The Button War Read online

  Dmitrov gave an order to his soldiers. They lowered their rifles.

  I kept staring at Jurek. He was looking smug.

  Dmitrov said, “I know why Jurek is here. But the rest, what brings you?”

  “We wanted to see what happened to the forest,” said Raclaw. He had his eyes on Jurek, trying, I think, to make sense of what was happening.

  “Not much left, is there?” said the commandant. “We did a good job, don’t you think? Now, then, to business.” He faced Jurek. “Let’s hear your report. Are the Germans still in the village?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many do you think there are?”

  Jurek said, “A hundred, maybe. And some Austrians,” he added.

  “Austrians?” continued the commandant. “How many?”

  “Just a few.”

  Dmitrov laughed. “As you can see, we have our friends, too.” He indicated the soldier in brown who was standing somewhat apart. “That man is an Englishman. A captain in the English army. The English are our allies.”

  We considered the newcomer. He wore a cap with a visor. Beneath his brown jacket was a khaki shirt and dark tie. There were leather straps over his shoulder and around his waist. A brown holster with a pistol was attached. I noticed the bright buttons on his jacket and wondered why he wore a tie.

  Dimitri said, “He speaks a little Russian. No Polish. Do you know why he’s here?”

  “No, sir,” said Makary.

  “He wants to see how brave Russian soldiers are.”

  The commandant grew thoughtful, twisting his mustache ends with his thumb and forefinger, shaping them into points.

  Once again, he addressed Jurek: “Do the Germans have machine guns? Cannons?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jurek.

  “How many?”

  Jurek said, “Two wagons with machine guns. The same for cannons.”

  Dmitrov said, “Where are the German officers living?”

  Jurek said, “In the magistrate’s home.”

  The commandant eyed us four boys, as if trying to decide what to do. The other Russian soldiers, guns lowered, continued to surround us. Their faces showed no emotion. The Englishman kept his distance.

  “Very well,” said Dmitrov. “Master Jurek, I promised you a reward.” He looked down at his tunic and yanked off a button. He handed it to Jurek.

  Jurek, puffed up, smiled, as if he had done something very clever, and took it.

  “Now,” continued Dmitrov, “I’m going to let you go. But when you get back to the village, I need you to tell the German officers that you and your friends went into the forest and that you saw four Russian soldiers. Understand? Just four.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jurek.

  “Four?” I said, knowing that there were more than that.

  “Four,” said Dmitrov. “No more. Can you do that?”

  Makary said, “But you’re —”

  “Never mind what you see. That’s what you’re to say. Understand? All right, then. Get going. Make sure you tell them ‘four poor Russians.’”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jurek.

  “If you don’t tell them, I know who you are and where to find you. On the pump. The fountain of youth. Am I right?” He laughed. “It won’t go well for you if you don’t do as I’ve ordered. Have I made myself clear? Remember: four Russian soldiers.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jurek.

  “Do you want us to put out our fire?” said Makary.

  “Just go. Four. Do what I ordered.”

  Following our own footsteps, the four of us walked from the ruins. I looked back. The Russian soldiers were standing in front of the fire. The only one watching us was the English soldier. I glanced at Jurek. He paid no attention to me.

  “You’re a spy for the Russians,” I said to him.

  “They wanted information. I wanted buttons.”

  “You’ll do anything to win, won’t you?”

  “Better than losing.”

  “When did you talk to them?”

  “During the rain. Some people are afraid of getting wet.” He looked at me when he said that. “I went out to the forest. It’s mine, isn’t it? I was hoping they would be there.” He looked at the button Dmitrov had given him. Frowning, he stopped walking. “I’ve already got one of these,” he said with disgust, and threw it away. “All that for nothing.”

  I think we were all too troubled to look at him. We just kept going.

  To Jurek, Makary asked, “Why did the commandant want us to say there were four soldiers when there are more?”

