John Boyne - The House of Special Purpose

I didn’t know how to respond to such a litany of disdain. Like everyone else, I considered Kolek Boryavich to be the finest boy in the village and it had always been my secret delight that he had chosen me to be his closest friend. Perhaps it was the difference in our appearance which allowed our relationship to thrive. The fact that I was the short, fat, golden-curled subordinate standing next to the tall, slim, dark-haired hero, my pathetic proximity making him appear even more glorious than he really was. And this, in turn, made his father even more proud of him. On that, I knew Asya was correct. There was nothing that Kolek would not have done to impress his father. And what was wrong with that, I wondered. At least Borys Alexandrovich took pride in his boy.

But finally, I grew tired of being Pasha and wanted to be Georgy again, and around the time of my fourteenth birthday, the changes in my own appearance, from boy to man, finally took a sudden and unexpected hold, and I encouraged them through exercise and activity. Within a few months, I had grown a considerable amount and suddenly stood just over six feet in height. The heaviness which had cursed me throughout my childhood fell away from my bones as I began to run miles around our village every day, waking early in the morning to swim for an hour in the freezing waters of the Kashinka river that flowed near by. My body grew toned, the muscles at my stomach became more defined. My curls began to straighten out and my hair darkened a little from the shade of bright sunlight to the colour of washed sand. By 1915, when I was sixteen years old, I could stand beside Kolek and not be embarrassed by the comparison. I was still the lesser of the two, of course, but the gap between us had diminished.

There were girls who liked me, too, I knew that. Not as many as fell for my friend, that is true, but nevertheless, I was not unpopular.

And through it all, Asya shook her head and said that I should not aspire to be like Kolek, that he would never be the great man that people expected, and that sooner or later the young prince would not bring honour on Kashin, but shame.

It was Borys Alexandrovich who first imparted the news that would change my life.

Kolek and I were standing at the corner of a field near my family’s hut, stripped to the waist on a frosty spring morning, laughing together as we chopped a pile of logs into firewood, while doing all that we could to impress the village girls who walked past us. We were sixteen years old, strong and handsome, and while some ignored us completely, others glanced in our direction and offered teasing smiles, biting their lips as they laughed and watched us swing our axes high in the air before bringing them down into the heart of the timber, cleaving it in half, the splinters spitting out from the wreckage like fireworks. One or two were flirtatious enough to make the kind of indecent comment that encouraged Kolek, but I was not yet confident enough to engage in such banter and found myself feeling self-conscious and turning away.

My father, Daniil, emerged from our izba and stared at us for a moment, curling his lip a little in distaste as he shook his head. ‘You bloody fools,’ he said, irritated by our youth and physicality. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia like that, or do you think that young men can’t die?’

‘I’m made of strong stuff, Daniil Vladyavich,’ replied Kolek, winking at him as he lifted his muscular arms once again so his biceps might pulse and flex for all to see. The axe glistened in the air, its clean steel catching the light for a moment and sending a series of black and golden polka-dots dancing before my eyes, so that when I blinked away the obstruction, it seemed as if a magnificent halo had suddenly materialized around my friend. ‘Can’t you see that?’

‘You might be, Kolek Boryavich,’ he said, glaring at me as if he wished that it was Kolek who had been born his son and not I. ‘But Georgy follows your example too much and lacks your strength. Will you take care of him when he’s shivering in his bed, sweating like a horse and crying out for his mother?’

Kolek looked at me and grinned, delighted by the insult, but I said nothing and continued with my work. A group of young children ran past and giggled as they saw us there, delighted by our near indecency, but then looked towards my father, with his deformed head and terrible reputation for anger, and their smiles quickly faded as they hurried on their way.

‘Are you going to stand there and watch us all afternoon or do you have any work of your own to do?’ I asked finally, when Daniil showed no sign of leaving us to our labours and conversation. It was unusual for me to speak to him in this way. Typically I addressed him with some degree of respect, not out of fear, but because I did not wish to involve myself in any arguments. On this occasion, however, my defiant words were designed more to impress Kolek with my fortitude than insult Daniil with my insolence.

‘I’ll take that axe from your hands and slice you in two with it, Pasha, if you don’t keep quiet,’ he answered, stepping towards me and employing the diminutive which he knew could keep me in my place. I held my position for only a moment before retreating a little and hanging my head. He maintained a power over me, one that I did not fully understand, but he could intimidate me back to my childhood obedience with a simple word.

‘My son is a coward, Kolek Boryavich,’ he announced then, delighted by his triumph. ‘This is what happens when you are reared in a family of women. You become one of them.’

‘But I was reared in such a family,’ said Kolek, burying the blade of the axe in the timber before him, the handle stretching upwards into the crease of his folded arms. ‘Do you think me a coward too, Daniil Vladyavich?’

My father opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Kolek’s own father came stomping around a corner towards us, red-faced and angry, his breath transforming into steam in the chill of the morning. He stopped for a moment when he saw the three of us gathered together, shook his head and then threw his arms in the air in disgust in such a dramatic fashion that I found myself having to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing and insulting him.

‘It’s a disgrace,’ he roared, so loudly and aggressively that none of us said anything for a moment, but continued to stare at him, waiting to learn the source of his displeasure. ‘An absolute disgrace,’ he continued. ‘That I have lived to see such a moment! You have heard this news, I take it, Daniil Vladyavich?’

‘What news?’ asked my father. ‘What has happened?’

‘If I was a younger man,’ he replied, wagging a finger in the air in the manner of a teacher chastising a group of errant schoolboys. ‘I tell you now, if I was a younger man and had all my faculties about me—’

‘Borys,’ said Daniil, interrupting him and looking almost amused by his friend’s fury. ‘You are ready to kill this morning, I think.’

‘Do not joke about it, my friend!’

‘Joke? What joke? I don’t even know what has caused you to feel such anger.’

‘Father,’ said Kolek, walking towards him, his face so filled with concern that I thought he was near to embracing him. It was a continual source of fascination to me, this obvious affection between father and son. Having never experienced such warmth myself, I was always curious to observe it in others.

‘A merchant I know,’ explained Borys finally, stumbling over his words in his anxiety and anger. ‘A virtuous man, a man who never lies or cheats, has passed through our village this morning and—’

‘I saw him!’ I announced cheerfully, for it was unusual enough to see a stranger passing through Kashin, but an unfamiliar man had walked past our hut wearing a coat of fine goats’ hair only an hour before and I had taken note of him as he had passed and offered him a good morning, which he had ignored. ‘He came by here not an hour since and—’