I Am David by Anne Holm

set about him again but less violently this time — rather as if he felt he had to.
    “Use your fists, you young swine!”
    “No.”
    The boy appeared to have grown tired of striking him, at least for the moment, and David sat up with blood streaming from his nose.
    “You seem to enjoy a good hiding. Maybe you like me for giving you one!” The boy’s voice was sneering.
    David regarded him calmly. “No, I don’t. I hate you — and I’d hate you just as much if it had been anyone else you’d hit. I wouldn’t care if you fell dead right now: at least I’d be sure you’d never look at anything beautiful again!”
    The strange boy looked astonished. “Why don’t you fight then?” he asked crossly.
    “Because if I hit you back, I’d be no better than you are. I’d be just as rotten and worthless, and I’d have no right to be free!”
    The strange boy grinned at him, but there was a look of uncertainty about him and his eyes shifted uneasily. “You’re not all there!” he said. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
    “I don’t think. I know. I’m talking to someone who likes brute force. And that’s why I don’t want to talk to you any more. You can hit me again if you can catch me!”
    With that David jumped up smartly and ran off. He could not run very quickly because he was beginning to ache all over where the other had struck him. But the strange boy did not follow him: he only shouted, “Idiot! You’re a daft coward!”
    David had the impression that he was shouting so loudly for his own benefit.
    David was sick, and every time he thought about the young stranger he felt like being sick again. He found it difficult to understand that people should be so much better off here in Italy, where they had so much food to eat and were surrounded by so much beauty, and yet could still love violence. That boy was just like the guards in the camp, the only difference being that the guards did not leave off striking till their victims fainted. the boy, of course, had had only his bare hands to strike with and had tired of the effort too soon.
    For a moment David was tempted to think that perhaps there were no good people at all outside concentration camps, but then he reminded himself of the sailor and Angelo and the other people who might have been ignorant but were certainly not bad. And then when he was living among the rocks overhanging the sea there had been the man with the loaves. He had not been bad either: he had just not been brave enough to let a boy go without giving him away — not for more than a few days at any rate.
    Yes, he felt there must be somewhere where everybody was kind and decent, a free country where people did not believe violence was a good thing. And he would find a free country — if he could do it before he were caught again. But first of all he must have a thorough wash. He thought from the lie of the land that there was probably a river nearby.
    There was — a large one, too, although it was partly dried up. David took his clothes off and laid them in the water. He scrubbed himself thoroughly all over. His soap would soon be worn thin at that rate, but he did not care — he must not leave a spot unwashed where the boy had touched him. Not until all contact with him had been washed away would David be able to feel free again.
    He washed his hair, too, and then took his clothes out of the water and laid them out to dry. He lay down beside them and made an effort to calm himself and forget the boy. Much better to recall what the music had sounded like … had there been a large orchestra inside that fine house? Or had it been a radio?
    He was startled by the sound of voices not far away. He pulled his wet clothes towards him. A large boulder provided good cover on one side, and in front of him the trunk of an olive and rows of close-growing vines, old and gnarled, completely hid him from view when he ducked down.
    It was the sound of children playing and David decided