Once 1 Once

by Morris Gleitzman

  The pig is looking at me with sad droopy eyes.

  I know how it feels.

  “Cheer up,” I say to the pig. “I don’t want to waste time in that village anyway.”

  I need to get to my hometown. And the good news is I know it’s on a river that flows near here. When Mum and Dad drove me to the orphanage in the bookshop cart, we traveled next to the river almost the whole way to the mountains.

  The pig cheers up.

  It snuffles the sore patches on my feet.

  “You’re right,” I say. “These orphanage shoes hurt a lot. I need to get some proper shoes from somewhere, ones that aren’t made from wood, and some proper clothes, and directions to the river.”

  The pig frowns and I can see it’s trying to remember where the river is.

  It can’t.

  “Thanks for trying,” I say.

  Thinking about cakes has made me hungry. I didn’t have breakfast this morning and now it’s past lunchtime.

  I look wistfully at the pig’s food. It’s gray and lumpy like Sister Elwira’s porridge. My mouth waters, but there’s not enough in the rusty trough for both of us. I can see the pig is happy to share, but I don’t feel I should. The pig is stuck here and this is all it’s got.

  I’m lucky. I can get food anywhere. I’m free.

  Thank you, God, Jesus, Mary, the Pope, and Adolf Hitler for answering my prayers.

  A house.

  I’m sorry I started doubting you while I was lost in the fields. And blaming you for the scorching sun and lack of puddles to drink.

  This is perfect. A house on a deserted road without any nosy neighbors or police stations close by. And on the wall next to the front door is one of those carved metal things that religious Jewish families in our town have on their houses.

  I knock.

  The door swings open.

  “Hello,” I call. “Anyone at home?”

  Silence.

  I call again, louder.

  Still no reply.

  I wish I had Mother Minka with me for advice about what to do next, but I don’t and I’m desperately thirsty, so I go into the house, hoping the owners aren’t deaf and unfriendly.

  If they are, it doesn’t matter, because they’re not here. All three rooms in the place are empty. The people must have left in a big hurry because there are two half-eaten meals on the kitchen table and one of their chairs has fallen over.

  I pause, listening carefully.

  What’s happened? Where are the people?

  I pick the chair up.

  The kitchen stove is still burning and the back door is wide open.

  I stick my head out. The garden and the fields next to it are all empty.

  In the distance I hear faint gunshots.

  Of course. That explains it. They’re out hunting. They must have seen some rabbits, grabbed their guns, and gone after them in a big hurry.

  They probably won’t be back for ages. When Father Ludwik goes rabbit hunting he’s usually gone for hours.

  On the kitchen table is a jug of water. I drink most of it. Then I eat some of the potato stew on each plate. I leave a bit in case the people are hungry when they get back.

  In one of the other rooms are some clothes and shoes. None of them is for a kid, but I guess you can’t have all your prayers answered in one day.

  I take off my orphanage clothes, put on a man’s shirt and trousers, trim the ends off the arms and legs with a kitchen knife, and use the bits of cloth to wedge around my feet in a pair of man’s shoes.

  Then, while my clogs and orphanage clothes are burning in the kitchen stove, I tear a page from the back of my notebook and write a note.

  I can’t find a single map in the house, but it doesn’t matter. I think I know which way the river is now. In the distance I can hear more gunshots. Dad read me a hunting story once, about how deer and foxes and rabbits prefer to live near lakes and rivers. So the hunters from this house are probably over near the river.

  Thanks, Dad.

  I eat one more mouthful of the potato stew and cut a piece off a loaf of bread and put it inside my shirt with my notebook and letters. I find a hat and put it on and clean my glasses and lace up the shoes as tightly as I can.

  Then I set off along the road toward the gunshots.

  This is just like a story I wrote once.

