The Button War Page 6

  “Us.”

  He brought his hands together with a loud clap! “It’s dangerous. Make sure you understand.”

  “I do,” I said.

  My father and I worked. It was in the late afternoon that we heard a hard rapping coming from the front door.

  “Dear God,” my father murmured. He stood up, one hand pressed on his lower back.

  He and I went into the front room. The door was open, and my mother was standing off to one side. A German soldier had already come into the house. He filled the small room, looming over my mother.

  He was not a young man, and his spiked leather helmet made him appear very tall. In need of a shave, he had a tired, irritable appearance. What I noticed most were the eight bright buttons on his dark-green tunic, the tunic with red edging. In his hands was a rifle, a bayonet attached.

  He said something in German, which didn’t sound friendly. He looked at my mother, my father, and then at me, as if measuring us. There was no friendship in his gaze. He glanced at my parents’ bed.

  Holding the rifle in one hand, he pulled off his helmet and tossed it onto the bed, as if claiming it. Using his rifle as a kind of stick, he waved me and my parents away. He pointed toward the kitchen.

  I looked at my parents for instruction.

  “He wants us to leave him,” my father said.

  “Leave?” said my mother.

  “He wants this room. To sleep.”

  “Dear God,” my mother murmured, just as my father had said.

  The soldier yelled and again pointed to the kitchen door.

  My mother scurried out of the room first, followed by my father. They avoided looking at the German. I was the last to leave the room. As I went into the kitchen and shut the creaky door behind me, I glanced back. The soldier had begun to unfasten his tunic, one button at a time.

  Elated, I thought, I’ll wait for the soldier to go sleep. Once he does, I’ll cut off at least one of those bright buttons.

  My parents and I sat in the kitchen and ate our dinner of potatoes and cabbage soup along with bread. Aware that the German soldier was in the next room, we didn’t talk much and when we did, we kept our voices low.

  Whispering, I asked, “How long do you think he’ll stay?”

  My father’s answer was “Use the back door. Keep out of his way.”

  “I know,” I said, and put on what I thought was a meek face. All the while, I was planning how I’d get one of the German’s buttons.

  That night, my parents went to sleep on the floor of the workshop, but I remained in the kitchen. I could hear my mother praying longer than normal. I heard my father pray, too. He didn’t do that very often.

  I waited.

  I searched about for my mother’s kitchen knife. When I found it, I put it on her cutting board, in easy reach. I climbed up to my sleeping shelf, but having no intention of sleeping, kept my clothes on. I did make sure to take my good Russian button and put it in my box of special things.

  I waited.

  I have no idea what time it was when I crawled off my sleeping shelf. I might have even dozed. It didn’t matter. Standing barefooted on the kitchen floor, I stayed still until my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Everything was dark and silent. I listened, but heard nothing to alarm me.

  Knowing I might need to get out fast, I made sure that the door that led from the kitchen to my father’s workshop was closed but not locked.

  Then I retrieved my mother’s knife from where I had put it, gripped it in my right hand, and went toward the door of the front room. I pulled the door open a crack. It made its regular squeaky noise. I put my ear to the gap and listened.

  At first, I heard nothing. The more I stayed there, however, the more certain I was that I could hear the German’s sleeping breath, steady and slight.

  I eased the door open a little farther, enough to stick my head into the room. Enough moonlight came into the room through the window so that I could see the soldier in my parents’ bed, the big feather-stuffed quilt pulled up to his stubbled chin. His arms and hands were under the quilt. His head, with his short, spiky hair, was propped on a pillow. His eyes were closed, mouth wide open, uneven teeth protruding. As I listened, his breathing sounded louder. I was sure he was asleep.

  I glanced around. The German’s boots were on the floor. So was his spiky helmet. As for his tunic, it hung from the bedpost at the foot of the bed. I could just see the row of buttons.

  I opened the door a little more, enough for me to slip through. Once within the room, I stood without moving, waiting for my heart to calm down, all the while clutching the knife in my hand.

  With a sudden grunt, the solider shifted his body, turning to his right side.

  My heart lurched.

  The soldier was now facing me, eyes closed. A dab of spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth. If he had opened his eyes, he would have seen me standing there, three feet from where he lay, knife clutched in my hand. I was sure that if he woke, he would kill me.

  I stood still, my heart pounding.

  He continued to sleep.

  I waited. Do I really want to do this? I asked myself. My answer: Can’t let Jurek win.

  I took two small steps closer to the bed.

  The soldier didn’t move.

  I took another step. Once near the end of the bed, I sank to my knees. From there I reached out to the soldier’s tunic, grasped a button with the fingers of my left hand, and pulled. With my right hand, I sawed behind the button with the knife, just as I had done at Jurek’s house when getting the Russian button. It made a tiny rasping sound.

  The button dropped so fast it slipped out of my fingers, hit the floor with a sharp ping!, and rolled under the bed.

  I was afraid to breathe.

