Soon, Page 6

  ‘I’m Felix,’ I say.

  ‘Welcome, Felix,’ he says. ‘I’m Doctor Lipzyk.’

  He holds out his hand.

  I shake it.

  Anya comes in. She’s taken off her coat. She points at mine and I take it off while she holds the baby.

  I feel a bit out of place in this big luxury room with its own chandelier and fireplace and a rug with hardly any holes and millions of books. If the curtains in here are made from sacks, they’re very high quality ones.

  ‘This is the person I was telling you about,’ Anya says to Doctor Lipzyk. ‘He’s going to be a doctor.’

  Doctor Lipzyk smiles.

  ‘Always a pleasure to meet a colleague,’ he says.

  I don’t feel embarrassed because Doctor Lipzyk sounds like he means it.

  Anya hands the baby back to me.

  ‘Patient of yours?’ says Doctor Lipzyk.

  ‘Sort of,’ I say.

  ‘May I?’ he says.

  Doctor Lipzyk takes the baby and examines him, feeling his arms and legs and tummy and looking closely into his eyes and ears and mouth.

  ‘Few flea bites,’ murmurs Doctor Lipzyk, ‘but otherwise seems quite healthy.’

  ‘Felix has adopted him,’ says Anya. ‘I said you might be able to give him some milk.’

  Doctor Lipzyk doesn’t scowl like most people would if you asked them to give away food. He just nods and says, ‘Fresh or powdered?’

  I stare at him.

  At first I think he’s joking. In this city, fresh milk is rarer than full sets of parents.

  ‘Powdered would be best,’ says Anya. ‘So he can get it home without spilling it or getting killed for it.’

  Doctor Lipzyk nods and hands the baby back to me.

  ‘Let me organise that,’ he says. ‘And I’ll mix up some tonic drops. Your little one’s looking a bit anaemic.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  Doctor Lipzyk is amazing. He’s exactly the sort of doctor I want to be. Kind, skilful and excellent at making people feel relaxed and like they’ve got good vocabularies.

  ‘Excuse me for saying this, Felix,’ says Doctor Lipzyk gently. ‘But that baby needs a bath.’

  ‘I know,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m planning to give him one.’

  Doctor Lipzyk smiles.

  ‘Look after our visitors, Anya,’ he says, and goes.

  I turn to Anya.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ I say. ‘Living here.’

  I know this is the second time I’ve said it, but I can’t help myself. She is lucky.

  Anya frowns. And shrugs.

  I’m amazed. How could anybody not be grateful about living here?

  I look around at the bookshelves again. And notice something even more amazing.

  It’s so amazing I don’t believe it at first.

  I look more closely, shelf after shelf.

  They’re all medical books.

  ‘Anya,’ I say weakly. ‘Would you mind holding the baby again?’

  She takes him from me. I take a book from a shelf. A book about bones in humans, including, I’m interested to see, leg bones.

  ‘Felix,’ says a voice.

  At first I don’t know where I am. I’m studying a colour illustration of a spleen and I don’t want to take my eyes off it.

  ‘Felix.’

  I look up.

  Anya is standing there, holding the baby.

  I blink. The baby is about two shades pinker than I’ve ever seen him. And his bundle is different. It’s clean and new and fresh.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  Doctor Lipzyk is standing behind her, smiling. He hands me a paper bag and a small bottle. The bag has powdered milk in it, and the bottle has tonic drops.

  ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ I say.

  ‘Give him two drops three times a day in boiled water,’ says Doctor Lipzyk. ‘First ones as soon as you get home.’

  My tummy lurches.

  Home.

  Gabriek.

  I haven’t got a clue how long I’ve been here.

  ‘Before you go,’ says Doctor Lipzyk, ‘sit down and have some hot chocolate. And some warm milk for the baby.’

  A boy and a girl are standing next to him, both about my age. Both are carrying trays.

  I can’t say no. They’ve already made it. Plus I haven’t had chocolate for years.

  I’ll drink it quickly.

  We all sit at a table. Doctor Lipzyk pours from a silver jug and hands me a cup. I gulp the hot drink. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

  But even hot chocolate isn’t enough to stop me feeling anxious about Gabriek.

