The Button War Page 4

I slipped inside my house. Despite the heat, my parents lay asleep in their front-room bed under the quilt. My mother was snoring. My father was wearing his nightcap.

  In the kitchen, a candle burned on the table. I sat down, pulled out my new button, and examined it for the first time. It was a gleaming gold color with an easy-to-see double-headed eagle. As for the dragon, when I bent close, I saw it clearly. I didn’t even need Mr. Nowak’s magnifying glass.

  I was elated. I’d been strong and had the best button.

  I put the knife back in my father’s workshop, blew out the candle, then climbed the ladder to my sleeping shelf. Once there, I put the button into my box. I couldn’t wait to show it to Jurek.

  “Thank you, Saint Adalbert. I promise to be strong.”

  Proud of myself, I soon fell asleep.

  But in the middle of the night, the sound of the aeroplane — clatter-clatter — came into my head. With a start, I woke trembling, sat up, and listened. When I heard nothing, I realized it had only been a dream.

  Next moment, that sound, the aeroplane’s clatter-clatter, came back into my head. Is it real? I wondered. No, it’s just in my head.

  I fumbled into my box and took out my new button. It was real. It wasn’t going to change. It was the best. I held it tight, then rolled over and tried to sleep — only to hear the owl hoot. It came three times.

  I lay there, wide-eyed, scared, sweating, sure something bad was going to happen. After a while, I drifted off to uneasy sleep. I was clutching the button as if my life depended on it.

  When I woke in the morning, the day was hot and humid again, the kind of heavy air that made me want to stay on my sleeping shelf and not move. Still holding that button in my sweaty hand, I didn’t want to go into my father’s shop to start the workday. I missed school, not that I was going to tell anyone.

  I pulled over my box, opened it, dropped in the new button, and shut the lid.

  “Hey!”

  Jurek was right there, looking at me, a big grin on his face. He had stolen into the kitchen and came up my ladder to scare me. I don’t know if I was scared, but I was startled.

  “Hey,” he demanded. “What’s that box?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Special stuff? That where you keep your stupid button?”

  “Why’d you sneak up like that?”

  “Thought you’d like to know: the Russians are going!” he leaped down and tore out of the house.

  I snatched up my good button, put it into my pocket, and scrambled out of bed and pulled on my clothes. Poking my head into my father’s workshop, I yelled, “The Russians are leaving!” then ran out. My father and mother followed. As word spread through the village, so did almost everyone else.

  By the time I reached the main street, it seemed as if the whole village was there. People were gathered in small groups — men, women and kids, talking among themselves. But as if afraid to speak too loud, they were whispering.

  I joined my six friends on the pump platform. Jurek had perched himself highest, atop one of the wheels. I studied the western sky, searching for the aeroplane. Seeing nothing but cloudless blue, I shifted my gaze to the street. “Anyone see the Russians yet?” I asked.

  Raclaw said, “They’re going to march through the village.”

  “Where they going?” asked Drugi.

  “Home, stupid,” said Jurek.

  I had no idea where the Russians’ home was, but I wasn’t going to admit it. Instead, I waited for the question I knew Drugi would ask.

  Sure enough, he said, “Where’s home?”

  “Moscow, probably,” said Makary.

  “Everybody knows that,” said Jurek.

  After some long, hot minutes of waiting, I heard the sound of a beating drum coming from the western end of the village.

  “They’re coming!” cried Jurek from his perch.

  Though we boys remained on the pump, people rushed to one side of the street or the other. Hand in my pocket, I squeezed my new button, telling myself how smart I’d been to get a great Russian one. Knowing it was better than Jurek’s, I couldn’t wait to show him.

  The first of the Russians to appear was the commandant, Dmitrov. I had never seen a noble, but Dmitrov was what I thought one would look like. He was a large, broad-shouldered man, with a proud, expressionless face, and a fierce, frowning mustache of rust color. Best of all, he had a scar on his left cheek that we boys were sure he got in a duel, a subject of endless debate. It was Jurek who had had the courage to ask him.

