Wishus Teglin

with the invaluable assistance of Michael and Kallen

Stupid Johnny

A Boylove Romance

Dedication

It was one of those moments – we all have them – moments we look back on with such great regret. Because Michael wanted to stop. He wanted to talk with the boy, see if he was ok, if he could use some food, or perhaps a helping hand, or just a kind word. But he didn't stop.

Why didn't he stop? Why don't we all stop, in moments like that? Why do we let convention, or fear, or doubt, or hurry, or sometimes just plain selfishness keep us from meeting the moment?

Well, Michael helped me write this story. It's all about what might have been. It's dedicated to that little boy on the roadside. And every other boy anywhere in the world who might someday need one of us to stop… just for him.

Prologue

The gloom descended upon Jasio, becoming a part of him – like the wet and cold of the day-long drizzle. The light he had struggled to keep forever burning within his soul, through every moment of his eleven years on Earth, sputtered and dimmed.

His narrow shoulders slumped, his bruised chest dropping away from the push bar of the cart, even as he quit pedaling. For the first time all day, he felt the rough edges of the torn cardboard soles of his shoes, and the bite of the cold against the raw bottoms of his feet.

The cart rolled slowly to a stop on the side of the road, in the graveled turnout.

What was the point of going on?

He heard the splat of water droplets on the forest floor nearby. Drip, drip… drip. Random markers, in the near perfect silence. The wind had died down now. Not even the tree limbs rustled – no sign of life remained in his world, as the gloom lowered upon him.

The smoke trails, rising from the line of farm houses on the Collective, were lost in the gray of the clouds. They had beckoned. For a while. Until the minutes and hours of his long day ticked by, and finally he had totaled up his harvest. He had a cart half loaded with… junk… that's what everyone else would call it.

But when he had found each piece, he had seen such potential! Look at the curve of that bar of iron! Two like that, and he could build that stroller to walk the watering bucket along the rows of…

He closed his eyes. He hadn't found two like that. And that bar of iron was so much useless scrap, in the eyes of everyone in the Collective. 'Głupi Jasio!' they'd say, if he knocked on their doors. 'Stupid, stupid Jasio. Get out of here! It's not our turn. You were here just last month.'

Another stab of pain in his empty stomach, and he sagged even more. He just wanted to double up on himself, and fall to the ground and be done with it all!

"Ouuhhhhnnnnnnnhhhh," he groaned miserably, against the twisting pain. Two days since his last meal. Two days since he was kicked out of the Podlowski family's hut. Two days of searching, and a cart half full to show for it. Half full of… junk.

So they were right, weren't they? It was junk, wasn't it… no good to anybody, much less him. No matter what he saw in his head. Dreams, plans, designs… none of that would put even a bite of food in his stomach! And this coat he was wearing, dragging him down, soaked, heavy with the rain water… heavier still with more… junk!

He knew he should just take the coat off. Maybe then he'd have the strength to pedal some more. Just a little farther to the intersection, and he could ride downhill just a bit to the collective.

Wearily he lifted his head, straightening his backbone. Not even looking down at it he reached with his right hand to start pulling off the sleeve of the coat from his left arm… then he sighed, and closed his eyes. He just couldn't do it. The very idea was like… giving in. In that coat was everything he owned! Everything that marked who he was. The winter was a blessing in one way – it allowed him to wear that coat, blanketing himself with his very possessions. To lose that, to lose even one of them, was unthinkable!

But…

… but… giving in… hadn't he reached that point now?

His shoulders slumped again, but he stayed upright. His head lolled back, and his right hand slid off his leg, and dropped to the steering lever for the rudder wheel. He held his arm stiffly there, propping his small frame up, teetering, wobbling, just wishing that he could make his mind totally blank.

If only… if only he could just… die. Right here. Now.

Jasio just sat there, unmoving, minute by minute, feeling the wet cold penetrating into his body – creeping up his arms and legs – almost wishing it in, deeper and deeper, wanting to feel the same numbness within his very soul that he felt all day in his hands and feet.

'… rrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnn…,' he heard a sound breaking into the deathly pall of the settling gloom.

He did not want to register it. He steeled himself, refusing to even turn his head towards it – a car coming, gears shifting higher. Must have just turned the last corner, he knew, without even considering it. Instantly – against his will – his mind shifted into high gear too, and he marveled at the concept – if only he could make a motor like that! This one was one of those big government cars too, one of those powerful Russian… imagine if he had a motor, even a small one, on his cart!

'Stop it!' he screamed to himself inwardly.

'I'll never be able to build a motor! I'm Głupi Jasio, remember?! Better I end it all right now, right here, than to ever build anything again!

Suddenly the driver switched on his headlights, and Jasio almost felt the glare from them hit him broadside. He welcomed the bright, glaring beam. 'Take a good look, whoever you are. No one else ever did! Look at me, before you kill me. Then drive on, and forget all about it!' Slowly he turned his head towards the car, almost defying the seconds to tick by, letting it get closer and closer. He stared at the big black vehicle, it's broad, silver- chromed grill looking like the teeth of some huge monster.

When the gaping maw of the beast was almost upon him, he pushed the steering bar hard to the outside, then leaned all his weight into the downstroke on the left pedal. The car was almost on him now. All he had to do was get back on the road, and…

Chapter One

Tomek always said I cried too much. He also said I'd get into trouble someday for caring too much. Now suddenly, years after I thought every emotion had been drained from me, I was crying again. And I was in very deep trouble.

Don't get me wrong. Tomek said all that back when I was just a kid, at the beginning of the War. Almost twenty years ago.

He found me, a few days after the German tanks had made mince of my family's farm. I was crying the first time he ever saw me, standing over the graves I had just dug with my 12 year old hands. Dirty, exhausted, hungry… and now homeless. One of the first war orphans.

Tomek had lost his family too. He didn't cry about it, though. He decided to fight back. Took me in, along with a lot of other strays, and before you knew it, he had put together what was no doubt the strangest resistance cell during the entire war.

Tomek's Boys. Just him, one big bear of a man, and his boys. With something to prove. Mighty Tomek… how he sheltered me, and cared for me, taught me how to take revenge, and when revenge was to be taken. He took me into his bed eventually. I had told him all about me and Stefan. I was a boy. He gave himself to me. When I became a man all too soon, he showed me how I could give… to the little ones who in turn needed me.

I'd cry, softly, quietly, every time we made love. Feeling his strong arms about me… remembering other arms that had often held me just so… then feeling his hard manhood deep within me… I'd cry. Tomek would laugh at me, just as softly, and say in his gruff, bearlike voice, "It's only a fuck, Piotr, my God! It's only a fuck." But then he'd hold me even tighter, his embrace telling me even more clearly than words could ever do, that he really did understand.

He'd stay inside me long after filling me with his seed – just holding me. Caressing me. Gently fondling my penis, to bring me down slowly from our coupling. Then he'd kiss me on the top of my head and say, "This war should have taught you one thing, my little Piotrek. Never care too much." One time, after saying that, I craned my head back, to see why he'd grown so silent – and I saw that the mighty Tomek could cry too.

Well, it's been many long years since then. I'm a big boy now. Taller than the average man – at 1.9 meters [6 ft. 2 inch]. I've lived through 6 years of war, and now 14 years in this worker's paradise called post-war Poland. Suffice it to say that I've seen enough killing and hurt and just plain downright injustice and misery, that I haven't cried much of late.

Until today. It wasn't so much the shock. It's not even my very healthy fear of what the Russians will do to me if I get sent back for 'reindoctrination.' Dammit, it's the… finality of it all. The end. Of everything… everything I've ever known!

I hadn't even had time to pack, it all happened so fast.

Noontime yesterday, I get back to the office, from my latest inspection – a tour of airfields – south, in the Beskidy Mountains. I file my report, then head home for the rest of the day. Home – my one room flat in a concrete high-rise. You'd think 14 years, and the rank of Chief Inspector of the Rzeszów Committee would rate me a dacha. I did have my own car.

Still dead to the world, at 6:00 AM this morning Pawel calls me. I've known him for – how long? He came late, in '45, to Tomek. But then we were both plucked from the resistance, after the War, and sent to the Central Committee School in Warsaw. That's how long. Well, it's 15 years later, 1959, in Poland – you get a call like this and you get scared – even when the call comes from your long-time jackoff-buddy (hey, neither of us were into men, but when you know you'll never, ever have a boy in your life again – well, Pawel knew how to smuggle in German porn…).

"Don't say anything," he starts off. Of course I recognized his voice, immediately.

"Pawe…," I started to answer, I guess too mind-numbed from sleep to think clearly. I should have recognized the edge to his voice.

"Don't say anything, I said! Just listen." Pawel happens to work in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. So the adrenaline starts to pump, right then.

"You have about 12 hours, maybe 24 at the most. I don't know how you're going to do it, or where you're going to go. I don't want to know. You will not contact me again," he said very mechanically, then there was a pause. I heard him breathe heavily into the phone, then suddenly a sigh, and finally he resumed – that knife edge to his voice now gone. "I don't know what you did, Piotr. It's the KGB. As of 4:43 AM this morning, you're on their list." Another pause. I wanted to answer, and tell him that I had no idea what he was talking about! I knew he was serious, though. If I said anything, I'd probably put him in danger. Then the words that very clearly told me I would never see or hear from Pawel again: "Remember… Tomek!"

Now 8 long hours later, most of that on this god-forsaken winding country road, and I had had lots of time to remember Tomek, and everything else about this just as god-forsaken country.

Wiping the slow-falling tears away, to clear my vision, I kept my big Russian GAZ-13 sedan going on up the narrow, wet road, climbing imperceptibly into the foothills of the Carpathians.

This was still farming country – each Collective centered upon one of the old peasant villages – the road followed centuries-old field perimeters, turning and twisting seemingly without pattern. The meanders of the road were like the wandering thoughts in my mind, one reminiscence leading to another, and all day I had been wavering – I knew I had to leave all this behind, yet… how could I? Those furrowed rows, on each side of this road, were the very soil I was born to!

Polska. Poland. Doormat to East and West. How could anyone love such a land? Trouble was, my tears weren't for the land. Memories aren't made up of mere dirt. If they were, then I could gladly fly out to Sweden… France… America. There would be new memories to make there.

But dammit, I was leaving something behind here that was so much more important than the land. I was leaving behind… something uniquely Polish… and every hope… every dream I had ever had… I just might be leaving behind my very capacity to… to have any kind of meaning in my life at all. What the hell are any of us on Earth for? Just to survive? Just to reproduce? Ha! Little enough possibility of that in my case, as it was. Plain fact is, men have to be more than just rutting animals. There has to be some meaning to our lives.

Was it something uniquely Polish, that robbed me of all that meaning? Or was it just… reality?

The very drizzle that turned the fields beside this road to mud, every droplet swept off the windshield – those were like my own tears – the essence of Poland… they had poured from me before. Many times.

… September, 1939… when I lost my entire family. I don't think about any of my family much anymore. Too painful, even after all the years. There is one hurt that I do go back to though, from those days. A hurt that always brings with it the kind of memories that you just don't run away from – even with the Russians on your tail.

Before Tomek, I had Stefan. Stefan was the reason I so needed for Tomek to love me. My boyhood friend. How we played and played together, inseparable, through fields, streams, snow or ice… year after year, growing up together.

Then that last summer, we discovered our bodies. I guess that came first. Then, somehow, we discovered… the feelings. The feelings when you have another boy's arms around you, and realizing that you are different. That this is not some passing moment. That being with a boy, that being with THIS boy, is inherently a part of your core. The exhilaration – not just the pleasure – when you feel another boy grinding his hard dick against your own, realizing that it's right for him too, and that this is something only another boy could give you. That he's giving you his consent, that he's asking you to be a part of him, that you were born with this need that only he can fulfil. The feeling of another boy's soft lips against your own…

Can 12 year old boys be lovers?

I still grow faint, remembering the almost over-powering perfume of Stefan's warm breath… we used to lay entangled in embrace, touching each other, holding each other, from head to toes… this kid that I had played with practically every day of my childhood – he had suddenly become… precious to me. I don't know how else to describe it – he had suddenly become a… a boy! And for some magical reason, oh my god, we suddenly knew what it meant to be boys!

We'd go up in his family's old hay loft. His father found us there one afternoon. Found us kissing so deeply that we didn't even hear him climbing the ladder to the loft. When we did see him, we both thought it would be the end, but… Stefan's old man just gave us both a long look, staring us right in our eyes, then he kind of nodded his head once, and silently backed down the ladder.

So we had that one summer. 1939. Two boys alone in our perfect world.

We proved everyone wrong, that summer. It didn't matter that Stefan was a Jew, and I was not. It didn't matter that we were still just boys, in every sense of the word. It didn't matter that boys… males… weren't supposed to love each other, or even know what true love could mean. Or that we were supposed to be too young to know what commitment meant. Twenty years. My heart still sings for thee, Stefan. A mourning song.

I lost Stefan. His farm was in the path of the German tanks too… and then Tomek found me. Tomek and his little band of boys… oh! How we did show those Germans that the Polish people would not forever and always bend down, to be booted and spurred!

I remember the heady days after the War… Liberté, Égalité – Russian style. Indoctrination in the party school. Years serving in the Division of Inspections – trouble was, if one inspects too closely, one discovers the truth of liberty and equality, Russian style.

I balled my fist and chopped it down onto the dashboard viciously, wanting to strike out at something. Anything!

Now, fourteen years after the War, I was a shell of a man. Soul-less. Hardly the same person that Tomek once loved. Six years of fighting. Fifteen years serving a corrupt regime and a tarnished ideal. Add those up, and you have a man who… well, he might still care, but he's lost something. Some capacity to believe in the efficacy of caring.

I brushed the sleeve of my overcoat across my eyes again. And shook my head… trying to forget.

"Think about something else, dammit," I cursed outloud. There was a steely edge to my voice, kind of like the reverberation whining up from the car's engine.

