fork, and a man’s muddy unlaced
shoe.
Janek kicked at a scorched water canister, mumbling something to himself.
‘Well, at least it’s dry,’ offered Owen.
In the adjoining room, where the ceiling was in tatters and there were bars at the window, Janek had found an old bathtub and cleared out the rubble. Now he lay in it beneath the one bit of roof
that was still intact, the baby’s papoose like a hood pulled deep over his eyes and his bag placed as a lumpy pillow behind his head. His arms and legs dangled like spider legs over the
side.
Sitting by the fire, Owen gave the child the last of the milk, though he vomited it up almost immediately and then started to wail. When Owen undid the baby’s clothing, the one nappy they
had was soiled through. He hesitantly took it off as the baby’s little face strained puce, then jerked his head back at the sour stench. He had never seen diarrhoea so yellow. The skin around
the baby’s bottom and sides was a fiery pink and there was a rash developing across his cheeks that felt like sandpaper.
‘No wonder you’re making a fuss.’ He cleaned him up as best he could. ‘I’m sorry, Little Man,’ he said. ‘I know, I know. I should never have picked you
up. But we couldn’t leave you, could we, eh? No. And you can kick and scream all you like, Little Man, but I’m going to see you right. I promise. I’m going to see you
right.’
The fire crackled, casting a flickering light across the floor and strange shadows that reached up the brickwork and spread thin-limbed across the ceiling. Clean and warm the
baby slept, but his breathing became so light that Owen had to keep checking that he was still alive.
Janek huddled, brooding in the corner. There was no water left, no bread, no tins, just half a packet of biscuits that had got so soggy in the downpour not even Janek would touch them. He poked
nonchalantly around with a stick, and then scratched the familiar curling wings of a ‘V’ into the dirt and then the smaller ‘v’ beneath it and marked a box around them
both.
‘What is that?’ said Owen. ‘You keep drawing it.’
Silent, Janek rubbed it out. He glanced at Owen over his shoulder. Then, with an evident change of mind, he sat himself down again and, pressing the stick hard and flat in the dirt, he swept out
a space. With careful precision he drew the two ‘V’s in the dust.
He pointed at the larger one with his stick. ‘
To jsou k ř ídla
,’ he said. ‘
K ř ídla
.’ He flapped his arms like wings.
‘Ah,’ said Owen. He looked more closely. ‘Oh. And this one.’ He pointed at the smaller ‘v’ beneath it. ‘That must be a head. Yes?’
‘
Ano
, yes.’
‘Yes,’ said Owen, ‘I see. It’s a bird.’
‘Ano,’ said Janek. He nodded. ‘Bird. Yes. How you say . . .?’ He thought hard, his mouth trying to shape words that he couldn’t find. He tried coaxing the words out
with his hands, and then huffed. ‘I not know. Er . . . bird, yes? We say
sokol
. It is
sokol
. Yes?’
Owen nodded. He wasn’t sure. It looked like a bird of prey.
Janek then drew the box around it. He put the stick down and motioned with his hands, shaping cubes and squares, then shaking his fists and murmuring words in Czech that Owen didn’t
understand.
‘Box?’ Owen guessed. ‘Cage? Trap?’
‘Cage. Yes,
ano
.’ The boy smiled now, pleased with their progress. He pointed at the bird again. ‘
Č eskoslovensko, ano?
People.’ He signalled at the
cage.
‘You’re saying the bird is the people?’ Owen said. ‘In a cage, yes?’
‘Cage. Yes,’ said the boy. ‘But . . . mm.’ He thought about it. ‘One day.’ He rubbed out the box and fluttered his hand through the air.
‘Oh,’ said Owen. He nodded. He understood now.
‘One day.
Nebudou tady N ě mci
. No
Deutsch
,’ the boy said. ‘No
Rusové
. No
bolševici
. No
komunisté. Jenom Č eši
. Only Czech. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘You’ll be free.’
