Читать книгу The Sons of Adam - Harry Bingham - Страница 52

‘Hier! Komm! Bitte schnell!’

The guard was elderly, silver-haired, Jewish. He was standing thirty yards away across the prison yard, beckoning at Tom.

Tom pointed to himself. ‘Ich? Me?’

The guard nodded.

Tom dragged himself over. A bitterly cold winter had passed into spring. Tom was still losing weight, certain now that he was dying of hunger. He was listless and apathetic. His belly stuck out, jammed tight with wind and emptiness. He caught up with the guard.

‘Ja?’

‘Hier. Ein Geschenk. Für dich.’ A present. For you.

Tom woodenly put out his hands. The guard gave him a bag of sugar, a couple of tins of goose fat, a jar of raspberry jam. Tom stared down at his treasures, hardly able to understand. The guard tried to explain further. Tom couldn’t properly follow the Jew’s accented German, but it was something to do with a Red Cross parcel that had arrived for a man recently dead. The guard had seen Tom’s state and wanted to help. Tom was so grateful – so shocked – he began to sob out thanks, like a child at Christmas. The guard waved away the thanks, told Tom to eat slowly, and left.

The gift was like a second chance at life.

Tom was tempted to wolf the lot, but knew his stomach would quickly revenge itself on him if he did. He ate the goose fat and the jam over five days and took a spoonful of sugar with a mug of cold water morning and evening. His stomach complained, but his painful wind reduced. For the first time in months, Tom felt nearly human. And, as a human, he felt ready for action.

Speaking to Norgaard in the quiet of the camp that evening, he made a proposal.

‘Let’s escape,’ he said.