I pushed the heater control lever hard to the right. It was getting cold. The trees lining the road in places – tunneling it – cast a dark pall upon the evening, chilling me as much in spirit as in body. They masked the fields that more often pushed right up against the berm. It was slow going in places, on the too-narrow road. Just staying out of the mud on either side was a chore, but better this than being spotted on the highway.

I really needed to be more attentive, to try to get everything I could out of the car's big 8 cylinder engine, because I had to climb deep into the Beskidy Range before moonrise tonight. I'd need that full moon to navigate when I finally took to the air, but I wanted it pitch black when I reached the small airstrip just outside of Sosnówka. They were after me, because of what I had seen at that airstrip. I was sure of it now, after all day thinking about it. And I was sure that it was my only way out of this.

Dammit, why did I have to file that report! I should have just shoved the facts under the table. I should have recognized the signs, and left this one alone.

But when did I ever just leave things alone? Yeah. Because I cared too much? Even after 14 years working in this corrupt system, I still cared enough to want to correct the problems. As if they could be corrected!

Tomek told me that himself, right before I boarded the train for Warsaw, back in '45. "Piotr, promise me something." He said, sounding very solemn all of a sudden.

I was having none of that. This was all so exciting for me. "What's that, Papa?" I answered off-handedly, not even bothering to stop twisting my head about, taking in all the bustle of the station.

"Promise me, that… when the night is darkest, when all is lost, promise me that you will fight through to the sunrise."

"What… whatEVER are you talking about, old man," I answered, fixing him with my gaze, my brow raised in consternation and disbelief. He had never spoken to me like that. I doubt if he had ever strung together so many words before.

"Ahhh!" he grunted, looking disgusted. He narrowed his eyes, giving me one of those fierce stares that would have withered me, shivered me to my boots, in the old days. "Promise me you'll… never give up." he almost yelled it at me, forcing it out. He sounded like his throat had suddenly choked up on him.

"I promise!" I answered immediately, feeling the old respect and awe returning. How could I ever have let myself forget! "But… but why on Earth would you say this to me now, Tomek?"

He reached out then, his huge bear-paw hands lifting up so lightening fast, enveloping my shoulders in his grasp. He shook me, once, powerfully. Then pulled me to him, hugging me, crushing me. I was 18 now, already my full height, yet I felt like I was 12 again. I felt his lips crushing into my hair, above my forehead – I couldn't even move in his grasp. He towered over me.

"Ahhh," he muttered, softer now, so only I could hear. "Because you care too much, my little Piotrek. Don't let them hurt you, little one. Don't ever give up."

I wiped my sleeve across my nose, and eyes again, and realized suddenly that… I simply had no more tears. I felt so very, very weary. Perhaps this time I'd have to give up. Perhaps after 14 years, it was time to give up. There was very little in my life to hold onto anymore, anyway. Most apparatchiks cave in, eventually, losing all sense of honor and mission. They just draw into themselves, focus on their families, on simple survival. But I had no family. No one. Nothing.

The road, the trees, the stubble in the fields – all became a blur – eight hours on the road, with not a moment free of the of thinking about all those memories and regrets and threats, and I guess I simply no longer wanted any part of my reality. I didn't want any more thought of promises, either.

I just wanted to rest.

There was a gray… something… up ahead. A boulder beside the road, just where it curved again, up ahead. A… shack… something looming up out of the universal grayness of everything else. How convenient. That was one way to rest. To end all this. All I had to do was… just relax… free the steering wheel… let my foot give into the heaviness that I felt drawing me down into the seat, and… it would all end there, in that gray something up ahead. All this would be over, just that easily.

With a kind of detached wonder in my mind, I contemplated the shortening distance between my car and the object up ahead. This thought of suicide – such a foreign concept to me, and it had really just popped into my head. Never before had such a thing even crossed my mind. Not after losing Stefan. Nor my own family. Not even in those darkest days, before Tomek found me. Yet here I was on a road I had never traveled before, nearing a destiny that I had never before even considered as possible. This was insanity! This wasn't me! I had to bear down now! Get on up the road!

Why of all things, barreling up that road, practically aiming now for that gray barrier, did I bother to switch the headlights on? Force of habit? It was growing darker and darker by the minute, as the uniform dull grayness of the clouds gave way to the darker gloom of dusk.

Whatever the reason, as soon as my fingers closed around the light knob, and twisted it full to the right, the non-descript boulder up ahead transformed into a phantasmagoric structure, in the spreading beam of light. Two large wheels, and a wagon-like flat-bed structure situated between them! A mutated wagon, with half a bicycle sticking out in front of it – or… behind it?! I couldn't tell which, because upon that…bicycle contraption, facing… the wrong way, it seemed… was a bulky, but small figure – a child… long dark hair reaching below… his ears, almost completely masking the ghostly pale flesh of his… her… face.

Instantly, the despair that had clutched so tightly around my soul, and the rather cold, antiseptic detached contemplation of my own death, was replaced by a very real horror – I was hurtling down the road, my foot heavy on the gas pedal, aimed right at a… boy! It was certain that he was not going to move out of the way. Even as I recognized him for what he was, I saw him, as if in slow motion, turn to look at me. At my car. I swear he seemed to stare at me – not with the same kind of horror that I felt, but with almost an… acceptance.

Jamming on the brakes was probably the worst thing I could do, since the road was so slick, but that's exactly what I did. The tires screeched and the rear-end of the sedan started to swerve to the right, in the very direction of the boy and his… wagon. At the last moment, I had the sense to release the brakes, and press down on the gas pedal. I didn't gun it all the way to the floor, but I did overreact a bit, pressing too hard too quickly, and the tire's wailed out once more, slipping before biting into the macadam and gravel of the road. I heard a high-pitched scream from the boy, and at the same time a disconsonate clash of the heavy metal of my car against the wire-framed and lighter metal of his wagon.

That scream knifed into me. I felt my heart pounding – literally pounding – in my chest, as I practically wrenched the steering wheel out, I gripped it so hard. In my head, I heard that scream again and again, replaying – I couldn't believe that I had actually hit, perhaps killed, a little boy!! Man, woman, or child – it would be horrible enough – but a boy! By Stalin's Evil, Demonic Ghost, me above all people – to hurt a boy! I had… desperately longed… for just one boy… in my life… for years! Images of the boy's fragile little body, mangled or crushed, flashed red through my mind. I saw his big eyes staring up at me, questioning, begging for an answer – why had I done this!

I don't know how long I sat there behind the wheel. All I know is that when I finally had a clear thought, and knew what I had to do, I felt a streak of throbbing pain across my forehead. At some point during all that, I had slammed my head against the steering wheel.

Slowly at first, I lifted my head from the backrest, and started to shake it. Big mistake! The pain shot down, like a sword stabbing down from my forehead all the way through to my neck. I reached up tentatively, and felt my forehead, then turned my hand palm up before my eyes, and examined it. No blood. I was alright, then.

Moving as quickly as I could, I opened the door, and swung out. I had to steady myself momentarily against the door frame, but then quickly I plodded heavily, down the length of the car, straining to search for the boy, all the while dreading that I would find him sprawled lifeless in a pool of blood.

The wagon-like contraption was there, just at the right rear of the car, standing on all three of it's wheels, looking little the worse for the crash. Was it possible I had only hit it a glancing blow? But no boy!

Gathering my wits about me finally, and the use of my feet, I quickly swept the entire area around the car and the cart, even looking under the chassis of the car. He wasn't there. There was no sign of blood. Nothing.

"Where the…," I started to exclaim, as I started scanning farther out, and into the trees lining the road, and this little graveled turnout where the boy had been sitting with his cart.

I saw him immediately. Crouched behind a large bush, it's leaves not yet completely turned the fiery red and gold before falling, stripping the shrub down to it's bare branches. Even shrouded in the gloom of late evening I saw his pale white visage peeking through the foliage at me, as he held his body all scrunched up in hiding.

For some reason, I turned away, as casually and naturally as I could, acting like I hadn't seen him. The bush was little enough to hide behind, but the boy obviously felt the need of it's flimsy protection. Something told me that I needed to honor that. I had come crashing into his world, threatening to end his very existence, and there was certainly no reason for him to trust me. I just thanked the god of boys, that he apparently wasn't seriously hurt. I let myself begin to breathe much more easily then, feeling my heart start to calm down too.

"I… wonder where he… is," I said out loud, trying to project my words out, to make sure that he would hear me. "I hope I didn't hurt him. Oh please, don't let him be hurt."

For a moment I continued my mock scan of the trees. My gaze trailed idly over the cart, and stopped, instantly. It was… it was… an amazing contrivance! Certainly not the ordinary peasant's pushcart – I had seen hundreds of them through the years, on my inspection tours through the countryside.

Now I inspected the boy's contraption, steadying myself as I knelt down on one knee to see under it. It was a rubber band and baling wire rigging. Something put together by unskilled hands, but… somehow… showing great ingenuity. Beyond that! True inventiveness. A true understanding of… first principles of…

The power axle and gear of the bicycle, on the rear of the wagon, had an extension wheel attached to it – on the hub – a grooved wheel, kind of like you'd find on an old pull-start single-piston gas motor. The boy… or whoever had rigged it… had fixed this wheel on the gear axle. A long, flexible, canvas-like… looped cord… flat-edged, fitting right into the wide groove of that wheel, extended up under the wagon to another, larger wheel – this one of hard rubber, on an independent axle, up under the wagonbed. You could see that it had been grooved too – a channel dug into it, all the way around, to take the cord. Odd enough, to that point, but… the inventor of this man-powered… or boy-powered… conveyance contrived to make it two-wheel drive! With gear wheels on both ends of that independent axle, attached with two more bicycle chains to gears on the oversized cart wheels.

Now I was no physicist. I had no clue about gears and power ratios. It just looked like whoever put this rigging together did, though. It looked like… just the thing to allow a little boy to power the huge cart, and it's heavy load, far beyond his normal capacity. I stood behind the frame of the cart bed, and pushed. It was indeed heavy. I doubted I'd be able to push it, by hand, for long.

"Who did this," I started to mumble to myself, wondering at the ingenuity… the mechanical… genius that was hidden away here on this collective farm. What if the boy had done it!? For some reason I wanted him to know – I wanted him to hear, in my voice, that I admired his creation! For some reason it was suddenly important that I make him know! My god, I had almost killed him! Perhaps I had indeed injured him. And he had perhaps… created this?!

I felt my heart literally flutter, an unease, a weakness taking hold over me – the realization hit me again – I had almost killed a boy! More than a boy – I had almost killed this spirit – the spirit that had produced this… from mere scrap!

"Oh my God!" I called out loudly, looking straight at the cart, but hoping against hope that the boy would hear me, and come out from his hiding place, and let me see him. Let me be assured that he was ok. Let me be assured that I had not robbed the world of his wonderful mind. "It's a… masterwork. This cart. This took real engineering skill, to even conceive of this gear reduction. I wish I could… meet… the man who designed this."

Behind me I heard a sharp, high… yelp… from the boy's direction. It made me almost jump out of my shoes, but I didn't turn. He had started to yell out something, but squelched it. Let him bide his time.

Not to even glance his way was harder than I thought, but I forced myself to concentrate on the cart, walking around it, touching it, testing the rigging. I put my foot on the pedal, to feel what kind of power it would take to force this wagon along. It lurched forward fairly easily, with just a tiny little screech of an axle needing some lubrication.

Even as the cart protested my move, with it's almost human squeal, from behind me I heard another protesting… shout. More a long drawn out scream, and then the rasping of what had to be the boy's shoes on the loose gravel of the turnout.

Jasio sometimes watched the yard dogs chasing field mice and rabbits. The mice would head straight for the burrows, and the boy could tell in an instant if the dog had an angle on its quarry. With the rabbits though, it was harder – they would dart about, change directions – their angles were never flat – and it was harder to guess – he had to see the curve, predict the rabbit's tangent, before he could tell if the rabbit was doomed or not. He always got it right, if he could sense where the rabbit was going to pull out, into another straight run.

When he saw the terror in the driver's eyes, and heard the big car's brakes squealing, he knew it was going to be a rabbit and dog chase this time. He knew instantly that his fate hinged on how hard the man had slammed on his brakes, how fast the car had been going, how heavily loaded the rear-end of the car was, how… oh! Sometimes he wanted to scream, because he could see all these things, sense all these mysterious forces. Most times it thrilled him. This time he simply didn't care.

The rear of the car was swinging around, it's back tires locked rigid and burning against the rough surface of the road. Their screech seemed to knife into him physically, making his very skin seem like it was crawling up his back! It was all over, and he knew it instantly, when the driver suddenly changed his whole approach, and stepped on the gas. He saw that the car would only graze by the front edge of his cart, missing him entirely.

He screamed out in anger and disgust, furious at himself that he hadn't judged it right this time. He hardly felt it, when the sloping trunk of the car slipped right under the front overhang of the wagonbed, lifting it up. The cart's big wheels spun in midair, but the whole front end of his cart just swiveled over on the back steering wheel, and then bounced back onto the ground as the car sped on forward.

'Głupi Jasio, can't even kill himself properly, the farmers would say,' Jasio thought disgustedly, as he stopped pedaling. Mud and gravel splattered up on him from the retreating wheels of the car, then even that stopped, as the driver screeched to a stop.

Jasio could see it now. This was just going to make everything worse for him – as if it could get any worse! Whoever was driving this car was trouble. That much was for sure. Only Party officials drove the big Russian cars. Everyone in the collective dreaded the visits, except maybe Leon. But he was the only man here who was a member of the Party.

The Party. The Party. Jasio could usually figure out what people were talking about, but this thing called the Party was still a mystery. Whatever that was, everyone seemed to slink around, when the Party men visited. The men would always curse, 'bloody commie, up to no good.' The women were more practical – they would hide the food stores.

The boy quickly slid off the bike seat, and stooped behind the wagon, stepping forward along it trying to peer into the car. Through the rear window he saw the crown of the man's head, just… sitting there, leaning back in the seat. Then it moved… slowly… the man's hand came up… and now he seemed to be leaning into the door…

Like a little field mouse, himself, Jasio darted back along the wagon and headed straight for the thicket of trees and brush. No sooner had he slipped behind the first large bush that he could reach, then he heard the car door slam shut. He grasped a couple of branches to steady himself, squatting on the balls of his feet, and peered out into the dusk.

