Once (12 page)

It’s on Barney’s face, I can see it.

He’s telling the truth.

Oh, Mum.

Oh, Dad.

My imagination goes into a frenzy, trying to think up ways for them to escape, places for them to hide, reasons why none of this has happened to them.

Every time I start to think of something I remember the poor little kid in the kitchen.

Barney is still holding me tight and I can feel the metal syringes in his coat pocket pressing against my cheek.

Suddenly I want him to stick one of the syringes into me so I can go into a deep sleep and never wake up and never feel this bad ever again.

  I loved stories and now I hate them.

I hate stories about God and Jesus and Mary and that crowd and how they’re meant to be taking care of us.

I hate stories about the beautiful countryside with much food and easy work.

I hate stories about parents who say they’ll come back for their children and never do.

I roll over on my bed. I push my face into my sack so I can’t hear Barney over at the other side of the cellar, reading some stupid story to the others. I never want to hear another story. I never want to write another story. I never want to read another book. What good have books ever done me and Mum and Dad? We’d have been better off with guns.

“Felix,” says a faint voice in my ear.

It’s Zelda.

I ignore her.

“Are your parents dead too?” she asks.

I don’t answer.

I feel her put something round my neck. It’s her silver chain with the little heart on it.

“This is to make you feel better,” she says.

I don’t want to feel better.

I don’t want to feel anything.

I just want to be like the Nazi officer, the murderer one. Cold and hard and bored with people.

Zelda strokes my head.

I try to ignore that too. But I can’t. There’s something wrong.

Her hand is hot.

Very hot.

I sit up and look at her. Her face is pale. But when I touch her cheek, her skin is burning.

“I’ve got a temperature,” she whispers. “Don’t you know anything?”

Then her eyes go funny and she flops down onto the floor.

“Barney, quick,” I yell, my voice squeaky with panic, “Zelda’s sick.”

“I don’t like you going out alone,” says Barney.

I can see he doesn’t. I’ve never seen him look so worried. All day while we took turns wiping Zelda’s hot skin with wet rags, Barney was telling us she was going to be all right. But ever since the other kids got exhausted and went to bed, he’s been looking more and more worried.

“Chaya can’t run with her bad arm,” he says. “Jacob and Ruth and Moshe get too scared outside, and the others are too young.”

“I’ll be all right on my own,” I say.

“I can’t leave Zelda like this,” says Barney, dipping the rag into the bucket of water and pressing it gently to her face. “But she needs aspirin. If we can’t get her temperature down in the next few hours…”

He stops because Zelda’s eyes flutter open.

“I’m hot,” she croaks.

I lift her cup to her white lips and she swallows a little.

“There’ll be aspirin in the dental surgery we were in last night,” says Barney.

I don’t say anything.

I try not to think of what’s in the kitchen of that apartment.

“But if you don’t want to go back there,” Barney says, “you’ll find empty apartments in most of the buildings. And you’ll almost certainly find aspirin in one of them. In a bathroom or kitchen or bedside drawer.”

I nod. I know about aspirin. Mother Minka used to get headaches from praying too much.

“Are you sure you can do this?” asks Barney.

“Yes,” I say.

I know what Barney was going to say before Zelda opened her eyes. If we can’t get her temperature down in the next few hours, she’ll die.

I must find her some aspirin.

And there’s something else I must bring back for her as well.

I slip quietly out of our building without anybody seeing me.

The ghetto streets are different tonight.

They’re just as dark and scary and full of litter as always, but not so deserted. Nazi trucks are zooming around. German soldiers are running in and out of apartment blocks. In the distance I can hear shooting.

I creep into an empty apartment.

No aspirin.

I try next door.

Yes. A whole jar.

But I haven’t finished yet. There’s something else I need to find.

All the apartments in this block seem to be empty. I can hear Nazis down the street but I haven’t seen a single Jewish person.

I creep down yet another apartment hallway, holding the candle out in front of me so I don’t trip over any of the toys or ornaments or smashed photos on the floor.

More gunshots in the distance.

This will have to be the last apartment. If I don’t find it here, I’ll have to give up.

I close my eyes as I step into the kitchen. I open them slowly. After last night I won’t ever be able to go into a kitchen with my eyes open again.

This one’s all right, except for a big dark stain on the floor that could be just gravy.

I ignore it and start opening cupboards.

Nothing in the top ones.

I bend down and start opening the bottom ones. Zelda’s locket chain keeps getting caught on the cupboard doors. I toss it over my shoulder so it hangs down my back.

Two cupboards left.

Please, God, Jesus, Mary, and the Pope, if you’re still on our side please let this be the one.

Yes.

There, lying next to a moldy potato, something that will help Zelda just as much as the aspirin.

A carrot.

I know I should get out of this apartment as fast as I can. I know I should sprint down the stairs into the street and hurry along the darkest back alleys to the cellar so Zelda can have her aspirin and her carrot soup.

But I can’t just yet.

Not now that I’ve seen this bedroom.

It’s exactly like the room I used to have at home.

The wallpaper is the same, the reading lamp is the same, the bookshelves are the same. The one thing that’s different is that there are six beds crammed in here.

These kids have even got some of the same books.

I clamber over the beds and squeeze onto the floor and take a book from the shelf.
Just William
by Richmal Crompton. It’s still one of my favorite books in the whole world. And probably one of Dodie’s by now. As I open it I try not to remember Mum and Dad reading it to me.

