Oh, no.
Mum and Dad must be on their way to the orphanage to pick me up. Doesn’t matter. They won’t leave without me. I can be back at the orphanage in two days, two and a bit to allow for walking up the mountain.
Of course, that’s probably where all the books are. Mum and Dad have taken them up to Mother Minka so she can buy the ones she wants before they ship the rest off to America.
Phew, I’m feeling much calmer now.
It all makes sense.
I wipe the sweat off my glasses, repack my rags and my feet into my shoes, and wriggle out through the thick undergrowth covering the entrance to the sentry space.
Then I freeze.
Somebody’s behind me. I just heard the grass rustle.
I turn around.
Two little kids are staring at me, a boy and a girl, barefoot in the dust.
“We’re playing grabbing Jews in the street,” says the little boy.
“I’m a Jew,” says the little girl. “He’s a Nazi. He’s going to grab me and take me away. Who do you want to be?”
I don’t say anything.
“You be a Nazi,” says the little girl, squinting at me in the sunlight.
I shake my head.
“All right, you be a Jew,” she says. “That means you have to be sad ’cause the Nazis took your mum and dad away.”
I stare at her.
She gives an impatient sigh.
“All the Jew people got taken,” she says. “My dad told me. So you have to be sad, all right?”
Relax, I tell myself. It’s just a game.
But panic is churning inside me.
“He doesn’t want to play,” says the little boy.
The little boy’s right—I don’t.
I stand outside Mr. Rosenfeld’s house, doing what I’ve been doing for hours. Hoping desperately that the little girl is wrong.
Little kids are wrong quite a bit in my experience. There was a little kid at the orphanage who thought you could eat ants.
That’s why I’ve waited until dark and crept back into town. Mr. Rosenfeld is Jewish. If he’s still here, that’ll prove all the Jewish people haven’t been taken away.
I knock on Mr. Rosenfeld’s door.
Silence.
I knock again.
Silence.
That doesn’t mean he’s not here. He could be reading and concentrating very hard. Or asleep with lots of wax in his ears. Or in the bath and naked.
I knock again, louder.
“Mr. Rosenfeld,” I call softly, “it’s Felix Salinger. I need to ask you something. It’s urgent. Don’t be shy if you’re in the bath. I’ve seen Dad undressed.”
Silence.
Hands grab me from behind. I try to yell, but one of the hands is over my mouth. I’m dragged backward over the cobbles, into the alley next to Mr. Rosenfeld’s house.
“Are you crazy?” hisses a man’s voice in my ear.
It’s not Mr. Rosenfeld.
I squirm around and look up.
I can’t see the man’s face in the dark.
“They’re all gone,” he says. “Rosenfeld, your parents, all of them.”
I want him to stop. I want him to tell me it’s just a story.
I try to bite his hand.
“They’ve all been transported to the city,” he says.
I try again. This time my teeth sink in a bit. The man pulls his hand away. And clamps it back on, harder.
“That’s why those weasel Radzyns are living in your house,” says the man. “That’s why Rosenfeld’s favorite brown hat is for sale in their shop. And most of the other things he left behind.”
Fear stabs through me. He’s right. I did see Mr. Rosenfeld’s hat in the shop.
I squirm around again.
The moon has come out.
I can see the man’s face. It’s Mr. Kopek. He used to empty toilets with Mr. Radzyn.
“You shouldn’t be here,” says Mr. Kopek. “Bad time for you lot around here. If I was one of you I’d go and hide in the mountains.”
Suddenly he lets go of me.
“If they get you,” he says, “we never spoke.”
I understand what he’s saying.
“Don’t worry,” I reply. “The Nazis won’t be interested in me. I haven’t got any books. I lent all mine to a friend.”
Mr. Kopek stares at me for a moment, then stuffs something under my arm and hurries away down the alley.
I’m too shaky to stay standing up, so I sit down on the cobbles. I take the package from under my arm. It’s wrapped in greaseproof paper. Inside is a piece of bread and a bottle of water.
I don’t understand. Why are some people kind to us Jewish book owners and some people hate us? I wish I’d asked Mr. Kopek to explain. And also to tell me why the Nazis hate Jewish books so much that they’ve dragged Mum and Dad and all their Jewish customers off to the city.
I tell myself a story about a bunch of kids in another country whose parents work in a book warehouse and one day a big pile of Jewish books topples onto the kids’ parents and crushes them and the kids vow that when they grow up they’ll get revenge on all Jewish books and their owners.
It doesn’t feel like a very believable story.
It’ll have to do for now, though. Perhaps while I’m on my way to find Mum and Dad I’ll be able to think up a better one.
I carefully wrap the bread and the bottle of water again.
I’ll need them.
It’s a long journey to the city.
I walked as fast as I could toward the city to find Mum and Dad, and I didn’t let anything stop me.
Not until the fire.
I slow down, staring at the horizon.
The fire is miles away, but I can see the flames clearly as they flicker in the darkness. They must be huge. If that’s a pile of burning books, there must be millions.