The man was tall! Very tall. Taller than anyone Jasio had ever seen. Like a giant from the stories that he used to hear the farmer's wives telling the other kids. He seemed to stagger once, and to brace himself against the car. In the gloom of the evening, the man was just a dark blotch, melding with the black mass of the car, but this blotch moved more steadily, purposefully now, down along the car. He looked to be searching… 'probably checking to see if I damaged his car,' the boy thought.

The Party man's deep voice barked out, "Where the…!" and Jasio grasped the branches all the more tightly, wishing suddenly that he had run farther into the trees, and kept on running.

"I wonder where he is," his giant's voice was louder now. Deep, penetrating. Jasio had often wondered how some voices carried through the air and others seemed to always get smothered and ignored. His own small voice was so soft that everyone seemed to ignore him. But this Party man! His voice was… somehow like… like you had to listen to him, like… like Leon's… like without effort he could make anyone hear him, and they would want to hear him.

When Leon spoke, it was more often than not an angry curse, a command that had to be obeyed… or else… or else he'd whip you… or else if you were one of the Collective members, you might just lose your next allotment of seed, or… the Party man would be like that. Jasio unconsciously leaned back on his feet, preparing to leap back into the trees, if this big man started looking for him. He felt the fear forcing bile up into his throat.

"I hope I didn't hurt him. Oh please, don't let him be hurt," the man's mellifluous voice called out, louder than it needed to be, if he were just talking to himself. Jasio didn't know what to think now… the man's voice sounded… gentle somehow, soothing… yet that… that had to be a trick! 'Fuckin Party, always up to no good,' he could hear the men saying. So… this was just the Party man's trick, to get him to come out. Yet… he really sounded like… he cared…

The thought was like a hammer blow to his belly. It hurt so bad, suddenly, deep inside. How many times in his life had he seen a mother's soft caress, or a father's strong arm reaching out to embrace… or listened from his pallet in the corner, as grandmama told all the other kids – the ones who belonged in that house – a bedside story.

Tears suddenly exploded from Jasio's tightly closed eyes. 'I hope I didn't hurt him. Oh please, don't let him be hurt.' The man's words echoed in his mind, over and over. Why did this Party man have to say that!? Why so… cruel?! To be so false! Was he… was this Party… the very source of all the cruelty? All the pain, and hatred, and… every scuff, every kick… every bruise… every moment of his hunger…

Fighting the tears, fighting to hold back through clenched teeth the moans of desperation and anger that threatened to reveal his hiding place, Jasio could only watch, as the tall man started to look over his cart.

"Oh my God! It's a… masterwork. This cart." The man said, as he stooped then knelt down to examine Jasio's most prized possession. "This took real engineering skill, to even conceive of this gear reduction. I wish I could meet the man who designed this."

"I…," Jasio started to yell out, catching himself and ending in a whisper, "made it…'

The man's words struck like thunder and lightening into his consciousness, and spread their electrifying charge deep into his body. Flash! and he felt spilling out of that most secret place of longing and hurt, from that fenced-in, carefully guarded, tiny little spot with his heart – the one thing that this boy had always wanted more than anything else – he had imagined such wonderful and practical and fantastical things, all his life, yet… never, not once, had anyone in his life ever told him that his creations or ideas were interesting, or good, or even a possibility – much less ever said anything he ever thought or did was good. He had long ago quit sharing his imaginings with anyone.

Jasio wanted so desperately to feel the pride that had just welled up within him, hearing the man's words – seeing him walking around the cart, touching it, examining it. More than that, he felt that all too familiar fascination that so often took hold of him – making him question everything, making him want to know about everything! What kind of man was this, who threw about words of praise? Was there the feeblest, even the remotest chance, that another being in this world shared his own wonderment?!

Of course there had to be! Someone had to have designed and built this car! Someone had to have figured out how to bring water to the crops! Someone had to have made the first bread, or built the first fire, or…

But not ever Stupid Jasio! This man would be just like all the others. He looked at Jasio's cart, so that he could scoff! He examined it, analyzed it, acted like he admired it – so that the final, cruel kick would hurt all the worse! He touched it… so that he could… steal it!

All of Jasio's years of hurt and denial, all of his fear, all his hunger and disappointed hope, mixed with years of scoffing and ridicule and just plain neglect, suddenly boiled together into a potion so powerful that he sprang up from behind his hiding place and stood rigid for an instant, staring at this intruder, not really knowing what he wanted to do. He wanted to scream! He wanted to… to kill that man! He wanted to… beg that man, to listen, to hear, about all his ideas! He wanted just one person in all his world to be there, for him!

Then the man put his foot on the pedal of the cart, and tested the action, forcing it forward.

Jasio stood aghast, then slowly, unconsciously, he sidestepped around the bush, balling his fists, gathering his strength, feeling the rage rising within him, scrunching his eyes, knowing he could never stop the tears now. Almost blindly now, lowering his head like a charging bull, he did scream – releasing all the anguish and indignation that had built up within himself for years – and started running across the dirt and gravel straight at the big Party man.

I swiveled on my heels, hearing the boy's banshee wail as he darted across the gravel on the hard-packed earth. The little guy was slight, notwithstanding that big water-laden overcoat of his, but he ran with such a berserker intent, that I had to brace myself.

He came up on me with his little fists swinging and his head hunched down, staring determinedly at me from under his lowered brow. He rammed his head into me, right above my waistline and started pummeling me, still screaming at the top of his lungs. "I made it!" "It's mine!" "Leave it alone!" I made out the pattern of his words, as he screamed them at me over and over.

It's not every day that a boy attacks me with such ferocity! I was taken aback, to say the least, and for the first moments I really just let him have his way with me.

Only when his little overburdened arms started to weaken, and his blows became mere slaps against my midriff, did I finally close my hands on his forearms as gently as I could, to really stop him. His violent harangue against me melted instantly, and he burst into helpless sobs, still trying to talk haltingly, but incoherently, his eyes almost closed now, staring blindly straight ahead at my stomach. For a moment there, I don't even think he knew I was there – he seemed lost in such a depth of anguish and helplessness as I had never seen before.

He was a mere waif. Thin and weakened by his spent emotions, and no doubt by hunger – perhaps even malnutrition, by the look of him.

My eyes told me many things about this boy, instantly. The first, the most obvious – whatever injury this boy had received in his short life, it had not been from me. He stood against me bedraggled and filthy, his clothes, from what I could see as his coat parted, mere unwashed rags. He stank – of a garbage heap, or compost heap, or… from days and weeks… months… of abject poverty and apparent neglect. His hair hung in ragged, caked strands about his face, sticking there from the wet and his own filth. No obvious wounds anywhere, no blood, no evidence that he had limped or held back his blows.

I stood looking down at him and… my own worries, my own tears, my very reason for being on this road – all vanished from my mind. All I could see – all there was in my world, for that moment, was a little circle of existence, where stood this boy… and myself…

I had thought myself spent, after this long day standing against wave after wave of reminiscence and emotion, but now I plumbed my own true depths of anguish and despair… and something more… something I had thought dead within me… something I had truly given up on long ago, years ago… thoughts, hopes, that had lain dormant… and… a desperate desire…

… for I was holding before me, in this small circle of our existence, a BOY… why did we meet now!? I am a boylover, by the gods! By Marx and Engels! Or whatever other powers there be! Why has this boy suffered so, when I am here, in his very same world!? He should have been mine! I would have fed him! I would have clothed him! Dammit, I would have cared for him, loved him! And every second of his life, through every trial he has survived, just so, have I suffered through every second of loneliness and longing and…

I stood looking down on him as he raised his countenance to mine, and I felt my lips starting to quiver, my jaw tightening, my eyes closing JUST AS HIS! The tears starting to trickle down my cheeks, even as his flowed!

I could only stare, speechless, as he looked up into my eyes. I wondered what they were saying to me! They seemed to belie his words.

"Leave it alone!" he said. But I heard, 'why weren't you here before?!' "Don't' touch it!" he said. But I heard, "You should have held me tight through all my cold nights." "It's mine – you can't take it!" he said, but I heard, "why didn't you show me how to build it better!"

I saw myself, back during the war days, building things from scrap. Rummaging through the battlefields… or the bodies… for food… anything that would sustain me and my friends for another day in hiding.

Finally, pushing my past out of this little circle of our existence, I finally gained enough of my wits about me to try to answer the boy, to calm him, to assure him. "S… son… I'm not going to take your cart." I tried to say it soothingly, certain that he saw the sincerity in my eyes. He stopped his litany for a moment, and looked up with his mouth open.

"I would never take it from you! I… think it's a magnificent… cart… I'm amazed at how cleverly you built it… I… I would never dream of taking it from you…"

His eyes grew wider, focussing up at me. Looking momentarily astonished, in wonderment. As if he heard words that didn't quite register.

If he answered, at that moment, I didn't hear him. I couldn't possibly have heard him. I was lost in wonderment myself, stunned by the visage before me. His eyes… huge dark, dark brown eyes, and dark brown, almost black eye lashes, so long that they curled up at the ends. Eyebrows so incredibly delicate, of the most silken, almost transparent filaments – yet so dark and black that they looked painted against his pale white flesh. The skin shown through those brows, snow-white, like the purest setting for the ebony brush-strokes that swept up and out, over his eyes, then down, just at the wispy end – making the boy look as if he were questioning, examining, astonished, awed… as if there were nothing in this world that he did not wonder about. Including me.

Yet in those eyes was a well of hurt… and sorrow. Perhaps something more than sorrow.

Mourning?

These were eyes that saw into everything about them, eyes that searched and reached out, but that had been forced to close too often, in tears.

I couldn't have heard him, if he spoke, but I do know that I gulped, staring down at him, and that I started to raise my right hand. How I dared do it, I do not know. Perhaps it was no conscious thought that made me do it, rather a need within me… and a need I saw in his eyes. Whatever made me do it, I brought the pads of my fingers just up to his cheek, and touched him there so very gently.

He stood still now, letting me touch him. It was no doubt my imagination, but I thought… I dreamed… that I felt him lean into my touch.

His cheek was cold, below those enchanting eyes, and swept down narrowly – there seemed a natural blush there – perhaps the cold, perhaps burned by the unceasing drizzle… or by his tears. The redness seared the too delicate whiteness of his cheeks – he was certainly undernourished, not just pale, but weak.

But his lips! Red and full! He held them firmly together, as he strained his head back to look up at me.

By the gods, in my very dreams I had never conjured up such sweet lips. They bowed in the middle, pushed out just slightly by his teeth, giving him an expression – much like his eyes – of awareness, even of knowing! Of a smile that was born not from glee, certainly not from any kind of happiness – just from being somehow… prescient!

His features were narrow, soft and delicately formed, so finely proportioned – his nose, his cheeks, chin – and such a smooth, high forehead. His hair hung down over it – laid down over it was a more apt description – laid down wet and in clumps, uncombed and unkempt from hours and hours outdoors in the rain and drizzle. It hung just as wet, in plastered strands, all the way down both sides of his head, far below his ears, to his neck – seemingly molded or glued to his scalp and flesh in thick, dirty clumps. I wasn't even sure that it was just the rain that had sculpted this dark frame around his face – his hair certainly had not felt the loving touch of a mother's brush, for a long, long time.

I moved my hand so slightly from his cheek, to gently draw one wet clump of his hair between the pads of my thumb and forefinger. The silken strands slid smoothly over each other, but I felt the grit there too.

What did this boy's gaze say to me? What was this moment saying to me? Was there sorrow in his eyes? Or defiance? Or even hope? Did he see through me, in this instant of our meeting? Thirty-four year old man, disillusioned, ready to give up – and suddenly wanting him so desperately that I had to steel every muscle in my body to keep from crushing his frail body to mine! Did whatever he had been through in his short life allow him to understand me, with his all-seeing gaze? Would he hate me? Did he know me so well that I was abhorrent to him?

"Are you… are you a Party man?" he suddenly said to me, in almost a whisper? Even then, there was a bell-like clarity to his voice – high-pitched and sweet, holding the same questioning, wondering insistence as his gaze.

"Well… yes, I am," I admitted, not knowing whether that was something he would hear with approval or disdain. Government officials were more often than not unwelcome out here in the countryside.

"You can take my cart, but… I'll… I'll just build another one," he said so matter-of-factly, as if there were no doubt in his mind that I was here to confiscate his belongings.

"I won't take your cart… little boy," I repeated to him.

This conversation was surreal to me. My mind reeled with the impact of seeing him, seeing such beauty that years of suppressed desire burst forth within me, seeing such need that I wanted to grasp him to me and hold him tight, yet… here he was, certain that I had entered his world to steal his possessions.

"Then why are you here?" he said, looking up at me in puzzlement, lowering his brow in suspicion. I still held his arm with my left hand. I still held the soft strands of his hair between my fingers.

He shrugged me off, twisting his arm from my grasp, and stepped back. I let go of his hair almost reluctantly, blushing, feeling like the criminal that he thought I was. Indicted by him. Knowing in my heart that I was a good man, wasn't enough all of a sudden. He did not know that. First I had come crashing in with my car, then I had looked over his cart so inquisitively, now I dared to touch him, thinking that one fraction of an instant of my care would make some difference to him!

I staggered back, swiveling on my feet, off balance, against the side of his cart. I struggled to take a deep breath, then started to turn back to him, but I couldn't! I couldn't bear to look into those eyes again, not knowing how to read them!

"I think you're… ok… son," I mumbled out, swiping my forearm up across my face. What to do next? He… didn't want the likes of me… here. "Are you… alright? Did I hurt you?"

"Your car didn't hit me, if that's all you mean," he answered, sounding somehow bitter and reproachful. Or was that just my imagination? I still couldn't turn back his way, to meet his questioning gaze again.

