Chapter one: The Child Buyer

Children of the Street 
By: Janusz Korczak

Translation: courtesy of the Korczak educational institute of Israel

• The Child Buyer

On a pleasant autumn day, a crowd of people strolled along Warsaw’s Ujazdowskie Avenue. The city’s residents came out to enjoy the warmth, the sunshine, and the fresh air. After all, it wouldn’t be long before they’d have to retreat to their apartment cages, hidden between walls, waiting for a full six months until the city’s cobblestones would emerge from the filthy snow, and the first buds of spring would appear on the city’s pitiful trees.

In the middle of the road, carriages, wagons, and passenger coaches rolled by, some moving leisurely, others more briskly, passing and intersecting one another. Inside the vehicles sat ladies in silk dresses adorned with lace, their heads crowned with hats lavishly decorated with expensive feathers, and gentlemen in fashionable suits holding slender walking canes with silver handles. Here passed the light carriage of Count Vitcek, there the heavy landau of the financier Totengeld, and in contrast, the nimble cabriolet of the famous Ziuta, the companion of Count Zdzis. In the two-horse-drawn coaches sat young gentlemen, their legs elegantly covered with blankets patterned like leopard skins. Meanwhile, in single-horse-drawn carriages, calm bourgeois families enjoyed the ride with their numerous children.

On the sidewalks, a river of pedestrians flowed, an endless line of passersby. Among the ladies’ fine dresses and the gentlemen’s dark coats, many children darted about, pestering and imploring the passersby to buy flower bouquets. Their flowers were pale and sorrowful, much like the pale faces of their young sellers.

“Buy some flowers, sir.”

“Buy a bouquet for the lady, sir.”

“No need.”

“What do you mean, no need? Such a beautiful lady?”

“I said, no need. Once more, no need.”

“Sir, but for your fiancée! Oh, look, she’s smiling.”

“She’s not my fiancée at all, but my wife.”

“Sir, I need to earn money for bread. My mother is sick at home.”

A copper coin falls into the child’s outstretched hand, and the flower is passed to the generous young man’s companion.

“How much did he give?”   

“A tenner”   

“That’s a lot…”   

“Poor guy. He’s already done for.”

“Sure…”

“Oh, look, that one will buy. – Sir, please buy flowers for your beautiful fiancée. Sir, my father is sick; he fell from a ladder.”

“What does your father do?”

“A builder, ma’am. My mother is in the hospital, and I need to earn money for bread.”

Amid the crowd wandered a man who did not take his eyes off the group of beggars and their actions. He walked alone, his coat collar raised, and a slender walking cane in his hand. Through his glasses, a pair of strange eyes examined the children with a penetrating gaze. At times, a spark of hostile rage would ignite in his eyes. Sometimes it would flare into a fiery blaze, only to subside again into a penetrating, probing, and cold gaze as he continued watching the children.

   "Mania, Mania, come here already!"
The man’s gaze rested on Mania and her companion.

The girl was perhaps ten years old, though she was very small and thin, with a shadow of maturity on her face that belonged to someone much older. She wore a tattered, stained dress of indeterminate color, a torn black apron, and crooked shoes. From the front, her torn stockings were visible above her shoes, but from the sides and back, her ankles were covered by the hem of her dress. Bouquets of flowers rested in water on a shallow plate. Her large, darting black eyes held an untimely seriousness, a kind of morbid curiosity mixed with silent anger.

   "Why are you yelling?"

   "Look, that gentleman is here!"

   "Oh, he’s here? I see, I see."

She quickly approached the gentleman, who wore a shiny top hat and yellow shoes.

   "Good morning, sir."

   "Oh, you’ve already found me. And what do you want?"

   "Buy a flower for the lady, sir."

   "But I have no money."

   "Oh, you do."

   "How do you know I do?"

   "Because you’re rich, sir."

   "And what is this acquaintance?" asked a lady in a wide-brimmed hat adorned with feathers, leaning on his arm.

