The Crossing

He has been there since dawn; head down, keeping pace with them.

Marta can see for miles along the broad riverbank, and she has kept one eye on his progress, urging her children on, hoping they haven’t seen him. Marta is frightened. They were making headway till they hit the river. Every hour’s delay brings danger closer. And now the man. She has been walking her family along the wide surge of water since late yesterday afternoon. The anger from the east at their backs, she has kept them moving, one eye behind her, the other on the thick swirls of current churning the water slowly over and under.

Pressing on, praying for a way across, Marta carries her baby at her chest and a bundle tied to her back. Her eldest child, a daughter, walks in front of her with their bag, and her young twin boys walk behind. The river defences have been damaged in the fighting and Marta can hear the boys’ boots squelch in the marshy ground, tramping in step with one another, in step with her. The grass is long, the going uneven; they walk as if they are wading already. Moving on in silence, below the line of the flood barrier, level with the water, parallel with safety on the other side.

She looks back at the man and he is still there; no closer, no further away, but with his head up, now. Watching. White smudge of face under a black hat.

Marta drops her pace momentarily, ushers her sons past her, putting herself between her children and the stranger. If she keeps pushing, Marta thinks they can stay ahead of him for another hour, maybe two. He will give up. Drop back. There will be a way across the water.

Up ahead she sees a bridge. The stone pillars are still upright in the slow current, but nothing connects them; bombed and the remains washed away. Marta helps her children up on to the road that rises steeply to the bridge. She reasons with herself, fights down the disappointment. There must be another, further along there will be another.

– We’ll keep going.

The twins run up the slope and stand at the edge where the road stops and twisted fingers of metal poke out of the blasted stone. They lie on their stomachs, heads dangling over the edge, calling down to the water. Their laughter throws echoes around the tall columns, and Marta is afraid the man can hear them. They have slowed down; he could be in earshot now. She walks with Ani, with the baby, calls to her sons.

– We’re not stopping.

But Ani isn’t moving. She is pointing and pulling at her mother’s arm.

– There’s a man.

Marta knows he has gained on them, before she has even looked round. Only one hundred metres now, still walking, looking straight ahead, breaking into a run. Marta can see the mud on his trouser cuffs. Yellow on black wool.

The twins run down to their mother, oblivious to the man, who is almost at the bridge now, white wrists reaching long and thin from his black sleeves. He is speaking, but Marta can’t hear what he’s saying. He should be shouting if he wants us to hear.

The twins are excited; they rush at their mother.

– We could swim it, Mama.

– It’s not very deep.

Marta pulls them sharply off the road; eyes fixed on the stranger, walking her family away from him, daughter behind her, arms around her boys. She wants to turn, but there is only the rise of the road between them, and she can hear what he says now.

– It’s not deep. I’ve done it.

But Marta doesn’t hear the words, only the accent; heart in her mouth.

– I’ve been across here before.

The familiar rhythm. One of us. The relief makes Marta shake.

The stranger stops on the road. Still talking, still breathless. His neck is long and thin, and his head is bony. Full of black teeth, white gums. A hard mouth but a voice like home.

– It’s a good place to swim.

The stranger looks at Marta, smiles and nods. His eyes are dark. Friendly. His voice is right, but still she keeps away. He wears boots bound in rags, and Marta can smell him, his sour breath and skin.

– We’ll walk on.

She gathers her children again; urging them further down the slope along the riverbank; away from the broken pillars, the road, the man.

– We’ll find the next bridge.

Marta’s palms are pressed flat against the backs of her twins, pushing, her legs straining under the weight of the baby, the days spent walking, the bundle on her back.

– They blew all the bridges.

The voice is polite, still breathless, but gentle. Like the eyes. The man stays where he is, at the water’s edge, standing, watching the departing family. Marta looks round at him, and he smiles, then squats down and puts his hands in the water. Marta pushes her children on.

– The river turns further up. You’ll be walking east again soon.

Marta stops. Her heart turns over. Her daughter has hold of her arm.

– I don’t want to swim, Mama.

The twins push at her sides, two sets of eyes fixed on the man at the shore.

– It’s not deep. Tell her, Mama.

– We saw the bottom.

– Mama, no.

Marta knows he is watching her, but the stranger keeps quiet, and keeps his distance. She crouches down, shifting the weight of the bundle across her back. She lifts her baby boy, holds him tighter, full of misgiving. The river is wide: fifty metres, maybe more.

– I can help you. I swam across before.

Marta waits one minute, two, and when he doesn’t move she shrugs off the bundle, walks down to the water, keeping a few metres between herself and the man.

– Mama.

