I Am David Read online

  David tried to forget that he also wanted a new piece of soap. If he could preserve his freedom and reach a free country, he must be satisfied with that. And if he could bring himself to ask for a lift, he would get to another country all the more quickly. If only he could find out the whereabouts of those other countries! He dared not ask anyone, for if you said you belonged to a circus then you would be expected to know your way about.

  David’s thoughts were disturbed by the sound of a car. It sounded wrong, as though the engine were not running properly. He lay flat down in the grass and watched it crawl along at no more than a walking pace. It was American, not Italian: he had long since taught himself the meaning of the letters on number plates.

  Americans were most likely good people, for they were the ones they hated most. All that was wrong with them, David thought, was that they spoke English very badly and always acted as if they were proud of possessing so much.

  There was one thing, however, that these two Americans did not possess: they had no petrol, and that was why their car would not go. David stood up and took a step towards them.

  The woman was talking in a loud angry voice that did not sound at all pleasant, and David was rather more nervous than he usually was before speaking to someone. But she stopped when he asked the man if he could help by fetching petrol for them.

  They were both very glad to accept his offer, and David suggested that he should take their can and go to the village farther up the side of the hill. “But I haven’t any money to pay for the petrol,” he said as he took the can.

  As the man was about to take some money out of his pocket, the woman said quickly, “He’s nothing but a young beggar, Dick! You can be quite sure if we give him money we shall never see him again! He can fetch help from a garage up there …”

  She did not of course intend David to understand what she said. He wondered if they thought he was stupid; they certainly seemed to think he could understand them only when they spoke very slowly.

  The man asked him whether he could not get a mechanic to drive down with the petrol. “The can’s a bit heavy for you to carry,” he said.

  David turned his back on the woman. “The people here don’t like doing very much on Sundays, and so I can’t be sure I can find anyone willing to drive down,” he explained politely. “But I’ll see if I can get the petrol by promising to pay for it later. Unless, of course, your wife thinks I want to keep your can.”

  The man looked uncomfortable. “Rubbish, boy,” he said, “then you’d have to go twice! My wife was only thinking you might drop the money in the dark …”

  As David took the note he was offered, he looked the man straight in the face: “Will you look after my bundle while I go? Then I can carry the can better …”

  Both the man and the woman went red in the face, and David set off without waiting for an answer. they were ashamed of themselves, and that was all David wanted. He had never taken anything which he knew belonged to someone else — only fruit growing on trees and bushes and things he found. One had no right to take other people’s possessions: that he was sure of … Suppose somebody took his bundle!

  When they heard up at the filling-station in the village that it was an American car that had run out of petrol, they insisted upon sending one of the garage-hands down with enough to fill the tank, and as David had to return anyway to fetch his bundle, the man gave him a lift on his Vespa.

  David handed the American his unused note and taking his bundle turned to go.

  “Wait a bit, boy, you must have something for your trouble.”

  David would have been only too glad to earn something: he was in desperate need of money to buy a loaf of bread for the next day. But he could not bring himself to take it now. He did not want to earn it from someone he did not like.

  “No, thank you,” he said firmly. “I like to earn money sometimes, but only when I want to. I don’t need any today.”

  That was not true, but it felt good to say so. It was like saying, “I am David and I belong to myself, and no one has any right over me.”

  He ran off in the darkness away from the road and pretended not to hear the American calling him to come back.

  He was very hungry when he woke the next morning. He was in need of water, too, for he had only a few drops left. He had left the village of the evening before some way behind him, but he could see another, bigger one, down in the valley. He might be able to earn some money there, but he was by no means certain of it. The evening was the best time to earn money, and the best time to be in town, too, because he could then escape quickly into the shelter of the darkness.

  But this time he would have to go into town in daylight: he could not wait until evening to get more water. He opened his bundle to drink what was left.

  At the bottom of his bundle he found a strange box, the sort used for cigarettes. And in the box there was money — more money than David had ever seen: two thousand lire!

  One lira was not very much: you could get practically nothing for one lira — but two thousand! Apart from the money there was something written on a slip of paper. A letter … David had never had a letter, and he almost wished he had not got one now for he found it very difficult to read handwriting, and he had never tried reading English.

  But he would not give up. After an hour he was fairly sure he knew what was in the letter. It was the American who had written it, and he said he was quite sure David would not accept money and so he had hidden it in his bundle. He also said they were sorry they had thought he might steal. “Not all strange boys are honest, you know,” wrote the American, “but we are sorry we suspected an honest boy. We did not mean you to understand what we said, and we would be glad if you would make use of this money to show you have no hard feelings towards us.” And then came a name that David could not read.

  David’s first thought was that he would now be able to buy a new cake of soap. He had money for bread for many days, and there would still be enough for soap — and perhaps a comb, too!