   "She’s my regular flower supplier."

The lady smiled dismissively.

   "Are you jealous of her?" the man asked.
The lady gave him a scornful glance.

   "You really have the strangest ideas…"

   "Well, Mania, will you give me flowers on credit?"

   "Why not?"

   "Would you like a rose?" he asked his companion.

   "Thank you," she replied curtly, in an annoyed tone.

The man handed Mania a silver coin but did not take the bouquet.

   "Another time," he said with the gesture of someone high and mighty.

   "Thank you, sir."

   "How much did he give, huh?"

   "He gave forty."

   "Give me ten."

   "And why should I?"

   "I was the one who called you."

   "I would have seen him myself."

   "Not giving? You’ll regret this."

   "Take it, take it and choke on it."

   "Don’t get so mad."

He took the tenner, caught a cigarette butt tossed by a passerby, and took a puff from it.

   "Antek!" Mania suddenly called.

   "What do you want?"

   "Look, that guy is hanging around here again."

Antek tossed the cigarette and measured his rival with a threatening look.

   "Get lost! This is our spot."

   "Did you buy it?"

   "And if I did, what’s it to you? Get out of my sight before I lose my temper."

The boy sized up Antek from head to toe.

   "You think I’m afraid of you?"

   "I’m sure of it."

Antek slowly moved toward the boy, approaching from the side.

   "Get lost!"

   "I won’t!"

Antek shoved him with his elbow. The blow was strong enough to knock the boy’s cap to the ground.

   "You just wait, I’ll show you."
But Antek already had the advantage of making the first successful move. With a quick motion, he picked up the cap, shoved it down over his rival’s head, and pushed him forward.

   "Move! Go back to where you came from."

The fight was unequal. Antek was stronger.

   "Just wait until I come back with Vitcek, then we’ll talk. Today."

   "Oh, sure! I’m so scared of Vitcek—just like I’m scared of you."

   "We’ll see."

   "Fine…"

   "A barking dog doesn’t bite."

Antek lunged at his rival with clenched fists.

   "Let’s see, say one more word…"

   "I will."

The sound of a blow echoed.

Mania approached the combatants.

   "Antek, stop it already," she pleaded.

   "Get lost!" Antek replied angrily.

   "Look at her, so worried about him. Is he your fiancé?" the defeated boy         mocked.

Antek chased after him, but the boy managed to escape.

In the center of the boulevard, carriages and coaches continued to move, while the sidewalks bustled with a steady flow of pedestrians. The elegant attire created a scene that resembled a colorful carpet woven from rich fabrics.

   "Please, kind sir, buy a bouquet. At home, my mother is sick, and my               father, six little siblings…"

The man with the raised collar and dark glasses sat on a bench, observing the fight with calm interest.

Antek noticed him and approached with a smile.

   "Please, kind sir, buy a bouquet."

   "How much does it cost?"

   "As much as you’ll give, sir."

   "And what will I do with the flowers?"

   "Give them as a gift to a beautiful lady. Please buy, I want to earn money         to buy bread and medicine for my father. My mother sent me."

   "Are you telling the truth or lying?" The stranger’s gaze bored deeply into         Antek’s eyes.

   "The truth, sir," replied the boy, meeting his gaze directly.

Antek stood humbly, his blue eyes curiously examining the man.

   "Do you have parents?"

   "I have a sick mother, sir, and my father is dead."

   "When did he die?"

   "A month ago, sir."

   "Just now, you said your father was sick."

   "My stepfather, sir."

   "So, your mother has already remarried?"

  "What else could she do? There are seven of us. She wouldn’t have                managed!"

   "Your father is in the hospital?"

   "Yes, sir."

   "Why are you begging for medicine? Hospitals provide medicine for            free."

   "It’s for my sister, sir."

   "You said you needed to buy medicine for your father."

   "No, sir, for my sister. My father is in the hospital."

   "Which hospital?"

   "At the Infant Jesus Hospital."