– I know, Ani.

She can see the bottom, but it is chest-deep; over head-height for the twins. She looks over at the remains of the bridge. Each of the pillars has a wide base, a shelf just below the surface. The stranger points.

– We can swim between the pillars, rest on the shelves.

– It’s too deep.

– We’ll take it in stages.

Ani calls to her mother from where she stands with her brothers.

– I don’t want to, Mama.

– Only four metres between the pillars.

– Quiet, Betim.

– Only four metres, easy.

– Leka, I said be quiet.

Marta turns back to the stranger, shakes her head.

– Our things will get wet.

– It’s hot. You can dry them, camp for the night.

– The bags are too heavy.

Marta walks back to her children, lifts the bundle on to her back again. The stranger runs along the bank, gathering driftwood. The boys join in.

– Only the big bits, boys. Bigger, twice the size.

Marta watches.

– What about a boat?

– I’ve been walking the river for days. No boats.

Ani kicks the ground next to her mother. Marta looks on as the man gathers driftwood with her sons.

– How will I get the baby across?

– Tie him to me. I’ll swim with him.

– No.

The stranger ties the wood together into a frame. A handkerchief at one corner, his shirt at another, Betim offers his vest for the third and Leka ties off the last corner with a sock. The stranger carries the frame down to the water. The bag sags through the middle, heavier on one side than the other, but it floats.

– I can pull it, see? I’ll take this over first, come back for the bundle.

Marta doesn’t look at him. She can see the road snaking off into the distance on the other side of the river; can feel the breeze on her face, blowing from the east.

– It will take half an hour. You can dry your things. Walk on in the evening.

Marta picks at the knot holding the bundle to her back.

– It’s safe over there. You can rest, stop for the night.

– I’ll take the baby, not you.

– Very good.

The stranger takes off his boots and ties the laces together, draping them around his neck. He wades out into the water until he is waist-deep and starts swimming, pulling the bag after him. When he gets to the first pillar he waves. Water streams out of his sleeve in an arc, and the twins both laugh and wave back. They run to the water’s edge, but Marta stops them.

– Yes, wait. I’ll come back and help you.

The man gestures them away, then turns and swims to the next pillar. The boys crouch, watching, tying their laces together as the stranger had done. Marta squeezes her daughter’s hand and tells her to take her boots off.

The stranger is past the middle of the river, now. Still swimming. He hasn’t looked round again, and Marta wonders absently if he will come back and help them. She calculates what is in the bag. Food and clothes. The last tins of meat. But no money, no valuables. No great loss. The stranger wades out on to the far shore, pulling the raft behind him. He doesn’t look round or wave. He walks up on to the road, out of sight. The twins both stand up and turn to look at Marta. She shrugs, makes a mental list. Three tins, the half loaf, the blankets, one coat. She still has the oilskins, the twins’ jackets, her wedding ring. No food.

The stranger walks back off the road into the river. He doesn’t have the bag with him, and his jacket is tied around his waist. His chest is bright white against the brown riverbank. He waves and starts swimming again, only stopping at the middle pillar on the way back. He speaks to them as he swims, even before he is in earshot; skin glowing through the murky water, shoulder blades working like sharp wings.

– There’s a good spot for a fire, and I’ve spread the blankets on bushes to dry.

He is out of breath, greenish. He crouches down on the bank, breathing hard, the twins standing next to him, boots dangling ready around their necks. Marta takes the thinnest blanket and tears it in two. She holds her baby’s back against her chest and tells Ani to tie the blanket round both of them. She sees the stranger stand up out the corner of her eye.

– You should tie him to your back, then he’ll be out of the water when you swim.

– I’ll swim on my back.

She knots the other half of the blanket firmly around herself, angry. The baby’s arms are trapped under the blanket and he struggles as they walk down to the bank. The twins set the bundle in the middle of the frame, and the stranger tells them to wade first, then swim. He says he will help Marta, but Marta says he should help Ani instead.

The twins wade out, holding the bundle at waist-height, then swim, steady and serious, aiming for the first pillar. Marta watches them drift out in the current, shifting their course, kicking hard, her heart hammering in her throat. When they get to the pillar, Leka climbs up on to the shelf and waves. Marta waves back and the stranger turns to her.

– Strong swimmers. Good boys.

She watches her twins set off for the next pillar, small bodies working hard against the wide water, tells herself: they are strong swimmers, good boys.

Ani allows the stranger to take her hand, and he leads her into the water. She looks round at her mother, but carries on walking until she is waist-deep.

– It’s cold, Mama!

– You’ll be fine.

