I AM DAVID ANNE HOLM First published as DAVID by Gyldendal, Copenhagen in 1963. First published in the New Windmill Series 1991 Heinemann Educational Books Ltd Oxford ISBN 0 435 12371 8 Cover Page When “the man” helps David to escape from the prison camp where he has lived all his life David can’t quite believe it. Everything in the world outside is strange and wonderful—the brilliant, vivid colours of the sea and mountains, the taste of fruit, people laughing and smiling. But as he travels alone across Europe, David is tense and watchful, knowing that at any moment “they” might catch up with him. David lay quite still in the darkness of the camp, waiting for the signal. “You must get away tonight,” the man had told him. “Stay awake so that you’re ready just before the guard is changed. When you see me strike a match, the current will be cut off and you can climb over—you’ll have half a minute for it, no more.” Silent and watchful, David tramps across Europe knowing that at any moment they might catch up with him. He seems as strange to other people as they are to him. As soon as anybody shows interest in him, David knows he must move on... ABOUT THE AUTHOR Anne Holm was born in Denmark in 1922. Anne began her writing career with a Anne Holm was born in Denmark in 1922. Anne began her writing career with a volume of poetry when she was twenty. After a pause of some years she wrote three novels for adults and then in 1963, she wrote her first book for children, I am David. This book, under the title David was the winner of the 1963 Gyldendal Prize for the Best Scandinavian Children’s Book. It has now been translated worldwide and has become a bestseller and a children’s classic. Anne writes: “I cannot name any special experience as a basis for David—except the general one of not having been quite seventeen when the last war broke out, and seen where violence, terror and hate leads you—I made David, and sent him travelling, in order to tell somebody who might want to know what, to me, is the most important of all things in life, if that life is to be worth anything to oneself and others.” Anne Holm was married to a well-known numismatist, and has a son and two grandchildren. Of herself and her life Anne says: “I write ... I have been writing all my life—it’s a disease, I suppose ... For years on end I have been busy with lots of other things I liked doing, but I always go back to my typewriter ...” 1 David lay quite still in the darkness, listening to the men’s low muttering. But this evening he was aware of their voices only as a vague meaningless noise in the distance, and he paid no attention to what they were saying. “You must get away tonight,” the man had told him. “Stay awake so that you’re ready just before the guard’s changed. When you see me strike a match, the current will be cut off and you can climb over—you’ll have half a minute for it, no more.” In his mind’s eye David saw once again the grey bare room he knew so well. He saw the man and was conscious, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, of the hard knot of hate he felt whenever he saw him. The man’s eyes were small, repulsive, light in colour, their expression never changing; his face was gross and fat. David had known him all his life, but he never spoke to him more than was barely necessary to answer his questions; and though he had known his name for as long as he could remember, he never said anything but “the man” when he spoke about him or thought of him. Giving him a name would be like admitting that he knew him; it would place him on an equal footing with the others. But that evening he had spoken to him. He had said, “And if I don’t escape?” The man had shrugged his shoulders. “That’ll be none of my business. I have to leave here tomorrow, and whatever my successor may decide to do about you, I shan’t be able to interfere. But you’ll soon be a big lad, and there’s need in a good many places for those strong enough to work.” David knew only too well that those other places would not be any better than the camp where he now was. “And if I get away without being caught, what then?” he had asked. “Just by the big tree in the thicket that lies on the road out to the mines, you’ll find a bottle of water and a compass. Follow the compass southwards till you get to Salonica, and then when no one’s looking go on board a ship and hide. You’ll have to stay hidden while the ship’s at sea, and you’ll need the water. Find a ship that’s bound for Italy, and when you get there go north till you come to a country called Denmark—you’ll be safe there.” David had very nearly shown his astonishment, but he controlled himself, and hiding his feelings merely said, “I don’t know what a compass is.” The man had shown him one, telling him that the four letters indicated north, The man had shown him one, telling him that the four letters indicated north, south, east and west, and that the needle, which swung freely, always pointed in the same direction. Then he had added, “The half minute the current’s