  “He can’t count,” said Jurek.

  “That’s stupid,” I said.

  Jurek, his voice full of mockery, said, “You’re the ones who are stupid. Can’t you guess? Because if the Germans think there are just four Russians, they’ll come and try to get them. Then the Russians will ambush them.”

  “Ambush?” said Makary.

  “What else?” said Jurek. “That’s what happens in war.”

  That shut us up and we trudged on, but slower than before. It was me who said, “I don’t want to tell them.”

  “What about the commandant’s warning?” said Raclaw. “You heard him. He knows us. If the Russians get back into the village, he might . . . We have to do what he said.”

  “Hey,” said Jurek, “what do you care? It’s nothing to do with us. If there’s fighting, we could get more buttons. Isn’t that what this is all about? Good buttons.” He pulled out the Austrian button he had taken from the dead soldier and held it up. “Otherwise, I win.”

  “You know what?” I said. “You are crazy.”

  Jurek laughed. “I like being crazy.”

  “Why?” I said to him.

  “So you’ll never know what I’ll do next.”

  “If you win the cane,” I asked, “then what?”

  “I’ll be king,” said Jurek. “Did you see that Englishman’s pistol? I’d rather have that.”

  “What would you do with it?” asked Makary.

  “Use it,” said Jurek.

  No one spoke until I said, “We have to end this stupid contest. Look what happened to Drugi.”

  “But maybe I’ll win,” said Makary.

  “See?” said Jurek to me. “Makary’s right. It’s only stupid if you lose. Remember: four Russians. If we do this right, I bet the Russians will give us great buttons. Or maybe the Germans will.”

  I said, “Whose side — German, Russian — are you on?”

  “Mine.”

  “We need to stop,” I said, “before someone else gets hurt.”

  No one replied. We kept moving toward the village.

  The village magistrate’s house stood on the main street, just opposite the pump. The grandest building in the village, it was a three-story brick house, painted white. Four stone steps led up to the wide main door, which was flanked by two large windows.

  When we four — Jurek, Raclaw, Makary, and I — came near it, there were two German soldiers standing on guard in front of the steps. Wearing their pointed helmets — with the number 136 in red on them — they held rifles across their chests.

  We stopped some distance from them and just looked.

  I said, “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “I could ask my father,” suggested Raclaw.

  “We gave our word, didn’t we?” said Jurek. “You heard Dmitrov; if he comes back, we’ll be in trouble.”

  “We’re just kids,” said Makary. “Maybe they won’t listen to us.” He sounded hopeful.

  “I’ll speak to them,” said Jurek. “Cowards stay back.” He started forward, and it was the same as always: we followed. When we came up to the soldiers, we stood there, all in a row: four boys, dirty faced, caps on, boots muddy, staring at the soldiers.

  It was Jurek who said, “We have something to tell your officers.”

  “Yes? What is it?” responded one of the soldiers in Polish. “Go on.”

  Jurek looked first at us — as if to include us in
what he was about to say — then he said. “We were just out in the forest and we saw some Russian soldiers. Four of them.”

  “What?” cried the soldier. “Where?”

  Jurek pointed east. “Out there. In the forest.”

  “How far?”

  “Two miles. Then a little more.”

  “How many?”

  “Four,” said Jurek.

  The two soldiers exchanged uneasy looks. The one who spoke Polish translated into German for the other. Then to us he said, “You sure they were Russians?”

  “Yes, sir.” said Jurek. “And one of them was an Englishman.”

  “English!” cried the soldier. “Wait here,” and he hurried inside the building. The other soldier remained.

  “This is bad,” said Raclaw, but whether he said it to himself or to me, I wasn’t sure.

  To Jurek I said, “Why’d you tell him about the Englishman?”

  “Get them excited.”

  The German soldier reappeared. “Come along,” he ordered, beckoning us forward. “Quickly.”

  In a low voice, Jurek said, “Here come more buttons.”