I stop.
I wipe my glasses and try to see if any Nazis are over there. I can’t. It’s too far away to see people, let alone armbands.
I can hear trucks or cars, though, and faint shouting voices.
Part of me wants to run away, just in case. Another part of me wants to go closer. Mum and Dad might be there. This might be where all the Jewish book owners have been taken, so the Nazis can burn all their books in one big pile.
I go closer.
I don’t want to stay on the road in case I bump into any Nazis who are running late, so I cut across some fields.
One of the fields has cabbages in it. As I get closer to the fire, the cabbages are starting to get warm. Some are starting to smell like they’re cooking. But I don’t stop to eat any.
I can see what’s burning now.
It’s not books, it’s a house.
I still can’t see any people, so I stuff the bread and water inside my shirt and take my hat off and pee on it and put it back on to keep my head from blistering and go even closer in case there are some people inside who need to be rescued. I wrote a story once about Mum and Dad rescuing an ink salesman from a burning house, so I know a bit about it.
Blinking from the heat and the glare, I reach the wire fence that separates the house from the fields. The wire is too hot to touch. I wriggle under it.
The lawn is covered with dead chickens. Poor things, they must be cooked. That’s what I think until I see the holes in them.
They’ve been shot.
The owners must have done it to put them out of their misery.
Then I see the owners.
Oh.
They’re lying on the lawn next to the chickens, a man and a woman. The man is in pajamas, and the woman is wearing a nightdress. They’re both in the same twisted positions as the chickens and both lying in patches of blood.
I want to run away but I don’t. Instead, I pick up a chicken feather and hold it in front of the woman’s mouth and nose. It’s how you tell if people are dead. I read it in a book once.
The feather doesn’t move.
It do
esn’t move with the man either.
I’m shivering in the heat. I’ve never seen real dead people before. Real dead people are different from dead people in stories. When you see real dead people you want to cry.
I sit on the lawn, the flames from the house drying my tears before they’re halfway down my face.
These poor people must be Jewish book owners who couldn’t bear to let the Nazis burn their books so they put up a struggle and to pay them back the Nazis killed them and their chickens and set fire to their whole house.
Please, Mum and Dad, I beg silently.
Don’t be like these people.
Don’t put up a struggle.
It’s only books.
Behind me part of the house collapses, bombarding me and the poor dead book owners with sparks and burning ash. My skin stings. My clothes start to smolder. I roll across the lawn to put them out. And stop with my face close to another person.
It’s a girl, about six years old, lying on her side.
A little kid. What sort of people would kill a little kid just for the sake of some books?
A horrible thought grows in my throbbing head. What if us Jews aren’t being bullied just because of books? What if it’s because of something else?
Then I notice that the little girl isn’t bleeding.
Gently I roll her over.
The fire behind me is burning bright as day, and I can see that the girl’s pajamas don’t have any holes in them at all. Not from ash or bullets. The only medical condition I can find is a big bruise on her forehead.
I grab a feather and hold it in front of her face, but I don’t need to because when I crouch closer I can hear the snot rattling in her nose.
It’s loud, but not as loud as the car engine noise I suddenly hear in the distance.
I peer over toward the road.
Coming along it fast are two black cars. They look just like the Nazi cars that came to the orphanage.
The Nazis must be coming back here to the scene of their crime to get rid of the evidence. I’ve read about this type of criminal behavior in stories.
I haul the unconscious girl up onto my back and stagger through the smoke and sparks toward the fence. The hot wire burns my arm as I squeeze through, but I don’t care. I just want to get me and this poor orphan safely hidden in the cabbages.
“What’s your name?” I ask the girl for about the hundredth time as we trudge along the dark road.
Actually it’s just me doing the trudging. She’s still on my back, her arms round my neck.
As usual she doesn’t reply. The only way I know she’s awake and not unconscious is when I look over my shoulder at her and see the moonlight gleaming in her dark eyes.
This is killing me. The longest I’ve ever carried anyone before was Dodie in the piggyback race on sports day. That was only once around the playing field.
I try to take my mind off the pain in my arms by thinking about good things.
Mum’s smell.
The way Dad’s hair falls into his eyes when he’s reading.
How at least this kid isn’t getting overexcited like Dodie and kicking me in the ribs.
The pain in my arms is still bad. I wonder how much longer I can keep going without dropping her.
Then I see something.
Is that a haystack?
It’s a bit hard to tell because the moon’s gone behind a cloud, but I’m pretty sure that big dark shape behind that hedge is a haystack.
Suddenly I can’t resist it.
I know it’s risky. The Nazis could be coming along here any time. But I can’t go on. My legs are hurting too now.
“I need a rest,” I say to the girl.
She doesn’t reply.
I push through the hedge and drag armfuls of hay off the haystack with one arm and make a bed on the ground. I lay the girl down on it as gently as I can and put some hay over her to keep her warm. Then I lie down next to her. I don’t bother with top hay for me, I’m too tired.
The girl stands up and starts crying.