cut off is intended for you. If you try to take anyone with you, you can be sure that neither of you will get away. And now clear off before you’re missed.” David did not know what possessed him to say it—he had never asked the man for anything, partly because he knew it would be of no use, but chiefly because he would not—when you hated someone, you did not ask him for anything. But tonight he had done it: when he reached the door, he turned round, and looking straight into that coarse heavy face said, “I’d like a piece of soap.” For a moment there had been complete silence in that bare grey room. Then the man picked up a cake of soap that lay by the side of the wash-basin in the corner and threw it on the table. All he said was, “Now go.” So David had gone, as quickly as it was possible to go without appearing to be in a hurry. The men’s muttering was fainter now—some of them must have fallen asleep. The camp’s latest arrival was still talking. David recognised his voice because it was less flat and grating than the others. Whenever the newcomer dozed off to sleep, he was seized with a nightmare, and then they would all wake up again. The night before, this had happened just before the guard was changed, but if he took longer to fall asleep this evening, then it might be possible for David to slip out before the others were wakened again. David was not yet sure whether he would make the attempt. He tried to work out why the man had told him to do it. It was certainly a trap: just as he was climbing over, the searchlight would suddenly swing round and catch him in its beam, and then they would shoot. Perhaps something pleasant was going to happen tomorrow and the man wanted him shot first. David had always known that the man hated him, just as much as David hated him in return. On the other hand, nothing pleasant had ever yet happened in the camp that David could remember, and he was now twelve years old—it said so on his identity-card. And then quite suddenly David decided he would do it. He had turned it over in his mind until his head was in a whirl and he still could not understand why the man had told him to escape. Suppose it were a trap and they shot him, it would all be over quickly anyway. If you were fired at while trying to escape, you would be dead within a minute. Yes, David decided to try. * There could not be many minutes left now. Over in the guard-room he could hear them moving about and getting dressed, and he could hear the guard yawning as his pace grew slower. Then came the sound of new steps and David pressed himself even more closely against the wall. It was the man; the faint sleepy yellow light from the guard-room shone for a moment on his face as he passed the window. He went up to the guard, and David suddenly felt quite empty inside and was sure that he would be unable to move when the time came. Then he saw before him the endless succession of days, months and years that would pass if he did not. The waiting would kill him in the end, but it might take years. And it would grow worse and worse, all the time: David clenched his teeth so hard that he felt the muscles of his throat grow taut. Then the man struck a match. Nineteen, twenty ... the half minute would be up when he had counted slowly to thirty ... David set his foot in a gap higher up the barbed wire ... When would the searchlight come? they could not be certain of hitting him in the dark ... and if they did not hurry he would be over. A moment later he had touched the ground on the other side, and as he ran he said angrily to himself, “What a fool you are! There’s plenty of ground to cover yet—all this great flat stretch without so much as the stump of a tree for shelter. they’ll wait till you’ve nearly reached the thicket ... they’ll think it more amusing if you believe you’ve almost got to safety.” Why didn’t they hurry up? The thought pounded through his head as every moment he expected to see the ground lit up in front of him. Then he stopped. He would run no more. When the beam of light caught him, they should see him walking away quite calmly. Then they would not enjoy it so much, they would feel cheated. The thought filled David with triumph. When he was little, it had been his most burning desire to get the better of them, especially of the man. And now he would! They would be forced to shoot him as they watched him walking quietly away and taking no notice of them! David was so taken up with his victory over them that he had gone a dozen yards past the spot where the thicket hid him from the camp before he realized that no one had fired. He stopped short. What could have happened? He turned, found a place where the thicket was thin enough to peer through and looked across at the low buildings outlined against the dark sky, like an even darker smudge of low buildings outlined against the dark sky, like an even darker smudge of blackness. He could faintly hear the tread of the guard, but it came no nearer and sounded no different from usual, only farther off. Nothing