  The four of us — three of us nervous — stepped beyond the door and found ourselves in a large hall with a high ceiling. There was a desk, behind which a German officer was sitting, piles of paper before him. Behind him was a closed door. Across the room was another shut door. Portraits of old men dressed in uniforms with many medals on their chests were framed in gold and hung along the walls.

  The officer at the desk looked up. He spoke in German.

  The Polish-speaking soldier responded in German. I assumed he repeated what we had said.

  The Polish-speaking soldier said to us, “Where were the Russians?”

  “In the forest.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  Right away Jurek said, “Just looking around.”

  “How far away were they?”

  “Few miles,” said Jurek. “There’s a ruin there. That’s where they were.”

  The soldier translated for his officer.

  The officer studied us for a few moments as if trying to decide whether to believe us. I hoped he wouldn’t.

  He looked down and shifted some papers around on his desk. Next moment he got up and gave a command to the soldier. The officer went through the door and closed it behind him.

  To us the soldier said, “You will remain here.”

  Wishing more than ever that I’d gone home, I made a move to leave, but the soldier who had been outside the door was now standing behind us and blocked the way. I couldn’t move. Instead, along with the others, I waited, fidgeting. During that time, I gazed at the pictures on the wall, wondering who the old men were.

  The officer reappeared and said something to the soldier. The soldier said to us, “Do any of you speak German?”

  Raclaw raised his hand. “A little.”

  “Good,” the soldier said in Polish. “You will guide us to where you saw those Russians.”

  “Me, sir?” said Raclaw. His mouth was open. His eyes big.

  In Polish, Jurek said, “I’ll do it.”

  “No, him,” said the soldier, pointing to Raclaw. “That’s an order. Now go outside and wait. Don’t leave.”

  We went outside and stood below the steps. Two German soldiers came along to make sure we didn’t leave.

  As soon as we stepped outside, Wojtex came running over from the pump platform.

  “Where you been?” he called.

  “In the forest,” said Jurek.

  “It’s all wrecked,” said Makary.

  “But we saw Russians,” said Jurek. “With Commandant Dmitrov.”

  “And now,” said Raclaw, “the Germans told us we have to lead them back to where the Russians are.” He was on the verge of tears.

  “Why?” asked Wojtex.

  Jurek said, “To fight and capture them.”

  Wojtex gaped at us. “You going?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.

  No one answered until Raclaw said, “I don’t want to, but they’re making me.”

  Jurek held out his new button, the one he got from the dead soldier. “Look what I got. It’s Austrian. Which means I’m winning.”

  Wojtex, ignoring the button, said, “What if the Russians fight back?”

  “That’s what soldiers are supposed to do,” said Jurek. “You want to look at this or not?”

  “Guess what?” said Wojtex. “Drugi died.”

  “He did?” I said. Too many things were happening. I was beginning to feel panicky.

  The next moment, the German officer came out of the magistrate’s house. He shouted to one of the soldiers but he pointed at us. Then he rushed back inside.

  The soldier he had spoken to turned to us. “You will all stay!”

  Wojtex said, “I don’t want any more buttons. I’m going home. Anyone want this?” He held out his Russian button. When no one offered to take it, he turned around and started off.

  “Halt!” shouted one of the two German soldiers. He pointed his rifle at Wojtex and beckoned him to approach.

  “But . . .”

  The soldier strode forward, grabbed hold of Wojtex’s arm, and yanked him back to where we were standing. As Wojtex was pulled, the Russian button he had been holding fell from his hand.

  The soldier saw it, snatched it up, and examined it. Speaking German, he began to shout at Wojtex, who looked back with bewilderment.

  Raclaw said, “He wants to know where you got it.”

  Wojtex, looking very scared, said, “I . . . I found it.”

  Before Raclaw could translate, the German soldier gripped Wojtex by the arm and started to pull him into the building.