I felt so tired and weak again, and wasn't even sure of why I should feel so guilty. It certainly was not because I desired this boy, not because I saw his beauty, not because I wanted to hold him and cherish him – not in all my years had I ever regretted being what I am. I knew the goodness of it, when I lay in Stefan's arms, so many years ago. Tomek cemented that certainty, with every loving and kind act during the war. Loving a boy, giving of yourself to him, is an act of the purist, most beneficent good. Admiring his beauty is an acknowledgment of your dedication to that good.

I felt guilty because… what could I do? What would I do?! He wasn't my boy. He didn't want my touch. He didn't even want me here. I was… the enemy… the Party man… a threat…

Maybe it wasn't guilt I felt. More like an utter and complete hopelessness. My life was littered with such encounters. Couldn't every boylover say the same? Only the War had made it possible for Tomek and his boys to shirk society's bounds. This boy, however abject his need, was but another brief encounter.

I pushed myself upright, and turned to walk back to my car, my head down. Digging into my kit, in the back seat, I pulled out a packed of sandwiches, then walked back to the boy.

"Here… uh… son… there's something to eat, in here. You get… home… you'll be ok… I never intended to take your cart… I never… did. I gotta… go… I'll be late…" I said, still awkwardly avoiding his eyes. I paused for a moment just standing there, glancing first at the cart, then the ground, then allowing my eyes to graze his face once again, almost afraid of any response.

He took the packet from me. I watched his little hands, miniature versions of my own, as he placed them on either side of the package. Our finger tips touched! On both sides, he seemed to intentionally let just the tips of his long middle fingers graze mine.

Now HE had touched ME! I dared to look up then, directly into his eyes. He was scanning my face – that same querulous expression there, but somehow… not so… harsh. Not so much of that suspicion in them, as before, but more of a… probe… like I was a strange object that he had to examine and analyze.

I… couldn't stand it. Not now. Not after my day-long search for any kind of answers myself. I was going to have to leave this boy here, and I'd never see him again, and whatever questions he had I would never be able to answer anyway…

Dropping my eyes, and without another word, I turned and strode back to the car, stumbling over my own feet, knowing that he was watching me. With more force than necessary, I lunged into it, through the gaping door, and pulled it shut with a bang.

I had the presence of mind to ease the clutch in, at least, and move off slowly. I peered into the rear-view mirror, and saw the boy just standing there watching me, holding the package of sandwiches in both hands before him. I pulled farther and farther away, and his form started to melt into the growing darkness of the trees surrounding the turnout.

I realized that I wasn't breathing, that while I had watched the little boy's form recede into the distance, it was like my own life was suspended. I allowed myself a halting breath, and then in a futile acknowledgment of my fate, I lifted my hand and gave a weak wave.

"Good-bye, little one. Take care of… yourself…"

Jasio stood transfixed as the tall man and his car slowly gathered speed, and drew farther and farther away.

First the sound of gravel scrunching under the tires, then the engine taking over as the wheels reached the quiet surface of the black-topped road, then… little more than two little red lights growing closer and closer together with each passing moment. That, and the wonder.

He could still see the man's face. Clean. Strong. Chiseled! That was it. A face chiseled like that old statue, hidden out in the ruins.

The man's face, looking down at him, with those eyes of his searching, like they would drill holes in Jasio's own eyes, looking deep into him. People just didn't act like that! At least the people around here.

And when the man felt his cheek, and… tested his hair, rubbing it… people didn't do those things either. Not to Jasio. Maybe to some other child, but never, ever to Jasio.

Then… the things he said… 'your cart'… 'it's magnificent'… 'Go home'… 'something for you to eat'…

Jasio gripped the package of sandwiches tight, feeling their substance – they were real. This had really happened. The car was gone now. The silence of the cold, wet night had descended completely, and the boy was alone again.

'Go home.'

He heard the words again. He looked about him, slowly, then off towards the direction of the collective compound.

'Go home.'

Jasio closed his eyes for a moment, and saw the man's face looking down at him. So tall. His hair dark, and hanging down over his forehead loosely. Broad shoulders, making his long gray overcoat hang loose all the way to the ground… yes… just like the statue in the ruins… and now… gone… no more real than the man who once looked down upon his sculptor.

'Go home.'

Jasio looked down at the package, wondering. He had touched the man's hands, just to make sure, but… even though he was real… the moment was fleeting… and now gone.

'Come back.' He closed his eyes, wanting to recapture that moment. His narrow chest lifted underneath his coat, and he sighed deeply. How many times had he imagined a line, and himself standing on it. Always moving forward, always looking towards the end of the line. Now suddenly, he wanted to turn, and step back.

'Come back.'

'Go home.'

'We never go back, do we,' he mused sadly, letting the words fall flat into the damp air. Slowly he crawled under his cart, and sat cross-legged on the bare ground. Home.

The cold and the dark were now a part of him. He felt the clinging wetness of his rags against his skin.

'We can't look back,' he muttered, then centered the package of food in his lap, and so very carefully unwrapped it. New soles for his shoes, this wrapper. One night without the awful grip of pain in his stomach, this food.

One moment, already gone forever, that man.

Chapter Two

Stopping for that poor boy had put me behind schedule. This was a strange road anyway, and now it was starting the real climb into the mountains. Taking those twists and turns in the dark required all my concentration – but concentrate was something I just couldn't do!

I kept thinking about him. Picturing him.

What was his home like? Where were his parents? Why did they have him out on the road at night – or out at all on a day like this one had been.

Of course life was hard on these collectives. I'd seen enough of the poverty and the hunger that was still the lot of most of these people, long after the way was over – long after our great worker's paradise should have produced a bounty.

These people didn't hate us for no reason. Black-coated commissars made the rounds, setting quotas, taking the harvest. Stripping the countryside bare. Yet… was that boy – his kind of existence – was that what I had dedicated the last 14 year of my life for? So he could starve? So he would have to work 18 hours a day collecting junk by the roadside? So he would have to wear rags?

Alright! So I was guilty. I had done my share in putting him on the side of the road like that! Yes. But… what kind of people were they – his parents? Whoever it was that should be taking care of him.

Taking care! Hah! He looked like he hadn't bathed in weeks. Under the dirt that had etched into his skin, his pallor was like a death shroud. His little fingers – those little boy fingers, so soft and white – had carried the very chill of the night air in them. He was wet. And oh so alone.

God dammit! What kind of people were these? What was our doctrine? To each according to his need. From each according to his ability.

Yeah. Ability.

I spat. Right there inside my car, I spat. From each according to his ability, bull shit! What about simple kindness? The love of a mom? The beckoning light from his door? The tenderness of a…

'By God,' I swore to myself smugly, 'no boylover would ever leave a boy like that – any boy – out in the cold tonight. Or any night. No boylo…

Suddenly my mind reeled, and I stabbed the tips of the fingers of my right hand like a knife right against my forehead, and grabbed a handful of my hair. I felt like pulling it out from the roots!

I… ME! I, Piotr Ostoja, had left a boy… THAT BOY… out in the cold tonight!

I stamped down on the clutch and brakes violently. The car skidded to a stop, the rearend swerving fast to the right. It came to rest perpendicular to the road, the rear wheels off the macadam. I felt them sliding back and sinking into the mud.

Just as violently, I forced the gear shift into low, and gunned the engine, spinning the wheels, just praying that they would bite into the shifting ground, and let me turn back around. I HAD to get back down this road to that boy! I could not, WOULD NOT, do to him what every other bastard in his life had obviously done – and abandon him!

How could I have left him! Was I so intent on saving my own skin?

He hadn't exactly begged me to stay, but what did I expect?! I had almost run him over. I was a stranger. He looked like he had seen the point of every boot in the district. Yet, even then, there was something in him… reaching out… something seeking, looking, examining… he was a boy with spirit. No matter how many times that boy was knocked down, he got up. He was still working. Struggling!

The wheels dug deep into the mud, but hit some hard layer beneath, and the car jolted forward back onto the surface of the road. In an instant I spun the wheel around and got the nose pointing back in the direction I had come, then I floored the gas pedal.

How far had I driven? Ten kilometers [6 miles]? Fifteen [10 miles]? Would he still be there when I got back!?

And if he wasn't there…?

I felt a sinking in my stomach. He had to be there! For some reason, I now was as certain as I had ever been of anything in my life, that this little boy needed me. The KGB and Polish Internal Affairs might find me tomorrow, but I… surely there was something I could do for this boy… tonight!

I might die trying – but so what. This long day had taught me that I didn't have that much to live for anyway.

I sped along the road, exploding out of every turn, with my foot hard on the gas, abusing the brakes. The GAZ was a heavy car, not suited to this mountain road. It's momentum threatened to topple me down the side of the steep berm with each curve of the road. I didn't care. It was almost as if I had decided that this was indeed going to be the end of me. I was going after that boy. I had spent 34 years on this planet… and it was all for this one moment. This one hour, perhaps, with this one boy. He would have one good meal. He would have… whatever I could give him… this one night.

Then it might all be over anyway. So be it.

Finally the road straightened out a bit, as I got the car back down onto the flatter approach to the mountains. The turnout couldn't be more than a kilometer or two [1½ miles] ahead.

I was thinking now. The boy needed reassurance when he saw me, not another scare. So I reduced speed, cutting the grinding roar of my engine to a much less threatening purr, and almost coasted the rest of the way. I wasn't exactly sure of the distance, so each little turn in the road, I held my breath, waiting to espy the boy's cart. For that matter he might even be pedaling this way.

Don't hit him now! I admonished myself, peering ahead into the blackness of the cloud-covered night. Full moon or no, the clouds still blanketed this whole region into stygian darkness. At least it had stopped drizzling. I suspected that the clouds would part soon, and we'd have a frigid night of it, under clear skies.

Without the headlights, I'd never find him… unless he stayed put! Please, please, just stay there for a short while more, I called out into the night to him.

Him.

I didn't even know his name. He was… just… Him…

But that didn't matter. Not in the least. I would give myself up to him, and never know his name, if that had to be.

My head was just centimeters from steering wheel, my eyes narrowed to mere slits as I searched ahead, driving even slower now, certain that the turnout had to be just ahead.

The headlights spread like a fan beyond the next row of trees lining the left side of the road, and I could see the dark brown of the packed earth of the turnout! I coasted completely now, letting the engine idle, clutch down, my foot just hovering lightly on the brakes, to slow the big hulking Russian sedan into the turnout. Off to the left, just before overtaking that line of trees, I saw a road leading off downhill – and a sign – Jodłówka State Collective Farm.

Then… there! Right where I left him, was his cart! He was there too! Below, underneath the cart! Huddled on his side, under the cart.

I stopped the car twenty feet [6 m] away and left it idling, then flicked off the glaring beam of the headlights. Leaving just the running lights to offer some slight illumination, I launched myself from the car and ran forward.

He hadn't moved, hadn't even twitched, to acknowledge that he knew I had returned. Or that somebody, some car, had stopped again.

I imagined the worst. That the cold had finally gotten to him. That the meager supply of sandwiches had been too little, too late. He had shown such fire! Such defiance – his eyes had dug into me – surely he couldn't have spent all he had left in that little body of his!

Cautiously, quietly, in case he was just sound asleep, I knelt beside the cart, and bent down to lean in under it. The light from the car was just enough that I could see the gentle rise and fall of the outline of his bulky coat. So he lived!

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes for a split second, in thankfulness. My heart was racing, and not because of the short run from the car.

Half under his body was the crushed wrapper of the food package I had given him. So it seemed he had… collapsed up on it. Yet his body was curled in upon itself, as if he were trying vainly to generate some heat from within his small frame. Perhaps he had just suddenly felt the weakness. Or was the poor boy so famished that the sudden presence of food in his stomach had made him grow feint?

Alright. He breathed. He lived. Now to get him into some shelter.

I begrudged doing it, because of the obvious cruelty and neglect this boy had long suffered, but I knew I had to get him to his home. I had some money. Some clothes. I wouldn't be needing either in some Moscow rehabilitation center. Until the KGB caught up with me, I could bully this boy's people into doing right by him. I looked very much the important, powerful Party official. They would feel the lash of my tongue before this night was out. Later, I'd have to figure a way to carry out my threats. Pawel! He told me not to contact him again, but… well, perhaps it was time for Pawel to stick his neck out too.

"Little boy," I uttered, just above a whisper. He didn't even flick an eyelid.

"Misiuuuu" I cooed to him. Still no response, so I placed my left hand upon his shoulder and gently patted, speaking a little more urgently this time. "Misiu!" He did look so like a little bear cub laying there, with his heavy wrapping. Yet he didn't respond.

His little head lay awkwardly in the wet dirt. I saw bits of gravel sticking rudely up into his cheek and forehead. How my heart went out to him! At that moment, I felt such tenderness as… as… the image came to my mind so clearly – for the first time in many, many years – a memory of one time, when Stefan had fallen asleep in the hayloft, his head laying upon my arm, so close to mine. I could easily lean forward to touch my lips to his – I didn't want to move – ever! But my poor arm fell asleep, and I just had to. So ever so carefully, I drew my arm out from under his head, laying it upon the bed of straw. Now, at this instant, I felt so close to that long ago moment.

There was a connection. This boy wasn't Stefan. I couldn't reclaim that lost love, but the tenderness with which I beheld them both, transcended the years. What I could never again do for that beloved one, now I could do for this… other.

I hunched down, and placed the fingers of my right hand upside down upon the ground – just at the top of his head, where it touched the ground. In small motions, I pushed and leveraged my hand under his head, lifting it, balancing it, till his cheek lay against my warm palm, the side of his head cushioned across my forearm. His flesh was so cold! But the whisper of his hot breath from those little nostrils brushed my wrist.

He would live. I would make sure of that.

Hugging his knees to his chest as closely as he could with that coat on him, he was a tight little bundle, so I simply inserted my left hand beneath his hip, behind his drawn up legs, and slipped my right further back to cup his shoulder, and pulled him, dragged him, out from under the cart, then rose, lifting him to my chest.

