Then

  It’s what Mum and Dad did for me when they hid me in that Catholic orphanage. They didn’t want to do it, but they had to. They went away and left me and stopped being with me to keep me safe.

  That’s what I have to do for Zelda.

  I ask Richmal Crompton to help me have the strength to do it.

  Richmal Crompton lets me cry for a while, because that can be a part of getting strength.

  After I wipe my eyes, she helps me think about things. About how she’s with me every day, in my thoughts and in my imagination, even though she’s not actually physically here.

  I can be with Zelda like that.

  In her thoughts.

  In her imagination.

  After I’ve gone.

  But first I have to make sure Zelda doesn’t enrage any more Nazi thugs.

  I’m still trying to get her to draw a happy picture of her real parents. So she’ll feel better about them. So she won’t hate Nazis so much in public. So she won’t tell any more nutty stories about being Jewish.

  ‘No,’ says Zelda, scowling.

  She flings the pencil down and throws herself onto the bed next to me.

  The bed wobbles, which hurts my head, but I try not to show it. Genia only let Zelda come in here because I said I was feeling better after a sleep.

  I think Genia knows now how important Zelda’s feeling about her parents are. That’s why she bought Zelda a new pencil.

  ‘Let me have a go,’ I say to Zelda.

  I prop myself up and put my glasses on and squint at the wrinkled shop paper and draw a picture of Zelda’s parents helping her look after a sick chicken.

  In the picture Zelda is bandaging the chicken’s head. Her mum and dad are holding the aspirin and lemonade.

  ‘They were very kind, your mummy and daddy,’ I say as I show Zelda the picture.

  ‘Goebbels wasn’t a boy chicken,’ says Zelda. ‘She was a girl chicken.’

  I make Goebbels a girl chicken.

  ‘That’s not my mummy and daddy being kind,’ says Zelda. ‘That’s Violetta’s mummy and daddy being kind.’

  She takes the pencil and draws two tiny figures on the horizon.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I say.

  ‘Don’t you know anything?’ says Zelda. ‘That’s my Nazi mummy and daddy. Shooting children.’

  I sigh and my head hurts and not just because of the bruise.

  I have to accept it. This plan isn’t working. I need another way to keep Zelda safe after I’ve gone.

  I ask Richmal Crompton to help me find another way.

  While I’m waiting for her to get back to me, I light the lamp next to the bed and read myself a story from her book.

  It’s to help with the pain.

  Not my head pain, the other one, the leaving-Zelda pain.

  Except I’m finding it hard to concentrate. I’m reading each page three times and I’m still not sure what this story’s about. I’m on the last page now and I haven’t got a clue why William and his friends are throwing onions and potatoes out of his bedroom window at a grown-up.

  It’s no good. I’m too miserable for a story. And I’ve still got the sad pain in my chest.

  Wait a minute.

  Potatoes…

  Reading about potatoes is reminding me of something Genia was talking about recently.

  Something that might help protect Zelda.

  Yes.

  Richmal Crompton, thank you.

  I climb high into the tree and don’t fall out.

  This is good.

  If you can climb a tree only two days after being bashed on the head by a Nazi, you know he hasn’t done any permanent damage.

  I look out across the potato field.

  Lots of people are bent over the furrows, picking potatoes and putting them in baskets. Adults as well as kids.

  This is what Genia was talking about. The Nazis haven’t got any orphans left to pick the potatoes, so now they’re making people from town do it.

  Genia was right about something else too.

  The potato pickers aren’t just being guarded by grown-up Nazis, they’re being guarded by Hitler Youth as well.

  I peer down at the Hitler Youth boys in the potato field.

  Please, I beg Richmal Crompton, let your fan be on potato duty. And please let me spot him quickly because I have to get home. Genia and Zelda will be back from their rabbit hunt soon and I’m not meant to be out of bed.

  Yes.

  There he is.

