Stay Where You Are and Then Leave by John Boyne Read Free Book Online Page B

the handles; the second revealed a set of four gray shining cloths and a pair of sponge daubers; the third held two tins of polish that had been almost full when Alfie found the box. Carved into the side was the word Holzknecht and an emblem that displayed an eagle soaring above a mountain, wild-eyed and dangerous. Secured to the underside of the lid was a footrest that could be taken out and attached to the top of the sealed box through a pair of thin grooves etched into the side. This was where a customer laid his foot when he was having his shoes shined.
    When Alfie first brought the box back to his own bedroom, he had stared at it for a long time, running his fingers across the elegant woodwork and taking careful sniffs of the polish, which sent an irritating tickle up his nose. He had seen boxes like this before, of course, although none as beautifully designed and well cared for as Mr. Janá č ek’s. A few days after signing up, his father had taken him to King’s Cross—he’d said they were going there to look at the trains, but that wasn’t the real reason—and Alfie had seen Leonard Hopkins from number two shining shoes in a corner by the ticket counter and charging a penny a shine. It seemed to take him a long time to finish each shoe, though, for every time a pretty girl walked by, Leonard’s eyes followed her as if he had become hypnotized, and only when his customer tapped him on the head did he turn back again.
    The last anyone had heard, Leonard was stationed just outside Bruges. He’d been in a field hospital for three months before being sent back on active duty. He wasn’t even seventeen yet.
    He’d mentioned Leonard’s job to Mr. Janá č ek one evening, and Kalena’s father had laughed and said that the problem with the English was that they always wanted someone else to serve them. The rich had their valets and footmen, their housekeepers and maids; the poor couldn’t afford such luxuries so it made them feel good to have someone else shine their shoes for them instead. It gave them a sense of importance.
    â€œBut there are some things that we can all do for ourselves, Alfie,” Mr. Janá č ek had declared, lifting a shoe in one hand and a brush in the other. “And this, my young friend, is one of them.”
    Carefully examining the shoeshine box, Alfie felt certain that it had been in Mr. Janá č ek’s family for a long time, a family heirloom, and that he had brought it with him to London when he left Prague, for the best reason in the world: for love. Maybe he’d even used it himself to earn money before he’d opened his sweet shop. Or maybe he’d simply held on to it to shine his shoes. It was true that Mr. Janá č ek was always very well turned out; he was famous on Damley Road for his dapper appearance.
    â€œIt’s his European blood,” Margie said to Mrs. Milchin and Mrs. Welton one afternoon when she was finishing some ironing for Mrs. Gawdley-Smith, who lived in one of the posh houses just off Henley Square and whose washing Margie had started to take in for tuppence a load. (“Every basket I get through, Alfie, is another meal on the table for us.”) “On the continent, men take pride in their appearance.”
    â€œOh, if I was twenty years younger and Fred was looking the other way,” said Mrs. Welton with a laugh, and Mrs. Milchin shook her head and pulled a face like she’d just drunk a mouthful of sour milk.
    â€œI don’t like to see a man so tidy,” she said. “If you ask me, that Mr. Janá č ek is not to be trusted.” But then, Mrs. Milchin had taken against him long ago on account of his accent. That was just who she was. She didn’t like foreigners.
    Alfie didn’t like to think that he was stealing the shoeshine box; he preferred to think of it as borrowing. He knew that stealing was a bad thing—David Candlemas from