He was so light. Such a precious little bundle. I could imagine his skinny little frame buried deep inside that thick coat of his. I gave myself a brief moment, to just stand there and hold him, cherishing him. I hadn't touched a boy, held a boy, like this since… since the breakup of Tomek's band. We had been such a rugged little band of fighters, but we knew our tender moments too. Us older boys cared for the little ones. We were family. That's what this boy needed… family… caring… cherishing. Why oh why couldn't I give that to him?!

I looked down at his face. Only then did I realize that the moon had finally peeked out from behind the breaking clouds. Gone for a moment was the pallor of his skin, to be replaced by a bright, silvery-burnished creamlike shimmer! The moon shown down radiantly, but it was nothing to the haloed aura of this boy! His ebon hair shone also, with highlights of a dark auburn shade, that might be more red in the sun.

The KGB be damned. Suddenly, there was a much more important reason why my life was bounded by tomorrow. I had seen him in the gloom of a cloud-covered evening. His eyes staring up at me defiantly, challenging me. His spirit had defied the descent of darkness. Now I saw him as a sleeping angel. There was more than the moon glow about him. Much more than a mere reflection of that heavenly light. There was a force within his body, a power – raw energy, even now dampened and in retreat, but never surrendered. Tomorrow? What would the new day bring? Surely, if I could just do or be what he needed, the very sun would have to compete with him. I… I had to be there with him, then!

Him.

Just 'him', again. Him, who now needed me to make tomorrow come. Did anything else matter?

No.

Nothing else mattered. Nothing mattered, beyond that tomorrow.

In profile, and held so close to me, he was lovelier than even before. His little lips were pursed, and lay flaccid against my chest. His eyes were closed. Did he dream? Whatever his past had been, I hoped at that moment his dreams were all of little boy things made up of wondrous and magical imaginings.

How can one being fall in love with another, in a span of mere seconds?

With Stefan, it had taken years, really. Years of being together, and sharing everything – even our awakening to our boyhood.

With Tomek, month after month of his big brutish arms holding me tight against the pain, or pushing me forward to survive, or just sharing a moment's forgetfulness.

With this boy…?

How can one know, as certainly as any most cherished truth, that he has finally met his reason for existence? Every fiber of my being told me so. I didn't regret almost killing him. I didn't regret leaving him, driving away. I didn't regret not knowing, that day when he breathed his first breath. I didn't regret living a life in total ignorance of his being. Because now I beheld him! Now I knew that every second of every moment of my life had shaped me for this meeting.

"I don't know how long we'll be together, Misiu," I spoke to him softly. "I only know that just a short while ago, I needed a reason to keep living. Let me live… even just one day… for you."

He shivered. I felt it travel through his body.

I looked about, trying to think clearly. Then quickly I nudged out a place for him on the flat bed of the cart, using the bulk of his heavily clad body to push back the junk laying there. I reached in under his coat then, and felt the chill of his wet clothing and flesh. Only near his underarms was there the slightest trace of bodily warmth. His body was laboring against the wet and the cold, and losing the struggle.

I had to get him to his home quickly. But how?

My car was heated, but if I drove up to his door in my GAZ, my cover was totally blown from the beginning. No way then to get a natural reaction from his people.

I made my decision in a flash. Quickly I unbuttoned my double-breasted long overcoat and shrugged out of it. The residual warmth from it would have to do. It would shelter him from the cold at least, and hold in more of his own body heat. I wrapped it around my little boy tightly, tucking him in, leaving only an opening for his eyes. Even his breath would serve to warm him within that cocoon.

Rushing back to my car, I turned the lights and engine off and locked it, then hurried back to the cart and mounted the rider's seat. It was built to the boy's small frame, but carried me well. I started pedaling immediately, leaning into it. The narrow tires of the big wheels bit into the gravel of the turnout and the cart rolled forward easily.

Keeping my eyes on him as much as on the way ahead, I skirted my car and got back onto the road, then turned right just after the little copse of trees, down onto the farm road. Too late did I think about the brakes! The pedals literally flew out from under my feet as the weight of the cart, with it's precious cargo, sent us spinning down the road. I just gritted my teeth and held firm to the steering rod, ready at any second to spring from my purchase onto the flatbed, hoping to cover or catch his body, if the cart started to careen and turn over.

Thankfully the road leveled out abruptly, and the wild ride was over almost as soon as it began. The boy remained still, as if nothing had happened.

Up ahead I saw a series of cottages lining the road. No lights. Just squat, square, stolid little shacks – home for these poor people – the needed warmth for this poor boy.

I pedaled right up to the door of the first cottage – perhaps 100 meters [300 feet] beyond was the second. And beyond that a more substantial residence, with a fence about it. Hah! The Collective committee chairman's abode. I didn't need anyone to tell me that.

"Hoaa, inside," I called out as I drew to a stop. Dogs started barking down the way.

It wasn't that late in the evening. These peasant people no doubt went to bed early, but they should be up now. Inside, a dim light suddenly became much brighter, and I heard astonished, questioning voices. Another light came on, within the next cottage on down the road.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" I heard a muffled, yet obviously nervous voice from inside.

"I… was on the road!" I called out loudly. "Had an accident. I hit a… boy. I've brought him here. Please open up so…"

The door latch clicked from within, and a shadowy form pulled the door in. The man ducked his head, and peered out grimly, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, wary no doubt of any stranger. One hand remained behind the door, but he held nothing in his visible hand. I had no doubt, from reading his expression, that he had not opened the door unarmed.

"What bo…," he started to say, then continued, "Oh! Jasio." The man spat the name. He didn't say it.

Jasio! Him!

If I could have, I would have picked my little Jasio up again and called his name out over and over, letting it spill from me lovingly, letting him know how I felt! This man might spit out the name. I would make music of it!

"You would do better to take him down the road, mister. He's not welcome here," the man grumbled, and started to shut his door. He hadn't even bothered to look over the pile of junk in the cart to see the boy.

"Where is his home!?" I yelled out, trying to mask my anger. This man might yet pay for his attitude, but right now I needed some assistance.

"He has no home. Not Jasio. Check down the road. You may have better luck there." And with that he did shut the door, and I heard the latch fall into place sharply.

So much for that. I didn't waste any time, but pulled the steering bar to me and turned the cart right back across the muddy cottage yard onto the road, and made for the second shanty.

The boy – Jasio! He had not moved, but lay so very still wrapped in my coat.

"I'll get you some place warm soon, I promise, little Jasio," I spoke to him again. No matter what he had heard from other people in his life, he would hear nothing but my care, when I spoke to him.

It was indeed getting colder. The cloud banks, brought in by the late autumn cold front, had been pushed from the skies. Only the brightness of the moon and stars shown down to guide our way.

Again I called out, as I approached this second cottage. When the squeak of the wheels stopped, I heard rustling and voices from within, and this time the door opened quickly.

"Don't open that fucking door!" I heard a loud, drunken voice yell out from within, but staring up at me from the doorway was a little girl. She was dressed in her long nightgown now, ready for bed. She giggled when she saw me, ignoring the man's command, and called back over her shoulder, "It's Jasio, Papa, and a strange man!"

"Głupi Jasio!" the man grunted, as he came up to the door, glaring out angrily, leering at the cart, looking as if he would bat the little boy around if only he could find him. Instead he saw me.

"I was driving out…"

"I don't give a damn who or what you are. Take this cart away. It's not our turn. We had him last month. Go talk with Leon Koczurba, our committee chairman. He'll assign a place for the village idiot."

"But I only want to know where his home is!" I started to get off the seat. It was about time I start to show who I was. Perhaps I should have driven my car indeed.

"Jasio has no home. And nobody wants him. You take him and his stupid ideas and stupider notions, and… and… just go!" With that he did shut the door, and I stood speechless. The picture of this boy's life was starting to emerge, and it wasn't pretty. Well, I had known that already, just from his appearance, but… to imagine him passed around from cottage to cottage, with no place to go to every day…

I was standing next to the flatbed. All I could do was reach out and place one hand upon his shoulder. I held it there firmly, grasping him through the cold layers of cloth.

The committee chairman. Leon something. A little more equal than all the others in the collective, no doubt. So that next cottage – the big one with the fence – had to be his. I was determined to find out, and make an end of this.

The road widened before me, as I got the cart pointed back down it, heading for that larger cottage. There were fields on both sides of the road, up till now. From this point on to that next structure down the way, a great shimmering white… scar… lay upon the land off to the left.

I slowed unconsciously, trying to figure out what it could be that reflected the moon's bright rays right back up with such brilliance. There were irregularities on it's surface, but for the most part it was uniformly flat and smooth, extending well back from the road, and along it for what must have been easily another 100 meters [300 feet]. The larger cottage was situated right at the far end of this great white expanse. It too was white and…

That's when I realized that we were passing the ruin of some great mansion – the foundation, made of some brightly colored stone, with a few broken columns here, or a raised landing there. It was such a melancholy sight. I speeded up, wanting no reminders just at this moment of the war – or more likely the feeding frenzy after the war, when great families lost everything – when collective farms like this were born, like parasitic growths upon the land.

At the far end of the barren foundation there was such an odd series of… spikes… or columns… or… the image came to my mind of the great monoliths of the ancient peoples… for there, in miniature, was an arc of such stones, laid out with some precision… there was a sign posted upon one of the small columns… I squinted to read it… I could see that letters were scrawled there.

We were almost up to the large cottage before I could make out the lettering, and when I did, my blood ran cold…

'Głupi Jasio's Field of Corn!' it said!

Obviously a sign put up there in derision, but… what could it have to do with my Jasio? With this little boy wrapped in my coat?

Noises from within the nearly darkened cottage interrupted my musings. Animal like grunts and higher pitched moans – rhythmic – obviously this farmer and his wife were rutting. Well, I didn't care. They would have plenty of time for that once Jasio was situated. I parked the cart, jumped off of it, and strode to the door. My knock was… perhaps a bit louder than necessary. The attitude of the other farmers, that crude sign, now my rather surprising disgust upon hearing a common farmer plowing his wife – most of all the rising anger within me for what these people had done to a little boy – and I frankly was in no mood for pleasantries.

After a moment of silence within the cottage, I knocked again, even louder. Hammering at the door.

"Wait!" I heard a man call out from within. He had a deep, booming voice. A big man, no doubt. I didn't care. I was a big enough man myself.

I heard rustling, then muffled voices – both the man's and now the woman's – hers sounded shrill, his commanding, rude, loud. And louder as he approached, cursing at the woman, ordering her to get some clothes on.

Then the door opened wide and Leon the committee chairman stepped forth upon the porch. I knew it was him. He had pulled on his Party overcoat and hat – no doubt his habit, as first among equals on this collective. His appearance would overawe most men, I suppose. He wasn't tall, but he was built like a rock – thick shoulders, neck, arms. A barrel for a chest.

He started to say something, but hesitated, looking me over. He took in Jasio's cart, and the precious little bundle upon it. There was no fear on his broad face, but a very ready suspicion.

"What brings you to the Jodłówka State Collective, comrade," he said, extending his hand for me to shake. "I am Committee Chairman Koczurba."

I took his hand, but didn't respond with my name. I could tell he had seen my coat. Saw the way I dressed. He knew I was a Party official.

"You no doubt recognize this cart, Comrade," I began.

"I do, indeed. Ah…" he hesitated, then continued in a somewhat conspiratorial tone, lower, quieter, "I see you've wrapped the boy's body in your coat."

"He was quite cold." I said matter-of-factly, refusing to join in whatever connivance he was apparently preparing for. "I was driving along the outer road, and bumped into this boy's cart. He is unharmed, but weak. Wet. Cold."

The man's head jerked to the side a fraction of a centimeter, as if bemused. Mere words – I had uttered mere words, but this man was trained in that esoteric art of wordplay with the higher ups in the Party hierarchy. He stared at me, trying to keep his face blank.

"It has been… a cold and wet day… Comrade," was all he said.

"Indeed. I have been trying to find his home, with no luck so far. The other farmers," I waved back along the road, "directed me to…"

From behind him, I heard the woman's voice. She suddenly lurched out onto the porch behind the man, half-dressed, standing as if half smashed on vodka. Leon Koczurba could obviously hold his liquor. Or else he merely used it to ply the targets of his affection – because this 'woman' was certainly not his wife. She couldn't have been more than 17 or 18.

"Głupi Jas…" she started to slur.

"Mind your tongue!" Leon growled back at her, and with a heavy hand, not even bothering to look back, he pushed her stumbling into the house.

"But you said you didn't need the likes of him around if you had me!" she shrieked out.

The big man stepped back up onto the porch and closed the door, then turned to me, holding both his hands wide. "Women," he laughed. "What can we do?"

He then stepped off the porch again and walked to the back of the flat bed. I let him reach in and lift the coat from over Jasio's head.

I stood back and watched. The cold must have struck the little boy's face like a slap, because he suddenly opened his eyes wide. Leon turned to me and said, "It's late, Comrade. I thank you for bringing the boy back here. The Collective Committee will hold a meeting tomorrow and determine where the boy will reside this month. He's… an orphan. We take care of him. All of us. In the meantime, he can come in with me toni…"

I was listening, and watching. Jasio hadn't moved, but I could see he was straining to hear every word. The alarm in his eyes, when he heard Koczurba say that he would take the boy in, was… knee-jerk. An automatic reaction. Fright. Dread. Whatever it was, I saw Jasio's eyes search around wildly.

"I think… not, Comrade Koczurba," I broke in, keeping half an eye on Jasio. I wanted him to know that I would stand between him and any threat. He didn't need to look anywhere else.

There was something about Koczurba that I didn't like. His too ready facade of pleasantness. The way he kept saying 'the boy', when he obviously knew 'the boy's' name. Perhaps, for me, the worst thing was that the man was bedding a girl.

No. I well recognize the natural urge of most men to bed women. I never shared that attraction – I realize that I am out of the norm, not men like Leon. Yet… she was obviously not this man's wife. She was probably the daughter of one of the farmers. He was taking advantage of his position. And what was that she had said about not needing Jasio anymore?