  I’ll give the baby the warm milk and we’ll go.

  It takes me ages to drip the milk out of the bottle into the baby’s mouth. And mop up the rest with the towel an older girl kindly brings.

  Now I’m frantic at how late we are.

  I stand up.

  ‘Sorry to be rude, sir,’ I say to Doctor Lipzyk. ‘But we have to go. Thank you for everything. You’re very kind and your orphanage is brilliant.’

  ‘Very nice of you to say so,’ says Doctor Lipzyk. ‘I do what I can. This is a dark and difficult time for young people. Many go astray.’

  I’m not sure exactly what he means, so it’s hard to reply.

  Then it gets even harder because the boy who brought the hot chocolate clears away the cups, and suddenly I realise something.

  Him and the other boy in the hall cleaning the chandelier, I’ve seen them both before. On the back of an army food truck.

  They’re both in Anya’s gang.

  Which is extremely confusing.

  Why would people living in the most luxurious orphanage in Europe secretly run around the city in grubby coats stealing petrol?

  I manage to finish thanking Doctor Lipzyk, and Anya sees me to the door.

  In the hallway she holds the baby while I stow the powdered milk and tonic drops safely in the secret coat pockets Gabriek made. I do it with my back to her so they stay secret.

  While I’m doing that, I ask Anya what’s going on. If I’m going to be in her gang, I need to know what’s what.

  There’s no reply.

  I turn to her.

  She’s not there. The baby is lying on the carpet and the front door is open. I see Anya in the garden, kneeling in front of a couple of spindly rose bushes.

  I pick the baby up and go out. At first I think Anya is smelling the roses, then I see she’s not.

  She’s being sick into them.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I say.

  Anya finishes throwing up, wipes her mouth, grabs a spade, and covers the sick with dirt.

  She turns to me, her face hard and angry.

  ‘You shouldn’t have seen that,’ she says. ‘And if you ever tell Doctor Lipzyk or anyone else, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.’

  She goes inside and shuts the door.

  I stare at the spade and the patch of dirt.

  Now I’m even more confused. If you live with the world’s kindest doctor and you’re not well, why wouldn’t you want him to know?

  , I hope, this bag of powdered milk and this bottle of tonic drops will make everything OK with Gabriek. And he’ll say yes, of course the baby can live with us.

  I hope.

  Gabriek opens the door after I do our knock and I go in.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say. ‘A few things happened.’

  Gabriek doesn’t ask what. Just looks at the baby. Then steps past me and closes the door.

  My heart valves are hurting. And not just from the stress of rushing back here and keeping my eyes alert for Gogol.

  ‘So,’ says Gabriek, looking at the baby again. ‘Welfare wouldn’t take him.’

  ‘I tried,’ I say. ‘I peed on a guard’s foot and everything.’

  Gabriek sits on the stool next to our little stove. I see he’s been cooking a turnip on the hot pipes he invented to stop the smoke escaping.

  That
’s not why he’s sitting down. His vodka mug is next to the stool. He picks it up and swallows a mouthful.

  My heart sinks. But I’m prepared for this.

  I have a secret weapon.

  ‘Look,’ I say, pulling out the bag of milk powder.

  It doesn’t seem as big as it did at the orphanage. Maybe chandeliers make things look bigger.

  Doesn’t matter.

  ‘It’s genuine milk,’ I say. ‘And look, tonic drops. I know where to get more. So the baby will always be fed and healthy.’

  ‘Good,’ says Gabriek. ‘Whoever ends up looking after him will be glad of that. I had a word to a few customers today, just in case. I’ll speak to more tomorrow.’

  I have to sit down too. Not because of vodka, because of frustration. I plonk onto the other stool, hugging the baby to me.

  Gabriek has a good heart, but he also has the most stubborn brain ever to occupy a cranial cavity.

  ‘This baby needs us,’ I say. ‘Your mechanical skill and my medical skill. We’re the perfect parents.’

  Gabriek takes another swig from his mug.

  I’m not convincing him.