  The only Hitler Youth Richmal Crompton fan in the whole world, supervising the potato pickers with his Hitler Youth mates. I’m pleased to see he’s not swaggering quite as much as the others.

  Excellent.

  Tomorrow I’ll get myself rounded up to do potato picking. Which will give me the whole day to have a quiet word with him.

  I won’t feel so bad if I know Zelda’s got some Nazi protection after I’ve gone.

  Then the next day I told Genia a lie. I told her I felt too ill to go rabbit hunting with her and Zelda. I told her I needed to stay in bed.

  But I didn’t.

  After they left, I got up and put my Richmal Crompton book in my coat pocket and walked into town and waited to be rounded up for potato picking.

  The potato trucks are in the town square now. The Nazi soldiers are ordering us to get onto them.

  People don’t like having to do potato picking for the Nazis, but most people don’t try to run away. It’s only for a few hours and it’s better than being shot.

  I clamber up onto a truck. I try to look annoyed like the other people I’m squeezed in here with. But not too annoyed. People who look like troublemakers get hit.

  I’m not here to make trouble, I’m here to help Zelda.

  I know this is risky, letting the Nazis round me up, what with my private part and everything. But it’s a risk I have to take. And I’ve got an emergency plan. I stopped myself doing a poo this morning in case I need it later.

  As the truck jolts and rumbles along the road out of town, I spot the person I’ve come to see.

  The Richmal Crompton fan. He’s in a jeep with some other Hitler Youth. They speed past our truck and head towards the front of the convoy. The Richmal Crompton fan doesn’t see me because I’m jammed in with so many other people, but that doesn’t matter.

  I’ve got all day.

  Now there’s only one other person I have to keep my eyes open for.

  Cyryl.

  I didn’t see him in the town square, and he’s not on this truck, and I don’t think he’s on any of the others.

  So far so good.

  You know how when you’re doing potato picking for the Nazis and you’re desperate to be seen by one particular Hitler Youth boy but he’s over the other side of the field and you daren’t go over to him because potato pickers have to stay in their own furrow so you pray to Richmal Crompton for help and she makes it rain?

  That’s happening now.

  We’re all running for shelter under the trees.

  The Nazis don’t do potato picking in the rain. They don’t like the potatoes to get too wet because soggy potatoes go mushy when they’re stored. I don’t think they have recipes for mushy potatoes in German cooking.

  I see the Richmal Crompton fan standing under a tree chatting with some other Hitler Youth. I go and stand under the next tree.

  He hasn’t seen me yet.

  ‘Jew!’

  Oh no.

  Someone else has.

  I know that voice.

  Cyryl.

  He must have been on one of the other trucks. Now he’s pointing at me, his face pink with anger and his wet lips shining.

  ‘This rat is a Jew,’ he yells. ‘Check his willy. I bet I’m right.’

  I hear several loud clicks. I realise what the sound is. Nazi soldiers releasing the safety catches on their guns.

  One of the soldiers puts his gun down and comes towards me. I see why he wants both hands free. He’s planning to undo my trous
er buttons.

  I push hard in my guts.

  The poo won’t come.

  It should come out easily because I’m terrified, but it’s not coming out at all.

  I must be too terrified.

  I strain my guts one more time.

  Nothing.

  My insides are in a knot of panic. Suddenly I think of something else to try. My last hope. I stuff my hand in my coat pocket and feel around frantically under the Richmal Crompton book.

  Yes.

  Zelda’s locket.

  I pull it out and hold it up in front of the Nazi soldier. He takes it and looks at it, frowning. The other soldiers and Hitler Youth boys crowd round and peer at it too.

  Please, I beg silently. Please think Zelda’s parents are my parents.

  The soldier holding the locket says something to me in Nazi, which I don’t understand.

  I panic even more. Will this give me away? If I was a real Nazi kid, even a Polish one, I should be able to understand some German.

  There’s only one person here who can help me.

  I take the Richmal Crompton book from my pocket and hold it so the Hitler Youth boy can see it and remember who I am.