The boy was not a commodity! Not a parcel or a burden, to be passed around on this collective!

"I came by to inform you, Chairman Koczurba, that the Ministry of Internal Affairs will be investigating the apparent neglect this boy has suffered," I stated in my most officious voice. I stepped closer to the cart and placed my hand possessively on Jasio's shoulder again. I looked down at him – he was staring up at me, his eyes like bores, piercing me, searching again – even as he had early in the evening out on the road. I gave him a slight nod, and squeezed his shoulder, rearranging the coat back around his head, just praying he would go along with me.

"I… we…," Koczurba stuttered.

"I'm sure he deserves much better. As an agent of the State Committee on Inspections I will be taking temporary custody of the boy. Papers will be issued… tomorrow."

I regretted saying that last. Damn. It was something I wouldn't be able to fulfill, and would cast doubt on me.

Koczurba looked taken-aback. Certainly caught off guard. He was a cool customer though, I give him that. No doubt used to getting his way on this collective, he now swallowed his pride. Hah! It's a time-honored technique in our Worker's Paradise. When you aren't sure exactly who you are dealing with, stall for time.

I let him stew in his juices for a moment, while I looked around. More than once I've heard of Party officials going missing after trips into the countryside. I wouldn't put it beyond the realm of possibility that the close-knit community of a collective might rally around their local leader, just out of personal self-interest.

Even as Koczurba started to reply, I gave Jasio one more firm squeeze on the shoulder, and mounted the bike seat.

"I assure you that we here… Comrade! Uh… where will you stay for the night? I mean, we can provide…"

"The State Committee has provided travelling accommodations, I assure YOU, Comrade. Expect to be… contacted…," I ended lamely, as I pedaled away, turning the cart in a tight little circle.

"I assure you… Comrade!…" he raised his voice even louder, to keep me from going, but I just ignored him and kept pedaling.

We couldn't wait to hear any more. Better to get away before he had time to consider his situation. We wheeled on past the arc of columns, and the cruel sign posted there, past the old graveyard of a mansion that once stood so majestically over this land, then past the two hovels where the farmers had so viciously spurned the boy. I was glad he hadn't been awake to hear that! Then I realized, he had no doubt heard it many times before.

So furiously was I pedaling that I had momentarily forgotten my charge. He was up on his shoulder now, staring at me, the wind from our fast getaway fluttering the coat lapels around his head. I saw his jaw quivering – whether from fright or the cold, I couldn't tell. His eyes might be so wide because of terror… or just plain wonder at this new turn of events in his life.

"I… hope you'll trust me… Jasio," I spoke to him loudly, over the rushing wind. "I will… I WILL take care of you. I promise!" My heart pounded! This was like the moment of truth. Would I see that tomorrow that I had imagined? Would he believe me?! Would he… trust me?

For answer, Jasio simply collapsed back into his protective shell, still curled about himself, and started shivering. I could see the rigid line of his jaw as he tensed himself against the convulsions. If I had expected thanks, or… eagerness, or just plain acquiescence – I guess I got something else instead… perhaps resignation? Chilled to the bone, wet, and exhausted – perhaps this little boy just didn't care anymore.

All the more reason for me to take care for him. My legs burned as I struggled up the incline at the juncture of the two roads, but I made it, knowing exactly what I had to do next. Half a minute more, and I had pedaled the cart right up to the back door of my car, then I leaped off the seat and unlocked it. Swiveling on my heels, I quickly slipped my hands up under my little frozen bundle of boy, and settled him gently onto the wide cushion.

Now. First things first – get the engine going, and start the heater.

I got in at the driver's seat and got the car started, and set the blower to high. Then out again. I stood for a moment looking around at the trees and underbrush lining the turnout. Jasio treasured that cart. I couldn't just leave it out in the open. So I ran it into the thickest part of the dark woods, behind some undergrowth, and hoped that would do. Then back to the car. We couldn't just sit here at the turnout, but neither could we risk driving to the nearest town – too many people knew of my whereabouts already.

I drove it up the road a bit, counting the wasted moments impatiently, starting to feel desperate, when I espied just the place, where an older road forked off and ran parallel to the main route for a bit. Trees and a high berm separated the two roads. If some farmer needed this passageway, he'd think twice about disturbing a government car.

I locked the far doors, then leaving the engine in idle, and the heater on full blast, I got out and back in next to Jasio, edging in and gently taking his head up into my hands, lifting him, to rest on my thigh. There was no light other than the moon, but that was like a bright flashlight beaming in through our back window. Both my coat and his own had fallen away from his face, and I was shocked to see how pallid his complexion was now. His lips had lost their vibrant red blush – they were drained, as all his flesh was. His heart was beating inside that frail body, but it was struggling just to keep his brain and his vital organs alive now. Even his shivering was erratic.

There was no time to lose. I started rubbing his forehead and cheeks, even while I locked the doors on my side. Little enough protection, if the farmers found us. I wished I had a gun.

My rucksack was laying on the floorboard, just at my feet. I reached down into it blindly, rummaging around for some clothing.

Damn. So much for advanced notice. I had just returned from the road trip when Pawel's warning call came. I had dumped out the dirty clothes from the trip, then stupidly filled the bag back up with books and papers. A lot of good my birth certificate was going to do to warm up this little boy! Maybe my prison guards would have fun with it – a worthy target for their darts.

I came up with one pair of socks, balled up in the corner of the bag. Looking around inside the car, there was nothing. No blankets. Nothing. We had the clothes on my back, my big overcoat, and Jasio's own soaked clothes.

The heater was just beginning to blow warm air. That would help for a while, but this boy's chill was seeping into his very bones. I wanted to get him wrapped, warm and dry, against my own body, as quickly as possible. Anyway, we couldn't leave the engine running for long. Gas was hard to come by out here in the countryside, and this GAZ-13 was a guzzler.

Alright. So we would just have to make do. I put the socks down on the seat, to my left, and then slipped my left arm up under Jasio's back. Then I reached down with my right arm to get a purchase behind his legs, and pulled him bodily onto me, his head lolling onto my left shoulder.

My hands paused in mid-air for a split second, when I reached to peel the layers of clammy clothing from him. They may have trembled a bit. I was cold too – had been for the last hour, after bundling Jasio up in my coat, but that wasn't the real reason for my nerves. Fifteen years – that's how long it had been since I had touched a boy like this. Fifteen years of… true and unremitting cold. That's what it's like to a man such as me, remaining alone through all the years. Cold. Seeing boys by the thousands. Everyone else had their boys – even slugs like these farmers here who had turned Jasio away. Everyone but men like me, who wanted them… hopelessly.

By the Holy Black Madonna, how I wanted this boy to… just let me… help him…

I would give my few remaining hours of freedom to him. I HAD committed myself to him! What would I give to have him take my hands, and guide them to warm his flesh… perhaps to simply pull my arms about him, and fall into my embrace.

Acceptance. Perhaps that's what I wanted. Or acknowledgment.

I knew he was just too far gone for that right now. Maybe later, if… if I could prove to him that all men aren't like those others, who had mistreated him for so long.

I took a deep breath, steadied my hands, and then went ahead and pried the layers of cloth from his left shoulder, pulling them off. They fell back heavily, sodden. I shifted him them, letting him fall across me to the right, where I propped him up with my arm, so I could drag the coats off his right shoulder.

He had a tattered white shirt on underneath, yellowed and stained with dirt, buttons half missing, but clinging to his body with the wet. The collar was torn on his left side, and the shirt just lay open there over his left shoulder. What a vision there in the silvery light of the moon, seeing the narrow curve of his naked flesh, the delicate lines of his collar bone, but… even as I thought it, I felt ashamed. That same lovely bare shoulder was ice cold to my touch as I laid him back into the crook of my left arm. This was no time to admire him, but… how could I help it?!

I busied myself with he buttons of his shirt. Just get him dry. Get him warm. He's a boy. There is no reason for shame. Just do what needs to be done at this moment.

As I fumbled with the buttons, I looked down where his coat lay open. He had literally laced the inside lining with pockets, and loops, and ties. He was carrying a veritable trove around with him! Everything from bits of string, to heavier rope, to broken knife blades, to rubber bands, to… to things that I couldn't imagine a name for – bits and pieces of machinery, penciled drawings on paper, torn pictures from old magazines – a cup, a broken ruler, a… I was amazed. I looked from his face, to the little treasures that he had stowed away, and back again, wondering at this little boy!

Junk. It was all just pieces of junk, but somehow, after seeing his cart – well, if he actually built it – somehow I knew that each item here was more than scrap, each item was a… a part!

I shook my head, and pulled myself back to the immediate task. I would set aside all his little treasures. He could have them, when he wanted them. In the meantime I had to get these wet clothes off. His constant shivering told me that.

I started peeling his shirt off. It came off dripping and running with the wet across his narrow chest. His tiny little nipples were raised, taut with the cold. His little tummy rippled convulsively, suddenly naked to the air. I needed a towel, and quickly! He was suffering.

The socks were dry, but I didn't want them wet. For half a second I looked about, slack-jawed. Was I growing dense? Or was I just besotted with the cold myself? Finally I realized that the only relatively dry cloth available was what I was wearing.

"My shirt," I said out loud. "It's… warm, and… dry…" I muttered, as I scooched him down a bit, letting his bottom rest on the car seat again. I laid him down in my lap, and then leaned forward over him so I could get my shirt off. I don't know what made me do it, but… it just seemed such a natural thing to do… you take care of a boy, you cherish him – you kiss him – let him know how you care – well, I just… picked up his hand and kissed it! "We'll get you good and dry, Ja…"

I had thought him completely unconscious. His body was as limp as a rag. I feared he was comatose. But suddenly he lifted his lids and looked me straight in my eyes! He didn't say a word, just kept his lips tightly closed, his face practically expressionless – only his eyes spoke – just as before – opening wide, staring, inquiring of me. Even in the light of the moon I could see them as deep, glistening pools, with such intelligence behind them!

I was stupefied! I had kissed him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do at that moment, and he must have felt it! For a moment I returned his gaze, my eyes wide too. I had no idea if he could read my expression. If he did, he must have seen my amaze. I just hoped he saw the other, too – that dam just bursting to overflowing with love, ready to spill over on the both of us… if he let it.

Just as suddenly, he closed his eyes again and lay totally supine again. My hands moved feverishly then. Quickly I unbuttoned my own shirt, and pulled it off me.

I gathered it as a towel, and dabbed it across his chest first, then under his arms and along them – lifting each one, drying him completely, noting a little scratch here, a tiny scar there, or a bruise. His flesh was as smooth and soft as any boys, but… I sensed a story in each of those little wounds. His life had never been easy.

Quickly I patted his hair with the shirt, and lifted the strands, folding them within the cloth and drying them. Then I lifted him upright again, and peeled all the wet clothing from off his back, and started to dry him there too.

I felt something as I held him up – something soft, pliant, cold under my fingertips. Cold like all his flesh, but somehow different – raised, glossy smooth ridges under the pads of my fingers. I traced one…

Wide-eyed again, but now with horror, I pressed him to me, almost afraid to look down at his back. Knowing what I would see.

The moonlight cast crisscrossing shadows below the slightly raised welts… they were deathly pale and translucent scars upon the purist white of his skin. He had been beaten. Lashed. Not recently – the wounds were healed. But he was scarred for life. I closed my eyes momentarily, feeling tears wanting to form in the corners of my eyes.

What he must have endured in his short life! For a brief moment I was lost in the enormity of it, unconsciously running my fingertips along the welts. Wondering how he had been scarred, and whether the wounds reached deeper. Was that a part of the rage I felt, when he ran up and attacked me this evening?

I choked back the tears and opened my eyes, letting him fall back away from me again, so I could look him in the face.

"Never again, Jasio," I whispered to him, shaking my head from side to side slowly. "I don't know what I'll do, but… no one… should… ever… will… nnnhh" I almost wailed, letting the tears flow now, wondering how I'd ever be able to keep such a promise. Better that I didn't say it. Better that I never add a lie to all the other hurt in his life.

He opened his eyes again, this time as mere slits, peering up at me, his brow pursed. Puzzled.

I didn't know how to answer him. No use trying to stop the tears, though. He just barely turned his head and seemed to look at my hand, where I had crossed his chest to just hold him by his arm for a moment. Then he looked back up at me.

Whatever it was he sought, he seemed too weak to do anything more than just let his lids droop again, and fall back into his sleep. His eyelids closed slowly, his body melting against me again, weightlessly. He was indeed a mere waif. So thin. I figured he might be nine or ten, by his lines – his arms were slender and unmuscled, his chest sunken, his ribs and breastplate practically visible beneath the anemic pallor of his skin.

Feeling the shivers ripple through his body again, I got back to the task, drying every part of his upper body, holding his head close to me, nuzzling him, caressing his narrow little shoulders, murmuring to him, "you'll soon be warm, Misiu. I'll make sure of that."

He still smelled of days-old stale boy sweat, which would have been a perfume to me if not mixed with mustiness of his damp clothing and his heavy coat, and… who knows – perhaps he had been rummaging in the farm's trash dump. He was unwashed. Streaks of dirt came off with the droplets of water onto my shirt. The heady aroma of his wet overcoat was a powerful potion, but I didn't mind! This was all my Jasio! This smell was what he had lived. This was part of his past. Something I could finally share in. I would make it better for him, I would bathe him in sweet-smelling salts if he wanted, but for now, as I peeled his wet clothing off and dried him, it was like peeling away those foreign scents, to get to his own essence.

I worked quickly, knowing I was still taking too long.

My coat had fallen away from his body, so I pulled it completely from under him, and stretched it over the front seat to dry. When I released the buttons holding his own coat closed around his waist and legs, it fell open too. He was wearing long, dirt-splotched pants of some light color – impossible to tell which with all the grime – ripped and frazzled at the ankles. He had on a pair of woe-begone canvas shoes, around which he had wrapped some rags, to plugs holes, or merely to hold them together. No socks. Nothing to insulate his little feet from the cold.