  The baby starts to cry. Not loudly, but enough to remind Gabriek that I’m holding a security risk to my chest.

  I try another secret weapon.

  Gabriek’s good heart.

  I put the sobbing baby on the floor and wash my hands in the basin. When I turn back, the baby is still on the floor, still sobbing.

  Gabriek hasn’t picked him up.

  I sit back down, get out the sugar water and let the baby suck my finger.

  ‘You and me,’ I say to Gabriek, ‘we’ve only got each other. So if anything happened to either of us, the other one would be on his own. But not if we had this baby with us. If I got killed, you’d –’

  ‘Don’t,’ says Gabriek.

  He takes another swig.

  I feel tears of frustration pricking my eyes and I don’t want them to. I unwrap the baby and hold him out, pink and soft and naked and defenceless.

  ‘They called him an ape,’ I say.

  Gabriek’s eyes narrow.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘An ape,’ I say.

  ‘Who?’

  I stop myself. I still haven’t told Gabriek about Gogol, and now is a bad time. If Gabriek knows I’m on a death list because of this baby, there’s no way the little bundle will be allowed to stay here.

  ‘People I did some medical work for,’ I say. ‘Who didn’t like him. Or his parents.’

  ‘Little fella must be Ukrainian,’ mutters Gabriek. ‘Ape is a word the ignorant and the vile use for Ukrainians.’

  Gabriek doesn’t say anything else. Just stares at the baby. But I can see he’s more upset than he wants to show.

  Sleep.

  Please go to sleep.

  It’ll be dawn soon. You’ve drunk so much milk I’ve lost count. We’ve run out of nappies. My spare clothes are all sodden. My bed has absorbed so much of your pee it’s sagging at the sides.

  Please.

  The baby obviously doesn’t understand the words please, sleep or sagging.

  He just carries on gurgling in my arms.

  I’m exhausted. But not just from lack of sleep. From all the thinking. About what I’ll do if Gabriek refuses to let the baby stay.

  I’ve decided the next safest thing would be for the baby to live with his own people. Ukrainian people. So, if he can’t stay here, I’d have to find some of them.

  But I don’t want to think about that now.

  I put the baby back down on my bed, lie down next to him and try to think about something I can control rather than something I can’t.

  A plan I’ve thought up to get Gogol off our backs. To make him totally lose interest in killing me and the baby.

  By making him think we’re both already dead.

  Simple, but I think it’ll work.

  All I need are a couple of bodies. Which are easy to come by these days. People die of hunger all the time in this city and nobody cares. If I can’t find the bodies of a baby and a thirteen-year-old in a couple of days, I’m just not trying. Then all I’ve got to do is put some bullet holes in them and get them delivered to Gogol by somebody believable.

  Dimmi maybe.

  Or somebody in Anya’s gang.

  Or . . .

  The baby is gazing up at me, eyes wide and fixed on my face.

  I can see what he’s thinking.

  You’re a doctor. Doctors don’t do horrible things like that with innocent people’s bodies. Get a grip.

  He’s right.

  But these are desperate times, little bundle. Most people in the world seem to be doing things that would have horrified them in the old days. And made their parents very upset.

  Perhaps I have to as well.

  I can’t decide now. I need to sleep. My eyes are sagging even more than my mattress.

  Please.

  I half open my eyes.

  Light is seeping through the cracks between the curtains. Not dull dawn light, bright daylight.

  I’ve slept in.

  I open my eyes wide and panic jolts through me.

  The baby’s not here.

  I’m alone in the bed.

  I sit up and peer frantically around. If Gabriek’s gone too . . . if he’s taken the baby . . .

  He hasn’t. He’s asleep in his bed, lying on his back, snoring softly, the baby asleep on his chest.

  I flop back down, weak with relief.

  And knock the tap I got for Gabriek onto the floor. It clatters across the wooden boards.

  Gabriek opens his eyes.

  ‘A baby needs a name,’ he says. ‘We can’t just call him little bundle.’

  I stare at Gabriek, taking this in.