  When the soldier didn’t move, I bent over. I could just see the shining button under the bed. I checked the soldier. He lay still.

  Trying to make no noise, I stretched flat out on the floor, moved deep under the bed, then curled my fingers around the button. Even as I did, the soldier gave a muffled grunt and turned over. The bed creaked over my head.

  Too fearful to move, I tried to think what I should do if the soldier woke and discovered me.

  When the soldier’s breath continued at a steady state, I slithered backward, out from under the bed. Afraid to stand, the knife in one hand, the button in the other, I crawled back to the kitchen door and butted it with my head so that it opened wider.

  I slithered into the kitchen. Once there, I stood up and shut the door with care. Then I leaned against it and allowed myself some deep breathing. My heart was still pounding.

  After putting my mother’s knife back in its place, I shoved the new button deep into my trouser pocket — closing my fist around it. I didn’t even bother with my boots but made my way through my father’s workshop, careful not to step where my parents lay asleep on the floor.

  No one woke.

  I got outside through the back door. Full of excitement, gripping the button in my pocket, I ran.

  Soon as I reached the main street I took my fist from my pocket and for the first time tried to see what I’d stolen.

  Less than an inch wide, the button was made from some kind of bright metal. For a moment, I thought it might be gold. Knowing that wasn’t likely, I decided it was brass. Still, it was bright, which gave me lots of pleasure.

  I leaned against a building window, which, though its shutters were closed, cast out some light. When I drew the button close to my eyes and tried to make out its design, I saw two crossed cannons over three cannonballs.

  Cannons! I was certain that none of my friends could have gotten anything better.

  Excited, I stepped onto the main street and headed for the pump platform. Hearing a noise, I glanced up. Two German soldiers were in the middle of the street. They were standing next to each other, rifles on their backs, and they were looking right at me.

  With a shot of panic, I shoved the button back into my pocket.
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  One of the soldiers beckoned me closer.

  I did as he indicated and stood before the two soldiers. Feeling shaky, I had to force myself to look at them and did it with as innocent a face as I could muster.

  They studied me in silence.

  “What are you doing on the street at this hour?” one of them finally asked in Polish.

  “I couldn’t sleep, sir.”

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Midnight. Where are your parents?”

  As I pointed back toward my alley, I could feel the button in my pocket. If they search me and find it, I’ll say I picked it up from the street.

  “Do they know you are out?”

  “No, sir.”

  The other soldier asked, “Who do you like better, Russians or Germans?”

  “Germans, sir,” I said, thinking that the safest thing to say.

  “Good. But do you know what might happen if you sneak around at night?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We might think you were a spy,” said the German. “For the Russians. Do you know what would happen to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Quick as anything, you’d get executed.”

  “Executed?”

  “Shot.”

  “Yes, sir. I know, sir.”

  “Now, where were you going?”

  “To the pump platform.”

  “Why?”

  “When I can’t sleep, I like to meet my friends there.”

  “We saw some boys there. Those your friends?”

  “Think so.”

  “We spoke to them. Told them that if they worked harder during the day, they would sleep better at night.” The soldier smiled down on me. “Now, get on with you. Stay out of trouble. You don’t want to get yourself shot, do you?”

  “Yes, sir, no, sir,” I said. As I went off, I could hear the Polish-speaking soldier speak to the other in German. There was laughter. I suppose he was sharing our conversation, how he thought he had scared me.

  Pleased with myself, I ran on.

  Jurek and Makary were sitting on the pump platform. They had stuck a lit candle on the concrete between them. As I approached, Jurek called, “Thought you’d scared out.”

  “Some German soldiers stopped me. One of them spoke Polish. Wanted to know what I was doing out at night.”

  “What you tell them?”

  “That I couldn’t sleep.”

  “They came here, too,” said Makary. “Asked us the same.”

  “What did you say?”

  Jurek said, “That I sleepwalk.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “He did,” said Makary, laughing.

  Jurek said, “They warned us that if we wandered around at night, they might think we were Russian spies and shoot us.”

  “Told me that, too,” I said.

  “Stupid,” said Jurek. “They aren’t going to shoot a kid.”

  I looked around. “Where’re the others?”

  “No idea,” said Jurek. “You get anything?”

  “Did you?” I said.

  “Asked you first,” said Jurek.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “I got a good one,” Makary put in.

  “Let’s see,” said Jurek.

  Makary put a button on the cement next to the candle.

  I peered at it. Jurek handed me his magnifying glass. Makary’s button was bright like mine, though somewhat smaller. On it was a raised number ten.

  I said, “What’s that ten mean?”

  Makary shrugged.

  “Tenth Army,” said Jurek as if he knew. “Or Tenth Regiment. Something like that.”

  After studying the button, I handed it back. “How’d you get it?” I asked.

  “I went by the tavern. A German soldier was sitting there by the door, his back against the wall. Drunk. I sat right next to him and said, ‘Can I have one of your buttons?’ He mumbled something that I decided meant ‘Yes.’ So I just yanked it off his jacket. He didn’t even notice.”

