Page 6 of The Storyteller of Krakow

‘Nowak?’ I mumbled, through my half-full mouth.

‘No. We have to go.’ He turned and walked towards me and made to grab my arm.

I was too quick for him, and before he could get me and drag me away, I darted out to see what he had seen.

There, swinging from the branches of a tree, like a monkey, was one of the boys from Piotr’s class. Boris. He was a large boy, and I could see that the tree’s limb was aching with the weight of his body. Below him stood another boy – one whom I had seen about but did not know that well.

I knew why my brother wanted to leave. Boris was a tormentor. Not just of Piotr, but of anyone and everything. He once stood on a cat’s tail just to make it scream with pain, and it took my father lifting me up off the ground to stop me flying at Boris with my small balled fists.

Before I could turn and leave, Boris had spotted us.

‘Look who it is!’ he cried, then dropped the few feet to the ground.

The other boy turned his head and, upon seeing Piotr behind me, began to run towards him.

Boris followed suit, slower than his friend, and I could hear Piotr telling me to run, but I would not move. I watched as this boy came careening towards me, and when he was just a few feet away, I threw my apple straight at him, knocking him clear on the forehead.

I would like to think that it was the heat, perhaps, that made me do it. It had gotten into my veins and made rage bubble forth. The truth, though, was that I wasn’t afraid of this boy, nor of Boris, and I quite perversely wanted to stay and see what was going to happen – what would they do?

The apple hitting the boy’s head slowed him to a stop. He looked at me, then back at Boris, then raised his hand to his forehead in disbelief.

‘Getting your little sister to fight for you, eh, Piotr? You should have been a girl. You’re like a girl, aren’t you, Piotr?’ Boris was huffing, his face red, his beady little eyes narrowed at Piotr.

‘Leave us alone,’ Piotr squeaked.

I looked to my brother, who stood, his hands holding on to the ends of his shirt, his fingers worrying at the material. In that moment, I felt sorry for him, and something else I am not keen to admit; I also felt a little ashamed of him. There he stood, pale-faced, not ready to fight for his sister or himself.

Boris went up to my brother, and I made to stand in front of him, but the thinner boy pulled me roughly away by the arm, his fingers digging into the soft upper skin.

Boris charged at my brother, knocking him onto his back. I saw him try to cover his face, but it was not his face that Boris was interested in.

‘Little baby Piotr!’ Boris sing-songed. ‘Little girl Piotr, who reads books and has no friends, little girl Piotr who wets himself!’

I tried to pull away from the boy who was laughing at Boris as he pulled my brother’s trousers down, revealing his underwear.

‘Look at him!’ Boris stood, proud of his accomplishment. My brother, lying on his back, his hands covering his face, his trousers around his ankles.

I knew he wasn’t going to do anything, so I stood heavily on the boy’s foot, delighting when he squealed with pain and let go of my arm.

I ran at Boris, throwing myself at him with everything I had, knocking him onto his back, where I then began to pummel his red face. ‘You stupid!’ I screamed as my fists flew. ‘Leave my brother alone, you bully! You stupid boy!’

Thinking about it now, I would have used choicer words, but I did not know them at the time, so I continued to call him stupid and thick and a dirty boy.

It wasn’t the other boy who pulled me off Boris, but my brother.

‘Stop it! Let me at him!’ I yelled at Piotr.

‘Lena! Enough!’ He pulled on my arm in the same place that the boy had dug his own fingertips into. The slice of pain made me stop.

I looked down at Boris, expecting to see some blood, but it seemed that my tiny fists had not managed to leave a mark.

‘See!’ Boris snarled at my brother. ‘You’re a girl. Getting your sister to fight for you, pathetic.’

Piotr had pulled up his trousers and began walking away, leaving me to shout back at Boris and his lackey.

Once we were far enough away, Piotr let go of my arm and ran.

‘Piotr, wait!’ I shouted after him. But he would not stop for me.