  ‘Only one Ukrainian name I can think of,’ says Gabriek. ‘Pavlo. It belonged to a partisan who took a bullet protecting my back. Will that do?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, it will.’

  ‘And we’ll need milk,’ says Gabriek. ‘A regular supply. Paid for, so we can depend on it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my heart valves doing cartwheels. ‘I agree.’

  What I really want to say is thank you, thank you, thank you, and fling my arms round them both. But I don’t want to overdo it. Gabriek isn’t really a morning person.

  ‘The doctor you told me about last night,’ says Gabriek. ‘Give me his address and I’ll go and see him and arrange something.’

  I hesitate.

  ‘The person who took me there,’ I say, ‘she made me promise I won’t tell anybody where they are.’

  Gabriek frowns.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say.

  Gabriek thinks about this. He understands about promises and security. I think he also understands this is something I should do because I was the one who brought Pavlo into our family.

  ‘Alright,’ says Gabriek. ‘But if he won’t deal with you straight, tell him to meet me in food-drop square.’

  ‘I will,’ I say.

  I pause a moment, struggling with my thoughts. I know I should tell Gabriek about Gogol. Me and Gabriek never keep anything from each other. You can’t survive for two years in a hole if you and the person looking after you can’t trust each other.

  But knowing about Gogol will just make Gabriek stressed and anxious. And when that happens, so does cabbage vodka.

  I’m thirteen now. It’s time I took responsibility for solving some of our problems myself.

  Starting with Gogol.

  ‘Are you alright?’ says Gabriek, looking at me, concerned.

  ‘Lots to do,’ I say. ‘Just preparing myself.’

  Gabriek nods. He’s done a lot of difficult things in his life. Including killing Nazis, and killing is the thing he hates most in the whole world.

  I look at his kind weather-beaten face and I feel my cardiovascular system glowing with love.

  It’s amazing. Gabriek has given me so much, and yet he’s still got enough generosity lef
t over to give shelter to a baby he hardly knows.

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ says Gabriek.

  ‘Totally,’ I say.

  Which is true.

  So far.

  , I hope, that man’s face will heal.

  It must be very badly injured to be completely wrapped in bandages like that. I’m amazed he can see through such tiny eyeholes.

  He must be able to, because as we pass each other in Doctor Lipzyk’s front garden he doesn’t bump into me or trip over a paving stone.

  Just hurries away.

  Poor man. But at least he’s got a really good doctor. If anybody can cure a face that’s suffering from shrapnel or other bomb damage, Doctor Lipzyk can.

  I knock on the front door of the orphanage.

  After a few moments, Doctor Lipzyk opens it. He’s reading a piece of paper and doesn’t look up.

  ‘If you’ve forgotten something,’ he says crossly, ‘make it quick. Those bandages need to be out of sight.’

  I pull the hanky off my face so Doctor Lipzyk can see it’s me. He looks up with a cross expression, then blinks, startled.

  I’m a bit startled too. Doctor Lipzyk is wearing a white medical gown with quite a few smears of blood on it.

  ‘Forgive me, Felix,’ says Doctor Lipzyk. ‘I assumed you were someone else. Come in.’

  I go in.

  ‘I hope this isn’t a bad time,’ I say.

  Doctor Lipzyk can probably remember when all his neighbours had telephones as well as houses and people rang first before they dropped in.

  ‘Not at all, Felix,’ says Doctor Lipzyk. ‘Though unfortunately Anya isn’t here.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to see you.’

  ‘Always a pleasure,’ says Doctor Lipzyk. ‘In fact I’ve been expecting you.’

  I think I know why.

  I explain to him how grateful me and Gabriek are for the powdered milk and how we wouldn’t dream of accepting any more without paying for it. And how we hope he’s OK about that because we’ll need quite a lot.

  ‘Which we’ll definitely pay for,’ I say. ‘Sometimes with actual money, but also with things you need. We can get really good parts for wardrobes and buckets and all kinds of security equipment. And if anything ever goes wrong here in the house, Gabriek can come and fix it.’

  Doctor Lipzyk nods thoughtfully.

  ‘Thank you, Felix,’ he says. ‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.’