Running With Ivan, page 17
The music box. It wasn’t where I’d left it. It wasn’t on the shelf. So where was it? Had Julia taken it? Had she given it to my dad to look after? Where was it? As my eyes scanned the room, my heart began to pound and it was all I could do to stop myself screaming at her.
‘Do you like the chest of drawers?’ Julia was asking me now. ‘I thought you could do with something by the bed, you know, for your books and your alarm clock, and a cupboard for your other bits and pieces. Feel free to rearrange things.’
Beside my bed was a wooden chest of drawers: one small drawer, then a large drawer underneath it. The top drawer was empty but when I yanked open the bottom drawer, I felt myself relax. There it was. There, together with a deck of playing cards, an old notebook and the four photographs I’d propped up on the shelves, was my music box. Taking it out — and the photographs too — I put them on top of my new chest of drawers.
Then I gave Julia a smile. A big smile. ‘Thank you, Julia. It’s great,’ I said, ‘really great.’
She smiled back. ‘It’s a start,’ she said, ‘but we’ll make it even better — you just wait and see.’ For a moment she hesitated. ‘I’m sorry things have been so difficult,’ she said, her voice soft now. ‘I had no idea. You can always talk to me, you know, when there’s a problem. I can’t solve it if I don’t know what’s happening.’
I wasn’t sure what to say so I just nodded instead. Putting a hand on my shoulder, she gave it a squeeze before she turned to leave the room.
25
On the morning of the state championships, I woke up feeling stressed. What if I got a bad start? What if I got a stitch? What if I got spooked?
By the time I sat down to breakfast, my dad had already left for work: a last-minute crisis meeting had stopped him coming to see me run. Julia would still be there, though. She was dressed and ready to go but she looked a bit weird: her hair was tied back in a thick rainbow-coloured headband and her dress was a strange swirl of colours.
‘My lucky clothes,’ she explained. ‘And I know you don’t need luck — it’s all training and hard work and the rest of it — but I thought, what the hell, it’s the state championships so I should make an effort.’
I nodded, but I was distracted by a thumping noise coming from the hallway. Moments later, Cooper burst in. ‘Oi,’ he said, ‘had a dream you got thrashed at state.’
‘Did you?’ I replied, keeping my voice calm.
‘Sure did.’ He gave the back of his neck a scratch. ‘Which means you’ll probably come last.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Thanks.’
Cooper raised one back. ‘No worries.’
We arrived at the carnival early: early enough to get a seat in the front row of the grandstand. Julia had brought a flask of coffee and, settling back in her seat, she poured herself a cup. Lifting it to her mouth, her eyes closed as she gave a small smile. She looked, well, completely relaxed. I’d never seen her like that before, I realised. I’d never really seen her so still. She was always doing something: taking us somewhere, getting herself to work or doing stuff in the house. Never like she was now: head tilted back, face up, eyes closed.
‘You okay?’ I asked her.
She opened her eyes, but only a fraction. ‘It’s good to stop,’ she said. ‘It’s good to just sit here with you and not have to worry about anything else.’ A small smile lit her face, a smile that warmed me inside and settled my nerves.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I said.
Her smile widened. ‘The state titles are a first for me. I wasn’t going to miss it.’
‘Neither was I,’ came a familiar voice.
‘Mr Livingston,’ I exclaimed, ‘you’re here!’
He made a tutting noise. ‘Of course I am here. It is an enormous achievement, Leo, so of course I would be here.’ He was standing right in front of us, his hands on the barrier between the oval and the grandstand.
I turned to Julia. ‘This is Mr Livingston.’
She beamed at him. ‘What’s your secret?’ she asked. ‘To have got him so far, so quickly?’
He gave a slow smile. ‘My secret? I have many: too many to be giving them all away.’
That made Julia laugh. ‘Won’t you join us?’ she asked.
Mr Livingston nodded and sat down beside her. Pulling another cup from her bag, Julia offered it to him. ‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘I brought a Thermos with me. It’s white with sugar, though. I hope that’s okay.’
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘This is exactly the way I like it: sweet and milky.’