Instead, I read a bit to myself. About William’s dog. He’s called Jumble and he’s a mixture of about a hundred different dogs and William loves him even when he pees in William’s new boots.

Mum and Dad said I can have a dog like Jumble one day.

Stop it.

Stop thinking about them.

William is training Jumble to be a pirate. That’s what I love about William. He always stays hopeful, and no matter how bad things get, no matter how much his world turns upside down, his mum and dad never die.

Not ever.

I know I should be getting back, but I can’t get up at the moment. All I can do is stay here on the floor, with
Just William
and Zelda’s carrot, thinking about Mum and Dad and crying.

What’s that noise?

It’s dark. The candle must have burnt down. Oh, no, I must have fallen asleep here on the floor.

The noise again, thumping. A dog growling.

Jumble?

No, there’s somebody in the apartment.

Several people. Boots thumping. Torches flashing. Men shouting in another language.

Nazi soldiers.

Where can I hide?

Under the beds. No, every story I’ve ever read where somebody hides under a bed they get caught.

I know. Under the books.

I lie next to the bookcase and tilt it forward so all the books slide off the shelves and onto me. With one hand I arrange books over all the bits of me that feel uncovered. It’s not easy in the dark. I pray to Richmal Crompton that I haven’t missed any bits. Then I slide my hand under the pile and stay very still.

Bang.

The bedroom door is kicked open.

Torchlight stabs between the books.

I hold my breath. I can hear someone else breathing. Then footsteps, leaving the room.

I wait.

More banging and shouting in other rooms. Dogs barking. Getting farther away. I think they’ve gone.

I wait more.

I can’t hear them at all.

I scramble out from under the books. I strike a match and find
Just William
for Zelda and the others. Then I run. Down the hall. Out into the stairwell. Down the stairs. Skidding on the clothes and shoes that have been chucked around everywhere. Jumping over the cooking pots. And the musical instruments.

Oh, no, I’ve tripped.

I’m falling.

Ow.

Quick, get up. I don’t think I’m hurt. I’ve got my glasses. The carrot and the aspirin are safe in my pocket.
Just William
is still in my hand.

That wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Except for the torchlight that’s suddenly dazzling me from the doorway of one of the ground-floor apartments.

It’s a Nazi soldier.

He’s yelling at me. He’s got a pile of clothes and stuff in a box clutched to his chest. He’s aiming his torch at me and coming closer.

I put my hands up to show I’m not armed.

The soldier tucks his torch under his chin.

Why does he need a spare hand?

For his gun?

No, to grab
Just William
from me. He stares at it, frowning. He puts it in his box. Now he’s staring at something else. On my chest. Zelda’s locket, which is smashed and hanging off the chain in two halves. He peers at it, breathing smelly drink fumes out of his hairy nostrils.

Then he lets go of it and turns and sticks his head back into the apartment and starts yelling. I think he’s calling to someone else. A William fan, maybe.

I don’t wait to find out.

The gate to the back alley is open. I fling myself through it and run down the alley and into the next one, weaving from alley to alley, not stopping, going for the narrowest ones I can find, the ones not wide enough for a tank to squeeze down, or a troop carrier, or a Nazi soldier loaded up with stuff he’s been looting.

I only stop when I suddenly find myself in a wide street, bright with moonlight, empty and silent.

I crouch down next to a wall, gasping for breath, and have a look at Zelda’s locket to see what the soldier found so interesting.

One half of the locket is empty.

In the other half is a tiny photograph. A man and a woman standing in front of a Polish flag. Zelda’s parents, they must be. Her poor dead parents. The woman has hair a bit like Zelda’s, only shorter, and a face a bit like Zelda’s, only older.

I rub some Nazi finger grease off the photo and see Zelda’s father more clearly and the clothes he’s wearing and I almost stop breathing even though I’m still desperate for air.

Zelda’s father is wearing a uniform.

A Nazi uniform.

Thank you, God, Jesus, Mary, the Pope, and Richmal Crompton. I thought I was never going to find my way back, but I know where I am now.

This is the street next to where our cellar is.

If I can get past that corner without any Nazi patrols coming along, I’ll be in our cellar in no time and Zelda can have her carrot soup and aspirin.

I know what you’re thinking, God and Richmal and all the others. If Zelda’s dad’s a Nazi, does she deserve carrot soup and aspirin?

Yes.

She can’t help what her father did. Plus he’s dead now and so’s her mum and I don’t know if she’s got any other living relatives but after what we’ve been through together that makes me one and I say yes.

Oh, no. I can hear trucks. And soldiers shouting. And dogs barking.

Where are they?

I look around desperately.

They’re not in this street.

I crouch by the building on the corner and peer into our street.

Oh.

The trucks are parked in front of our building.

Oh.

Nazi soldiers are aiming guns at the printing factory doorway. Dogs are straining on leads and snarling. Not dogs like Jumble. These are all dogs with only one type of dog in them.

Killers.

Somebody must have tipped the Nazis off. A disgruntled dental patient probably.

How can I warn Barney and the others? How can I get in there without being seen and help Barney find a secret way out that the Nazis don’t know about and get the kids out in disguise if necessary and—

Too late.

I can hear other soldiers shouting and other dogs barking, inside the printing factory.

I can hear kids screaming.

It doesn’t matter anymore who sees me.

I run toward the cellar.

  the Nazis found our cellar. They dragged us all out and made us walk through the ghetto while they pointed guns at us.