I Am David (14 page)

“What are you called, my son?”

“I’m David.”

“So you’re David. And who’s your God, David?”

“He’s the God of the green pastures and the still waters …”

The priest looked at him and smiled. ““The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His Name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.”… It’s the same God, David.”

David had listened attentively. He loved the sound of the strange words that people did not otherwise use, and the priest seemed quite familiar with his God.

“It can’t be the same one, signor. He was the God of someone who was also called David.”

“Yes, that’s right. The words I spoke come from the twenty-third psalm of David. I gather you must be a stranger and don’t belong to our Church. But, believe me, David, it’s the same God. We men call Him by so many different names, but when we pray because we need help or comfort, it’s still the same God that hears our prayers.”

Perhaps what the priest said was true. How could he be sure, when there were so many things he did not know? But when you had made a choice, then you must stand by it, and if the priest were mistaken, you mustn’t let yourself be influenced by it.

“I’d rather keep my own God, if you don’t mind, signor. He’s very strong, and helps you when you’re frightened. And you shouldn’t change your mind once you’ve made your choice, for you must respect what you’ve said …”

David said this very politely for he did not want to hurt the priest’s feelings.

But the priest did not seem to mind in the least. He continued to smile and said in a voice so gentle it sounded almost like Johannes’, “You are perfectly right, David, and you’ve chosen well. You shall certainly not want. Do you know what “want” means?”

“Yes, it’s the same as being in need. But I like the other word better: it sounds more — more like music.”

David thought the priest was going to put his hand out towards him and he stiffened. But he was wrong: the priest did not touch him but merely said, “I’m going home for something to eat, David. If you’re hungry, you can come with me. Or perhaps I can help you in some other way?”

David considered. A priest was never dangerous, and it would be foolish not to accept help in finding out what he wanted to know.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m not hungry, but if you have a map that shows what Italy looks like, then I’d like to see where Switzerland begins.”

Beyond Bologna the countryside was less beautiful. The landscape was practically flat and the road grey and dusty. Some of the by-roads might have been pleasanter. David had discovered they often were. But he was in a hurry, and there was more traffic on the main roads. He had written down on a piece of paper the names of the towns he must pass through on his way to Switzerland, and as it was growing a little bit colder every night, David only stopped when he ran short of bread.

He had now spent all the money he had started with, and it was only in the towns that he could earn more. But there were no longer so many tourists to be found, and David wondered if they would all go back home when the weather became really cold. If they did, he would be in danger of starving, for the Italians were able to do most things for themselves and did not need a boy to help them. Moreover, although he was by this time a very long way from the house, the thought never left him that they might have put the police on to him. He considered it safer to keep away from Italians, except for motorists and lorry-drivers.

They were quite safe. They had no time to be interested in strange boys; they were too fully occupied with thinking where they were going and what they were going to do when they got back home. As long as you listened to what they told you about themselves and their families, they were satisfied. They always said how nice it was to have someone to talk with, but David thought they really meant “talk to” rather than “talk with”, for there was never any need for him to say much more than “yes” or “no”. But that suited him very well. As long as they were only interested in themselves, there was less danger of their asking him too many questions. And they nearly always shared their food with him.

One driver introduced David to railway stations. He had very often seen trains, but it had never occurred to him that they had definite stopping places or that there were such things as stations. That was before he got to Milan. David told the man he was riding with how he had been taken ill in Naples and how he was now on his way to join the circus again. The man inquired if he had enough money, and when David replied that he occasionally earned a little, the man took it for granted that he usually did it on railway stations.

So when he arrived in Milan, David was put down at the station. And what a good way of earning money it was! The people who were boarding the trains or getting off them often needed someone to carry their cases, and on the station there were still many tourists who could not speak Italian and were glad of someone who understood what they said and could find out which platforms the trains would leave from or where the restaurant was. David spent a whole evening on the station and earned enough money to buy bread for several days.

It was there he saw the paper.

He was no longer so interested in newspapers. Whenever he came across one or had a loaf wrapped in one, he would read it as practice in reading quickly. But a great deal of it was about things he knew nothing of, and in any case he had no means of knowing how much of what he read was true, especially when he did not know who had written the articles. If they had written them, then it was best not to believe them.

Suddenly he saw his own name!

He had been resting on a seat, for the last case he had carried had been very heavy and he was now tired. An Italian was sitting by him, and when he got up to go he left his paper lying on the seat.

And there on the back page, he read: “David. Do not be afraid. We are not searching for you. But we should be glad if you would come back and live with us. We believe everything you said. The children’s parents.”

It was addressed to him — there was no doubt about that — and for a little while he felt completely happy.

It was cold in the ditch. He dared not try to beg a lift in the evening because people thought it wrong for a boy to be on the roads at that time. It had taken him a long while to leave Milan behind, and now he could find nowhere to sleep but this ditch. It was a good thing he had grown used to being cold in the camp. Once more David thought about that letter in the paper. He was glad they had written to him. They were good people, all of them — all except Carlo.

Yet he knew he could not go back to them. He would always hate Carlo, and he would always be different and out of place. And he would not be able to tell them what they wanted to know, for if he did they would be forced to send him back to them.

