Oskar the Pole Read online

  About the Book

  For eight years now Oskar the Pole has been a widower. As a homeless vagrant, pushing a supermarket trolley through the streets of life, he cuts a lonely figure.

  But Oskar has a talent. He can play chess, and he can play it well.

  Every afternoon, at the giant chessboard in the park, Oskar becomes a star, a master, the undefeated champion …

  The second of Judy Nunn’s captivating short stories featuring the homeless men and women who gather around the plastic bins near the docks, ‘Oskar the Pole’ is a heart-warming tale of friendship and community.

  This ebook also includes an extract from Judy Nunn's new novel, Sanctuary.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Oskar the Pole

  Sanctuary

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  The Otto Bin Empire

  Oskar the Pole

  Oskar had been homeless for eight years. After the death of his wife he’d put their modest house on the market, taken the very first offer, which had been well below market price, and simply walked away never to return. During the first years of his homelessness, he’d been a loner – a brooding, heavy-browed, dark-bearded fellow of indeterminate age (although fifty at the time), wandering the streets with a shopping trolley piled high, plastic bags tied to each side, muttering all the while to himself in a foreign language. Here, thought passers-by, was clearly a madman to be avoided. But Oskar wasn’t a madman, and he wasn’t talking to himself – he was talking to Lila, who was with him always.

  It was Lila who had told him to seek company. It was a healthy thing to do, she’d advised him. ‘No man is an island, Oskar,’ she said, or at least that’s what he’d heard her say, and it hadn’t surprised him in the least, for his wife had always loved John Donne. So upon Lila’s advice five years previously, Oskar had become a member of the ‘Otto Bin Empire’. These were the homeless who congregated about the clusters of wheelie bins that bore the manufacturer’s ‘Otto’ bin brand name. The bins provided convenient table tops and formed popular meeting places throughout the city.

  At first, Oskar had gravitated each morning from cluster to cluster, not socialising but soaking up the nearby presence of others while steadily reading through the dozens of newspapers and magazines and whatever other printed material he’d managed to garner from park benches and recycle bins at the end of the preceding day.

  Over the past several years, however, his routine had changed. He’d taken to frequenting a regular spot down near the docks that was known by the local homeless as ‘The Corner’, although it wasn’t really a corner at all, just a dozen or so Otto Bins, which were the collective property of the old suburb’s impoverished terrace houses that sat under the flyover. He didn’t quite know why he’d adopted The Corner. Perhaps it was the influence of Madge, the tough, beefy matriarch who seemed to hold sway there, although he had little to do with the woman as he propped quietly at the end wheelie bin assiduously studying his newspapers. But the presence of Madge seemed to keep a semblance of peace about the place that Oskar found relaxing. There were of course the customary alcoholics and junkies who frequented The Corner, but rarely was there any serious trouble. And if an unfortunate creature was to have a psychotic attack, as addicts sometimes did, invariably those on ice, Madge could be relied upon to call the paramedics.

  At first Oskar had viewed Madge with suspicion. She had the look of a vagrant, certainly, scruffy old clothes that had seen better days, ill-kempt grey hair scraped back with no concern for appearance, but was she perhaps in disguise? The woman seemed altogether too caring and too capable to be one of the homeless.

  Why does she care? he’d wondered, she’s not one of us. Those who choose to live on the streets don’t become involved. And we shun responsibility at all times. She might be a do-gooder salted among the homeless by a church group or philanthropic society …

  But Oskar had soon found he was wrong. Madge was not technically homeless, living as she did in one of the tiny bedsits in one of the tiny, rundown terraces nearby that were let out to those on the poverty line, but she was indeed ‘one of them’.

  Interesting, he’d thought. I wonder what brought her to this, Lila? Perhaps she, too, had a great love who died.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Lila had replied, but Oskar had sensed a lack of curiosity on his wife’s part, so he’d put the question from his mind. He had no wish to become involved anyway.

  Around the same time as he’d adopted The Corner, Oskar adopted another practice that slowly become routine. He would visit the giant chessboard that the city council had created in the central park, its knee-high pieces tantalisingly attractive to passing children who were warned that this was a game not for them but for grown-ups. Children were instructed to sit quietly, to watch and learn, which sometimes they did, even becoming chess players themselves, although more often than not they would drift off to the playground on the other side of the park where there were swings and monkey bars and a slide.

  Oskar never visited the chessboard during busy weekends, nor did he visit after office hours when city workers often met for a game. He chose instead Monday mornings when the chessboard was deserted, and he never sought a rival, always playing against himself, or so it appeared to passers-by and those who occasionally gathered to watch chess opponents at play. But Oskar was not playing against himself at all. He was playing against Lila. Chess had always been one of their favourite pastimes and, equally talented, they’d always been evenly matched. One day he would win, the following day the triumph would be hers.

  These days, however, they no longer appeared evenly matched.

  ‘I am sorely out of practice, Lila,’ he said – this was the fifth week in a row she had bested him. ‘Am I losing my skills or are you gaining in yours?’

  ‘Neither, my love,’ she replied. ‘You are not concentrating, that’s all.’

