The Button War Page 2

  I ran toward the school but stopped when I saw two kids, then four, stagger out of the flaming front door of the schoolhouse. I recognized one of them as a nine-year-old boy named Cyril. His clothing was on fire, and he was screaming as I had never heard anyone scream before.

  As I watched, horrified, Cyril fell to the ground and began to thrash about. Father Stanislaw ran to him and tried to beat out the flames with his bare hands. It didn’t help; Cyril continued his awful cries.

  More village people — yelling and shouting — rushed by. Some went to Cyril. Others tried to put out the school fire. I was so frightened, I had stopped moving. I was sobbing, too. Couldn’t help it.

  Within moments, the burning building collapsed with a loud whooshing sound, as if someone had sucked in a deep breath and taken the school away.

  Numb, I watched as they carried Cyril away, dead. Our teacher, Mr. Szujski, also died.

  When my panicky mother found me, I was just standing there, still too frightened to move. She hugged me to her heart and kept kissing my forehead. I couldn’t stop crying. Neither could she.

  Later, still dazed, still trembling, I wandered around and listened to what people were saying. They believed that it was an aeroplane and that it had dropped what they called a bomb on the school.

  In other words, the flying machine brought war to my village.

  I was born in the village and lived my whole life there. Wasn’t big. Had no more than a hundred or so wood and brick houses. None of those buildings were large, save for the three-story brick one where the magistrate lived. I suppose a thousand people lived there, almost all poor. Yes, there were a couple of rich landlords, but most people were farmers and peasants who worked small fields, which surrounded the village. There were some shop owners, too, but they made very little money.

  We had a main street paved with stones in the village center. Threading from the center were narrow, twisting side streets and alleys. Being dirt, they became deep with mud in wet weather, muddy brown slush in winter.

  In the surrounding fields, potatoes, cabbages, onions, and rye grew. Beyond that, a couple of miles to the east, was the thick forest, green and dark in summer, gray and white in winter.

  In the middle of the village was a river, which we just called the River. Half the people lived on the east side of the River, the other half on the west side, but we were one village. A rickety wooden bridge spanned the water. People said the bridge was the reason our village was built.

  The River water was cold. Like Jurek’s sister, people washed clothes in it. In the summer, my friends and I swam or fished in it. In winter, even when it snowed, the River never froze. It flowed too fast, as if it wanted to get away from us.

  There was also a Catholic church, Saint Adalbert’s, with our old priest, Father Stanislaw. I liked him. He didn’t scold and he told good stories.

  Behind the church was a crowded cemetery, so even when villagers died, they didn’t go away.

  Before the aeroplane bombed it, we had a school, a building with one room. None of us liked going. It was boring and the teacher, Mr. Szujski, had a wooden cane with which he liked to whack our shins when we gave wrong answers, which according to him, was most of the time. Jurek got hit more than anyone. Also, by government decree, Mr. Szujski taught only in Russian. No one was allowed to speak Polish in school.

  The one road that led in and out of town had been made with gray-white clay. At night, if the moon was bright, it sparkled like an earthbound Milky Way. Mr. Wygoda, the village’s barrel maker, and my father’s friend, once told me that if I walked west on the road long enough, I would come to a large city. He also said that if I did the same going east, there’d be an even bigger city. I never asked their names.

  Sometimes I had the notion that I might like to walk the road, east or west. But since I didn’t know where I’d end up, I accepted that I lived in the middle of nowhere, that I would stay in the village for the rest of my life — and death — like everyone else.

  We used to joke that nothing had changed in our village for a thousand years and nothing would for the next thousand. That’s why the coming of the aeroplane and the dropping of the bomb was so huge. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what was going to happen.

  No one did.

  In the middle of the village, on our main street, close to the bridge, was a three-foot-high cement platform, about ten feet by ten feet. Built on top of it was a water pump with large wheels on either side of a rusty iron spigot. Turn the wheels, and good, cold water flowed out. As far as I knew, it had been there forever.

  Mornings and early evenings, families gathered there with wooden buckets for their daily supply of water. That was one of my family jobs.

  In the afternoons, women came for cooking water and to exchange news. After dinner, men went to the tavern just across the way to sit on the benches and exchange their version of the news. Opposite the pump was the magistrate’s house. Most evenings — especially in the heat of summer — my six friends and I gathered at the pump.

  There were other kids in the village, lots, but as far as we were concerned, that pump platform was ours. If we boys were in place, we made certain it was just us.

  Every evening — late, too, when it was hot — after school, chores, or work were done, we boys got on that platform and sat in our space and watched people, wagons, carts, and horses as well as donkeys go by. We gathered at the pump so often that villagers called it “The Fountain of Youth.”

  Sitting there, we told bad jokes, said stupid things, laughed, kicked our feet, hooted at girls, punched one another’s shoulders for no reason — and talked, our words fluttering over one another like a pack of cards being constantly shuffled.

  Three days after the bomb was dropped, we boys were at the pump in the afternoon because we had just attended Cyril’s funeral. He’d been so badly burned, he was completely covered up. Father Stanislaw told Ulryk that Cyril didn’t have a face anymore.