Julia filled his cup and topped up her own. ‘Here you go,’ she said, ‘very sweet and very milky.’
They both leant back then, slowly sipping.
‘So,’ said Mr Livingston once he’d finished his coffee, ‘what about some warming up, Leo?’
Together we walked down to the edge of the oval and I stretched until my race was called. That’s when my legs turned to jelly and my heart really started to pound.
Mr Livingston patted my arm. ‘You are ready for this,’ he said. ‘You have worked hard and you have become strong. And you know the race well. This eight-hundred-metres event, you are becoming an expert at it. So you are ready, Leo. Completely ready.’
The words gave me comfort and as I walked myself to the marshalling area, I felt surprisingly calm. And when I lined up, runners jostling on either side of me, I remembered to breathe. In and out, in and out, until my breathing became so steady it emptied my mind and cleared my head. And when, finally, I heard those words — on your marks — I was crystal clear, alert and focused, my body taut as I waited for the shot of the firing gun. And as soon as the sound came, loud and sharp, I was off.
It was a good start: good enough to be up with the leaders and right on their heels. I ran hard — so hard it hurt — and as the six-hundred-metre mark approached, I was still in a pack with the leaders. But I wasn’t coming first, or second, or even third. At best, I was heading for fourth.
Fourth wasn’t enough. Everyone knew that: fourth was nothing at all.
My head pulsing, I pushed harder, pushing myself further until I was in third place.
Third wasn’t good enough either. To get to the nationals, I needed second.
My heart was racing now, the blood pumping through me, filling my head so there was nothing more than a throbbing inside my brain. Gritting my teeth, I pushed harder. I had nothing left but still I kept pushing as I turned into the final straight. The runner in front of me was tall and skinny, with hair so short it was almost a crew cut. Harder and harder I pushed until I was neck and neck with him. One more burst, I told myself. Just one more burst. So I did it: breath shallow, legs burning, I gave a final surge as I crossed the line.
The momentum kept me running but once I’d slowed down and looped back again, I saw the short-haired runner coming towards me, his hand outstretched. ‘Good race,’ he said, ‘you almost had me.’
Almost.
Disappointment flooded me. Almost wasn’t enough. Almost meant third and third wasn’t enough for the nationals. Doing my best to smile, I shook his hand. ‘Good run,’ I said when I could manage it.
I was gutted.
Completely gutted.
So gutted I felt like weeping.
Slowly, very slowly, I walked back to the grandstand.
Mr Livingston and Julia were standing up, heads cocked to the side. When Julia caught my eye, she put a finger to her lips. ‘The announcement,’ she mouthed.
I frowned. What announcement?
Someone was speaking into the loudspeaker, but I hadn’t been listening. Why would I bother? It was all over now. For me, at least.
But a smile was hovering over Julia’s lips and, beside her, Mr Livingston was slowly nodding his head.
‘You did it,’ Julia said, a squeal in her voice. ‘You made it.’
I shook my head. ‘No I didn’t.’
But she was nodding now, too, nodding her head so vigorously I thought she’d gone mad. ‘Yes, you did,’ she insisted. ‘You made it to the nationals.’
‘No, I didn’t. I was third, so I don’t —’
Julia cut me off. ‘It was a tie. They just announced it. They couldn’t separate you so they’ve called second place a dead heat. Which means you’ll both be going.’
That couldn’t be right.
‘It is,’ she insisted. ‘They want you back at the recording tent.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ She was almost shouting now. ‘Yes.’
I shot a glance at Mr Livingston. He was smiling.
‘Is it true?’ I whispered.
He nodded. ‘This is how they have described it,’ he said, ‘a dead heat for second.’ His eyes were sparkling. Perhaps they were even glistening. ‘Go, Leo, go back to the tent so they can tell you themselves.’
So I did. With a surge of energy, I ran to the recording tent, my heart pounding with disbelief and joy and nervousness and pride.