  “I fell off my horse” was the answer.

  That was a disappointment.

  Dmitrov was riding his big brown horse, moving down the middle of the street as if in a parade. He was sitting tall in his dark leather saddle, feet in stirrups, toes pointing out, eye looking straight ahead. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his jaw.

  He was in his regular uniform, a short light-brown jacket with shoulder boards that had three stripes and the number nine on them. There were bright buttons down the front of his jacket. They must have been always there, but I had never noticed them before. The world had become full of buttons.

  On Dmitrov’s head was a brown cap with a short, stiff visor, pulled low. His shiny black boots almost reached his knees. A rifle was slung on his back, held in place by a leather strap that crossed his chest. On his left hip was a black holster, which held a pistol.

  Although everybody in the village knew him, and he knew them — he had been around for three years — he looked neither to the right nor to the left.

  I wondered if he was glad to be going. If what people said was true — that the Germans were coming — it meant the Russians were retreating. Even so, there was no sense of urgency about the commandant, or his horse. Everything about him suggested calmness. I wished I could ask him what the war was about.

  Maybe I should become a soldier. I’d get to go somewhere, too.

  Right behind the commandant was his sergeant, also on a horse. In one hand, this young man was holding a pole from which a Russian flag flapped. The yellow flag had a large image of a double-headed bird, each head with a crown, and another crown atop those. On the bird’s breast was the emblem showing a knight spearing a dragon. Just like the buttons.

  I reached up and pulled Jurek’s foot.

  Jurek, understanding, nodded and grinned. I thought again how great it was going to be to show him my new button.

  The officers were followed by a double line of about twenty soldiers. They wore their light-brown uniforms, peaked caps, and shirts reaching below waist belts, from which hung a water flask and a closed bag. The Russian soldiers’ jackets had a row of buttons down the front. They looked to be tin, like that first button I’d taken. Their boots, calf height, were black. On their backs hung rifles, which had long, sharp-looking bayonets attached to them.

  The troops were marching in a double line, their rifles with bayonets suggesting what harm they could do. But because I knew many of the soldiers by name, they didn’t seem very fierce.

  When the Russian soldiers reached the pump, their double line split, half going to the left, the other half to the right. It was thrilling to be in the middle.

  Once on the other side of the pump, the two lines of soldiers joined again. Never breaking stride, they continued on.

  As the soldiers passed near the pump, I could see that one soldier’s shirt was partway open. Pointing to him, I whispered to Raclaw, “Button missing!”

  Raclaw, with a big grin, rolled his eyes, trying to be funny.

  The people from the village watched the departing Russians. No one called out, although a few people waved handkerchiefs. There were no shouts of “Farewell!” or “Good luck!” Beyond that, there was the sound of the drum, and the beat of boots on street stones. I thought how some noises make everything else quiet.

  The last of the Russians was a drummer, whose snare drum stuck out from his belly. He held a drumstick in each hand and made a steady rattle, matching
the beat of the soldiers’ boots. It wasn’t just the soldiers who marched to his drumming; the horses did, too.

  When the soldiers had passed, five horse-pulled wagons went by. The wagons were piled with military equipment, blankets, plus boxes and trunks.

  It didn’t take long before the Russians were out of sight, the sound of their drum growing fainter. I imagined they would soon reach the forest and be marching under the trees. It would be cooler there.

  Once the Russians left the village, people gathered in the middle of the street and watched the last of the wagons go. Talk grew louder, urgent. People were agitated. The talk wasn’t about the Russians leaving; it was about the coming of the Germans.

  I heard someone ask, “What’s going to happen to us?”

  I didn’t hear an answer.

  We boys just sat there, no one speaking. Then Makary said, “Wonder when the German will come.”

  Raclaw said, “My father says soon.”

  Drugi asked the question that had been asked before: “Will the Germans be bad?”

  “My father doesn’t think so,” said Raclaw.

  “Mine does,” said Wojtex. “He likes the Russians.”