Nudging, prying with one hand, while I held him to me, I got the shoes off… in pieces. I should have been more careful. I managed to pull the sole away from the canvas upper covering of one. With the other it wasn't so bad – with the rag untied, the shoe literally flopped open and fell off. In the light of the moon, his feet looked as ghostly pale as the rest of his body. They were frigid to my touch and his toes were crinkled from being wet so long. Propping him up against it, my left arm didn't have much freedom of movement, but I held him close, and started trying to untie the knot in the rope that held his pants up, with my left hand, while rubbing and drying the bottoms of his feet with the other, moving the toes about, hoping to get a little circulation going there.

I'd have to get his body warm – his head, his vital organs. The socks would help a little, but until I could get his heart to pumping fast and furious to his limbs, they would have no warmth to hold in.

I lifted him bodily again, and unceremoniously started tugging his pants down. They were wet and sticking to his legs. I shifted first one side down a bit, then the other, struggling to get them down over the sharp protrusion of his hipbones. Then they slid off much easier.

He was suddenly completely naked in my arms. It all happened so fast, that I hardly allowed myself to think about it. With all the shifting about, I realized my left hand now cupped his little bottom. I felt the twin mounds of his buttocks, so cold and clammy. Yet so soft… my fingers would slip into the vale between them, if I just let it happen.

How many years since I had touched a boy like this! Or even seen a boy in all his perfection? Pawel occasionally smuggled boy porn in from West Germany – we would sit together and pour over those pictures, masturbating feverishly – now I had such a beautiful little boy laying nude in my arms. I guess I kind of… let my eyes graze over his midsection, to avoid looking directly between his legs. It… just didn't seem the right moment to ravish him with my eyes. I saw his penis there – in my peripheral vision – even as I concentrated on his feet, or his calves – I saw it. The white swell of his pubis, and at its peak that glorious little shaft of his boyhood laying over against the purest white of his inner thigh.

"I need to… get your toes all dry, little boy. Then I'll have to dry your legs, and… everywhere…," I said, almost shyly, in a hushed voice.

I kept talking to him, distracting myself, wiping the moisture from his feet, from between his toes, talking my way on up his legs – even then, my mind was half focussed – almost guiltily – upon what I wanted to look at most.

I swiped the shirt up and down his legs, drying him, cleaning some of the grime away. Then awkwardly, not wanting to let him fall away from my body, I reached across both of us with my right hand and retrieved the dry socks. They were long and thick, the way I liked them, and woven from wool. It was easier than I thought to pull them over his much smaller feet, then up his calves all the way to his bony little knees. With each motion, his penis flopped one way then the other, still on the periphery of my vision – so clearly there, but not yet… seen.

"Soon your toes will be toasty warm, Jasio," I cooed to him.

My motions rose higher, to his thighs, and when I reached over both his legs to dry his left thigh, my wrist, and the soft flesh under my forearm suddenly brushed across his penis! Unconsciously I felt myself slowing my motion, feeling it – soft, yet rubbery from the cold. I deliberately allowed myself to see it then, removing my arm.

I think I froze there, for a moment, my hand still poised to rub and dry him some more. His penis lay shrunken, curved over towards his right leg – but even cold like that, it was longer, thicker than I had expected. And so gorgeous!! At least six, maybe seven centimeters [2½-3 inch] long. His foreskin was spread wide at the end, and his blood-drained pale-pink glans peeked through – its whole shape was outlined beneath the foreskin, the coronal ridge, the flare of the glans back from the meatus – everything so delicate looking, a white-washed bluish tint to it, frigid and looking so fragile in the moonlight shining along the shaft.

Beneath his penis, his scrotum and testicles were almost invisible. His little balls were drawn up tightly inside him, just the barest outlines of their twin globes showing where his tightly protecting ballsac had scrunched them up. His little sac was icy-blue too, looking deathly, and too exposed.

Delicate, soft and smooth, sleek, as perfect as any boy I could imagine, as desirable as any boy I could imagine, yet the instant I saw his little testicles blue with the cold invading his body, I reached out and cupped my hand over them tightly, willing the warmth of my body into him there. They were his very essence. They were what I had peeled his layers of wet clothing off for – so I could protect them – protect him! I didn't want to fondle him. I wanted to certify, by my every act, that this boy had a future, with or without me!

I had to release him. Just for a moment. Gently I lifted him up and sat him down next to me in the car seat. I got up then, reached over the back of the front seat and turned off the ignition key.

Silence. The stark shadows of the window frames against the bright light from the moon. The glaring, empyreal silvery wash within.

And Jasio.

That was my world now. He was my world.

Quickly I retrieved my overcoat from the front and sat back in the car seat. I lifted Jasio again and scooted him back into my lap, then draped the coat over the both of us, his right side against my bare chest, my left arm his backrest.

"Sweet, sweet boy," I murmured to him, as I tucked the collar of the coat about us, up to my neck – covering his head completely. I made sure his arms and legs and feet were securely within our little tent. Then I withdrew my own into it, and just held him there then, my arms wrapped about him, rubbing, caressing.

Strands of his wet, tangled hair straggled up out of our wrappings, some lodged between my lips and tickled my cheek as I held his head just beneath my chin. I started to sneak my hand out to brush them away, but stopped. That was not what I wanted… I wanted to taste him. I wanted him to feel my lips press into his hair, wanted him to feel the warmth of my cheek against his scalp.

I was a man who cared too much, Tomek told me. He was wrong about that. For too long, I had cared too little. This little boy – his life up till now – was proof of it. The old man was right about one thing, certainly. I couldn't let them beat me. Us. Him. It was all about him now, the little boy in my arms.

I touched my tongue to the wayward strands. They tasted of… of his days and days with no one else to care for him – of saltiness, and the grit of the soil that he toiled upon. They tasted of loneliness.

I wondered. How would my hair taste? Of someone who cared too much? Or of my own long sojourn with loneliness.

I kissed him lightly on the top of his head, through the fabric of the coat. "If only you'll let me, I'll take care of you, Jasio. I promise." I couldn't see his eyes, couldn't tell if he had heard me.

There wasn't much room for maneuver with my left hand, so I let it roam up and down his left thigh, and underneath his bottom. Goosebumps rose there, then gradually fell, leaving his skin so smooth and soft. When my fingers would slide over the cleft between his buttocks, I couldn't help but let them dip lightly into it. Almost touching his tenderest, most private parts. It was clammy there, and cold from the rain and exposure.

Just as the rest of his body was. I drew my right hand everywhere, always rubbing, kneading so very lightly, hoping to bring his blood to his skin. Every part of his body needed my attention, and at first I had no thought to anything other than getting him warm.

There came a point, though, when my always moving hand started to caress, rather than rub. When it started to feel, to touch, to sense, rather than to merely massage.

I would cup his cold-hardened penis beneath my palm and make sure my fingers warmed his balls – just feeling the cold, only the cold – worried for him, praying that I could impart to him all the warmth that he so desperately needed… then at some point, I began to feel the softness of his skin there, or the way his forsekin would glide over the flesh beneath with my slightest touch… at some point I began to lightly separate the washboard folds of his scrotum with the tips of my fingers, feeling for the shape of his little eggs within…

I would round all the corners of his cold, bony little knees, letting the friction between my hand and his flesh start to bring him back to life… but at some point my palm began to sculpt those boyish corners… at some point my fingers began to trace the crease behind his knee, and explore his lines, as if memorizing them by touch…

I would brush the flat of my hand all the way up his taut little tummy to his chest, letting my fingers dip into each of the little valleys between his ribs – always kneading, always rubbing and pressing – all the way up till I felt my fingers curl around and massage his little neck – then back down again… then at some point I began to sense even that infinitesimal difference between the softness of his skin, and the tenderness of his little nipples… at some point… at some point I… began to stroke there, wanting to make them harden…

So very gradually did it happen – it seemed so natural – his body's response to mine – mine to his – my warmth spreading to him, giving him life – every curve, every contour of his, every taste, or smell, giving me what I had dreamed of for so long.

So very gradually did it happen – I felt the cold and unnatural wetness of our chilled bodies give way to the moistness of our own natural bodily exhalations within our coverings. I felt the heat within that most secret, and to me most sacred, place between his buttocks – I felt his penis grow even softer, more flaccid – felt his testicles loosen within their pouch…

And then so very gradually did it happen – with each return of my hand to caress his little tool – it began to grow hard and hot to my touch, lengthening, straightening, pulsing… at some point my penis grew hard too – lengthening, straightening, pulsing within my pants, pressing up against his little bottom…

It all seemed such a natural progression. Wasn't this what I had always wanted? To care for a boy? Wasn't this what he had always needed? A man to be here, just for his needs? I had saved him. He had… saved me. Given me back my purpose.

"Thank you, Jasio," I lowered my head, so that my cheek rested against the top of his head, and spoke through the fabric of the coat. "You are my salvation. I… didn't know where I was going… now I know… I'm already there."

Dreaming about dreaming.

Why not? Jasio thought… or dreamed…

Was it possible to think in a dream? To think about the dream? Even while dreaming it?

Had to be. Because he felt warm.

Warmth was only the stuff of dreams. Or of longing. Standing, unwelcome, outside one of the farmer's shacks, looking in through the window, where the little ones sat next to the stove, listening to stories. That was warmth. But also reality – his reality. Warmth was for everyone else… or for his dreams.

So this was what it was like… sensing that it was cold out there, but in here… all warmth…

… and comfort… for once he didn't have to tense his muscles against the cold, or clamp his jaw shut to stop the shivering.

Haha. Final proof that this was a dream. And that he could think about his own dreams. He felt someone's arms about him. A man's strong arms… and… that was… where the warmth came from…

No man would ever do that for him… and yet…

We only dream about what we know, or have seen, or have felt, Jasio mused – still bemused that he could think of all these things within a dream…

… and so how did I imagine this man's arms? How did I imagine… warmth… spreading from his body to mine, when it's never happened before, he wondered.

Am I imagining that his hand slides along my arm, and seems to so carefully mold itself to the shape of my elbow, then down, feeling the ridge of that bone in my arm… there are two long bones there, connected to… and he feels where they meet… why does he… why does he lift each of my fingers… and hold them…

Is it just my imagination that I feel a weight against the top of my head… it doesn't hurt, it… is warm too, and soft… not his hand, his… why does he make that sound, when that soft weight touches the top of my head, like… a mother, blowing a kiss… lips… his lips pressing down upon… me?…

Jasio's heart fluttered…

The man's hand went everywhere… and suddenly… he placed his hand so carefully, gently, right over Jasio's… thing!… then he caressed there, pressing his palm firmly against the softness of his cock, and his fingers played around Jasio's balls, lifting them, squeezing ever so lightly, sliding one against the other like little marbles!…

Jasio felt his member growing hard, like it did so often in the mornings, or when he touched it for a long time. He had learned just where to touch it, so that it would get hard quickly, gliding the pads of his first two fingers along the underside of the cock, always grazing across that most sensitive part, near the tip. Leon had forced him to jack up and down on the man's huge cock. So Jasio had tried it on himself when he was alone. It was an escape… something he could do for himself, that would let him forget, just for a moment. Something that would let him… escape from his reality…

Now the man… did the same, and it… oh the sensations!…

No, this had to be a dream, because no man would ever touch him there. Leon had said a boy's cock was useless. Too small to do anyone any good. A boy was only good for sucking a man's cock… and yet… this can't be a dream, because I feel it, he mused.

He felt the man's cock too – getting harder and bigger underneath his bottom.

"Thank you, Jasio. You are my salvation. I… didn't know…"

The man's voice! The Party man's voice!

Jasio's whole body went rigid with the shock – this was no dream! The man was holding him! The… man had returned to him!

The dream was reality! And all of it… letting the man undress him… staring at the man from the bed of the cart… hearing Leon and the man talking about… him! All of it was real!

Jasio felt his skin burning all of a sudden. It was all real, but for the gentleness of the man's touch, the softness of his… lips… even the assurance in his voice now…

Probably Leon had sold him to the man for the night. Soon he'll want me to suck him, just like Leon makes me do. Then he'll kick me out of his bed, just like Leon does.

The man held his hand motionless now, still cupped around Jasio's dick and balls, but just as rigidly still as Jasio held his own body.

"I'm sorry, Jasio, I just wanted to get you warm," the boy heard the man say. "You were cold… everywhere.

A pause. Jasio listened, but it was if his whole being was in some kind of lost slice of time – like standing on that line again, but going neither forward or backward this time… just waiting, wondering… doubting…

…hoping…

Oh it hurt so bad, what this man did to him. What he said! That's what hurt. Jasio was so used to every nuance of rejection and spite and just plain not caring… but what this man said was…

Jasio couldn't help it. His whole body convulsed with a desperate sob, a crying gasp… he wanted to remain just as rock-solid still as he could – to deny the man's words… don't let him get to you! Don't let any of them get to you! He wanted to scream it out loud, he wanted to jump out of this man's false embrace and…

"I touched you there, because… you were so cold," the man spoke again.

His voice was so… kind. Why, why, why, Jasio screamed to himself. Why can't I let myself believe that the man spoke from his heart!?

Because he's… he's just like… they're all alike…

Jasio felt his halting breaths, as he tried to hold back his tears – NEVER LET THEM GET TO YOU AGAIN! But his body was betraying him. No, it was his mind… or… his heart… that wouldn't leave him alone, that kept telling him to listen, to let the man speak, to believe the man…

"I kept massaging you, and… and later you seemed to sleep so peacefully… when I rubbed you… down there…" The man withdrew his hand. Jasio felt the cover, or the blanket, or whatever it was surrounding the both of them – he felt it lift, as if the man had raised his hand, and it hovered there, above the boy's body, as if he didn't know where to rest it…

Through his choking gasps for air, fighting what he knew was coming, Jasio listened to the man's voice… there was no anger in it! There was no disgust, or hatred, or belittling, or contempt, or selfishness, or… why couldn't it really be true that he was different from all the others!?

No one had ever cared? Did this man really care?

He had come back!

No one had ever sheltered him, willingly… but this man…

No one had ever shared their food with him, without resentment… but this man?