   "Is Mania your sister?"

   "Which Mania?"

   "The one selling flowers."

   "No, she’s not my sister."

   "Then who is she?"

   "Her parents... she... we live in the same building."

   "What does her father do?"

   "She doesn’t have a father."

   "And her mother?"

   "She either has one or doesn't

   "Ah, her mother’s a drunkard. She’s gone for days at a time. And she’s        sick."

   "Are you telling the truth?"

   "Why would I lie?"

   "And where do you live?"

   "On Soltz Street."

   "Which number?"

   "Fifteen."

   "I’ll come to see you tomorrow."

   "But I, sir, need to go buy medicine."

   "Then come with me. Take me there now."

   "Ah, now I can’t."

   "You lied?"

   "Well, I lied."

   "And you won’t tell the truth?"

   "No."

   "Why not?"

   "Just because."

Antek walked away angrily.

   "What did he talk to you about?" asked Mania.

   "Ah, he just messed with my head."

   "But what did he say?"

   "He asked about me and about you."

   "What did he want?"

   "Who knows. Let’s get out of here before he starts bothering us again."

Evening fell. The boulevard began to empty. Families with children returned home, the vehicles disappeared, and the chill of the autumn evening drove away the last of the strollers. The sky was cloudy, and a strong wind began to blow. Leaves fell from the trees, landing on the ground with a faint rustle.

The aggressiveness of the small flower sellers, shivering in the cold, increased. Occasionally, the silhouette of a policeman appeared against the misty evening. At the first sign of warning, the children would hide behind trees or cross to the other side of the street.

Finally, silence settled.

Antek walked away with Mania, both of them cold in the autumn evening fog. The chill especially bothered the boy, who wore torn pants and a worn-out shirt over his undershirt.

   "Wait, I’ll buy some cigarettes."

Antek entered a store and bought a few cigarettes, a sausage for Mania, and chocolate wrapped in silver paper.

   "Here, take this," he said, lighting a cigarette for himself.

   "How much do you have?" he asked.

   "I’m eight kopecks short"

   "Here, take it, what am I going to do with you? Who knows what kind of      mood he’ll be in today."

   "Thanks. And how much do you have?"

   "I’ll always make what I need. If that old geezer hadn’t stuck to me, I’d        already have a Ruble for myself."

   "You always manage somehow."

   "Big deal. If I were a girl, I’d earn even more."

   "Sure, it’s better to be a boy."

   "What do you even know... Why don’t you ever kiss their hands?"

   "I don’t want to, and I won’t."

   "Oh, ho, you’re tough. Business doesn’t work that way."

They ran toward the Visla River.

If Mania and Antek had looked back, they would have noticed the man with the raised collar and dark glasses following them. He had been shadowing the pair all evening, waiting outside while Antek was in the store, and now continued to follow them toward the Visla. He pulled his hat lower over his forehead, occasionally stopping for a moment, retreating a few steps, and then resuming his pursuit. In his right hand, he held a shiny object.

   "Tell me, Antek," Mania suddenly asked, "aren’t you afraid of Vitcek?"

   "What’s there to be afraid of?"

   "What if he hits you? He’s stronger than you and might bring others."

   "I’ll manage. I’ve seen tough guys like him before."

The houses here were lower, fences separated isolated buildings. The cobblestone paving grew uneven, and the streetlights penetrated the darkness less and less.

At the corner of the street, two boys appeared.

   "Antek, look!" the girl cried in fear, clutching his arm.

   "Let go, you fool."

   "Let’s run away."

   "I can run away, but you?"

   "Then take my money and run."

   "You’re an idiot."

The shadowy figures of the boys grew closer in the darkness.

   "Good evening," Vitcek, a 14-year-old, called mockingly.

A small object glinted in Antek’s hand.

   "Just try to come closer."

   "Oh, oh! I’m not afraid of your knife."

   "We’ll see about that."

   "You’re threatening me with a knife?"

   "With a knife."