  To hear it turned my stomach.

  During the funeral, we knew we were supposed to be sorrowful, so we tried to act proper. But the service was long and we didn’t know how to deal with all the grief. It was hot, August weather, and the tears and pain smothered us like a thick quilt.

  Sitting on the hard church pews, we kept stealing looks at one another, making faces, ducking heads, scratching itchy legs until finally, when someone in the congregation bucked up a belch, we had to work hard to keep from laughing.

  After the burial, people in the village stood in front of the church and talked about whether or not the aeroplane would come back and drop another bomb.

  At the pump, we didn’t talk about Cyril, either. Though sad, and upset, we didn’t know how to talk about him or our teacher. Not even the fact that the schoolhouse had become a blackened ruin was something we could talk about. The truth was, it was fine with us that we had no more school. As I said, we hated the teacher, Mr. Szujski. The truth is, all we could talk about was why that aeroplane had come and dropped the bomb on us.

  And — would it come back?

  “What I don’t understand,” said Makary, “is how come, since there’s nothing in this village, a war came here.” Makary was small for his age, but our fastest runner. Always bouncy, he had trouble sitting. He even talked fast.

  “Because we’re important,” said Jurek.

  “How?” asked Raclaw.

  We teased Raclaw because he wore lopsided wire eyeglasses, which he claimed he needed to read books, the only one of us who did. His father had lots of Polish, Russian, and German books. He could read them, too. Raclaw’s father was the village lawyer, and also head of the School Committee, so Raclaw never got caned.

  Jurek — who got caned in school more than anyone — thumped himself on the chest. “Why is the village important? Because I live here and I’m the descendent of King Bolesław. That’s why they dropped all those bombs.”

  “Just one bomb,” I said. I had the right to say that because
among my friends, I was the one who saw it happen. My problem was I couldn’t get the sound of the aeroplane, that clatter-clatter, out of my head. That noise had become stuck inside me. I knew why, too: I was scared it would come back. Of course I kept my fears to myself. If we boys had one rule, it was never to admit to being scared. Otherwise, none of us could have lived with all the dares we threw at one another.

  “That aeroplane was from Germany,” said Jurek with absolute certainty.

  “But my father,” said Wojtex, “says Russia owns us.” Wojtex was a fat boy who lived on pork sausages and believed — and repeated — everything his father, the village butcher, told him. He never had his own ideas. And he waddled when he walked.

  “What’s the difference between Russia and Germany?” asked Drugi.

  Drugi was the smallest, a frail kid who was forever asking questions, always trying to understand things, never quite getting it right. We let him hang around, almost like a good-luck charm, and while we made fun of him, we didn’t let other kids tease him.

  After a few moments of silence, during which no one answered Drugi’s question, he asked another: “What country are we in?”

  “We’re Poland,” said Wojtex. “That’s what my father says.”

  Makary shook his head. “But we’re called Galicia.”

  “Except Russia owns us, right?” I said.

  “I own it,” said Jurek.

  “How can you own a country?” said Drugi.

  “Russia does,” said Raclaw. “I read about it. They’ve been here since 1795.”

  “And they call us Vistula,” agreed Makary.

  “But that’s wrong,” said Raclaw, adjusting his glasses, “This is Poland. But like I said, we’re not our own country.”

  Drugi said, “What’s that mean?”

  “Russia runs everything,” said Raclaw.

  Drugi said, “Is that why Russian soldiers are here?”

  Jurek said, “It’s because my ancestor King Bolesław invited them.”

  I said, “Someday I hope this King Bolesław shows up and tells you what an idiot you are.”

  Laughter, though Jurek flipped me a dirty look.

  After a moment, Ulryk said, “Father Stanislaw says the Russians are here because they want us to switch to their religion.” Six months ago, Ulryk had announced that he was going to become a priest. He already was an altar boy and seemed to get churchier every day. Usually, when he spoke, it was something connected to religion.

  Makary said, “No: they’re here to teach us the Russian language.”

  We hooted again. It was true; most people in the village spoke Russian as well as Polish.

  Jurek said, “I should be the king around here.”

  I said, “If you were, I’d start a revolution.”

  That brought jeers.

  Wojtex said, “All I want to know is, will there be more war here?”

  “Has to be,” said Jurek. “Once you start a war, it can’t just stop. Got to be more killing. That’s what war is about.”

  “Will it have anything to do with us?” Drugi asked, looking worried.

  Ulryk said, “It’s against religion to kill anyone.”

  “If I didn’t like someone, I’d kill him,” bragged Jurek.

  Makary said, “You hated Szujski, but you never did anything.”

  “True: I should have grabbed his cane and beaten him to death.”

  Remembering Jurek’s fury in the forest, I thought, Maybe he would kill someone.

  “Killing is against the law,” said Raclaw.

  Next moment, Wojtex said, “My father told me that more Russian soldiers were coming. Maybe Cossacks.”

  Jurek said, “Love to see them.”

  “Why?” asked Drugi.