  Raclaw said, “My father hates them.”

  Ulryk put in, “Father Stanislaw always says, ‘Old is good. New is bad.’”

  “Funny,” said Makary. “The Russians were here my whole life. I suppose I’ll miss them. Your sister will,” he said to Jurek. “Washing uniforms. Think they’ll ever come back?”

  “Don’t care,” said Jurek. “I’ve got something of theirs.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his Russian button, and held it out in the palm of his hand.

  The boys pushed together to look at it.

  “What is it?” asked Drugi.

  “Button from a Russian uniform. See?” said Jurek. “Just like their flag. Has a dragon.”

  The button was passed from hand to hand.

  “How’d you get it?” Ulryk wanted to know.

  “Just did,” said Jurek with a quick smug look at me.

  “Your sister’s washing,” said Makary.

  “You stole it,” said Ulryk. He waggled a finger in front of Jurek’s face. Jurek slapped it away.

  “Anyway,” said Raclaw, holding out his hand with his button, “I’ve got a better one.”

  “Let’s see!”

  As they shared Raclaw’s button, Jurek didn’t look happy.

  I waited a few moments, then pulled out my new button. “Yeah, but I got the best one. Look.” I held it out.

  My button was the brightest.

  Startled, Jurek looked at me. “When did you get that?”

  Grinning, I said, “Last night.”

  “After?”

  “Yup.” Made me feel good that I’d done better than him.

  “Dirty dog,” said Jurek, and for a moment his face filled with anger, that same anger I’d seen in the forest.

  Makary said, “When the Germans come, maybe we can get some of their buttons.”

  Wojtex said, “Better than the Russian ones.”

  “Why will they be better?” asked Drugi.

  Raclaw shrugged. “What my father says.”

  The buttons were passed hand to hand.

  I kept my eyes on Jurek. He kept glaring at me, furious. Pleased with myself, I grinned back.

  All of sudden, he cried out, “Wait! Got a great idea. We’ll have a contest! Whoever gets the best button wins. Winner gets to be king. Means everyone has to bow down to him. Best dare ever. Buttons.”

  “What buttons?” said Drugi, confused as ever.

  “Soldier buttons, stupid,” an excited Jurek shouted at Drugi. “The Germans are coming, right? You’ll see. They’ll have buttons on their uniforms.”

  “Right,” said Raclaw. “To keep their pants up.”

  “Better than the Russian ones,” said Jurek.

  “The pants?” said Drugi.

  Everybody laughed.

  “The buttons, idiot!”

  “Will they be different?” asked Drugi.

  “Of course,” said Raclaw. “They’re German.”

  Jurek, becoming even more excited, said, “Everyone agree? Contest for best soldier button.” Jurek looked right at me when he said that. His eyes were laughing at me.

  “How’re we going to judge which is the best?” said Ulryk.

  Jurek said, “We’ll know.”

  Drugi had a worried face. “How do we get them?” he asked.

  Jurek said, “That’s the whole point. Everybody has to find the buttons their own way. Another rule,” Jurek added. “You can’t ask for a button. You have to get it.”

  “You mean steal it?” said Ulryk. He looked upset.

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Why do you have to steal?” asked Drugi.

  “Makes the dare better. We’ll be the only people in the whole village that collects buttons. Nobody else will even see them.”

  Frustrated, I just was about to walk away when I began to hear that faint, steady beating sound, the clatter-clatter.

  Startled, I looked up and around and saw something in the sky coming from the west: “The aeroplane!” I screamed as loud as I could.

  Everyone on the street stopped and looked to where I was pointing.

  “The aeroplane,” I shouted. “It’s coming back!”

  Shrieking and crying, people began to run. Within moments, the street was deserted. But since none of us boys wanted to show we were scared, we stood and watched the oncoming aeroplane.

  As the aeroplane drew nearer, ever bigger, the sole sound was that clatter-clatter and it was growing louder. Panicked, I wanted to run but didn’t.

  Drugi whispered, “Is . . . is it going to bomb us?”