  “Get my father!” screamed Wojtex. “Get my father!”

  The door slammed behind him. It all happened so fast we could do nothing but look at the closed door.

  “What are they going to do with him?” whispered Makary.

  “He’ll be all right,” Jurek said.

  I said, “We have to stop this button business.”

  “We can’t leave Wojtex,” said Makary.

  Next moment, twenty German soldiers came running up to the magistrate’s house. They had their helmets on and were carrying rifles. Among them was that Polish-speaking soldier.

  The officer to whom we had spoken burst out of the house, a pistol in his hand. He used his pistol to point at Raclaw, then pointed eastward. His meaning was obvious: lead the way.

  “What about Wojtex?” I said. No one paid attention to me.

  We headed down the street, staying close together, Jurek, Makary, Raclaw, and I, though Jurek was a little in front as if he wanted to lead the way.

  I looked back over my shoulder and once more said, “What about Wojtex?”

  No one answered. I think they were all too caught up in what was happening.

  I kept looking back. The German soldiers had formed themselves into a double line and were marching some ten yards behind us. They were led by their officer, who gripped his pistol in his hand.

  Raclaw, in a low voice, stammering, said to Jurek, “Do you . . . do you really think it’s going to be an . . . ambush?”

  “Of course.”

  “But . . . but we’re in front.”

  Jurek said, “If something starts to happen, just run to the side. Hide.”

  “But . . .”

  “You want better buttons, don’t you?”

  “This has nothing to do with buttons!” cried Raclaw, who was getting more and more upset. “You’re the one who cares about them! No one else does!”

  “Shut up,” said Jurek.

  The German officer turned, shouted at us, and put fingers over his mouth, signaling to us to be quiet.

  With no one speaking, we continued along the road. It appeared deserted.

  Scared of a possible attack, I didn’t know where to look other than ahead.

  We passed the two cannon holes. We didn’t stop but walked around them. The Germ
an soldiers didn’t stop, either. They just split their ranks and marched around.

  It was when we came to the third hole that we halted and looked down. It was impossible not to. The dead soldiers were still there. A swarm of flies, hundreds of them, crawled on the soldier’s bloody face. It looked like a quivering mask. Their buzzing was loud enough to hear above the hole.

  We boys looked back at the advancing Germans and waited.

  The officer, drawing close, barked something.

  Raclaw gestured to the hole. The officer peered down. After a moment, he turned to the soldier who spoke Polish and said something. The soldier translated: “When you came along here before and saw the Russians, were these bodies here?”

  We nodded

  “How far is it now to where you saw the Russians?”

  “In the forest,” said Jurek. He pointed. “About a mile.”

  “Please, sir . . .” said Raclaw. He was squeezing one hand with the other until his fingers were white.

  “Yes?”

  “When we saw the Russians, we knew the commandant. His name is Dmitrov. He used to live in our village. Before you came. When he saw us, he said . . . he said we had to tell you there were four of them.”

  “And?”

  “But, sir . . . there were . . . there were . . . more of them. And an English soldier.”

  The soldier translated for his officer. The officer’s face paled. He snapped something to his soldier. To us the soldier said, “Then you lied.”

  “Please, sir,” said Raclaw, cringing, “he said he’d punish us if we didn’t.”

  That, too, was translated to the officer. Without warning, the officer stepped forward and struck Raclaw across the face. His glasses went flying, as did his cap. I leaped back in fright. The force of the blow made Raclaw fall to the ground.

  The officer stood over Raclaw, grabbed his shirt, and yanked him up to his feet. Raclaw’s cheek was marked by a red welt. He was crying.

  Through his translator, the officer barked, “How many Russians? The truth now.”

  “T . . . twelve,” Raclaw stammered.

  I felt as if my stomach was full of crawling worms.

  “And . . . and an Englishman.”

  “Just one?”

  Raclaw nodded.

  “No more than a dozen Russians? Yes? No?”