Ever Dundas - Goblin

Poland, 1967

We should’ve moved on. When we rolled into the town it was clear we weren’t welcome, but we performed to a half-empty circus tent. Dad cancelled the evening performance and we stayed on to do repairs and get some tools and food. I went into town with Blake and Laura to help get the supplies.

We were loading everything into the back of the truck when I heard yelling and laughing. I looked over at a small crowd in the square.

‘What’s the entertainment?’ I said.

‘Who knows,’ said Blake, not bothering to look.

We finished loading the supplies and Blake went back into the store for something we’d forgotten. Laura sat in the truck and I went over to the crowd, edging my way through. There was an old man on the ground, crying. He was speaking, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying or what language it was. A dachshund was running from one side of the crowd to the other, looking for a way out but only finding the force of a boot. The dog whined when they kicked him but continued running, this way and that until I kneeled down and grabbed a hold of him. I held him to my chest and walked through the crowd, who parted in surprise.

I made my way back to the truck, the dog uncertain of me, wearily trying to bite. I heard yelling and shouting. A couple of people caught up with me and tugged at my arms. I placed the dog on the seat of the truck, handing Laura my coat.

‘Wrap him in this.’

‘Goblin, what—’

I closed the door and turned to find the crowd were coming towards the truck. A man dragged the sobbing old man by the collar of his coat.

‘Why were you kicking the dog?’ I said, looking round the crowd.

‘It’s German. We don’t like Germans.’

‘And we don’t like gypsies.’

‘Give the old man his dog back.’

The man who had been dragging the old man dropped him in front of me. The old man babbled at me in what sounded like German.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, repulsed by him snotting and shaking at my feet. ‘I don’t speak Nazi.’

‘Please, help me,’ he said in English. ‘They beat me, spit on me. They think I’m German but I’m from Austria, I’m an Austrian Jew. Let them have the dog,’ he said. ‘Let them have him then they will leave me be.’

Laura got out of the truck and joined me.

‘What’s going on, G?’

‘These scum were kicking the dog.’

‘Give the old man his dog back, gypsy,’ said the man who had held him.

‘I’m not a gypsy,’ I said.

‘Give the German bastard his dog.’

‘For what?’ I said. ‘For you to kick to death?’

‘Please. Give him to them,’ said the old man, pawing at my legs.

‘Goblin, you can’t just steal someone’s dog,’ said Laura.

‘They’re going to kill him,’ I said. ‘The old man can come with us too. You can come with us.’

‘Look,’ Laura said to the crowd, hands out as if in surrender, ‘we’ll give the old man his dog back, just calm down, just everyone calm down.’

A man pushed her and she fell against the truck. I punched him, sending him into the crowd. I was grabbed at either side and held as the man who had dragged the old Austrian punched me in the stomach. As I doubled over I heard Blake shouting and I was dropped. Blake was over six feet and made of muscle; the crowd backed off.

‘What’s going on, G? What the hell’s going on?’

Blake pulled me up and helped me into the truck. I sat next to the dog who was hidden under my coat, not making a sound. The crowd started to gather round again.

‘Let’s just go, Blake,’ said Laura. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

I put the dog on my lap as we drove away. He made a small huffing noise and settled.

When we got back, Colin took a look at him. He was malnourished and badly bruised. We fed him and he slept. I took him out briefly late in the evening, a short walk around the caravans. He peed and fell asleep where he was standing. I carried him back to my caravan and placed him in a box with a blanket at the end of my bed. The next morning he was hanging from a tent pole and I was being arrested for stealing and damaging property.

‘He’s not property,’ I said. ‘This is murder. Tell them, mum. Tell them it’s murder.’

But she didn’t translate.

‘Don’t make it worse than it is,’ she said.

‘Those murderous sonsofbitches,’ I said, when I saw the jeering men. They’d all come to watch, to point me out.

‘To ona,’ they said. ‘Ukradła psa starego mężczyzny i zabiła go dla zabawy.’

‘What are they saying?’ I asked mum.

‘They said you took the old man’s dog and killed it for fun.’

‘Those sonsofbitches.’

They spat on me as the police led me away.

‘Sześć miesięcy i grzywna,’ the police said. ‘Six months and a fine.’

‘When I get out,’ I said, ‘I’m gonna kill ’em. Every one of them. Tell them that.’

Mum didn’t translate.

The circus left to finish the tour and mum stayed. I told her I’d be fine, that six months wasn’t that long, but she insisted. Dad didn’t want to leave me either, but mum spoke some Polish so it made sense that she was the one to stay. Dad held me in his arms until the policemen pried us apart, barking at us, with mum translating that no touching was allowed. We ignored the policeman, as if coming out of the embrace was our choice, as if we couldn’t hear him.

‘I’ll miss you, G. I love you. I’ll write to you.’

Then he was gone.

It was a small town and the prison only had two cells, each with two beds. Both were empty when I arrived and mostly stayed that way apart from the regulars. Two men dressed in layers of ragged clothes were dragged in most nights, drunk, stinking and singing. I was sure they got themselves arrested just for a roof over their head. The only time we had any new prisoners was a couple of months into my stay and it seemed like they’d arrested all the men in the town. I could hear them before I saw them; it felt like the prison was under siege. They filed past me, all of them beaten up and bloody. Eight of them were squeezed into the cell next to mine and that still left half a dozen more. I searched their faces, looking for the men who killed the dog, but I didn’t recognise any of them. The police officer eyed me for a moment then opened the cell door, snatched up my blanket and pillow, shoved them into my arms and pushed me out. I spent that night on the main office floor, my wrist handcuffed to a desk despite my protest, not able to sleep for all the noise the new prisoners made.

Other than that night, prison wasn’t so bad and I settled into an imposed routine based around meal times and visiting hours. Mum took a room in the only hotel and came to see me every day. We’d sit across the table from each other, sometimes taking furtive moments to clasp hands. Until prison, I hadn’t realised how much I’d become used to touch. It was so easy, hugging mum and dad and my friends. I’d taken for granted the presence of Fish Boy or Angelina when we were going together. In prison, I’d think back on when I was with them and fantasise about the smallest things; running my fingers through Fish Boy’s hair, the way Angelina used to stroke my eyebrow and trace her finger down my cheek. I’d lie on my bed, arms by my side, eyes closed, and I’d think of Angel. I’d think of us holding hands, floating in the rock pool, watching the clouds coagulate and break apart. I’d float on those memories until I was back in London and dad had pressed those coins into my hand. I’d think of dad’s embrace and remember how lucky I was, looking forward to being back with my family.

When mum came to visit she’d read to me; letters from dad, Angelina, Horatiu and other circus folk, and books by Kafka, Dostoyevsky, De Beauvoir, my favourite Saki stories over and over. As she settled into her life in the town, she’d tell me about some of the people she met. One of the local shopkeepers had warmed to mum and always asked after her ‘córka kryminalistka’.