Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Read online

  Wladek chose the largest orange he could see and a handful of nuts. The stallkeeper said something to him that he could not understand. Wladek felt the easiest way out of the language barrier was to hand over a 50-ruble note. The stall-keeper looked at it, laughed and threw his arms in the sky.

  “Allah!” he cried, snatching the nuts and the orange from Wladek and waving him away with his forefinger. Wladek walked off in despair; a different language means different money, he supposed. In Russia he had been poor; here he was penniless. He would have to steal an orange; if he was about to be caught, he would throw it back to the stallkeeper. Wladek walked to the other end of the marketplace in the same way as Stefan had, but he couldn’t imitate the swagger and he didn’t feel the same confidence. He chose the end stall and when he was sure no one was watching, he picked up an orange and started to run. Suddenly there was an uproar. It seemed as if half the city were chasing him.

  A big man jumped on the limping Wladek and threw him to the ground. Six or seven people seized hold of different parts of his body while a larger group thronged around as he was dragged back to the stall. A policeman awaited them. Notes were taken, and there was a shouted exchange between the stall owner and the policeman, each man’s voice rising with each statement. The policeman then turned to Wladek and shouted at him too, but Wladek could not understand a word. The policeman shrugged his shoulders and marched Wladek off by the ear. People continued to bawl at him. Some of them spat on him. When Wladek reached the police station he was taken underground and thrown into a tiny cell, already occupied by twenty or thirty criminals—thugs, thieves or he knew not what. Wladek did not speak to them and they showed no desire to talk to him. He remained with his back to a wall, cowering, quiet, terrified. For a day and a night he was left there with no food. The smell of excreta made him vomit until there was nothing left in him. He never thought the day would come when the dungeons in Slonim would seem uncrowded and peaceful.

  The next morning Wladek was dragged from the basement by two guards and marched to a hall, where he was lined up with several other prisoners. They were all roped to each other around the waist and led from the jail in a long line down into the street. Another large crowd had gathered outside, and their loud cheer of welcome made Wladek feel that they had been waiting some time for the prisoners to appear. The crowd followed them all the way to the marketplace—screaming, clapping and shouting—for what reason, Wladek feared even to contemplate. The line came to a halt when they reached the market square. The first prisoner was unleashed from his rope and taken into the center of the square, which was already crammed with hundreds of people, all shouting at the top of their voices.

  Wladek watched the scene in disbelief. When the first prisoner reached the middle of the square, he was knocked to his knees by the guard and then his right hand was strapped to a wooden block by a giant of a man who raised a large sword above his head and brought it down with terrible force, aiming at the prisoner’s wrist. He managed to catch only the tips of the fingers. The prisoner screamed with pain as the sword was raised again. This time the sword hit the wrist but still did not finish the job properly, and the wrist dangled from the prisoner’s arm, blood pouring out onto the sand. The sword was raised for a third time and for the third time it came down. The prisoner’s hand at last fell to the ground. The crowd roared its approval. The prisoner was at last released and he slumped in a heap, unconscious. He was dragged off by a disinterested guard and left on the edge of the crowd. A weeping woman—his wife, Wladek presumed—hurriedly tied a tourniquet of dirty cloth around the bloody stump. The second prisoner died of shock before the fourth blow was struck. The giant executioner was not interested in death, so he hurriedly continued his task; he was paid to remove hands.

  Wladek looked around in terror and retched; he would have vomited if there had been anything left in his stomach. He searched in every direction for help or some means of escape; no one had told him that under Islamic law the punishment for trying to escape would be the loss of a foot. His eyes darted around the mass of faces until he saw a man in the crowd dressed like a European, wearing a dark suit. The man was standing about twenty yards away from Wladek and was watching the spectacle with obvious disgust. But he did not once look in Wladek’s direction, nor could he hear the boy’s shouts for help in the uproar every time the sword was brought down. Was he French, German, English or even Polish? Wladek could not tell, but for some reason he was witnessing this macabre spectacle. Wladek stared at him, willing him to look his way. But he did not. Wladek waved his free arm but still could not gain the European’s attention. They untied the man two in front of Wladek and dragged him along the ground toward the block. When the sword went up again and the crowd cheered, the man in the dark suit turned his eyes away in disgust and Wladek waved frantically at him again.

  The man stared at Wladek and then turned to talk to a companion, whom Wladek had not noticed. The guard was now struggling with the prisoner immediately in front of Wladek. He placed the prisoner’s hand under the strap; the sword went up and removed the hand in one blow. The crowd seemed disappointed. Wladek stared again at the Europeans. They were now both looking at him. He willed them to move, but they only continued to stare.

  The guard came over, threw Wladek’s 50-ruble overcoat to the ground, undid his cuff and rolled up his sleeve. Wladek struggled futilely as he was dragged across the square. He was no match for the guard. When he reached the block, he was kicked in the back of his knees and collapsed to the ground. The strap was fastened over his right wrist, and there was nothing left for him to do but close his eyes as the sword was raised above the executioner’s head. He waited in agony for the terrible blow and then there was a sudden hush in the crowd as the Baron’s silver band fell from Wladek’s elbow down to his wrist and onto the block. An eerie silence came over the crowd as the heirloom shone brightly in the sunlight. The executioner stopped and put down his sword and studied the silver band. Wladek opened his eyes. The guard tried to pull the band over Wladek’s wrist, but he couldn’t get it past the leather strap. A man in uniform ran quickly forward and joined the executioner. He too studied the band and the inscription and then ran to another man, who must have been of higher authority, because as he now walked toward Wladek he walked slowly. The sword was resting on the ground, and the crowd was now beginning to jeer and hoot. The second officer also tried to pull the silver band off but could not get it over the block and he seemed unwilling to undo the strap. He shouted words at Wladek, who did not understand what he was saying and replied in Polish, “I do not speak your language.”

  The officer looked surprised and threw his hands in the air shouting “Allah!” That must be the same as “Holy God,” thought Wladek. The officer walked slowly toward the two men in the crowd wearing Western suits, arms going in every direction like a disorganized windmill. Wladek prayed to God—in such situations any man prays to any god, be it Allah or the Virgin Mary. The Europeans were still staring at Wladek and Wladek was nodding frantically. One of the two men joined the Turkish officer as he walked back toward the block. The former knelt on one knee by Wladek’s side, studied the silver band and then looked carefully at him. Wladek waited. He could converse in five languages and prayed that the gentleman would speak one of them. His heart sank when the European turned to the officer and addressed him in his own tongue. The crowd was now hissing and throwing rotten fruit at the block. The officer was nodding his agreement while the gentleman stared intently at Wladek.

  “Do you speak English?”

  Wladek heaved a sigh of relief. “Yes, sir, not bad. I am Polish citizen.”

  “How did you come into possession of that silver band?”

  “It belong my father, sir. He die in prison by the Germans in Poland and I captured and sent to a prison camp in Russia. I escape and come here by ship. I have no eat for days. When stallkeeper no accept my rubles for orange, I take one because I much, much hungry.”

  The Englis