  He told himself that he must not be greedy. Johannes had not liked people to be greedy, and it would be sensible to keep some of the money by him for more bread later on. He would buy soap, and perhaps one or two other things, but no more. And he would not be in a hurry: he would first consider carefully what he most needed.

  The result was that he bought a loaf of bread, a cake of soap and a comb. Combing his hair was painful, for no one in the camp had had a comb for a very long time and David’s hair had not been combed since. He looked into his mirror to see what he looked like: his hair looked as if it were growing lighter in colour. And it was very long.

  David reflected seriously, and then he bought himself a pair of scissors, and a pencil and a small pad of note-paper as well: the scissors to cut his hair with so that he would not look conspicuous and the pencil and paper because for many days now he had wished he could write. Johannes had begun to teach him once; perhaps if he could practise, he could learn to do it properly. It might stand him in good stead to be able to write — one never knew when it might prove useful.

  He was not used to having more money than the price of a loaf of bread, and he found his unexpected wealth a problem. He had now spent almost half of it — the scissors had been expensive. Still, he would have enough to buy bread for many days to come, and he had a great desire to try some cheese. If he could get a bit for fifty lire …

  It tasted good, even better than he remembered it: he had had it once in the camp and again in the van on the road to Salonica. When he had satisfied his hunger, he began cutting his hair. He was sitting under an olive tree, and he placed his mirror on the lowest branch so that it leaned up against the trunk. Cutting the tufts at the back of his neck where he could not see what he was doing proved a tricky business, but at length he was satisfied with the result.

  He wondered if he dared try out his plan of getting a lift. If he chose one of those lorries that transported foodstuffs … they never drove them.


  But every time a lorry approached he lacked the courage to try, although he had made up his mind to do it. He was so frightened he could feel his heart beat faster and his throat grow tight. Then he thought of God.

  “God of the green pastures and the still waters,” he said softly, “I’m David. And I’m frightened … not just ordinary fear that you always have — worse than that. I want to beg a lift so that I can get quickly to another country, but I daren’t. If you’re strong enough to do something about what people think and feel right inside themselves, then will you please take this fear away, just long enough for me to wave to a lorry? And if it isn’t greedy to ask for two things at once, will you let it be a good man that comes in the next one? I haven’t yet found anything I can do for you. I am David. Amen.”

  It seemed that God was strong enough, for when the next lorry came along David was no longer too frightened to get up and step into the roadway.

  The lorry-driver looked exactly like the sailor who had shielded him aboard the ship! David waved, the man pulled up and asked where he was going, and David answered, “To Perugia,” as he had decided he would when he formed his plan. Perugia was a long way — it would take him three days to walk there.

  And so there he was, sitting in the lorry by the side of the stranger who was so like the sailor. When he had once told his tale about the circus, the man asked him no questions at all, obviously preferring to do the talking himself. He was called Angelo, and he gave David a mass of detailed information about his home and family. He had both father and mother and many brothers and sisters, and then there was a woman called Rita whom he wanted to marry when he had saved enough money to buy a lorry of his own. But his father wanted him to marry someone called Clorinda and her father had a vineyard.

  He talked about it at great length as if he were not sure which of them he should marry, and he asked David what he thought.

  David considered the matter. “Are they both good people?” he asked finally. “For if there’s any difference, you see, I think you’d better marry the one that’s good and kind. You could buy a vineyard yourself perhaps when you’ve earned enough money. But I think you’ve got to decide for yourself. Perhaps your father hasn’t thought whether they’re kind … You must make quite sure about it before you choose.”

  Angelo frowned — then he smiled and nodded. “I think you’re a very clever boy,” he said. “I’ll do what you say …”

  Then he chattered on about his plans for the future, and David listened, but not with the same attention as before. Angelo was stupid. He was a good man, but he was stupid. David was puzzled, for he had always thought that good people must be clever. He thought about it for a long time. Could he have been mistaken? He knew so little about anything. But no, Angelo was a grown man, and here was one thing he was quite free to decide for himself, and yet he was ready to let others make up his mind for him … that could only be stupidity.

  When they had been driving for several hours, Angelo pulled up and shared his food with David — he gave him a drink from his bottle of wine as well, and a little later they came to Perugia. It was a large town situated on the top of a hill. But David asked to be put down on the way up the hill, and when Angelo had driven on, he walked back to the point where the main road continued into the countryside. He had no need of either bread or water, and he preferred to remain in the open.

  His plan to stop a lorry and ask for a lift had gone off very well. Perhaps he would stop another the next day — provided he were not too frightened. But he would have to do it on his own: while he had not found anything he could do in return, he could not go on asking God for things — it would be greedy, and God might very soon grow tired of a boy who was always frightened and could never do anything for himself. And suppose he grew tired of him the very day something happened that David could not possibly deal with by himself!