*
It was cool that evening and when I went to bed — in my new room, in my very own room — I wore my tracksuit and socks to keep warm. But I couldn’t sleep. I was still too excited. The nationals! The nationals! I wanted to tell everyone I knew: I wanted to jump up, run down the street and shout it out to the neighbours. I wanted the morning to come quickly so I could tell George and Mrs Moore and Mr Sheridan and everyone else at school.
But most of all, I wanted to see Ivan. It’s because of you, I needed to tell him, because of all our running. All those weeks of running through Theresienstadt, the weeks that had made me so fit, despite the hunger, despite the horror of it all. It’s thanks to you, I wanted to say, because you kept forcing me to go faster, because you wouldn’t let me give up.
As the night stretched on, I stayed wide awake. Still too excited to sleep, I switched on my light to read. And there it was. There was the music box, sparkling and glinting before me: drawing me in, goading me in.
When I picked it up — the moment I had it in my hands — something settled inside me. Only when I felt for the winding key did my heart begin to quicken. At first the key turned easily. Once it turned, then twice. The third time was harder and when I tried again, it wouldn’t budge. But the tune was already playing, so I put the music box back on my bedside table, pulled on my slippers, walked to the door and stepped out.
26
I was surrounded by noise: the shouts and murmurs of a crowd and, over it, the crackling of a loudspeaker. ‘Gentlemen, step up to your marks,’ I heard. ‘Up to your marks now.’
I was in a grandstand. A grandstand with rows and rows of wooden seats all filled with people. In front of me was an athletics track, a group of runners lined up at the starting line. At first they were jumping and jostling, then they stopped still. A moment later, the starting pistol fired and they were off, clustered together. When I looked harder, I saw that one of them was running barefoot.
By the first curve, they’d begun to spread out and by the end of the first lap the barefoot runner had moved into second place and was less than a stride behind the leader. A bell rang as they started their second and final lap. The barefoot runner was running faster now, although not as fast as the leader. But as they took the final curve into the straight, the barefoot runner began to accelerate. He was closing in on the leader now, really closing in. A cheer ran through the crowd. Thomas, Thomas, some were shouting; Ivan, Ivan, others were calling out.
Ivan?
I looked at the two runners more closely. There was something familiar about the barefoot runner, something I recognised. Something in his profile and the way he ran.
Could it be Ivan? My Ivan? The longer I stared, the harder I peered, the more convinced I became. Yes, I thought, it could be. It really could be.
With less than ten metres to go, the barefoot runner had just about caught the leader.
‘Faster,’ I heard myself yell, ‘faster.’
And he did run faster — he did — but the other runner was even quicker and he was the one to cross the finishing line first.
Over the line now, too, the barefoot runner bent forward to recover, his hands pressing into his knees. The crowd was cheering and my heart lurched when he looked up to acknowledge them. There was no doubt. There was absolutely no doubt. It was Ivan. It really was. And it was all I could do to stop myself from running onto the track to join him.
From the field came the crackly sound of a loudspeaker. ‘First place winner in the eight-hundred-and-eighty-yard race is Thomas White, first place winner in the eight-hundred-and-eighty-yard race, Thomas White; Thomas White is the 1947 British champion, but only by a whisker. In second place we have Ivan Livingston; Ivan Livingston, second place in the eight-hundred-and-eighty-yard race.’
I strained forward.
Ivan Livingston?
But that wasn’t right. He wasn’t Ivan Livingston. He was Ivan Mandl.
Wasn’t he?
I was desperate to see him now, desperate to find out why on earth they should be calling him Ivan Livingston, when he wasn’t Ivan Livingston at all. I’m here, I wanted to shout out. But only competitors were allowed out on the field and he would never have heard me calling out from the grandstand.
So I waited until he’d left the track and was heading for the walkway that divided the grandstand in two. Hurrying over, I tried to catch up to him, but there were so many people in front of me, too many to push through, and although I called out to him — ‘Ivan!’ I shouted. ‘It’s me, Leo!’ — I wasn’t loud enough. Anxious not to lose sight of him, I followed him to a door marked Change room — Competing athletes only. Then, checking no one was watching, I followed him inside.