“Where’s my mummy and daddy?” she wails.
It’s the first thing she’s said since she stopped being unconscious, and it’s the thing I’ve been dreading most.
“I want my mummy and daddy,” she howls.
At least I’ve had plenty of time to make a plan.
“I want mine too,” I say. “That’s why we’re going to the city.”
Keep her hopeful, that’s the plan. She’s had a nasty bang on the head. I can’t tell her the terrible news while she’s not well. Later on, when she’s feeling better and I’ve found Mum and Dad, that’ll be the time to let her know her parents are dead. Because then Mum can do it. And then we can take her to live with Mother Minka.
“Who are you?” sobs the girl.
“I’m Felix,” I say. “Who are you?”
“I want Mummy,” she wails.
“Don’t yell,” I beg her. “We have to be quiet.”
She carries on wailing. I can’t tell her that the reason we have to be quiet is because the Nazis might hear us. That would terrify her. So I make something up.
“Shhhh,” I say. “We’ll wake the sheep.”
Then I remember there aren’t any sheep. The fields are all empty.
Still sobbing, the girl looks at me like I used to look at Marek when he tried to tell me his parents were professional fighters who died in a wrestling accident.
I get up and go over to her and kneel down so my face is level with hers. I put my hand gently on her arm. I wish my hand was bigger, like Mother Minka’s.
“I’m scared too,” I say quietly. “I want my mum and dad too. That’s why we’re going to the city.”
I gently touch her forehead, next to the bruise.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
She nods, more tears rolling out of her eyes.
“My mum’s very good with hurt heads,” I say. “When you meet her tomorrow she’ll make it stop hurting.”
“Your hat smells,” says the girl, but she’s not sobbing so much.
I flop back down on the hay.
“If you lie down and have a rest,” I say, “I’ll tell you a story about your mummy and daddy taking you on a picnic.”
The girl looks at me. She sticks her bottom lip out.
“We don’t go on picnics,” she says. “Don’t you know anything?”
“All right,” I say. “You and your mummy and daddy flying in an airplane.”
“We don’t fly in airplanes,” she says.
I sigh. I feel really sorry for her. It’s really hard being an orphan if you haven’t got an imagination.
I try one more time.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll tell you a story about a kid who spends three years and eight months living in a castle in the mountains.”
She gives me that look again.
I give up. I roll over and close my eyes. I’ve done my best. I’m so tired I don’t care anymore.
Then I feel her lying down next to me.
I sigh again. A promise is a promise. I roll over and face her.
“Once,” I say, “there was a boy called William—”
“No,” she interrupts, pointing to herself. “I’m a girl. My name’s Zelda. Don’t you know anything?”
I woke up and I was at home in bed. Dad was reading me a story about a boy who got left in an orphanage. Mum came in with some carrot soup. They both promised they’d never leave me anywhere. We hugged and hugged.
Then I really wake up and I’m in a haystack.
Hay stalks are stabbing me through my clothes. Cold damp air is making my face feel clammy. The early morning sun is hurting my eyes. A young girl is shaking me and complaining.
“I’m hungry,” she’s saying.
I feel around for my glasses, put them on, look at her groggily, and remember.
Zelda, the girl with the dead parents.
And the bossy attitude. She made me tell her the castle in the mountains sto
ry about ten times last night, till I got it right.
“I need to do a pee,” she says.
“All right,” I mumble. “First a pee, then breakfast.”
We both do a pee behind the haystack. Then I unwrap the bread and water. Zelda has a drink and I have a sip. I break her off a piece of bread and a smaller one for me. She needs extra because she’s injured. The bruise on her forehead is dark now, and there’s a lump.
“Your hat still smells,” says Zelda.
I open my mouth to explain why firefighters often have smelly hats, then close it again. Best not to remind her that her house has burnt down.
“Sorry,” I say.
Zelda is frowning and screwing up her face, and I don’t think it’s just because of my hat.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“My head hurts,” she says. “Don’t you know anything?”
“It’ll feel better when we get to the city,” I say. I don’t mention Mum’s healing powers this time in case it makes her wail for her parents again.
My head hurts too.
It’s hot and throbbing. Last night when it started hurting I thought it was just overheated from the fire. But it can’t be that now because my skin is cold and clammy.
I’m hearing things too, which can happen when you’ve got a fever. I can hear voices and footsteps and the rumble of cartwheels. I must still be half asleep, dreaming about our street on market day.
No, I’m not.
I’m wide awake. The sounds are real. They’re coming from the road on the other side of the hedge.
“Stay here,” I whisper to Zelda.
“What is it?” she says, alarmed.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. “Then we’ll go to the city.”
“To see our mums and dads,” says Zelda.
I run to the hedge, wriggle into the leaves and branches, and peer out at the road. And gawk in amazement. The road is crowded with people. Men and women and kids and old people. A hundred or even more. They’re all walking wearily in the direction of the city. Most of them are carrying bundles or bags or suitcases or cooking pots. A few are carrying books.
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