  ‘But I am,’ he insisted, ‘of course I am.’

  She laughed, that gorgeous, teasing laugh of hers, so sensual he could feel the very breath of her in his ear.

  ‘No you’re not,’ she said. ‘You’re bored.’

  He was about to protest but she continued blithely.

  ‘We know each other’s game too well, Oskar, we always did. You must play with other opponents. Please, my love,’ she begged before he could interrupt. ‘To tell you the truth I am bored with winning. I would rather watch you test your mettle against others. Please, please, my darling, do this just for me.’

  He could never resist her, so he did as she asked. He took to visiting the park on a Saturday afternoon when the chessboard was at its busiest.

  Approaching others was painfully difficult at first.

  ‘Would you be interested in joining me for a game?’ His invitation was stilted, formal, his English correct but his accent heavy and his voice hoarse through lack of use.

  There was a considerable pause, the man staring back at him, Oskar awaiting the answer, presuming as the seconds ticked by that it was to be a humiliating ‘no’. He expected it might be, despite the care he’d taken in his choice of opponent. The man, in his mid-forties, was an accomplished chess player whom Oskar had observed and whom he’d seen observing him from time to time. Scruffily dressed, as were quite a number of the players who gathered in the park, the man was a regular at the chessboard and might even have been another of the homeless, Oskar had thought, who could tell? But as his invitation continued to hang unanswered in the air, it appeared his choice had not been the correct one.

  Then, just as he was about to turn away …

  ‘You’re on, mate.’

  Nat dived a hand into his shorts pocket for a coin to toss. W
hy not, he wondered. He’d noticed the bloke sure enough. Who hadn’t? It wasn’t so much his appearance – although with that bloody shopping trolley he was obviously a vagrant – it was his behaviour that was off-putting. Nobody minded playing against oddballs, there were enough of them gathered in the park all right, and some of them were damn good chess players. But who wanted to pit himself against a loony? This bloke, whom many had watched, admiring his tactics even as they’d wondered why he played solo, was distinctly weird. He’d wander from one end of the chessboard to the other, contesting some invisible opponent and jabbering all the while in strange tongues. You couldn’t even pick what language he was muttering, half the time it seemed gobbledygook. Who wanted to play with a bloke like that?

  But there was something in the man’s eyes, a plea that Nat was unable to resist.

  Italian–Australian by birth and a builder’s labourer by trade, Nat, or Natale as he’d been christened, considered himself tough, yet at heart he was a softie. And besides, he was intrigued. He couldn’t help viewing the prospect as something of a challenge. If he could distance himself from the distraction of the bloke’s jabbering, it might prove a bloody good game, he thought. Being a self-taught chess player who had learned purely through observation, Nat was justifiably proud of his skills and liked to put them to the test.

  ‘Your call,’ he said, tossing the coin. It was the park players’ customary way of deciding who would draw white and therefore open the game.

  ‘Heads.’

  The toss proved in Oskar’s favour and, retrieving the coin from the dusty sidelines, Nat slipped it back into his pocket and held out his hand.

  ‘I’m Nat,’ he said. Park players rarely used surnames.

  Oskar accepted the hand and they shook, but he offered no information of his own, simply turning and striding to the white end of the board.

  Nat watched him for a second or so. The man didn’t appear intentionally rude, but rather distracted.

  And Oskar was. He was very distracted. Lila was whispering in his ear.

  ‘I will not talk to you as you play, Oskar,’ she was saying, ‘and you are not to talk to me – it is not fair to your opponent.’ She was speaking in her Russian mother tongue and, despite her voice being a whisper, she was sounding very much the teacher, as if he were one of her students. ‘Silence must be maintained, the game is the priority. You must not disrupt the man’s concentration.’

  ‘But we could speak very quietly,’ he replied, also in a whisper and also in Russian, ‘like we are now. He wouldn’t be able to hear us.’ They’d always alternated between their mother tongues, both being fluent in Polish and Russian, although these days they communicated in other languages too, Lila insisting they should.

  ‘Speak to me in German today, Oskar,’ she might say, or, ‘Let’s speak French today, my darling. Living in Australia you must not become complacent and lose your linguistic abilities. It is important you practise.’

  He always did as she bade although he was nowhere near as fluent in German and French as she. But then Lila spoke seven languages herself, and all fluently, which was only to be expected – she’d been a tutor of languages at Moscow University when they’d first met.

  ‘There will be no communication between us whatsoever,’ she now whispered sternly. ‘It would mean we would be playing two against one, and that would be cheating. I shall watch from the sidelines.’ Then her tone lost its edge, ‘And I shall do so with great interest, I might add.’ He could hear the smile in her voice, and once again he could feel her breath fanning his ear. ‘Oh my darling, I am so glad you have found another opponent. That took courage, I know. I am so very, very proud of you.’

  Her approval, as always, pleased him immensely, and he gazed across the board to where the Australian in the faded khaki shorts, boots and grubby white T-shirt was patiently waiting. Oskar found himself rather looking forward to the game now. He’d show off. Just for Lila.

  He bent down, picked up his pawn of choice and made his first move.

