Page 1 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
As the bitter wind whipped up a flurry of snow before them, the two young boys pulled their thinning fur coats tightly around their faces.
‘Come on!’ cried the elder of the pair. Although he had just turned eleven, his voice already possessed a gruff, husky quality. ‘That’s enough. Let’s get back home.’
The younger boy – only seven – picked up the pile of firewood they had been collecting and ran after the older boy, who was already striding away.
When they were halfway home, the children became aware of a faint cheeping noise coming from the trees. The older boy stopped in his tracks.
‘Do you hear that?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ replied the small boy. His arms were aching from the weight of the wood, and although they had been still for just a moment, he had started to shiver. ‘Can we get home, please? I’m tired.’
‘Don’t whine,’ the older boy snapped. ‘I’m going to investigate.’ He made his way to the base of a nearby birch and knelt down. Reluctantly, the smaller boy followed behind.
Before them, wriggling helplessly on the hard ground, was a baby sparrow no bigger than a rouble.
‘He’s fallen from the nest,’ the older boy sighed. ‘Or, I wonder... listen.’ The pair stood still in the snow, and eventually heard a high-pitched call from above. ‘Aha! That’s a cuckoo.’
‘The bird from the clock?’
‘Yes. But they are not friendly creatures. The cuckoo lays its eggs in the nests of other birds. Then, when the chick hatches, it pushes the other babies out.’ He sniffed. ‘That’s what’s happened here.’
‘Oh no.’ The smaller boy bent down and used his little finger to gently stroke the bird’s head. ‘It’s all right, friend, we’re here now.’ He looked up at his companion. ‘Maybe if we climb the tree, we can put him back.’ The boy attempted to spot the nest. ‘It must be very high up.’ Suddenly, there was a sickening crunch from the forest floor. He looked down to see that the older boy had crushed the chick under his boot.
‘What have you done?’ the small boy cried in horror.
‘The mother wouldn’t have accepted it. Best to kill it now.’
‘But... you don’t know that.’ Tears began to prick the boy’s brown eyes. ‘We could have tried.’
The elder of the pair put his hand up to dismiss the protestations. ‘There is no point in trying when something is doomed to failure. That is simply a waste of time.’ He continued down the hill. ‘Come on. Let’s get back.’
The younger boy bent down to look at the lifeless chick. ‘I’m sorry about my brother,’ he sobbed. ‘He is in pain. He didn’t mean to do this.’
1928–29
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The diary is a present from Monsieur and Madame Paul Landowski. They say that, because I don’t speak yet they know that I can write, it would be a good idea if I tried to note down things that I think. At first, they thought I was just plain stupid, that I had lost my wits, which in many ways I have. Or more accurately, perhaps I have just exhausted them, having lived by them for so long. They are very tired, and so am I.
The reason they know that I at least have some sense left is because they asked me to write. To begin with, they tried to make me write my name, age and where I had come from, but I learnt long ago that writing such things on paper can get you into trouble, and trouble is something I want no more of ever again. So, I sat at the table in the kitchen and copied out a piece of poetry that Papa had taught me. Of course, it was one that would not betray where I came from before I arrived under a hedge in their garden. Nor was it one of my favourites, but I felt the words suited my mood, and were enough to show this kind couple – whom fate had thrown inmy path when death was knocking at my door – that I could communicate. So I wrote:
Tonight I’ve watched
the moon and then
the Pleiades
go down
The night is now
half-gone; youth
goes; I am
in bed alone
I wrote it in French, English and German, none of which was the language I’d used since I’d been old enough to talk (which I can, of course, but just like words on paper, anything spoken – especially in haste – can be used as currency). I admit to enjoying the look of surprise on Madame Landowski’s face as she read what I’d written, even if it wasn’t helpful to her in discovering who I was, or who I belonged to. Elsa the maid had a look in her eye which suggested that I should be posted back to where I had come from as soon as possible when she slammed down a bowl of food in front of me.