  David did not know that the very next day something would happen that he could not tackle alone and he still would not ask for help …

  4

  David had never seen a forest before. He had had a lift that morning and come a long way by car, and although he wanted to waste no time, he thought he might spend an hour or two finding out what a forest looked like. He liked it at first, but after a while he began to feel uneasy. You could hide behind the tree-trunks … but so could they! He felt more at ease when he was out in the open again.

  He could not yet make up his mind whether they were really after him or not. If they were, it was not because he knew anything. Johannes had always said, every time a new prisoner entered the camp, “Don’t tell the boy anything they may try to worm out of him afterwards.” Later on, when Johannes was dead, others had said the same thing. And the man had known that. But there was always the possibility that he was a useful hostage: suppose, for example, he had had a father and that father had been their enemy, then they might have threatened him with the fact that they had David in their power.

  Not that David really believed it could be so: he could not imagine ever having had a father. But he had to reckon with the possibility that there was some reason that made it necessary for them to find him, and that was as near as he could get.

  He was suddenly aware of a strange sound. He looked quickly round and threw himself down behind a clump of bushes. There he was again, walking along and thinking without even looking where he was going! there was a house close by. He could see it among the trees … a large house and beautiful to look at, almost like a church.

  What was that sound? It was strange … yes, and wonderful, too!

  When he was in Naples, he had seen a balloon. If you could turn into a balloon, that sound was what you might feel like … as if you had a great space inside you and it was all filled with air, a heavenly air full of sweet voices that made you fly up and up and your heart beat faster and faster … not because you were afraid, but because you were … happy? Was that what happiness felt like?

  And David knew he was listening to music. there had once been a musician in the camp, and before he had been there long enough to lapse into silence, he had talked about music and tried to explain what it sounded like. But David had not understood.

  He understood now, however. That sound that seemed to flood right into your very being and draw you upwards and upwards — that was all the instruments playing together. And that thin delicate sound that made your heart beat so fast — that must be the violin!

  “What the hell! You young thief, forcing your way into people’s grounds in broad daylight! I’ll show you, you … Come here and I’ll give you a damn good hiding!”

  The voice fell like an explosion on David’s ears. The wonderful sound of the music lay murdered, crushed and kicked to death by an evil voice. He just managed to catch sight of a boy, a black-haired boy with spiteful eyes, before he was fully occupied in trying to ward off the blows. It was impossible to get away, for the boy was as big as himself, and to escape would mean hitting back. David shielded his head against the boy’s blows and clenched his teeth. The blows began to lose some of their force, and the boy seemed to hesitate.

  “So you won’t hit back, eh? Scared to fight, I suppose?”

  David did not answer, and the boy set about him again but less violently this time — rather as if he felt he had to.

  “Use your fists, you young swine!”

  “No.”

  The boy appeared to have grown tired of striking him, at least for the moment, and David sat up with blood streaming from his nose.

  “You seem to enjoy a good hiding. Maybe you like me for giving you one!” The boy’s voice was sneering.

  David regarded him calmly. “No, I don’t. I hate you — and I’d hate you just as much if it had been anyone else you’d hit. I wouldn’t care if you fell dead right now: at least I’d be sure you’d never look at anything beautiful again!”

  The strange boy looked astonished. “Why don’t you fight then?” he asked crossly.

  “Because if
I hit you back, I’d be no better than you are. I’d be just as rotten and worthless, and I’d have no right to be free!”

  The strange boy grinned at him, but there was a look of uncertainty about him and his eyes shifted uneasily. “You’re not all there!” he said. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “I don’t think. I know. I’m talking to someone who likes brute force. And that’s why I don’t want to talk to you any more. You can hit me again if you can catch me!”

  With that David jumped up smartly and ran off. He could not run very quickly because he was beginning to ache all over where the other had struck him. But the strange boy did not follow him: he only shouted, “Idiot! You’re a daft coward!”

  David had the impression that he was shouting so loudly for his own benefit.

  David was sick, and every time he thought about the young stranger he felt like being sick again. He found it difficult to understand that people should be so much better off here in Italy, where they had so much food to eat and were surrounded by so much beauty, and yet could still love violence. That boy was just like the guards in the camp, the only difference being that the guards did not leave off striking till their victims fainted. the boy, of course, had had only his bare hands to strike with and had tired of the effort too soon.

  For a moment David was tempted to think that perhaps there were no good people at all outside concentration camps, but then he reminded himself of the sailor and Angelo and the other people who might have been ignorant but were certainly not bad. And then when he was living among the rocks overhanging the sea there had been the man with the loaves. He had not been bad either: he had just not been brave enough to let a boy go without giving him away — not for more than a few days at any rate.