  As a rule, the players in the park shuffled their pieces about the dusty surface of the board with their feet, each move reliant upon the thrust of a leg, the nudge of a knee and a foot, hands rarely coming into play. But this was not Oskar’s way. Oskar always picked up his chess piece in both hands and set it down respectfully in its rightful place with daunting deliberation. And while most players spent time in contemplation, slowly wandering the perimeters of the board or standing thoughtfully, chin in hand, Oscar didn’t. Those who had watched him at play against himself (or rather Lila) – blocking his own moves, providing his own escapes – had always been astonished by the speed and certainty of each and every action.

  Today was no exception and the game did not last long. To Oscar’s own surprise, and also to his disappointment, it was over in less than forty minutes. He’d thought the Australian would be more original, less predictable than this. What a pity, he thought. I’d have liked to show off to Lila a little longer.

  Then he heard the whisper in his ear, ‘You see what happens when you concentrate?’

  Nat, too, was taken aback, although not surprised by the outcome. He’d given it his best shot, remaining totally focused, but from the outset the bloke had been just too bloody good. Nutcase he might be, but he was certainly way out of Nat’s league.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said, once again offering his hand, and as they shook he asked, ‘where you from by the way?’

  ‘Poland,’ Oskar replied. ‘I am from Poland.’

  ‘Right.’ Nat gave a friendly grin. ‘Well you’re a bloody good chess player …’ His voice held a query to which most would have responded with a name, but the ploy didn’t work.

  Oskar returned something approximating a smile by way of courtesy, although through the foliage of his beard it appeared more of a grimace. Then he walked off to gather his shopping trolley, which sat beside the trunk of the large Moreton Bay fig whose branches overhung the chessboard, providing much-appreciated shade during the hot summer months.

  Word quickly got around, courtesy of Nat, and from that day on Oskar became known as ‘the Pole’. To his great relief the necessity of approaching others soon diminished to the point where no communication at all was necessary. Others approached him. ‘Fancy a game?’ they’d ask, and all he had to do was nod.

  Over the ensuing months, the Pole proved a welcome fixture in the park. There was always a group of spectators who enjoyed a good match on a Saturday afternoon, and a close circle of mates were even known to place surreptitious bets among themselves as to who could beat the Pole. But it seemed no-one could, not as yet anyway, although there were contestants enough only too eager to try.

  Oskar continued to observe Lila’s rule at all times. He never spoke to her as he played, just as she never spoke to him, but she was nonetheless with him throughout every minute of every game. How could she fail to be? This was what had preserved their sanity during those long years in the Gulag. Although separated from each other they had managed to smuggle messages past the guards, nothing that could have incriminated them in illegal activity had they been discovered, just the regular exchange of chess moves. This, they long agreed, had been their survival mechanism.

  It was chess that kept us alive, Oskar thought as he positioned each piece with care. No, it wasn’t, he corrected himself. Of course it wasn’t. It was our love that kept us alive. But how fortunate we were to have such an escape, eh, Lila?

  No reply was forthcoming of course. There was never a word from Lila until the game was over. Then, ‘Well played, my darling,’ he would hear her whisper. Or, ‘Excellent, Oskar – I couldn’t have done better myself.’ And then later, when he was alone, they would talk through the game, analysing each move.

  ‘Ah, chess is indeed the language of love,’ Oskar would remark, and he would hear Lila’s fond snort of derision. She always found his romanticism amusing.

  The rigours of the Gulag had been his wife’s undoing, of this Oska
r was firmly convinced. Perm-36 and the four years they’d spent there had taken its toll on Lila’s physical health, which had never been particularly strong anyway, hardly a match for her fierce intelligence and vigorous spirit.

  She’d battled on with incredible fortitude for close to twenty years but had died prematurely at the age of fifty-four, ten years after their arrival in Australia. Even the lifestyle on offer in this lucky country had been unable to repair the damage inflicted by the camp where’d she’d been tortured, starved, worked close to death, and all for the stance she’d taken on human rights.

  Lila had been an active and highly vocal member of the Helsinki Group, a human rights organisation that was targeted by the Russian government for its ‘anti-Soviet activities’. Oskar, also an activist and the editor of a well-circulated underground human rights bulletin, had been equally targeted. They’d worked together as a young married couple, and in 1983 they’d been charged and imprisoned together in the infamous Perm-36, a Soviet forced-labour camp one hundred kilometres northeast of the Russian city of Perm. He was twenty-five at the time and Lila was four years older, not even yet thirty.

  Oskar and Lila had been intellectuals, she a professor of languages at Moscow University, he a successful writer, recognised in literary circles even at his tender age. Their voices had been too loud and too persuasive for the communist regime. They both needed to disappear, and so they did. The area known as the Gulag abounded with camps and had been home to hundreds of political prisoners for decades, many of whom were never seen again.

  Fortunately for Oskar and Lila, the days of Perm-36, the most notorious camp of all, were coming to an end and, despite their ten-year sentence, they had been freed when the camp was closed in 1987. But by then the damage had been done. To Lila anyway. Although she never complained, the Gulag had deprived her of many years that might well have proved the happiest of her life. At least this was Oskar’s firm opinion.