Ani slides into the water and swims, shouting and splashing, but Marta is not so afraid this time. The stranger swims beside her daughter and when Ani waves from the first pillar, Marta can see she is smiling.

The twins are still swimming on, over halfway there. She can see their shoulders, hunched round their ears with the cold, but they keep going, jumping back into the water from the pillars, pulling the bundle between them, ever closer to the safer shore. Marta ties her boots around her waist and wades into the river. The stranger helps Ani up on to the shelf by the second pillar and treads water.

– Go back! Wait. I’ll come for you.

Marta ignores him and carries on wading. Her baby shifts against her stomach, uncomfortable in his blanket binding. He tries to look up at her face, breathing fast, soft head pressing against her chin. Marta has her arms around him, frightened to let go, although he is bound tight to her chest. The riverbed changes from sharp pebbles to soft mud, silky against her feet and warm compared to the water. Marta sinks up to her ankles in the slime, and the water reaches her thighs.

It is much colder now she is out of the shallows. Her ankle bones ache and her stomach contracts, shrinking back from the water. The slow pull of current bends her knees. Her baby’s feet skim the water and he shouts and kicks. Bright splashes of cold in the sun. Marta knows the stranger is swimming towards them, shouting at her to go back to the shore. She turns her back to him and lies down into the water, keeping her arms wrapped around her baby, kicking her legs.

The cold knocks the air out of her lungs. Her boots fill with water, drag down at her waist. She puts her arms out to keep her afloat, but too late, and she pulls her baby down into the river with her.

When they surface, he is screaming rigid against her chest, arms straining to get out of the blankets. Marta has the grit river taste in her mouth. She can’t feel the bottom, toes reaching, legs straining, kicking. Her baby’s head is underwater again. She thrashes, pushes her arms out to steady herself, coughing, arching her back. She hears her baby’s screams through a wall of water, like ice around her neck. Her boots kick heavy at her thighs as she fights the current. The baby’s head is out of the water, but his body is in the cold river with hers. Water floods Marta’s mouth. She sinks again.

The stranger swims underneath them; his arms under Marta’s shoulders; pulling her chest up out of the water and the baby with it. Marta retches, wants to cry. The stranger pulls them on to the pillar, swiftly, steadily, murmuring, breathing, kicking beneath them. He pushes Marta up on to the ledge, jarring her cold bones against the stones. She stands up out of the water on weak legs and the stranger unties the blankets. He is not angry, which surprises her. The baby still screams, but with tears now, and not so stiff. Once his arms are free he pulls himself up against his mother and presses his face into her neck. Ani is standing and watching at the next pillar, arms wrapped round the stone; the twins are watching from the opposite shore. The stranger shouts to them to build a fire, and tells Ani to wait until they get to her. She nods, silent and shivering.

The baby screams when he is pulled away from Marta’s chest, fists and feet attacking the air in fury. The stranger lies him quickly down again, high up, against Marta’s shoulder blades, and the baby wraps his arms round her neck. The man re-ties the blankets around the baby and around Marta’s chest. He pulls them tight and the baby cries, but Marta makes no protest. After he has checked the knots, the stranger slides back down into the river. He holds out his hand, bare arm reaching out of the water.

– Ready? Come on.

Marta stops. Eyes fixed on the reaching arm, the stranger’s words resounding in her ears. Her heart contracts. Same voice, different rhythm. Same language, different accent. But familiar, too.

The beat of fear in her chest. The shouting outside her house. The rhythm of the day the men were taken away.

Marta looks at the stranger and he meets her gaze. Eyes dark, lips moving.

– Come on.

No pretence now. One of them. The stranger has a stranger’s voice. As if the river has cleaned his throat, icy water washing the lie from his tongue.

He takes Marta’s hand and she sits obediently down on the ledge into the water. The baby grips her neck, but he is quiet now. Marta swims with the stranger to the next pillar and he smiles encouragement, swimming alongside her on his back. Ani helps her mother up on to the ledge and they rest in silence while the stranger treads water. They swim on together. When they get to the last pillar, they wave to Leka who is waiting for them on the shore.

– We’ve built a fire!

He gestures over the rise, where Betim stands, eating a slice of bread. The baby starts to cry again as they wade out of the water, but he is not angry any more, just cold. Ani’s lips are ringed blue and Marta can’t feel the stones under her feet. None of them can undo the knots in the baby’s blankets, even Leka’s hands are still weak with the cold. Marta turns to the stranger for help, but he is back in the water, jacket on again, swimming away, already beyond the first pillar.

Betim calls from the rise and waves, but the stranger doesn’t look round. Just swims on in silence to the eastern shore.