at all appeared different. David frowned in the darkness and stood for a moment undecided: it couldn’t possibly ...? He trotted on, following the edge of the thicket towards the big tree, running faster the nearer he got, and when he reached the tree he threw himself down on the ground, searching frantically with his hands round the trunk. There was the bundle. David leaned up against the tree shivering with cold although it was not cold at all. The bundle was a piece of cloth wrapped round something and tied in a knot. He fumbled with the knot, but his fingers were clumsy and would not respond -- and then he suddenly realized that he dared not undo it. There would be something dangerous inside the bundle ... He tried to gather his thoughts together sufficiently to think what it might be, but his imagination did not get beyond a bomb. It would make little difference, he thought desperately—a bullet or a bomb: it would soon be over, either way. Frantically, his fingers awkward, he struggled with the knot. But there was no bomb in the cloth. It was a square handkerchief tied cross-wise over a bottle of water and a compass, just as the man had said. He barely managed to turn aside before he was sick. Afterwards he felt carefully all round the square-shaped bundle. A bottle, a compass—there was something else. David’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness: in the bundle there were also a box of matches, a large loaf of bread and a pocket-knife. So the man had intended him to escape after all! A search-party would be sent out for him in the morning, but not before. The night was his, and it was up to him to make the most of it. All this had taken only a few minutes, but to David it felt like hours. His hand closed tightly round the soap—he had not let go of it for a moment since he first got it. He recalled the hours he had spent that evening lying on his plank-bed listening to the muttered conversation of the men and thinking over what the man had said. He remembered, too, that it would be only a matter of time before he was caught again; but that, like everything else, no longer seemed important. All that mattered now was his bundle and the freedom of the night that lay ahead. Slowly he tucked the piece of soap into a corner of the handkerchief, laid ahead. Slowly he tucked the piece of soap into a corner of the handkerchief, laid the bottle, bread and knife on top, tied the ends together, took a firm grip on the knot and looked at the compass in his hand. Then he ran. When he looked back afterwards, all he could recall of the five days that followed was running and looking all the time at the compass to make sure he was travelling in the right direction. Every night he ran, and he ran all night long. Once he slipped into a water-hole and the mud caked on him as it dried. Once he was so torn by branches that blood oozed from the scratches on his face, hands and legs. He would never forget that night. He had come to a close thicket of thorn bushes, and the needle indicated that he should go straight through it. He had hesitated a moment and then tried running a few yards along the edge of it, but the compass needle immediately swung round. Perhaps he could have recovered his direction a little farther on, but he knew so little about compasses that he dared not risk it. And so he plunged into the thicket, elbows up to protect his face. The first branch that struck him hurt painfully, and so did the first gash along his arm, but after that he noticed nothing and just crashed his way through. The nights were usually completely quiet, but that night he could hear a whimpering moan the whole time. Not until afterwards did he realize that the sounds had come from himself. He ran all the time, sometimes fairly slowly so that it took him hours to go a short way, sometimes so quickly that he felt his blood pounding. Every morning with the first glimmer of daylight he lay down to sleep. It was not very difficult to find somewhere to sleep in that sparsely inhabited district. David had no idea what the countryside looked like: for him it was only a place where he must run through the night and hide by day. Two other incidents remained in his memory: they were moments when fear grew to a sharp-pointed terror that seemed to pierce him right through. The first happened just as it was growing dark one evening. David was awakened by something warm and hairy touching his hand. He lay still, tense with fear. It was some minutes before he could bring himself to turn his head, and then he saw—a sheep. But it spelled danger, nevertheless, for where there are sheep there must also be people, and that evening David did not stop to recover his breath for some hours afterwards. Yet he was glad enough to come across more sheep later that night. David was Yet he was glad enough to come across more sheep later that night. David was used to hard work and satisfied with very little food, and he had been as sparing as he could with the bread and water, but after two whole