Suddenly David knew why nothing had seemed quite right since he had left the house. He recalled how uneasy he had felt as he had gone up the broad front steps the first day he was there — as if some danger lay in wait for him behind those doors. If only he had gone on his way and never entered the house! He had been happy before … yes, happy. When he had lived among the rocks and tramped the roads, he had been his own master and could do as he pleased. He had had beauty all about him, he had enjoyed the taste of bread and fruit, and he could have a wash whenever he wanted and go when he liked. But when he entered the house, he had seen what he could never possess. Nothing would ever again appear quite so good and satisfying as it had done before. Even if he had not hated Carlo, it would not have helped. The children and their parents belonged to one another, and David could never belong. He was not … right. He was different from other children who had not been brought up in a concentration camp. There was nowhere he belonged. Now that they no longer believed he was really bad, they would do their utmost to make it appear that he did belong. But it would not be the truth. He would continue to be himself, David, a boy who was a fugitive and did not know where he was fleeing to.

He should never had entered the house. Maria … Whenever he had looked at Maria and she had made him smile, he had been aware that there was something he had forgotten, something important.

He had forgotten the most important condition that made it possible for him to go on living: that he should never again grow fond of anyone. When Johannes died he thought he would die too. But when he had recovered and knew he was not going to die, he realized he must never, never care for anyone again — never. Only if you were indifferent could you go on living. That was what he had kept in mind through all the years that followed — until he saw Maria.

And now nothing would ever be the same again: even if they were not looking for him, even if he could preserve his liberty and could avoid being too cold or too hungry. It would never be the same again, because he would always have to remain himself, a boy who belonged nowhere.

“God,” he said, “God of the green pastures and the still waters. I’m not praying for help, because I’m David and that’s something that can’t be altered. But I want you to know that I’ve found out that green pastures and still waters are not enough to live by, and nor is freedom. Not when you know there’s love and you haven’t anyone you belong to because you’re different and are only a boy who’s run away. I’m saying this to tell you you needn’t help me any more to escape from them. It doesn’t matter. Thank you for the times you helped me when I still thought life might be a little worth living. I am David. Amen.”

David must have fallen asleep, for when he looked about him again it was morning and the sun was shining. It must have been shining for some time, for he no longer felt perished with cold as he had during the night.

He got up, picked up his bundle and started to walk. He might just as well walk as sit there and wait.

He thought of nothing in particular. There was no longer any need to think now that he did not care what happened.

The frontier lay in the next village, and David knew at once that he hated it. There was a barrier across the road and soldiers who examined people’s passports before they were allowed to drive on. It all looked very friendly, and no one seemed to be afraid. They all had their papers in order, of course, so they were allowed to proceed. But David did not like the look of it. If he had to be arrested, then it should be in the beauty of the mountains, not here at a road-barrier.

He made his way out of the village again and along a narrow by-road, and not until he had been walking for an hour did he turn northwards, away from the road. He had heard in the concentration camp that this was the way to cross a frontier, at some point where no one could see you. Sometimes you were caught in spite of that, but then it was by chance and not because there was a barrier there.

For a long time he tramped on away from the road up over the vineyards, keeping as near as he could reckon from the position of the sun in a northerly direction. It was hard going because now there were mountains again, but he wanted to be quite sure he had crossed the frontier before he returned to the roads again. Then he came to a village called Mendrisio and immediately concluded he had gone astray for the people in the street still spoke Italian. But then he saw a notice over a doorway with the word “Svizzera” on it, and a flag that was not the Italian flag. “Svizzera” he recalled, was the Italian word for Switzerland. So they spoke Italian in Switzerland too.

David decided to take the road again; it was only the barrier that he wanted to avoid. He knew nothing about Switzerland, not a thing. There had never been a Swiss in the camp: pure luck, perhaps … not that it mattered now.

Late in the afternoon he came to the lake again, or it might have been another lake. It was very beautiful, almost as beautiful as the coast where he had lived among the rocks. Dotted up and down the mountain sides lay gay little villages, and boats were sailing on the lake. After he had been walking along the shore of the lake for some time, the road ran over a bridge to the other side of the water. The next town should be called Lugano; he would buy a loaf there, and perhaps some cheese as well.

But David did not reach Lugano. The road lay between the mountains and the edge of the lake, and a little above the road he caught sight of an orange-tree. He began to scramble up the hillside to see if there were any fallen oranges. He found one, and stood there gazing down at the lake which looked very beautiful from up there. He made his way among the trees still farther up the slope, and there he sat down on a low wall which had been warmed by the sun. He took out his knife and began peeling the orange, gazing now and then at the lake below.

“Hallo, boy!”

David turned round to look. He did so quite calmly for he did not mind who came now. Then he stood up. It was a woman. The children’s father always stood up when their mother entered the room, and he made the boys stand up too.

“I’d like you to let me paint you, if you’ve time.”

David looked at her. “I’ve plenty of time,” he said politely. “But I don’t know what it’s like to be painted. Where do you want to paint?”

The woman had begun putting something up on an easel. A case was standing at her side. “Here,” she said.

David walked over to her and looked at the easel. “Oh, I didn’t know you wanted to paint a picture. Can you paint beautiful pictures, signora?”

The woman laughed. “No, they’re terrible! But just trying is something, isn’t it? You always go on hoping that one day you’ll manage it.”

“Yes. But one day you may realize you’ll never be able to.”

The woman looked at him as if she were going to say something, but David felt sure that what she did say was not what she was going to say. She merely asked if he could sit still.

David said yes, and she laughed and said she was sure that was a lie, but a quarter of an hour later she begged his pardon: he obviously could sit still. But he could move his head and talk now if he wanted to, as long as he kept the rest of his body still.