  The two heroes (Mum and Dad) come to a lonely crossroads. They’re not sure which way to go to get to their destination (the cave of a troll who wants to buy a full set of encyclopedias). So they use their ears for navigation. They listen carefully until, in the distance, they hear the troll noisily eating farm animals, and that tells them they have to turn left.

  I’m doing the same standing here at these crossroads. I’m listening really hard. But I’m having trouble hearing any more gunshots because here it’s the countryside that’s noisy. Birds chirping in the trees. Insects chattering in the sunshine. Fields of wheat rustling in the breeze.

  Sometimes real life can be a bit different from stories.

  I adjust my hat, which keeps slipping down over my ears.

  Wait a second.

  Over there.

  Gunshots.

  Thank you, God and the others.

  I head along a road that’s wider than the last one. This one’s got wheel tracks in the dust. Not the usual smooth cartwheel tracks with hoof marks between them. These are the jagged tracks of rubber truck tires.

  I hope a truck comes along soon because now that I’m wearing ordinary clothes and I don’t look like a runaway orphanage kid, I can ask for a ride.

  A horse cart would be fine too.

  Anything to get me to the river and our town and our books more quickly.

  At last, a truck.

  I stand in the middle of the road and wave my hat.

  As the truck gets closer I see it’s a farm animal truck packed with people. They’re standing in the back, squashed together.

  That’s strange. They don’t look like they’ve got many clothes on. Why would half-naked people be packed into a truck like that?

  I get it, they must be farmworkers going on holiday. They’re so excited about having a swim in the river that they’ve undressed already. I don’t blame them—this sun’s really hot.

  I’m still waving but the truck isn’t slowing down. It’s speeding up, driving straight at me.

  “Stop!” I yell.

  The truck doesn’t stop.

  I fling myself off the road into the long grass. The truck speeds past, spraying me with dust and grit and engine fumes.

  I can’t believe it. That truck driver was so busy daydreaming about his holiday, he didn’t even see me.

  Wait a minute, there’s another one coming. This one’s painted in brown and gray splotches. I think it’s an army truck.

  This time I wave from the side of the road, just in case.

  “Hey,” I yell, “can I have a ride?”

  There are soldiers sitting in the back. Some of them see me and point. One raises his rifle and pretends to aim at me.

  That’s very nice of him, giving a country kid a thrill, but I’m not a country kid, I’m a town kid, and I need to get home urgently.

  “Please,” I yell.

  This truck doesn’t slow down either. As it passes, it hits a hole in the road and all the soldiers bounce up into the air.

  Suddenly there’s a loud bang.

  I fall back into the long grass.

  I’m stunned with shock. I’ve been shot at. The soldier shot at me. The bullet whizzed so close to my head I can still hear it buzzing in my ear.

  I roll over and lie as flat as I can in case any of the other soldiers have a go.

  None of them does. I start to breathe again. It must have been an accident. The bounce of the truck must have made the gun go off.

  I have another thought.

  That poor soldier. Tonight in the barracks he’ll hardly be able to swallow his dinner he’ll be so upset. All he wanted to do was play
a little trick, and now he thinks he’s shot an innocent kid.

  I scramble to my feet and wave at the truck, which is disappearing down the road.

  “Don’t worry,” I yell. “I’m all right.”

  But the truck has vanished into the dust cloud from the first truck, so the soldier doesn’t see me and they don’t give me a ride.

  What bad luck.

  For me and him.

  At last, the river.

  After walking such a long way, it’s so good to kneel on the cool stones, stick my face in the water, and have a drink.

  This river is beautiful. The water is gleaming gold in the sunset, and the warm air smells damp and fresh, and there are millions of tiny insects turning happy floating cartwheels in the soft light.

  Last time I was here, when I was six, I must have been too young to notice how beautiful Poland is in summer. Though there is another reason why I love this river so much now.

  It’s going to lead me home.

  I stand up and look around.

  The little road beside the river is still here, just like I remember it. The road that goes all the way to our place. Shame it’s too narrow for trucks, but you can’t have everything.