days the bottle was empty and the bread eaten. He could manage without bread but it was dreadful to be so thirsty. In the end he could think of hardly anything but water. But where was he to get it? At that point he almost stumbled over two shepherds who lay asleep on the ground wrapped in their cloaks. His heart, which had been thumping so loudly all through the night, missed a beat, so terror-stricken was he. But he stopped himself just in time: bare feet make no noise and the two men had heard nothing. David was about to step back, slowly and cautiously, when he caught sight, in the moonlight, of a bucket with a lid and the embers of a burned-down fire. Food! And where there was food, there was probably water, too! That night David went no farther. He kept watch till daybreak, far enough off to give him a chance to escape should that prove necessary, and yet near enough to be back in a moment as soon as the two shepherds were out of sight in the morning. There was little doubt that this was their regular camping-place for the night, for they left their bundles and the bucket behind. Perhaps they would soon be back, but that was a risk David decided he must take. Without food, or at least without water, he would not be able to last many more hours. He was familiar enough from his experiences in the camp with what happened when a man was left without food and water. What had nearly proved a catastrophe ended as a stroke of good fortune. There was some soup left in the bucket, and in one of the bundles he found a chunk of bread. He broke the bread unevenly, leaving a small piece behind, and then filling his bottle with soup he replaced the lid and knocked it off again with his elbow. He did not know whether sheep ate bread and soup, but he wanted to make it look as if they had been there. After that night he took care to run at a more even pace and to stop more often, but for shorter periods, to recover his breath. He must not again risk being so tired that he saw nothing and stumbled on blindly. David edged cautiously forward on his stomach. It was the second time he had found himself close to a town, and for the second time the compass was directing him to cross a main road. He dared not disobey it; it was almost as if some part of the man himself were travelling with him. He ought to have asked how long it would take him to reach Salonnica. He had only two mouthfuls of soup left now and a single bite of bread. only two mouthfuls of soup left now and a single bite of bread. And there were people about. That meant he had not nearly so much of the night at his disposal—he would have to wait until they had gone to bed. He told himself that he should have known all along that he would occasionally come across towns ... He forced himself to lie absolutely still. But he was not sleepy any longer, and when he was not sleepy lying still became almost unbearable, for then it was difficult not to think—and David knew that he must not think. He had learned that—then. The only thing to do was to take no notice: you could look and listen, but you must not let what you heard or saw penetrate your thoughts. You must not let your thoughts dwell upon anything more important than whether it would rain or turn out fine, whether you had long to wait for your next meal, or how long it would be till the guard was changed. And you must not be too interested in those things either—you must merely make use of them to fill your thoughts and prevent other things from slipping into your mind. Since the evening of his escape, the things that had formerly occupied his thoughts were no longer there, and others had taken their place. He gave his mind to hurrying along as fast as possible during the night, to stopping as soon as the darkness began to lift so that he could find a good hiding-place before day broke, to looking after his bundle and avoiding the temptation of taking an extra bite or another drop to drink, to going in the right direction all the time so that the compass needle did not shift its position. These things served to fill his thoughts to the exclusion of other matters. But when it came to lying still and yet being wide awake—that was dangerous! So he began to think about a feeling he had had several times during the previous night—that the ground he was travelling over was changing, becoming more up-and-down ... that mountains would bar the road to Salonica. Don’t think, don’t think! David clenched his hands, gripping a tuft of grass. He mustn’t think at all, for if he did, there was only one thing to think about—that he would not be able to run any farther. Why had they not caught him the night he crossed the bridge? He could not swim, so the bridge had been his only way over the river, and he had been quite sure he would be caught there. Yes, that had been the only restful moment in all those long days and nights—crossing that bridge and feeling certain they would catch him. But no one had come. David’s feet were no longer part of him. When he himself cared no more, his