Then

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘Come on, Wilhelm and Violetta,’ she says. ‘The soldier is ordering everybody outside to watch the Hitler Youth parade.’

  She drags me and Zelda towards the door.

  Everybody else in the shop is leaving too. Customers, Mrs Szynsky, shop assistants, Cyryl and his big sister.

  Outside, hundreds of people are standing around the edges of the town square. We join them.

  At first I’m not sure what’s going on. I’m just dizzy with relief at not getting arrested.

  ‘I can’t see any parade,’ says Zelda loudly.

  ‘Shhh,’ says Genia.

  I realise why Genia wants Zelda to behave herself. Nazi soldiers are strutting about, bossing people and making everyone stand neatly.

  Faintly, in the distance, I can hear the sound of marching boots.

  Everybody is looking towards the far end of the square. The sound gets louder. A column of Nazis appears, marching in rows of four into the square.

  There’s something strange about them.

  Compared to the other Nazi soldiers, they look a bit small.

  As they get closer, I see why. They’re boys about my age, maybe a couple of years older. All wearing Nazi uniforms and gleaming Nazi boots. They don’t have guns, which is a good thing. Most of them have really sneering expressions. They don’t look like the sort of people who would handle guns responsibly.

  Genia jabs me with her elbow.

  ‘Lower your eyes,’ she hisses.

  I see that all around the square, people are taking off their hats and looking at the ground.

  I bow my head. But I keep watching from under my eyebrows as the marching boys get closer.

  I’ve heard about the Hitler Youth. Adolf Hitler, the leader of the Nazis, started the Hitler Youth for German kids who are too young to join the army but want to strut around full of themselves anyway.

  I’ve heard they can be very violent, even without guns.

  ‘What fine young men,’ says Mrs Szynsky, who’s standing next to us. ‘You could join them, Cyryl, if you weren’t such a slob.’

  ‘They’re German,’ says Cyryl. ‘I’m not German.’

  ‘You’re still a slob,’ says his sister.

  I stop listening to Cyryl and his sister bickering because a thought hits me.

  ‘Genia,’ I whisper, my head still bowed. ‘Is that why the Nazis wanted the Jewish orphans’ bedrooms? For the Hitler Youth?’

  I look sideways at her.

  She nods.

  The Hitler Youth have almost reached us now and everybody is bowing their heads even lower.

  Except Zelda, who is glaring at the Hitler Youth and poking her tongue out.

  ‘Don’t,’ I hiss at her in panic.

  Genia sees what Zelda is doing.

  She grabs Zelda and tries to hide her by standing in front of her.

  But it’s too late.

  Cyryl also sees what Zelda is doing, and he starts giggling loudly.

  One of the Hitler Youth at the front of the marching column yells something to the others and they all stop.

  Right next to us.

  Four of the Hitler Youth step out of the column and stride towards us. Behind them, a Nazi soldier raises his gun like he’s keen to join in.

  My insides are throbbing with fear.

  I get ready to throw myself at the Hitler Youth if they touch Zelda.

  But it isn’t Zelda they touch. It’s Cyryl. They grab him and slap him and punch him really hard. His mother lets out a shriek, but when they turn to her she smothers her mouth with her hand.

  They punch and slap Cyryl some more.

  I get furious.

  I can’t help it. When I see how much those Hitler Youth thugs are enjoying what they’re doing, I stop being Wilhelm and take a step towards them.

  As soon as I do, I come to my senses. What am I doing? I’m not a fighter. I can’t protect Cyryl. All I’m doing is getting my family into trouble.

  Genia grabs me and pulls me back.

  The jolt makes the Richmal Crompton book fall out of my shirt onto the ground. For a moment I think I’m sprung. I brace myself to be arrested.

  But nobody notices.

  Mrs Szynsky is too busy helping Cyryl to his feet. The Hitler Youth thugs are too busy taking their places back in the column.

  I crouch down to grab the book.

  Just before my hand makes contact with it, the Hitler Youth leader yells something again.

  I look up. He’s not yelling at me, he’s yelling at the column to start marching again, which they do.

