Page 67 of The Storyteller of Krakow

I stepped closer, and could just about make out in the gloom that he had no weapon in his hands. Instead, they were smeared with blood as he gripped at his abdomen.

‘Please,’ he said, seeing my face now.

I reached for my torch and turned it on, shining it on him.

One bloodied hand rose up to shield at his eyes.

‘Please,’ he said again.

I crouched and as I did, Wojtek came close too, making the man open his mouth in terror.

‘Easy,’ I said to Wojtek and then to the soldier. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

Wojtek huffed, uncertain, and plopped back on his haunches.

The German was still staring. ‘Bear,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

I rummaged around in my pack and pulled out the bandages, then to keep Wojtek busy, found the biscuits and gave them to him.

‘Bear,’ the German said again. ‘Bear is eating.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Bear is eating.’

He could not take his eyes off Wojtek, which suited me as I looked about him at his injuries.

His abdomen had a large cut in it, probably from a fall, but his leg was worse, all bent at the wrong angle.

He wouldn’t last long without help.

I sat back on my heels. I knew I should leave him; that would be the sensible thing to do. But then he shifted, and for a fleeting second, in the angle of his face, the fall of his hair⁠—

Piotr.

He looked like him. But as quickly as it was there, it disappeared, and I was left looking at a face I did not know. Blue eyes, lighter hair than my brother, a long face, high cheekbones. What had made me think it was Piotr, I don’t know. But then I thought of the day that I had seen Wojtek again, in Iran with his handler – another Piotr. I had thought back then that my brother was sending me signs, or at least I had wanted to believe that to be true – and now this.

I swore under my breath. I knew what I was going to do.

‘Be still,’ I told him.

He obeyed.

I worked quickly, efficiently, Cloth. Pressure. Bandage.

He cried out a few times, and I was sure he would pass out from the pain, but he stayed awake, and when I had done all I could, he reached out his hand as if to shake mine.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

I did not take his hand. He nodded and took it back.

‘Here.’ I gave him one of Wojtek’s biscuits and began to pack up my things.

‘You are good man,’ he said. ‘You English man help me.’

‘Not English,’ I said. ‘Polish.’

He gave a short shrug. ‘Why you help? Why?’