Once (6 page)

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 story 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.

Each person is wearing an armband. Not a red and black armband like the Nazis had at the orphanage. These are white with a blue star, a Jewish star like on some of the Jewish houses at home. Must be so these travelers can recognize the other members of their group. We used to have paper saints pinned to our tops on sports day so everyone could see which dormitory we were from.

A sudden loud noise makes me shrink back into the hedge.

Several soldiers on bikes with motors are driving up and down, yelling at the people in a foreign language and waving. The soldiers have all got guns. None of the people have. The soldiers seem to want the people to go faster.

With a jolt I understand.

These soldiers are Nazis. This straggling crowd of people are all Jewish book owners, all being transported to the city.

Are Mum and Dad here?

I lean forward again, trying to see, but before I can spot them I hear a sound behind me.

A scream.

Zelda.

I struggle out of the hedge, almost losing my glasses. I jam them back on and almost faint at what I see.

Zelda is standing by the haystack, rigid with fear. Next to her, pointing a machine gun down at her head, is a Nazi soldier.

“Don’t shoot,” I scream, running over to them.

The soldier points his gun at me.

I freeze. With a stab of panic I see my notebook lying in the hay at his feet. It must have fallen out of my shirt. The Nazi soldier must have seen it. He must think we’re Jewish book owners. Disobedient ones, like Zelda’s parents.

My throat goes dry with fear.

“That isn’t really a book,” I croak. “It’s a notebook. And it isn’t hers, it’s mine. And I wasn’t trying to hide it. I was planning to hand it over as soon as we get to the city and find the place where the books are being burnt.”

The soldier stares at me like he doesn’t believe what I’ve just said.

Desperately I try to think of a way to make friends with him.

“Sorry I just shouted at you,” I say. “I’m from the mountains where you have to shout and yodel to make yourself heard. Can you yodel?”

The soldier doesn’t reply. He just scowls and waves his gun toward the hedge.

I grab Zelda by the hand, and my notebook, and the bread and water.

Zelda is trembling just as much as me.

“Come on,” I say to her gently. “He’s telling us we have to go to the city with all the other people.”

“To see our mums and dads,” says Zelda to the soldier.

You know how when you’re looking for your mum and dad in a straggling crowd of people trudging along a dusty road and you speed up and get to the front and then slow down and drop to the back and you still can’t see them even when you pray to God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary, the Pope, and Adolf Hitler?

That’s happening to me.

My head is throbbing and I feel squashed with disappointment.

I try to cheer myself up by thinking how Mum and Dad have probably already arrived at the city and are having a sit-down and taking the weight off their feet.

It doesn’t cheer me up much. The Nazi soldiers on the motorbikes are still yelling at everyone. I hope Mum and Dad haven’t got noisy cross soldiers like these. Mum gets very indignant when people are rude, and sometimes she tells them off.

Zelda doesn’t look very happy either.

“My feet hurt,” she says.

Poor thing. She’s only wearing fluffy bedtime slippers. The soles aren’t thick enough to protect her feet from the stones on the road.

I bend down and pull some of the rag stuffing out of my shoes.

“Come on,” I say to Zelda. “Piggyback.”

She jumps on my back.

“Hold on tight,” I say, and start walking again so the soldiers won’t yell at us for lagging behind.

Some of the other kids walking with their mums and dads give Zelda jealous looks. I don’t blame them. Some of them are only about three or four. Their mums and dads are too weary to talk to them, let alone carry them.

I can see Zelda wants to stay on my back till we get to the city. I wish she could, but I feel too ill.

I take her slippers off, wind the rags round her feet, and put her slippers back on.