  I’m feeling really good now, even though I’m a bit hungry because I’m trying to make my bread last and one mouthful wasn’t a very big dinner.

  I’ve still got a lot more walking to do, but in my heart I feel like I’m almost home. And I don’t feel so anxious about the Nazi book burners because I’ve worked out what they’re doing. They’re burning books in the villages and remote orphanages first, before winter comes, so they don’t get cut off by the snow. Which means they probably haven’t done any of the towns yet, so I’ll be in plenty of time to hide our books.

  What’s that noise?

  Boy, gunfire’s loud when it’s so close. That lot startled me so much I almost fell into the water. The hunters must be just around that bend in the river.

  Another burst of gunfire, a long one.

  And another.

  Sunset must be when loads of rabbits come out. Or perhaps the hunters are just using up their bullets to save carrying them home.

  I’m glad I’m not going in that direction. I’m glad I have to head this way, the same way the river’s flowing, away from the mountains.

  Look at that. The river has suddenly turned red. Which is a bit strange, because the sunset is still yellow.

  The water’s so red it almost looks like blood. But even with all those gunshots, the hunters couldn’t have killed that many rabbits.

  Could they?

  No, it must just be a trick of the light.

  I walked all night and all the next day except for a short sleep in a forest and all night again and then I was home.

  In our town.

  In our street.

  It’s just like I remember. Well, almost. The street is narrow like I remember and the buildings are all two levels high and made of stone and bricks with slate roofs like I remember, but the weird thing is there are hardly any food shops.

  At the orphanage I used to spend hours in class daydreaming about all the food shops in our street. The cake shop next to the ice cream shop next to the roast meat shop next to the jelly and jam shop next to the fried potato shop next to the chocolate-covered licorice shop.

  Was I making all that up?

  Something else is different too.

  Dawn was ages ago but there’s nobody out and about. Our street used to be crowded as soon as it got light. People doing things and going places even though they were still yawning. Farm animals complaining because they didn’t like being on the cobbles. Kids pinching things from market stalls.

  This is very different.

  The whole street is deserted.

  I walk along from the corner wondering if my memory is wrong. That can happen when you’re hungry and tired and your feet hurt because your shoes are too big.

  Perhaps I’m confused. Perhaps I’m remembering all the stories I’ve made up about our noisy crowded street. Perhaps I made the crowds up too.

  Then I see it.

  Our shop, there on the next corner, and I know I haven’t made that up.

  Everything’s the same. The peeling green paint on the door, the metal post for customers to lean their bikes on, the front step where Szymon Glick threw up as he was leaving my fifth birthday party.

  And there’s not a single Nazi burn mark anywhere on the shop.

  I feel very relieved, but a bit weak from hunger as well and I have to stop and hold on to the wall of Mr. Rosenfeld’s house.

  Now I’m so close to home, I’m starting to feel sad.

  I wish Mum and Dad were here instead of away somewhere persuading their favorite author to write faster, or trying to sell books on gun safety to soldiers.

  I take a deep breath.

  I haven’t got time to be sad. I’ve got a plan to carry out. Hide the books before the Nazis get here. Then I’ll have plenty of time to find a railway ticket receipt and be reunited with Mum and Dad.

  First I’ve got to get into the shop.

  I walk over and try the door. It’s locked. I’m not surprised. Mum’s dad was a locksmith before he was killed in a ferry-sinking accident. Mum’s very big on locks, except on toilet doors in ferries.

  I peer in through the shop window. If I have to smash my way in, I must make sure the flying bits don’t damage the books.

  I stare for a long time. I have to because when you’re shocked and horrified and feeling sick, your eyes don’t work very well, even with glasses.

  There aren’t any books.

  All the books in the shop are gone.

  The shelves are still there, but no books.

  Just old coats. And hats. And underwear.

