The Silver Sword by Ian Serraillier

the household. “We’ll willingly pay for our night’s lodgings with a day’s work,” he finished.
    “Of course,” said the farmer. “And if I’m not satisfied with you, I’ll hand you over to the Burgomaster.”
    “What’s a burgomaster?” said Bronia, when Edek had interpreted (and from now on, he had to explain everything, for the farmer knew little Polish).
    “A burgomaster, my dear, is a nasty bogey-man who plagues everybody beyond endurance. He’d be particularly interested in you. You’re Poles, aren’t you? Well, there’s an order gone out from the Military Government that all Poles in the area are to be rounded up and sent back to Poland. It’s the Burgomaster’s job to see that the order is obeyed.”
    “We’ve just come from Poland. We’re not going back again,” said Ruth.
    “We’re going to Switzerland to find our father and mother,” said Bronia.
    “Nothing on earth would send me back to Poland,” said Edek.
    “Nor me,” said Jan.
    “That’s what you think. But if the Military Government decide you must go back, back you go, my lad. And neither rotten turnips nor anything else will save you,” said the farmer. “Now come along and have a bite of breakfast.”
    There were window-boxes on the sills of the farmhouse, gay with flowers. On the scrubbed table in the kitchen a breakfast of coffee and rolls for two had been laid.
    “Emma!” called the farmer. “Four visitors for breakfast — four tattered bundles of mischief from Poland. Ruth, Edek, Jan and Bronia. They’ve walked all the way specially to meet us. This is Frau Wolff, my wife. She speaks Polish. Learnt it from two Poles who worked here during the war.”
    A plump and comfortable-looking lady shook hands with each of them in turn and, welcoming them to the table, went to fetch more breakfast. From now on, what with her knowledge of Polish and Edek’s of German, the conversation ran quite smoothly.
    “What’s that mess on your collar, Kurt?” she asked, when she came back.
    “A present from Poland,” said the farmer, winking at Jan, and when Edek translated, they all laughed so much that they nearly spilt the coffee.
    “It was a clean shirt this morning,” she complained.
    “Then I shall ask Jan to wash it for me, just to show my appreciation.”
    “That’s a wonderful idea,” said Ruth.
    “No doubt, Jan would have thought of it himself, only I beat him to it,” said the farmer, winking at Ruth.
    “Jan has plenty of ideas, but not that sort,” said Ruth.
    “Eat all you can,” said Frau Wolff, depositing a plate of rolls on the table. “There’s plenty more when you’ve finished this lot.”
    Bronia’s eyes were wide with astonishment. Never had she seen so much food.
    “This is a farm, you know,” Frau Wolff explained. “There is no shortage.”
    The family were content.
    “You have made us so welcome,” said Ruth, “I feel somehow as if you’d been expecting us.”
    “Oh, you get to expect anything in these parts,” said the farmer, between gulps of coffee. “The woods are full of refugees like yourselves, you know. You’re not by any means the first lot I’ve found in the barn. Last winter I found a whole family in the cowshed, curled round a cow to keep warm. Told me they’d walked all the way from the Ukraine. Didn’t believe a word of it, of course. If you ask me, they’d just footed it from the next village — a stunt to get a free meal. I made ‘em work for it, though. We’ve had dozens and dozens of refugees working here at one time or another. Got rid of them all now, thank the lord. Now the Military Government send us nothing but German prisoners of war, and they’re worse. The Government want to turn us into an agricultural country. Holy onions, did you ever hear such nonsense! As if you could ever teach a mechanic how to milk a cow! He’d try it with a spanner if you didn’t tell him how.”
    The farmer rambled on like this for some time, munching great mouthfuls