  But as the column marches off, one of the other Hitler Youth, not one of the thugs, stares at the book on the ground in front of me.

  And does an amazing thing.

  He grins at me. And with a small movement of his hand, so the other Hitler Youth can’t see him, he gives me a thumbs up.

  I blink. Did he really do that?

  Is he telling me he’s a Richmal Crompton fan too?

  I grab the book and stuff it back inside my shirt and stand up and try to look like nothing has happened.

  Nobody seems to be looking at me.

  Well, hardly anybody.

  The Hitler Youth column is halfway across the square now, but the boy who saw the book is still throwing glances back in my direction.

  Somebody else is looking at me too.

  Cyryl.

  His mum is trying to wipe away the blood that’s trickling out of his nose. He keeps moving his head. He wants her to leave him alone so he can do something else.

  Stare at me and Zelda with total hatred.

  I look away, but my insides stay knotted with worry. This is the last thing me and Zelda need.

  An enemy with a gang.

  Then me and Zelda and Genia went home. We didn’t say much on the walk back. Genia didn’t lose her temper till we were in the house.

  ‘That was very foolish,’ she yells.

  At first I think she’s angry with me for stealing the Richmal Crompton book. Except I don’t think she saw it when I dropped it in the town square and it’s been hidden in my shirt ever since.

  ‘Very foolish and very naughty,’ yells Genia.

  I realise it’s Zelda she’s telling off.

  ‘Poking your tongue out at Nazis,’ yells Genia. ‘What were you thinking, Violetta?’

  ‘She’s only six,’ I say.

  I agree Zelda was foolish, but I can see she’s scared at how cross Genia is, and sometimes you have to look after your family even when they have been naughty.

  ‘You’re old enough to understand what Nazis are like,’ Genia says to Zelda. ‘You saw what they did to the poor Jewish orphans. And the orphans weren’t even rude to them.’

  ‘If they try to take our bedroom,’ says Zelda. ‘I’ll be very rude to them.’

  She isn’t looking scared any more.

  Genia sighs.

  ‘I hate Nazis,’ says Zelda.

  I want to explain to Genia that this isn’t the way to protect Zelda. That giving angry examples of how bad the Nazis are isn’t going to make Zelda behave herself in public. It’ll only make her worse.

  Suddenly I know what I have to do. On the way home I was trying to decide, but now I know it’s for the best.

  So Genia understands.

  So we can help Zelda.

  I go into the bedroom. Next to the wall in the corner is a crack between two floorboards. I squeeze my fingers in and pull Zelda’s locket out of its hiding place.

  I take a deep breath.

  This is risky, but sometimes you have to take a risk to protect your family.

  I go back into the kitchen.

  ‘Genia,’ I say. ‘You know how you said I couldn’t help being Jewish?’

  Genia nods.

  I can see she’s wondering what I’m on about.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘here’s something Zelda can’t help.’

  I show Genia the locket.

  Zelda is staring. She thought she’d lost her locket i
n the barn. I’m pretty sure she didn’t ever want to see it again.

  Genia is staring too, at the tiny photo inside the locket. The photo of a Nazi dad in uniform and a Nazi mum gazing at him adoringly.

  ‘Zelda’s parents,’ I say.

  I want Genia to understand. To see why Zelda has bad feelings about Nazis, apart from them being vicious thugs and killers. To understand that some of her bad feelings are about her mum and dad.

  Genia looks at the photo for a long time.

  She gives a big sigh and looks at me.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she says.

  ‘You hate Nazis,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want you to hate Zelda.’

  Genia sighs again. She puts one arm round Zelda and the other round me.

  ‘Neither of you can help who your parents are,’ she says quietly. ‘Do you understand that, Zelda? Your mummy and daddy aren’t your fault.’

  Zelda pulls away from Genia.

  ‘They aren’t my mummy and daddy,’ she says crossly. ‘I’m Violetta. Don’t you know anything?’

  I wait for Genia to get angry again, but she doesn’t, she just nods.

  ‘Good girl,’ she says, putting both arms round Zelda. ‘You’re learning.’

  They look so content, hugging like that.