   "Ah, you’ll throw it in a second."

   "Antek!" Mania called.

   "I won’t throw it. Shut up."

   "You will throw it."

Vallek threw a stone at his rival. Antek jumped to the side, leaped at him like lightning, and knocked him to the ground.

The second boy attacked him from behind, but Mania grabbed him by the ear and pulled with all her might.

   "Let go!"

In the distance, approaching footsteps could be heard.

   "Help!" cried Vallek. Although he was stronger than Antek, he wasn’t as       agile.

The boy stood up, threw the knife over the fence, and began to run.

At that moment, a policeman appeared. With two quick strides, he caught up to Mania and grabbed her.

   "What are you doing here?"

   "Going home."

   "Home? Or maybe you’ll come with me to the police station?"

   "On what charge, Officer?"

   "And why did you scream?"

   "Because that boy tried to take my money. He’s here, behind the fence."

Behind the fence, the sound of footsteps could be heard clearly, followed by barking dogs and the noises of a scuffle between the boys and the animals.

The policeman jumped over the fence. Mania fled as fast as she could.

If anyone had noticed the figure slipping out from the gap between the house wall and the fence, running after Mania, they might have correctly guessed that it was the true instigator of this nighttime brawl.

Mania ran swiftly, sweat dripping from her forehead. Her heart was gripped by fear of the police station, a place she knew only from hearsay. Several times she had nearly ended up there but managed to escape through pleas and tears or by running away. It was as if that place, the police station, pursued her like a ghost, both in waking life and in her nightmares.

At the intersection of streets, in a small wooden house, stood a tavern. Its windows facing the street were covered. Beyond it, only a row of fences stretched and, in the distance, the waters of the Visla glimmered.

Mania ran into the tavern, rushed through the first rooms, and opened a door leading to a long corridor at the end of which was a staircase.

   "You finally made it?" Antek called from upstairs.

At that moment, a door opened, and a beam of bright light momentarily dispersed the darkness.

   "Who is it?" Mania asked anxiously.

There was no answer.

   "Is that you, Shmul?"

Silence.

Mania ran up the stairs, hearing hesitant footsteps behind her in the darkness.

   "Who’s there?" she asked again, but when no response came, she               rushed inside with Antek to the attic and locked the door behind her.
   "What’s all this noise?" came the sharp voice of a man from within.              "Can’t you come in quietly?"
   "It's because... someone’s out there."
   "Who?"
   "Someone’s there; I heard them, I saw someone come in."
   "You’d better not be lying, understood?"
   "I saw it too," Antek added.
   "Just one?"
   "I think just one."

The creak of an opening door could be heard, and a man holding a lamp stood in the doorway.

   "Who’s there?"
   "It’s me," replied the stranger with glasses, wearing a coat with a raised      collar.
   "What do you want?"
   "I want to come in."
   "In what right?"
   "I want to propose a business deal."
   "I don’t do business at night."

The man holding the lamp in his left hand began to move slowly toward the stranger. Suddenly, he stopped, noticing the barrel of a gun pointed directly at him.

He stood frozen for a moment, trembling in the face of danger, staring in fear at the eyes glaring at him like knives behind the stranger’s glasses.

   "Who are you, sir?" he stammered. "I don’t know you."

   "And you don’t need to. May I come in?"

    "Please."

The entire exchange lasted no more than a moment. The stranger confidently stepped into the room. It was large, with a slanted ceiling and a small window. A metal bed stood by the door, where a woman lay. Her face was young but marred and covered in a thick layer of cheap makeup.

   "Oh!" she cried, pulling the blanket over herself.
   "Quiet!" the man of the house said in a threatening tone.

He placed the lamp on a pinewood table, crossed his arms over his chest, and asked curtly:

   "Well?"
   "Are these your children?"

   "What’s it to you?"

    "I want to know!"

   "Why?"

   "I want to buy the children from you."

   "They’re not for sale."

   "Name your price, sir. How many Ruble s for Antek and Mania?"