  Jurek said, “You’re not supposed to ask.”

  “You can’t make up all the rules,” Makary shot back.

  I looked at Jurek. He said, “The whole point is to do something brave to get one.”

  I said to him, “What did you get?”

  Jurek held out the button. I took it and looked at it, then reached for the magnifying glass. In the dim light, it took a moment to make sense of it, what the design was.

  “Is that a crown?” I asked.

  Jurek nodded. “Bet it’s the German king’s crown.”

  I brought it up closer to my eyes, even as I stooped to get better light. Jurek was right: it was a crown. I liked it, but what went through my mind was My button is best.

  “What’s it supposed to mean?” I asked.

  Jurek said, “That the soldiers here are the German king’s best soldiers. The finest in the whole German army. Right here. Because I’m here,” he added.

  I said, “How’d you get it?”

  “A soldier came to our house. He spoke Polish, too. He told my sister to make him a meal. I could tell she liked him and when she served him, he sat down and took off his tunic. I offered to hang it up. When I did, it was easy. Zip! Button popped right off. What did you get?”

  I pulled my button out of my pocket and held it out. It was obvious that it was bigger and brighter than their buttons.

  “Was it hard to grab?” asked Makary.

  I told what I’d done.

  Makary said, “Pretty good.”

  Jurek said nothing.

  “Cannons,” I said because it was obvious Jurek wasn’t going to say anything. “With cannonballs,” I added. “Better than a plain old number ten or a stupid crown.”

  “A crown is more important than cannons,” said Jurek.

  “Isn’t,” I said. “Anyway, my button is brighter. The contest is over.”

  The boys passed my button back and forth. I glanced at Jurek. I was sure he was jealous.

  “Patryk’s right,” pronounced Makary. “A cannon is better than a crown.”

  “See?” I said to Jurek. “I win the contest.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “The contest is for everyone. We have to wait till the others show up with what they got.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I suppose . . .” I said, conceding. I held out my hand and got my button back. I said, “I’m going back home.”

  “Me too,” said Makary.

  I headed off. Behind me, Jurek shouted, “Patryk! I’m going to win!”

  “Not if I can help it,” I called back.

  I continued toward home. As I did, I began to hear booming noises. I stopped and tried to figure out where they were coming from. The east. In the direction of the forest. As I continued to look that way, I saw bright flashes of light.

  Something huge was happening.

  Within moments, the street filled with German soldiers, most of them rushing from the village houses where they had been sleeping. They were in varying degrees of dress, some still putting on their jackets. Others buttoning them. Spiked helmets were on. All gripped rifles in their hands.

  More soldiers appeared, probably from the barracks.

  I ran back to the pump platform, climbed up, and looked east. All along the dark eastern horizon were flashes of light. The booming continued, too.

  Jurek and Makary returned. They got up on the platform to see better.

  “What do you think it is?” I asked.

  Jurek, as usual, had an answer. “Russians. They’re attacking.”

  “Here?” Makary’s mouth hung open.

  “Of course.”

  “But what’s the noise?” I said.

  “Cannons, stupid,” said Jurek. He turned to me. “Not like the stupid ones on your button.”

  We watched the German soldiers gather in the street. Villagers appeared, too. It was dark, b
ut I could see that everybody was facing east. The soldiers looked worried.

  I turned to Makary. “Think they’re scared?”

  “Doubt it,” Jurek answered for him.

  Wojtex showed up. “My father wants to know what all that noise is.”

  “The Russians are attacking,” said Jurek.

  “The village?” cried Wojtex with alarm.

  “Probably.”

  “I better tell my father,” said Wojtex, and rushed away, arms pumping.

  German officers began to appear. None of them were disheveled. They started to shout orders. The German troops hastened to line up in marching order. From someplace, other soldiers dragged out the wagons on which the machine guns had been mounted.

  I saw the soldier who had been in my house. I wondered if he realized a jacket button was missing. Nervous, I fingered it in my pocket. To my relief, he never even glanced in my direction.

  More orders were shouted. The soldiers began to march east toward the booming. There was no music.

  “I better get home,” Makary announced, and he hurried away.

  Not sure what to do, I looked to Jurek.

  Jurek said, “I’m going to see what they do.” He leaped off the platform and began to run after the last of the Germans. After a few yards, he paused and looked back at me. “Come on!” he called.

  “What if they think we’re spies?” I shouted.

  “Not a chance,” he yelled, and kept running. As usual, he was daring me.

  I wavered for a moment and then ran after him.

  The quarter moon — low on the horizon — along with faint stars, provided only dim light, just enough to make our road glow like a white ribbon. To either side, farmlands lay in darkness.

  Jurek and I caught up to the tail end of the German troops. In the gloom, I thought the soldiers looked like marching ghosts, the steady tramp of their boots beating out the time. Beyond them, the light bursts continued, as did the booming. Each burst made me blink.

  Thinking it was safer to whisper, I said, “Where do you think they’re going?”