Page 62 of The Storyteller of Krakow

‘And you are!’ I said. ‘She was right.’

‘That’s not all.’ She took another drag. ‘She also said I’d die. She said I’d die before it was all over, before the fighting stopped. They’re saying now it won’t be long till this is all over, so I suppose I don’t have long left.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said, my voice cutting. ‘You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.’

Anka looked at me and gave a sweet smile. ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind. Not really. I’m tired, you know. I don’t think I’d want to have a long life any more.’

‘Anka!’ I yelled at her as she walked to the cab and climbed in.

I hurried in after her. ‘Noor has no idea what will happen. It’s all a con.’

‘What did she tell you?’ she asked.

‘She said I was going to be a warrior, not a driver. And where am I? Behind a steering wheel!’ I laughed, but could see that Anka was not convinced.

I changed tack. ‘She said too that I would have to save a friend. So maybe she was talking about you. Maybe she saw something before she met me, and then she realised I could save you,’ I tried.

‘You think?’

‘I do,’ I said, and took her hand and squeezed it.

That night, I could not shake the conversation with Anka. Was Noor right? The question felt childish, like believing in omens, but it wouldn’t leave me.

And then there was the uniform. Noor had said the answer would come to me – would show me how to be a warrior. Was the uniform that very thing? And saving a friend, and Anka’s own prediction that she would die? I mean – could it all, was it all true?

When the camp finally quieted, I slid out into the night, moving like I used to as a girl when I stole apples and knew I’d be punished if I was caught.

The trucks sat in the dark and I climbed up, found my place, and pushed the uniform I had taken from the ship under the driver’s seat.

Just in case, I told myself. Just in case Noor was right. Just in case the only way to survive what came next was to stop being Lena for a while – to be a man, to be a soldier, to be a warrior.

* * *

The following day, on the next ascent, the fighting had moved closer to the abbey ruins. Polish flags had been glimpsed among the rocks, men said. White and red against grey stone.

The path was choked with stretcher teams coming down, ammunition going up. A mule lay dead in the track, eyes open, flies already gathering. We climbed around it.

Near a shattered archway, we found a man half-buried in rubble where only his upper body was visible. He was conscious, though barely.

Anka knelt beside him. ‘Can you feel your legs?’

He gave a small, hysterical laugh. ‘I can’t see them.’

I swallowed.

Together with two soldiers, we cleared enough debris to free him. His lower body was crushed. I knew, from the angle, from the stillness, that he would not walk again.

As we worked, he clutched at my sleeve.

‘You’re from the transport company?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘Seen who?’

‘The bear.’