Antek and Mania stood frozen in place.

   "How much do I want? What do you need these kids for?"

   "I need them."

   "What for?

   "Our conversation is taking too long"

A visible internal struggle was etched on the withered face of the man holding the children. He was drunk and found it difficult to gather his thoughts.

   "They bring me a nice profit," he said evasively.

   "Then raise the price."

   "A thousand Ruble s, will you give it, sir?"

   "For one or both of them?"

   "For... yes, for one; of course, for one."

   "Then two thousand Ruble s?"

   "Ah, Mania isn't my daughter, but..."

   "But?"

   "I can talk to her mother. Maybe she'll agree."

   "When will you talk to her?"

   "Tomorrow."

   "I want to settle this now, immediately."

   "Three thousand, will you give?"

   "I will!"

   "Now?"

   "Right now. Do you have the children's papers here?"

   "Yes, the documents are in order."

The stranger reached into his pocket.

   "Sir, I trust you."

At that moment, a red-haired Jewish man poked his head through the door.

   "What...?"

   "Get out, scram... Antek, make sure no one listens at the door."

The sound of shuffling and faint cursing came from behind the door, followed by silence. Antek returned.

   "I trust you, sir," continued the stranger, "that you won’t follow me when I leave, and as soon as you get the money, you'll acknowledge that the children are now mine."

   "Yes, sir, I give you my word," said the drunkard, punctuating his words       with a theatrical gesture.

   "One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, five                       hundred..." The stranger counted and stacked the crisp hundred-Ruble       notes in piles.

The drunkard grasped the money between his fingers, holding it up to the light to inspect it.

   "Are you a circus owner?"

   "Perhaps."

   "Ah, you must make a good business, sir."

   "I never make bad deals."

   "Would you drink a glass with me?"

   "No, thank you."

   "Am I not good enough for you?"

   "Here are the three thousand. Please give me the papers."

   "Here you go: birth certificates, proof of origin. That’s all you need."

   "In an hour, I’ll be leaving for abroad... Kids, we’re going."

   "Now, boy, behave yourself. You see, this man is rich; you’ll do well and      learn. Remember, don’t forget your father when life gets better for you."

   "Let’s go," repeated the stranger.

Antek and Mania followed him as if in a dream. The father accompanied them downstairs, to the street.

   "Shmuel, bring me some alcohol."

   "Mr. Andzhei, tell me, what did he want? Why did he take the little                ones?"

   "He bought them."

   "What do you mean, bought?"

   "He paid three thousand Ruble s in cash. Here, see for yourself, Jew."

   "What? Three thousand? Is he insane?"

Shmuel ran toward the eastern part of the city, but Andzhei grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back to the tavern.

   "I gave my word not to follow him."

   "Fine, so you don’t follow, Mr. Andzhei, but I didn’t give my word!"

Shmuel wriggled free and ran outside. The street was empty. He ran the shortest route toward the city, calling and running. No one was there.

   "Ay! Ay! Three thousand. Why didn’t you ask for six? Or eight?"

   "Three is enough for me."

   "And what if it’s counterfeit?"

   "Would you buy it for half price?"

   "Why not?"

Then bring me up dinner, and remember, a proper meal this time.

Andzhei left the tavern and went upstairs. Shmuel locked the bar, brought vodka, sausage, and an omelet to the attic, and returned to his apartment to count the cash in the till.

   "Ay! Ay! Sold the child, sold the child. Is he even human?"

Finished, he went into the small room, kissing each of his sleeping children in turn as they lay in their soft bedding. The matter of selling the children continued to trouble him as he undressed. Then he lay down and spent a long time trying to fall asleep. He racked his brain over who that man was, what the money was, and what kind of father would sell his children.

Meanwhile, Mr. Andzhei raised a glass and clinked it with a street girl, exclaiming:

  "To Antek’s health!"

Then he spat and added:

   "To hell with it! What do you say to this? I’m rich now!"