The boy
shoe.
Janek kicked at a scorched water canister, mumbling something to himself.
‘Well, at least it’s dry,’ offered Owen.
In the adjoining room, where the ceiling was in tatters and there were bars at the window, Janek had found an old bathtub and cleared out the rubble. Now he lay in it beneath the one bit of roof
that was still intact, the baby’s papoose like a hood pulled deep over his eyes and his bag placed as a lumpy pillow behind his head. His arms and legs dangled like spider legs over the
side.
Sitting by the fire, Owen gave the child the last of the milk, though he vomited it up almost immediately and then started to wail. When Owen undid the baby’s clothing, the one nappy they
had was soiled through. He hesitantly took it off as the baby’s little face strained puce, then jerked his head back at the sour stench. He had never seen diarrhoea so yellow. The skin around
the baby’s bottom and sides was a fiery pink and there was a rash developing across his cheeks that felt like sandpaper.
‘No wonder you’re making a fuss.’ He cleaned him up as best he could. ‘I’m sorry, Little Man,’ he said. ‘I know, I know. I should never have picked you
up. But we couldn’t leave you, could we, eh? No. And you can kick and scream all you like, Little Man, but I’m going to see you right. I promise. I’m going to see you
right.’
The fire crackled, casting a flickering light across the floor and strange shadows that reached up the brickwork and spread thin-limbed across the ceiling. Clean and warm the
baby slept, but his breathing became so light that Owen had to keep checking that he was still alive.
Janek huddled, brooding in the corner. There was no water left, no bread, no tins, just half a packet of biscuits that had got so soggy in the downpour not even Janek would touch them. He poked
nonchalantly around with a stick, and then scratched the familiar curling wings of a ‘V’ into the dirt and then the smaller ‘v’ beneath it and marked a box around them
both.
‘What is that?’ said Owen. ‘You keep drawing it.’
Silent, Janek rubbed it out. He glanced at Owen over his shoulder. Then, with an evident change of mind, he sat himself down again and, pressing the stick hard and flat in the dirt, he swept out
a space. With careful precision he drew the two ‘V’s in the dust.
He pointed at the larger one with his stick. ‘
To jsou k ř ídla
,’ he said. ‘
K ř ídla
.’ He flapped his arms like wings.
‘Ah,’ said Owen. He looked more closely. ‘Oh. And this one.’ He pointed at the smaller ‘v’ beneath it. ‘That must be a head. Yes?’
‘
Ano
, yes.’
‘Yes,’ said Owen, ‘I see. It’s a bird.’
‘Ano,’ said Janek. He nodded. ‘Bird. Yes. How you say . . .?’ He thought hard, his mouth trying to shape words that he couldn’t find. He tried coaxing the words out
with his hands, and then huffed. ‘I not know. Er . . . bird, yes? We say
sokol
. It is
sokol
. Yes?’
Owen nodded. He wasn’t sure. It looked like a bird of prey.
Janek then drew the box around it. He put the stick down and motioned with his hands, shaping cubes and squares, then shaking his fists and murmuring words in Czech that Owen didn’t
understand.
‘Box?’ Owen guessed. ‘Cage? Trap?’
‘Cage. Yes,
ano
.’ The boy smiled now, pleased with their progress. He pointed at the bird again. ‘
Č eskoslovensko, ano?
People.’ He signalled at the
cage.
‘You’re saying the bird is the people?’ Owen said. ‘In a cage, yes?’
‘Cage. Yes,’ said the boy. ‘But . . . mm.’ He thought about it. ‘One day.’ He rubbed out the box and fluttered his hand through the air.
‘Oh,’ said Owen. He nodded. He understood now.
‘One day.
Nebudou tady N ě mci
. No
Deutsch
,’ the boy said. ‘No
Rusové
. No
bolševici
. No
komunisté. Jenom Č eši
. Only Czech. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘You’ll be free.’
The boy
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