"What can I do for you, my son?"
Jurek showed the priest his foot. The priest looked at the swollen heel and told Jurek to come in. He went to a closet, took a razor blade, and cut the thick skin on Jurek's heel. Then he squeezed out the pus, wiped it away with a clean rag, and pulled out a long splinter. Finally, he smeared salve on the heel and bandaged it.
"Martha," he called. "Bring some bread and milk. We have a young guest."
A middle-aged woman entered the room and put on the table a large glass of milk and a plate with two thick slices of bread and lard. Jurek reached for it, remembered in time to cross himself, and began to eat. Although he tried eating slowly and politely, it wasn't easy.
The priest sat watching him. From time to time he shook his head and smiled.
"How old are you, my son?"
"About nine," Jurek said.
The priest asked the usual questions. Jurek answered them. When he was done eating, he asked, "Does anyone around here need a boy to do some work?"
"Try the big house. Come, I'll show you where it is."
The priest walked him to the churchyard. "Just follow this street," he said. "And if you stay in the village, come back and see me again."
"I will, Father."
The priest blessed him and Jurek limped off, leaning on his stick. A group of boys was playing rag soccer in the street. He would have joined them if not for his foot. They stopped their game to watch him go by. He heard a boy say, "See that blond kid? I know him. He used to play with us when I visited my cousins."
The boy added something in a whisper.
"Go on!" said a second boy. "I just saw him come from the priest."
"I'm telling you it's true," the first boy insisted.
Jurek kept walking without hastening his stride. When he reached the end of the village, he continued as fast as his foot allowed him to. Now and then he turned around to look. No one was following him.
He had never heard anyone call him "that blond kid" before. He had always been "Red." The sun had bleached his hair without his knowing it.
10. Do You Smoke?
Jurek realized that he was known by too many people in the area. He decided to cross the Wisla River and try his luck elsewhere. As soon as his foot was better, he left the forest and set out. A wagon loaded with sacks of wheat passed on the road. A farmer and his wife were sitting in the front seat. Jurek greeted them and asked if they were traveling toward the Wisla.
"Yes. To the flour mill."
"Can you give me a ride?"
The farmer's wife looked at him and whispered something to her husband.
"Hop aboard," the farmer said.
Jurek climbed onto the wagon and lay on the sacks, which were growing warm in the morning sun. The wagon jolted slowly along the cobblestone road, and he fell asleep.
He awoke and opened his eyes when the wagon came to a halt. He wasn't at a flour mill. There were no waterwheels and no river. He was in the yard of a large, three-story house with pretty trimmings. Surrounding it and several nearby structures was a metal fence topped by barbed wire. The wire pointed outward, against intruders. Jurek had never seen such a fence around a village house. But it was too late to do anything about it. The gate had swung shut and was guarded by a German soldier.
He was at the local headquarters of the Gestapo.
The farmer brought him into the house. A soldier shut the door behind them. The farmer let go of Jurek and stepped into an office. The soldier pointed to a kitchen and told Jurek in German to go there. A Polish woman was working in the kitchen. Without a word, she sat Jurek at a table and gave him a large bowl of meat and rice. He crossed himself and ate hungrily, finishing it all. Then he leaned back with a contented sigh.
"That was a serving for two grown men," the woman said, laughing and taking the empty bowl.
Jurek rose and went to the window. The forest was near.
"Is there a road leading to the forest, ma'am?" he asked.
The cook pointed out the window. "Do you see that wooden shack? The path to the forest is behind it."
He peeked into the corridor to see if he could make a getaway. The soldier at the door spotted him. Grabbing Jurek's arm, he pulled him down some stairs and locked him in a basement. The basement was ankle-high in water. Some broken wooden crates were afloat in it. Jurek sat on one of them. After a long while the door opened and the soldier told him to come out. He led him upstairs and knocked on a door. "Come in!" said a voice in German.
The soldier ushered Jurek into the room, saluted, and left.
The room was a large one. A young, blond, handsome officer was sitting behind a long table. His uniform brimmed with decorations. Beneath the German eagle and the swastika on his officer's cap, which was placed on the table, was the insignia of a skull. A large photograph of Hitler hung on a wall. The officer gave the barefoot child in tattered clothes a bored look. He went over to him and asked in broken Polish, "What's your name?"