  For a few seconds we stare at each other, but only for a few seconds.

  The Hitler Youth boy steps forward, says something to the soldier in German, and turns to me.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ he says to me in Polish. ‘The sergeant is asking you if the people in the locket are members of your family.’

  I feel dizzy with gratitude.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘They are.’

  Zelda is my family, so her parents must be too, sort of.

  The Hitler Youth boy turns back to the soldiers and speaks to them again in German. He says a lot of things. The soldiers nod. Whatever he’s telling them, they look like they’re believing it. They lower their guns.

  ‘He’s a Jew,’ yells Cyryl. ‘He stole that book from my family’s shop.’

  The Hitler Youth boy steps over to Cyryl and punches him hard in the stomach. Cyryl keels over, clutching himself.

  The Nazi soldiers and the other Hitler Youth all laugh and clap.

  I look away.

  I should feel glad that Cyryl’s been punished. But I don’t. In my experience, punches in the stomach just make enemies into bigger enemies.

  The sergeant hands me Zelda’s locket. He turns and starts shouting. You don’t have to speak German to know what he’s saying. It’s stopped raining. We have to go back to work.

  ‘My name’s Amon,’ says the Hitler Youth boy as we walk back to my furrow.

  ‘I’m Wilhelm,’ I say.

  For a second I’m tempted to tell him my real name, but that would be crazy.

  Amon smiles.

  ‘Your parents must really like Richmal Crompton,’ he says. ‘To give you the same name as her hero.’

  I nod. I feel guilty lying to Amon after he’s saved my life, so I tell him as much of the truth as I can.

  ‘My parents liked the William stories a lot,’ I say. ‘They used to read to me every night. But they’re dead now.’

  Amon gives me a sympathetic look.

  The sergeant’s still yelling. I know I haven’t got much time to talk, so I say what I’ve come to say.

  ‘Amon, I have to go away soon. After I’ve gone, will you look out for my sister Violetta like you did the other day? Sometimes she says things that aren’t true. Things that upset your army.’

  Amon thinks about this.

  For a while I worry he’s going to ask me why I have to go away. But he doesn’t.

  ‘Tell Violetta,’ he says, ‘if she gets into trouble, to ask for me. Amon Kurtz.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, weak with relief.

  ‘The SS officers know me,’ he says. ‘I speak Polish. I translate for them sometimes when they’re having drinks with women.’

  I hold my William book out to Amon.

  ‘This is for you,’ I say.

  He looks surprised. And pleased.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says.

  Amon takes the book and looks at it for a moment. His face goes serious. He glances around the potato field to make sure nobody else is listening.

  ‘I wish Richmal Crompton was in charge of Germany instead of Adolf Hitler,’ he says quietly. ‘If she was, I wouldn’t have to be in the Hitler Youth. You and me, we’d both be at home with our parents. I wouldn’t be sleeping in a dead kid’s bed.’

  He puts the book inside his jacket.

  I want to talk with him more, but we’re at my furrow now and I must get back to work.

  There is one last thing I have to ask.

  ‘Amon,’ I say. ‘What did you tell the others about me back there?’

  Amon grins.

  ‘I told them you were just like us Hitler Youth,’ he says. ‘A boy doing his duty.’

  We look at each other for a few moments.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  Amon clicks his heels together and gives the Nazi salute.

  ‘Heil Richmal,’ he says quietly.

  I’m late.

  The Nazis made us pick potatoes till dark and by the time we were dropped off in the square the town clock was striking six and now I’m hurrying back to the farm as fast as I can.

  Genia and Zelda will be frantic.

  I have to think what to tell them. Why I’ve been away all day. I hate lying to them. But I can’t tell them the truth, that I’m planning to leave.

  What was that?

  I stop and peer into the dark trees at the side of the road.

  Is somebody following me?

  No, it’s just my imagination playing tricks. That happens when you have to live with a fake identity and make up untrue stories to tell the people you love.

  I start walking again.