  Jurek said, “They’re the best fighters in the world.”

  Drugi asked, “Who are the Russians going to fight?”

  “Germans,” said Wojtex.

  Ulryk said, “There are no Germans here.”

  “Will be,” said Raclaw. “My father said so.”

  There was a moment of silence. After which Drugi asked, “What’s the war about?”

  We were silent. No one knew the answer.

  Ulryk said, “The bomb that hit the school was meant for the church right next door.”

  Wojtex nodded. “My father said the aeroplane flier confused the two.”

  “How could he do that?” asked Drugi.

  “You ask too many stupid questions,” shouted Jurek, and he punched Drugi’s shoulder, knocking him off the pump platform. Drugi, who was used to being treated that way, said nothing, just grinned and climbed back on.

  “It’s because both buildings have steeples,” said Makary.

  Ulryk said, “It’s an awful sin to bomb a church.”

  “According to you,” said Jurek, “everything is a sin.”

  “God makes the rules. Not me.”

  “Kings make the rules,” said Jurek, and gave himself a thump on his chest.

  “Isn’t it a sin to bomb anything?” asked Drugi.

  Makary said, “Cyril’s mother has gone crazy with her one kid being killed.”

  Ulryk said, “Father Stanislaw says that when war comes, women cry.”

  Remembering that I had cried when I saw Cyril on fire, I stared at my feet.

  Jurek jumped off the platform. “I’m going home. The only one who’d kill me is my sister. I have to deliver her laundry.”

  “Where?”

  “The Russian barrack.”

  “Don’t talk German!” called Raclaw.

  “That’s your problem, not mine,” returned Jurek. He took two steps away but turned to look at me. “Need to talk to you,” he said.

  Puzzled, but curious, I got up. “See you guys.”

  “So long.”

  “Nice funeral!” said Jurek.

  “It’s a sin to joke about death,” shouted Ulryk.

  Jurek lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. “That’s what I care about death!” he yelled back.

  Everyone laughed as we walked away. But I was wondering what Jurek had to talk about to me.

  As Jurek and I walked down the street, I kept glancing at him, waiting for him to say something. But as we went along, he kept checking over his shoulder to make sure we were alone. Only after a while did he stop, dig into his pocket, and pull out a clenched fist.

  “Want to see something amazing?” he said.

  “What?”

  “You love buttons, right?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “The other day — that time when we went to the ruins. . . . Hold out your hand.”

  Surprised that he’d talk about what happened, I did as he asked.

  Jurek stuck out his fist but kept it closed. “You’re the only one I’m showing this to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’d get into trouble.”

  “Just show me!”

  He dropped a button into my palm.

  I peered at it. “This the button I found in the forest?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Better. Look at it.”

  I brought the button near my eyes. When I did, I saw that a design had been stamped on it: a bird with two heads with wings spread wide. There were also two stretched-out claws under the wings. One claw held some kind of stick, or maybe a sword. Hard to tell. The other claw held a ball with a cross on top. In the middle of the bird was something so small I couldn’t tell what it was. It wasn’t at all like the plain one I had found in the forest.

  “What kind of bird has two heads?” I asked.

  “Russian.”

  “No bird has two heads.”

  “It’s from a Russian uniform. Lot better,” said Jurek, “than the button we found.”

  Ignoring that “we,” I said, “You ever look at it?”

  All he replied was, “This one has a picture of a knight on a horse killing a dragon.
”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Look at the middle of the bird.” He handed me a small magnifying glass. “With this.”

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Mr. Nowak.”

  “He loan it to you?”

  Jurek said nothing just smirked.

  “You stole it.”

  “I’ll give it back.”

  I used the magnifying glass to peer at the button. When I did, I saw a tiny dragon. Right away, I wished I had a button like that.

  “How’d you get it?” I said.

  “I was looking at the uniforms my sister was going to wash. Wasn’t thinking anything, but all of sudden she said, ‘You’ll get a beating if you touch those buttons.’

  “You know me. Give me a dare and I’ll do it. Last night she had the uniforms hanging on the drying line behind the house.” He laughed. “So I cut the button off.”

  “Just because she told you not to?”

  Jurek nodded. “Had to be careful. My sister doesn’t like me.” He made it sound as if he was proud.

  “You’re a thief,” I said, but continued to study the button. It was amazing.

  Jurek said, “I’m the only kid who has one. But you’d like one, wouldn’t you?”

  I knew exactly what he was doing: giving me a dare. After a moment, I said, “Could I get one?”

  “You’d have to do it the way I did, secret.”

  “Sure.”

  “And at night,” he said.

  “What about tonight?” I said.

  “Can’t do it without me.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you can’t tell anyone. Bad things might happen.”

  “Your sister?”

  “The Russians.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “Bring a sharp knife. We’ll go behind my house. That’s where my sister hangs the uniforms. Meet me at the bridge after it gets dark.”

  I gave him back his button and said, “I’ll be there.”

  Jurek made a fist around the button and held it in front of my face. “Admit it: my button is a lot better than that other one.”

  “How come you always have to be best?”