouse and threw me down onto the floor. I kicked out at him wildly and he tried to slap me but I ducked. The soldier chuckled and then I began to laugh as well and this broke the tension. ‘So, you want bread?' he asked me. He spoke to me in my language. I nodded.

“He pulled out a dirty cloth from his pocket and unwrapped it. It contained a piece of bread. He held it out to me. At that moment it was more precious than gold! I made a lunge for it and scampered away with it to the corner of the room, where I gnawed away at the rock-hard lump like a rat.

“The soldier tried to cajole me into parting with the bread. He stretched out his open hand to me, all the time staring me in the eye. I gripped it close to my chest. But one part of me trusted this soldier, so that eventually I passed him the bread. The soldier pretended to eat it, which drove me to spring up at him, trying desperately to rip it out of his hand, but he held me back at arm's length, dangling the bread in his other. Then the sound of his laughter made me realize that it was nothing more than a game, and my rage gave way to pleasure. I was giggling in a way that I had not done since I was with friends back in my village.

“The soldier tore the bread into morsels and passed them to me one by one, indicating that I should chew them more slowly. Then he passed me his flask and I took a big swig, thinking it was water. But it was alcoholic. It burned me up inside and I nearly passed out.

“Then all of a sudden there was a sound like a cracking of thunder. I'd heard this sound before: the day my family died. I was petrified and ran to the schoolhouse window, hoping to escape that way, but he dragged me firmly back across the room. ‘Stay!' he barked angrily. I did as instructed and watched as he paced back and forth: something else was clearly bothering him. Suddenly he stopped and stared at me. I thought I was done for and that he had decided to take me outside to be shot.

“He came closer and grasped me by the shoulders, telling me to stand up straight. He crouched down beside me and slowly began to remove the rags that I had on. I flinched.”

My father suddenly seemed shy and embarrassed.

“The soldier looked reluctant, but he indicated that I had to lower my pants. I did what I was told. He inspected me, only for a moment, then he turned away. I hastily covered myself. He kept his back to me but was shaking his head, saying, ‘No good, no good, no good!' I looked inside my pants. ‘What is no good?' I wondered.

“I knew something was seriously wrong, so I tried to copy the soldier's stern expression, just to make him laugh, but he wouldn't. My childish antics only seemed to fuel his annoyance so that he began shaking me and whispering harshly, ‘No good. Stupid.'

“Slowly he calmed down. He sat down on an empty crate and lit up a cigarette. Then he pulled me onto his lap. He seemed to be considering something. This time I waited quietly.

“After several minutes he stood me up in front of him. He was grimfaced. ‘Never let anyone look at you!' he warned me. He nodded his head in the direction of—you know—what's down below, and then shook his head sternly. Again he said, ‘No good,' and then he held his pistol to his head, pressing the business end of it several times against his temple in order to rub in the point.

“I mimed holding a pistol to my head, with my other hand pointing at my groin, again wanting to believe it was all a game. The soldier finally had had enough of me and jerked me across to the window. He lifted me up so that I could see that the prisoners were now all lying on the ground.

“None of them moved and the soldiers were stumbling about among them, checking them for valuables. Then the good soldier turned his head and looked at me in this very forbidding way. It was then that I understood the seriousness of what he was warning me about—that this could be my fate, too, if anybody saw what was ‘no good' about me.

“He told me to wait in the schoolhouse. When he left I heard him bar the door behind him. I dragged a stool to the window and watched as he rejoined the other soldiers, who quickly formed a circle around him.

“The good soldier seemed to be trying to convince the others about something. I saw him point to the schoolhouse. It dawned on me that he was talking about me.

“The soldiers were not happy and from where I was I could hear raised voices. They shook their heads vehemently and kicked at the ground, raising dust everywhere.

“The horrible soldier, the one who'd wanted to shoot me, broke away from the circle, spitting on the ground. Then another soldier joined him. I saw the good soldier quiet everyone down with his hand. He spoke again, and this time some of the soldiers nodded. They seemed to be coming round to whatever the good soldier was suggesting.

“I jumped to the floor and moved about the room, which was piled up with furniture. That's when I noticed something in the corner: an enormous crate. I decided to look inside. The lid was hard to lift, but I managed to shift it just enough to get a look inside. It was full of rifles. Without a moment's pause, I said to myself, ‘I'll shoot them all. I'll work out how to use the guns and then I'll shoot them all from the window!'” My father seemed astonished by what he'd tried to do.

“I dragged one of the guns out of the crate and across to the window. It weighed almost as much as me. I couldn't work out how to use it and quickly gave up on the plan. I decided to snatch another peek from the window. It was lucky I did because at that exact moment I saw the soldiers nodding and then the good soldier suddenly turned and headed back toward the schoolhouse. I ducked quickly before anybody saw me at the window and hurried to hide the gun behind the crate, but I wasn't quick enough because just then the soldier came in. Fortunately, he had no inkling of what I'd been planning and instead he told me that soon he'd teach me how to take aim and shoot.