  ‘I saw you,’ says a voice.

  I spin round.

  A figure steps out of the trees and comes towards me.

  Zelda?

  Genia?

  The figure steps into a patch of moonlight.

  It’s Leopold’s friend. The kid who shot the soldier. He’s still got his gun. He’s pointing it at me now.

  ‘I saw you this afternoon,’ he says, scowling. ‘I saw you talking and grinning with that Hitler Youth vermin.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  I can’t take my eyes off the gun.

  Up close it looks too big for him. He’s only a bit taller than me. But he’s holding it in both hands and I know he can use it.

  ‘You’re a Nazi vermin spy,’ says the kid, aiming the gun at my head.

  Then I invited the kid with the gun home for dinner.

  He stared at me and I could see from his stunned expression he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

  Dinner?

  In the moonlight his dark angry eyes go narrow with suspicion.

  His gun wobbles a bit.

  I hope I haven’t caught him too much by surprise. Some people go twitchy when they’re caught by surprise, and Leopold’s friend has still got his fingers on the trigger and the gun is still pointing at my head.

  I try not to think about what happened last time I saw him point a gun at somebody’s head.

  The chill breeze is making the autumn leaves rustle in the trees. A leaf floats down near the kid. He sees the movement out of the corner of his eye, swings the gun towards the leaf, realises what it is and points the gun back at me.

  He’s twitchy all right.

  I’ll have to be careful.

  ‘Genia’s making rabbit stew,’ I say, trying to sound relaxed and casual and like I invite people with guns home for dinner every night.

  I don’t, but this is too good an opportunity to miss.

  If I can persuade the kid to stop killing Nazis, the Nazis will do less killings in revenge. Less innocent people hung from posts. Less chance Zelda could be one of them after I’ve gone.

  ‘You’ve met Genia,’ I say. ‘You helped her plant cabbages. She makes really
delicious stew.’

  I hope he remembers her. And what a kind person she is.

  I’m guessing that a kid who goes round killing Nazis probably doesn’t have much in the way of loving grown-ups in his life.

  ‘She’ll be really pleased to see a good friend of Leopold’s,’ I say.

  I decide not to tell the kid yet what happened to poor Leopold. No point upsetting a person when you’re trying to invite him to dinner.

  I can see he’s tempted. But he’s still frowning.

  ‘Why were you being friendly with that Nazi scum?’ he says.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ I say. ‘His name’s Amon and he hates Adolf Hitler as much as we do. He’s not like the others.’

  The kid still looks doubtful.

  ‘What were you both talking about?’ he says.

  ‘Books,’ I say. ‘Come on. We’re late. I’ll explain on the way.’

  The kid doesn’t move.

  We stand looking at each other. I have a feeling he wants me to be telling the truth. But there’s a world war on and hardly anyone tells the truth in a war.

  ‘After I’ve explained,’ I say, ‘if you still think I’m a spy, you can shoot me.’

  The kid thinks about this.

  ‘All right,’ he says, lowering the gun.

  We set off.

  ‘Wilhelm,’ shouts Genia as I come into the house. ‘Where have you been?’

  She’s furious.

  I have to move fast. If she scares the kid, anything could happen. He’s still got the gun in his coat pocket.

  ‘This is Dov,’ I say. ‘He’s a friend of mine. And Leopold’s.’

  Dov steps uncertainly into the kitchen. Genia stares at him. I can see she’s struggling with her feelings. She’s still angry with me, but because she’s good-hearted she doesn’t want to upset a guest.

  Zelda is also staring. She hides behind me.

  ‘Children shouldn’t play with knives,’ she says sternly to Dov.

  I don’t blame her. The last time she saw Dov he was threatening her with one. I give her a look to let her know it won’t happen this time.

  I hope.

  ‘This is Genia,’ I say to Dov. ‘And Zelda.’

  ‘I’m Violetta, remember?’ Zelda hisses.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say to her. ‘Dov knows about us. He’s Jewish.’