  I don’t like to interrupt.

  But I have to.

  ‘Genia,’ I say. ‘About Zelda’s real parents. There’s another problem.’

  Genia looks at me over the top of Zelda’s head. She leans across and ruffles my hair and puts her finger to her lips.

  ‘Zelda’s trying to forget about her parents,’ she says. ‘We have to help her do that.’

  I sigh.

  Genia doesn’t understand.

  Kids like us don’t forget our real parents.

  Not ever.

  And until Zelda feels better about hers, she’s going to keep poking her tongue out at Nazis.

  Then I helped Zelda have happy memories of her real parents so she wouldn’t be so cross and upset about them being Nazis.

  Leopold helped too.

  Well, we tried.

  ‘Zelda,’ I say as we sit in front of the wood stove. ‘Give Leopold a hug. See if it brings back any happy memories.’

  Zelda looks at me as if I’ve got leaf-mould madness. But she does it anyway because hugging Leopold is one of her favourite things to do.

  Leopold likes it too. His tail is whacking the kitchen floor just at the thought.

  Zelda puts her arms round him and buries her face in his neck fur.

  ‘I love you, Leopold,’ she says, her voice muffled.

  ‘Any happy memories?’ I say softly after a while.

  Zelda keeps her face buried, thinking.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I can remember when I hugged Leopold this morning before breakfast.’

  I try to think of something that will help her have earlier happy memories.

  ‘Your daddy had whiskers like Leopold,’ I say.

  Leopold looks a bit offended.

  ‘No he didn’t,’ says Zelda, still muffled. ‘My daddy’s whiskers were short. And he didn’t lick my ear.’

  Leopold stops licking Zelda’s ear and gives me an apologetic look.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say to him. ‘You’re doing a good job helping Zelda.’

  I give Leopold a pat and he gives me a loving look and suddenly, gazing into his gentle eyes, I’m having memories of my own.

  Dad giving me a bath and drying me on our kitchen table.

  Mum blowing raspberries on my tummy.

  ‘You’re helping me too,’ I whisper to Leopold.

  I try to feel happy but it’s not easy.

  Zelda looks up, concerned, and watches me for a moment.

  ‘See?’ she says. ‘Memories aren’t happy, they’re sad. Don’t you know anything?’

  Every day it’s the same.

  I do my best, but Zelda is a very stubborn person.

  Like today. We’re doing drawing in the barn.

  Or rather, I’m letting Zelda do most of the drawing because there’s only one pencil.

  Earlier, when it was my go of the pencil, I did a diagram of how the automatic chicken-feeding machine works.

  Now I’m nailing the diagram to the wall under the gherkin tin so the chickens can see what they have to do.

  Leopold and Trotski are staring at me. They’re looking a bit disappointed, possibly because there aren’t any dogs or pigs in the diagram.

  I give them both a tickle.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say to them. ‘Me and Violetta will invent automatic feeding machines for you next.’

  Animals get very anxious in wartime. If the humans get killed, who’s going to feed them?

  I go over to Zelda to see how her drawing’s going.

  ‘That lady’s got a very pretty hat,’ I say, pointing to the person Zelda has drawn. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Violetta’s mummy,’ says Zelda. ‘She wears her pretty hat when she kills Nazis.’

  The paper Zelda’s drawing on is old shop paper that has been wrapped round face powder or something. There’s a pink stain in the middle which Zelda turns into a dead Nazi’s brains leaking out.

  I stare at the drawing, worry nagging inside me. If I can’t find a way to help Zelda feel better about her parents, I hate to think what’s going to happen next time she meets a Nazi.

  ‘Zelda,’ I say quietly. ‘Why don’t you do a picture of your real mummy and daddy? From when you were little. When they took you on holiday or gave you a present or did something fun with you.’

  Zelda looks at me. She doesn’t say anything, but I can see she doesn’t like the idea much.

  Leopold and Trotski come over. Leopold licks Zelda’s knee. Trotski blows some snot in her direction. I can see they’re both trying to help. It’s their way of telling Zelda they’d like to see a nice picture of her real mummy and daddy too.