  The other boys looked at me as if I had an answer.

  “Don’t know,” I mumbled.

  It was Jurek who shouted, “Head for the school! He won’t bomb that again!”

  He jumped off the pump and began to run down the main street. The rest of us scrambled to follow.

  As I ran, I heard the aeroplane getting closer.

  We reached the school and dove in among the charred timbers, broken benches, desks, and the few old books whose pages were like black lace. If you touched one, it became dust.

  Hands and arms covered with soot, we crouched in the roofless school, peered up at the sky, and waited.

  “Please keep going . . . keep going,” I whispered to the aeroplane, as if praying.

  Ulryk, eyes closed, had his hands clasped in real prayer.

  The aeroplane roared over us. Seeing the black crosses on the underside of the wings, I cringed.

  When the aeroplane flew by, we stood to watch where it was going. It was heading east, beyond the village. We remained still, no one speaking, just waiting and listening. Within moments, we heard an explosion.

  Raclaw shouted, “They bombed the Russians!”

  We leaped out of the schoolhouse wreckage and began to run, not away from the explosion but toward it, wanting to see what had happened.

  We moved in a close pack along our one road, crossed the bridge over the River, and kept going. We began to spread out with Makary, our fastest runner, in the lead. Wojtex was last, red faced, puffing, his face covered with sweat, straining to keep up. I was in the middle. I was sweating, too.

  We got beyond the village where farm fields, none very large, were to either side of us. In the August heat, the brown rye was almost ready for gathering. Leafy cabbage plants and potato plants looked healthy. Here and there, farmworkers were in the fields. By the time we passed, they had stopped and were leaning on rakes or scythes, looking in the direction we were heading.

  One of them shouted, “Come back and tell us what happened!”

  I scanned the sky ahead for signs like the kind of smoke that had come from the burning schoolhouse. I didn’t see any.

  Tired from running in the heat, we slowed down but continued on, more spread out. Wojtex had passed Drugi,
who kept shouting, “Wait for me! Wait!”

  Some hundred yards from where the forest began, Makary, still in the lead, stopped and stood still. He had his hands held out, as if to keep his balance. He was peering down.

  The rest of us, winded and dripping in the heat, caught up to him. He was standing on the edge of a big hole. The road went right up to it and then vanished. Fifteen yards on, the other side of the hole, the road reappeared. It was possible to walk around the hole, but there were trees close in. It would be hard for wagons to get by.

  At the bottom of the hole lay scattered broken pieces of wood, some big, some small. There was also half of a wheel. Bits of greenish-brown cloth, the color of the Russian uniforms, were everywhere. There were also rising wisps of smoke which carried a rancid burn smell, enough to make me cover my nose. Worst of all was a half-buried horse’s head. The head was bloody and torn, one eye — a sickly bluish white — protruding.

  We stood at the edge of the hole and gawked. The horse head made me feel sick.

  It was Makary who said, “They must have dropped a bomb here.”

  It hadn’t just destroyed a Russian wagon; it had killed that horse.

  No one spoke until Drugi asked, “Why’d they do that?”

  Jurek said, “To make sure the Russians don’t come back.”

  Raclaw said, “It’s going to keep people in the village from going away, too.”

  Ulryk said, “Doesn’t look like the bomb killed anyone. No blood or body parts.”

  “Maybe the Russians took the bodies away,” said Makary.

  “Left the horse,” said Wojtex.

  “Do animals have souls?” I asked.

  Ulryk shook his head.

  Raclaw said, “Doesn’t matter: that’s a Russian wagon down there.”

  Makary said, “Full of clothing bits. Uniforms, maybe.”

  “Buttons!” cried Jurek, and next moment he scrambled down into the hole.

  “Leave it alone!” I shouted.

  Didn’t matter what I said — the rest followed Jurek. Uncomfortable about being part of the scavenging, I remained above the hole, alone. But they scrabbled around the bottom, picking up bits and pieces of the cloth, looking for buttons.