  I can’t believe it. The Nazis can’t have burnt the books already or the lock would be broken and there would be ash and weeping customers everywhere.

  Have Mum and Dad changed their business to secondhand clothes? Never. They love books too much. Mum’s not interested in clothes, she was always saying that to Mrs. Glick.

  Have I got the wrong shop?

  I kneel at the front door.

  It is the right shop. Here are my initials where I scratched them in the green paint the day before I went to the orphanage so the other kids around here wouldn’t forget me.

  What’s going on?

  Have Mum and Dad hidden the books?

  Suddenly I hear voices coming from our flat over the shop. A man and a woman.

  Thank you, God and the others.

  “Mum,” I yell. “Dad.”

  Mum and Dad stop talking. But they don’t reply. They don’t even open the window. I can see their faint shapes, moving behind the curtains.

  Why aren’t they flinging the windows open and yelling with joy?

  Of course. It’s been three years and eight months. My voice has changed. I look different. Plus I’m wearing a rabbit hunter’s clothes. They’ll recognize me once they see my notebook.

  The shop door is locked, so I race around the back and up the steps.

  The back door of the flat is open.

  “Mum,” I yell, bursting in. “Dad.”

  Then I stop in my tracks.

  While I was running up the steps part of me feared our kitchen furniture would be gone, just like the books. But it’s all here, exactly where it was. The stove where Mum used to make me carrot soup. The table where I had all my meals and my bread-crumb fights with Dad. The fireplace where Mum and Dad used to give me my bath and dry my book if I dropped it in the water.

  “Who are you?” snarls a voice.

  I spin around.

  Standing in the doorway from the living room, glaring at me, is a woman.

  It’s not Mum.

  Mum is slim with dark hair and a gentle pale face. This woman is muscly with hair like straw. Her face is angry and red. Her neck and arms are too.

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Get out,” shouts th
e woman.

  “Grab him,” says a man who isn’t Dad, coming in from the bedroom. “We’ll hand him over.”

  I back toward the door.

  The man comes at me.

  I turn and run down the steps. Halfway down I crash into a kid coming up. As I scramble over him, I see his face. He’s older than he was, but I still recognize him. Wiktor Radzyn, one of the Catholic kids from my class when I went to school here.

  I don’t stop.

  I keep running.

  “Clear off, Jew!” yells Wiktor behind me. “This is our house now.”

  They’ve stopped chasing me.

  I crouch in my secret hiding place at the edge of town and listen.

  No more yelling.

  The crowd that was after me must have given up. They mustn’t know about this hollow sentry space in the ancient ruined castle wall. When Dad showed me this place years ago, he told me it was our secret, so I never told anybody and he mustn’t have either.

  Thanks, Dad. And thank you, God and the others, that I wasn’t able to fill it up with books like I’d planned, or there wouldn’t be room for me in here.

  Through the arrow slit I can see the townspeople walking back toward their homes. Now they’re gone, I’m shaking all over.

  Why do they hate me and Mum and Dad so much? They couldn’t all have bought books they didn’t like.

  And why is the Radzyn family living in our place?

  Have Mum and Dad sold it to them? Why would they do that? The Radzyns aren’t booksellers. Mr. Radzyn used to empty toilets. Mrs. Radzyn had a stall at the market selling old clothes and underwear. Wiktor Radzyn hates books. When he was in my class, he used to pick his nose and wipe it on the pages.

  I lean against the crumbling stone wall of my little cave and have a very sad thought. Wiktor has my room now. My bed and my desk and my chair and my oil lamp and my bookshelf and my books.

  I think of him lying on the bed, blowing his nose on one of my books.

  Then I have a much happier thought.

  America.

  Of course.

  The visas for America must have come through. The ones Mum and Dad tried to get before I went to the orphanage. That’s why they’ve sold the shop, so they can open another one in America. Dad told me a story about a Jewish bookseller in America once. The bookshelves there are solid gold.