No one had ever spoken kind words to him… without a price… why couldn't this man be different?

Wasn't he different?

Jasio's whole body shuddered, and the tears and sobs claimed their release… and yet he felt the man place his hovering hand upon his bare thigh, and pull his body in even tighter, holding him like a… baby…

"I'm so sorry," the man muttered. Jasio felt the man's lips moving against the top of his head. "I'll never touch you there again…"

No one ever did before, Jasio thought. Why did you think to touch me there, where I've rubbed myself by the hour when I felt the most alone ?…

"Just… just let me… take care of you, Jasio. I'll… do whatever I can…"

But no one ever did before! The boy wanted to scream out. He wanted to stop his whimpering cry, and shout out his questions!

"Then… I'll get out of your life, if that's what you want…"

Get out of my life!? I called you back. You came. Why?!

"Just let me take care of you… tonight, at least…"

And tomorrow!? Are you like the others? But no, you can't be like the others!

"I promise I… didn't touch you there because I… I wouldn't do that without your permission, Jasio, I just wanted to make you feel better. I thought it made you feel…"

You thought it made me feel better?! And your own cock – why does it soften now, when you think I'm sad? Why do you withdraw your hand, when you think I don't want it? Why do you care, when NO ONE EVER HAS BEFORE!?

Jasio suddenly just wanted to BELIEVE! Why couldn't ALL of this be real?! The man's very presence. The food he had given as a gift. The protection from Leon. The blanket that he had draped over them both. The caresses. The kisses. The words! All of his words… that he wouldn't have hurt him for anything… that his cart was magnificent… that he just wanted to help him, at least for tonight… that he had touched him down there, just to make HIM feel better!!

This can be real! He screamed to himself. I want someone finally, truly, to care for me!

Like lightening, he shot both his hands down and grasped the man's right arm and pulled his hand back up to his crotch, and forced the man's hand to cup him there again!

Let me feel it, for once in my life! He wanted to tell the man. Make ME feel good, for once in my life! Do something, do anything, do this! Just for me!

He held the man's hand over his pubis with both hands, pressing down hard, feeling the man's resistance – refusing to say the words out loud through his sobs, but wanting the man to show him, wanting to beg the man to prove to him, that the man would do this just for him!

No sooner did I say the words, and Jasio suddenly came to life in my arms – but not at all like I had hoped. I felt every muscle in his small body tense against me. He had awakened, recognized my voice, and was either frightened or… repulsed by the thought of me holding him. Maybe sickened by the way I was groping his privates.

I feared that I might have misread all the signals, that his body's response to my caresses was nothing more than some kind of automatic physical reaction, rather than that sense of coming together, that I had felt before.

I held my hand motionless now, still cupped around Jasio's dick and balls, but just as rigidly still as Jasio held his own body.

"I'm sorry, Jasio, I just wanted to get you warm," I said, trying to excuse myself. "You were cold… everywhere.

It was as if he didn't hear me – not a change in the way he was laying, so tense – then he let out the most pitiable little gasp – it was like a spark, igniting me – I had to say something. Now. And I couldn't stop, I couldn't let there be just silence, I had to somehow tell him.

"I touched you there, because… you were so cold."

It was true. That was my first reason for touching him there.

"I kept massaging you, and… and later you seemed to sleep so peacefully… when I rubbed you… down there." I spoke so low, my lips grazing the fabric of the coat, pressed so firmly over his head. He was crying still, but in almost soundless jolts, the side of his chest heaving against mine erratically.

Why couldn't I tell him the rest? How to explain to him that I had felt us almost becoming one being under our coat, sharing our warmth. How could I get through to him?!

Still no response – I was at a loss – I lifted my hand from his privates, and for a moment was unsure what I should do next. I felt a flush run through my body; I was appalled at the thought that he might think I was indeed groping him – what if that had happened to him before, and… but I wasn't groping him. I was nursing him, caring for him. Surely he would sense that.

Tentatively, I let my hand fall back to his thigh, and I pulled him a bit closer in to me. If he was frightened, then let my embrace show him that he need not fear. If he was repulsed by me, then… oh please, let him feel the true me.

"I'll get out of your life, if that's what you want," I muttered reluctantly, hoping against hope suddenly that he would make no move to accept that promise.

"Just let me take care of you… tonight, at least…"

I guess I became desperate, starting to repeat myself, pleading now, wanting so much to be understood by him, fearing that if I quit talking it might all of a sudden all be over. "I promise I didn't touch you there because I… I wouldn't do that without your permission, Jasio, I just wanted to make you feel better. I'm so sorry. I'll never touch you there again – just… just let me… take care of you, Jasio. I'll… do whatever I can, then… get out of your life, if that's what you want – just let me take care of you. Tonight, at least…"

Jasio moaned so pitiably all of a sudden, sounding so desperate himself, and I felt his hands suddenly strike out and grasp my arm, where I held it tight against his thigh. With a kind of a mewling grunt, like he was defying any resistance, he jerked my hand off his thigh right up to his crotch, and forcibly pressed my hand over his penis and scrotum. He tugged and pulled at my hand, placing both of his over it – whimpering louder with each jerk of his hands, as if commanding me.

He seemed like a baby crying out for comforting, unable to express himself in words, but begging me to care for him. And wasn't that exactly what he was! I understood it instantly, and just as instantly knew he had given me his answer. He would accept my embrace. He would curl up upon me, and let me impart the very life-force from my own body into his, he would lay with me inside our private shell – just the two of us against the whole world – he would let me care for him. He would let me prove the truth of the words I had repeated to him over and over.

Just as quickly as he had reached out, and cried out to me, he fell silent and motionless again. He sniffled, and I felt him turn his face directly against my chest, wiping his tears against my mat of hairs there.

I pressed down upon his head again with my lips, then turned my cheek to rub against it firmly. "Yes Misiu, that's my boy, let me hold you, let me take care of you. You show me what you want me to do for you, always. I will do it. I will take care of you, Jasio."

In answer, he nuzzled into my chest even more firmly, and I felt his hands upon mine again, gently but firmly nudging me, pulling my hand up across his softened penis, pulling his ballsac up, then back again, pushing my hand down.

I hesitated, wondering if he really meant that.

We were communicating at the level of our hearts now. Expressing ourselves with our touch. Again he pulled my hand up, forcing it harder into his penis, squashing it, stretching it with my palm.

I knew what he was saying, just as clearly as if he had said it in words. 'Pleasure me. Pleasure me, Party man. Show me. Prove to me. Me! No one has ever offered me anything before. Show me that you will do this just for me! Solely for MY pleasure!"

I understood.

I obeyed.

With my hand held open wide, I glided it to the left, then to the right, in slow, gentle strokes, grazing his penis, but also sliding my hand down along his inner thighs, telling him with each stroke that I wanted him to spread his legs just a bit – telling him that he could open up for me, trust me.

He seemed to resist just for a few strokes, then gave in, extending his legs and opening them wider, letting his bottom slide down in my lap slightly, pushing his hips and his whole mid-section up – telling me that he would invest his trust in me.

As I went back and forth, left then right, I let my palm roll his still soft penis from side to side. My finger extended down over his little scrotum, and further – down along his perineum all the way to the beginning of the part between his buttocks – down along his inner thighs – grazing the most soft and sensitive flesh of his body.

At first his little dick lay dangling down, but with each glide I felt it responding, stiffening – still rolling from side to side under my hand, but now resisting, hardening and lifting – I let it flop up under my palm as it stiffened to full erection so that now I brushed the underside of his shaft.

His balls were full extended now – as much as a prepubescent boy's balls would – hanging loose within their infinitely soft and pliable sac. With each crossing stroke, I pulled his little testicles across to one side, pressing down, massaging them, then curling my fingers sometimes to pull them up, or extending my fingers to push them down.

He started to moan quietly, as I tested his limits – never hurting him, but taking him to the brink with his testicles – one more fraction of a centimeter down – one more millimeter up – just the slightest bit more pressure and he would have to cry out – instead he had to catch his breath, had to anticipate. The sensations were wrapping around his little eggs and stabbing deep up into him – he lifted his bottom in random, jerking motions, untimed, uncontrolled.

I let my hand suddenly slide all the up along his penis, then up and up across his tummy till it glided over his narrow chest, brushing both his little nipples to tautness, then escaping back down immediately all the way to his dangling pearls, then back up again in broad caresses, around and around his tummy, across his chest, then back down again.

His body was undulating with each broad stroke, anticipating my direction, lifting into each swipe of my hand – he opened himself wide to me, letting his arms just dangle to his sides, turning himself so that his back was against my chest. I felt his head move in lazy, gliding motions against my chest, in timing with each soft moan – more like whispered, whimpering sighs – telling me what he was feeling.

Within our blanketing coat, he felt warm enough now to totally relax against me. I made sure that he remained covered everywhere, from head to toe, varying my stroking caresses with a tuck here, pulling the coat to the side there, adjusting it wherever his erratic motions pulled it.

I narrowed the range of my gliding hand, centering slowly but surely back upon his penis, starting to grasp it as my hand passed, pressing it fleetingly between my fingertips, then letting it go to slap back against his tummy. I marveled at how hard he was along the full length of his boyhood – the two hard-swollen columns on either side of his shaft – so familiar, just like mine, but in miniature – barely yielding to the pressure of my fingers, yet the incredibly soft skin there practically slid from underneath my fingertips, gliding in perfect ease along that inner hardness.

I stopped stroking, letting myself just fondle him, letting my fingers wander in exploration of his treasures. Each part of him was so different, yet all the same in tenderness, smoothness, purity – from the frenular opening of his foreskin, where the tip of his glans kissed my fingertip, down along the flare of his glans – the foreskin so tight around it – across the coronal ridge of it, down along the shaft, feeling the infinitesimally small veins beneath the skin – to the little collar of pubic flesh at the base of his shaft – I traced it all the way around, and down below that to the almost imaginary substance of his scrotum – so light to the touch that it offered no clue to it's purpose, with his balls hanging down so loose underneath.

I knew what it must be like to be blind, with so much of one's perception focussed on touch. I couldn't see his eyes – they couldn't guide me. I couldn't see his body. I only felt it against mine. The harmonic melody of his moans told me that my hand was where he wanted it. But only through my touch could I read each nuance of his pleasure – the lifting of his buttocks, when I slid my finger round the base of his glans – the jerking response, when I tapped my fingertip upon his pee slit – the sudden stiffness of his thighs and tummy, when I rolled his balls together and pressed them harder. And then… I suddenly thought that I felt something else in the way he was relaxing against me, giving in to me.

He was hard. I was becoming hard again. I could have taken him all the way to his orgasm, and probably had one of my own too, but I sensed something. In both of us. Like… this just had nothing to do with wanting to share in that kind of release.

He kind of curled himself in on me again, snuggling against me – not trying to force my hand from between his legs, but as if saying to me 'you did it right. You proved yourself to me. Now could you just… hold me?'

We had a baby once, in Tomek's little band. Found him abandoned beside a railroad track – thrown out at a siding, out of one of those cattle cars filled with Jews. I guess his mother decided the little thing would have a better chance at the mercy of the elements than at the mercy of the Nazis. We kept him for a while, until we could find him another mom. He used to cry and cry – would drive Tomek mad – but then one of us would pick him up, and he'd let out the most expressive, shuddering sigh of satisfaction, completely content within his little world.

Jasio suddenly did the exact same thing. I felt like the long lonely years were stripped away in an instant, and I was holding a little baby in my arms again. Jasio sighed, releasing a great breath that whooshed in hot waves against my chest – it was like he had finally reached some very real point of satiation – he was ok. He was safe. He was cared for. He felt good finally. He could rest.

I think he was asleep in an instant. I felt every bit of tension in his body just evanesce, his hands dangled upon me like dead weights, his shoulder melted against me, and his head lulled over, tipping against my chest. His little penis softened right beneath my hand, where I held it motionless.

Mine did too. It just shrunk beneath his bottom, till it was lay flaccid and still. Yet I felt suddenly more like a man than I had ever felt in my entire life. Perhaps I felt like a man for the very first time in my life. I had been a grownup for a long time. But a man?

Now I was a man. I came back for him. I took care of him. He lay in my arms

If he was content, then I was ecstatic. I gave his little dick one final soft caress, then gathered his legs up as gently as I could, pulling him back into my lap so I could just hold him.

No telling how long I sat there just cherishing him after that, feeling his body enfolded against mine, feeling his very heartbeat, and his every breath.

Finally, I drifted off to sleep too.

It must have been an hour later when I woke up – the moon had sunk below the tree-tops, leaving only the glittering stars of our galaxy up above us – my head had fallen back wearily against the top of the cushioned backrest, and when I opened my eyes, I was looking right up into the heavens. I could trace the Milky Way – I followed along it dreamily. "Would that you could light our way," I mused, murmuring out loud, remembering our plight.

Then from out of some dim recess of memory, a bit of verse came so clearly to my mind – I was never one to wax eloquent, but at this moment I felt the power of the words – words that I hadn't heard since before the war, when my mother would read to us from her catechism. I just had to say the words now, for never in all my life had I felt them as I did now, for Jasio.

"Lord make me an instrument of thy peace," I began. "Where there is despair, let me bring hope… for this boy. Where there is darkness, let there be light… for this boy. Where there is sadness, let there be joy…"

I felt Jasio move, heard the rustle of the coat. I held my breath, wondering if I had awakened him.

Seconds later I felt the tips of his fingers touch tentatively upon my arm where I held his legs up against me. His fingers were so warm now, with our shared life. I waited, wondering – would he push my arm away? He had every reason to. The way others had treated him, why should he trust mere words, or even a few soft caresses? Was it too much to hope that he would trust me? That he might believe me? That he might let down his guard, feeling my arms still around him?

I waited. It was totally silent in the car now. His fingers made no more noise as they reached out within the coat a little farther…

He… hooked them around my wrist… and pulled my arm in tightly against him…

I lifted my head again, till I felt my lips once more against the top of his head, and let them rest there in answer.

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