27
But I hadn’t followed him into a change room. In fact, I hadn’t followed him anywhere at all. For when I looked around, Ivan was nowhere to be seen and I was in the doorway of a dark room. Of my room — my new room — I realised, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I caught the last notes of my music box.
Exhausted now, I crawled back into bed and pulled the covers over me.
Ivan Livingston, I thought as I drifted off to sleep, why were they calling him that?
In class the next day the question kept tormenting me, making it impossible to concentrate. And when I walked to training that afternoon, I still couldn’t stop thinking about it.
As I crossed the oval — my head down, my mind spinning — Mr Livingston’s voice came out of nowhere.
‘So, Leo,’ he said, ‘we have some work to do, yes? To be ready for the National Championships.’
Shaking myself out of my reverie, I allowed a smile to creep across my face. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s right.’
Mr Livingston’s face was shining. ‘All night I was thinking about it: about this achievement. Only that Sandy could be with us to share it.’
But Sandy was on holidays for the week, to celebrate her mother’s recovery. The thought of it sent sparks shooting through my body. Sparks of happiness and sparks of envy, all mixed up together. How, I wondered, was it possible to feel both these things at exactly the same time? For a moment I couldn’t quite manage a reply.
‘That’s great,’ I said finally. ‘That’s really great.’
Mr Livingston nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said gently. ‘It is good news: good news for Sandy and good news for her mother. And now we have your good news, too. To get to the nationals, especially as a new runner, is something special. You know, I believe that for every runner, there is one race like this: the race that, of all of them, will forever be the most special one. For you, perhaps it is this one: the race that brought you to the nationals. For me, it is also a race from my early years.’
When I shot him a look, he smiled. ‘The British Championship of 1947,’ he said. ‘I was almost the winner of the eight-hundred-and-eighty-yard race. Almost but not quite. Despite that, it is still the race that has meant the most to me. Perhaps because it was the start of better times. Perhaps this is why it has always stayed with me.’
A shiver ran through me. ‘The British Championship?’
He nodded. ‘My first success with a new name.’
‘A new name?’ Now my heart was starting to race too.
‘Yes, Leo,’ he said, ‘a new name. By birth I was Ivan Mandl, but as a man, I became Ivan Livingston.’ He stopped. Just for a moment, though, just long enough to clear his throat. ‘Is this a shock?’ he asked, but instead of waiting for a reply, he answered his own question. ‘Of course it is. I know it is. For believe me, Leo, it was also a shock for me, that first day when you walked across the oval, asking if ours was the squad you were looking for.’
He paused, as if to gather himself. ‘At first I thought you were joking. Really I did. Leo, I wanted to say to you, Leo, it’s me, it’s Ivan. Because there you were again, once more without any warning. I wanted to grab your arm or slap your back — something that friends might do — but I had to stop myself. For so much time had passed, and I was no longer the boy you had known. Instead I was an old man. And there you were, just the same as ever. I could hardly believe it.’ Then he repeated himself — this time in German. Ich konnte es fast nicht glauben.
The words — those German words — brought it all back to me. For even if the voice was lower and older, the words were still his, the lilt was his and the rhythm was his.
‘I saw you,’ I said. Without meaning to, I’d begun to speak in German and now the words came spilling out of me. ‘I saw you run that race, the British Championship. I saw you run second.’
‘But I didn’t see you,’ said Mr Livingston, in German, too.
‘I called out but you didn’t hear me and when I tried to follow you, you were gone and I was back here again.’
‘Strange,’ said Mr Livingston, ‘although, to be honest, no stranger than your other visits. This is something I’ve often wondered about: why you appeared and disappeared as you did. You know, I came to believe you’d been sent especially to me. For each time you found me — or I found you — I needed help, that was the truth of it: a piggy-back to stop that crowd from trampling me; an arm to keep me quiet when my father was taken; an offer that would save my life and then Olinda’s life, too. You were there and, once the need had passed, you were gone. Later, when you did not return any more, I began to think perhaps you had not been real at all, but instead some sort of spirit. And then life went on without you, passing so quickly, yet so much happening along the way.’