  Zelda moves the pencil to another part of the paper and starts a new drawing.

  ‘Thanks,’ I whisper to them both.

  While Zelda draws, I tell a story to inspire her.

  It’s about a friend of William and Violet Elizabeth’s called Zelda. Zelda’s parents accidently drown her collection of ants while they’re watering the garden. Zelda is very angry, but her parents say they’re sorry and cuddle her and Zelda feels better.

  ‘And then do some other ants kill her parents?’ says Zelda.

  I sigh. It’s not a very good story, but I’m doing my best.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But Zelda discovers that even when her parents do bad things, they still love her.’

  ‘How can they still love her if they’re dead?’ says Zelda.

  I sigh again. I’m getting confused now. Stories always work best when you don’t try to tell people what they’re about.

  I see that Zelda has drawn a happy child holding hands with two happy grown-ups.

  ‘Is that your real mummy and daddy?’ I say hopefully.

  ‘No,’ says Zelda.

  Suddenly I can’t stand it any more. Why can’t Zelda see how important this is?

  ‘Just draw a picture of your real mummy and daddy,’ I say to her crossly.

  As soon as I’ve said it, I feel awful. I know how sad I get thinking about my parents. And I’m ten. How sad must it be for a little kid?

  Zelda is looking at me, frowning. She holds up her drawing.

  ‘This is Wilhelm’s mummy and daddy,’ she says. ‘They’ve come to cheer you up cause you’re unhappy.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  Zelda puts the drawing down and gives me a hug.

  ‘They love you very much,’ she whispers. ‘They don’t mind that you’re Jewish.’

  I hug Zelda tight. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have her as my family.

  ‘Leopold and Trotski and the chickens don’t mind that you’re Jewish either,’ whispers Zelda.

  She doesn’t have to tell me that because I can tell from
the way Leopold is licking my hand and Trotski is dribbling snot onto my boots and the chickens are pecking at my bootlaces.

  But it’s a very kind thing to say. Zelda may be only six but she’s got the kindness of a ten-year-old.

  ‘Sorry I got cross,’ I say.

  ‘That’s all right,’ she says.

  I take a deep breath. I mustn’t give up. I must find a way. I must do everything I can to protect Zelda and her loving heart.

  Suddenly I hear the distant growl of a truck engine.

  Leopold barks.

  I rush to the barn door and peer out across the fields.

  Oh no.

  ‘Quick,’ I say to Zelda. ‘Into the house.’

  I grab her hand and her pencil and paper and we run across the farmyard into the kitchen.

  Genia is in the bedroom having a rest. I bang on the door.

  ‘Genia,’ I yell. ‘Wake up. The Nazis are back.’

  Then Genia told me and Zelda to stay in the house while she went out to see what the Nazi soldiers want.

  Suddenly it hits me.

  The Richmal Crompton book, I bet that’s what they want. Cyryl probably complained to the Nazis about me stealing the book from his family’s shop and they’ve come to get it.

  And me.

  I peer through the kitchen window. It’s the same two Nazi soldiers from the first day when me and Zelda were hiding in the barn.

  But Genia isn’t wearing any makeup or perfume this time. When I yelled about the Nazis, she jumped up from her bed and went straight outside.

  Next to me Zelda is watching the Nazi soldiers through the window too. And poking her tongue out at them.

  ‘Zelda,’ I whisper frantically. ‘Stop that.’

  Luckily the Nazi soldiers aren’t looking in our direction. They’re both turned towards Genia. But they aren’t grinning and sniffing her wrist this time.

  They’re shouting at her.

  ‘I hate them,’ mutters Zelda.

  One of the soldiers grabs Genia and pulls her over to the barn. They push her inside and go in after her.

  My mind is racing.

  Of course. They must think I’ve hidden the Richmal Crompton book in the straw. When they don’t find it, they’ll get even angrier with Genia. And they won’t take long to discover it’s not there. Nowhere near long enough for Genia to put on makeup and perfume.

  I dart into the bedroom, pull the book from its hiding place under my side of the mattress, and head for the kitchen door.