The woman is too strong to fight. I used to think Mum and Dad were strong from lifting books, but this woman’s got arm muscles like thick ropes.
‘Listen,’ I say to her. ‘My parents have got thousands of books from their bookshop stored away. If you let us go, you can have them all. They’re worth much more than four hundred zloty and two bottles of vodka.’
It’s not true, but sometimes to try and save your family you have to make up stories.
‘You Jews have certainly got imaginations,’ says the woman.
She doesn’t let us go.
‘I’d probably do the same if I was an orphan,’ she says. ‘Make up lies about my parents.’
I look at the woman.
How does she know I’m an orphan?
Suddenly we all jolt painfully to a stop. Zelda has grabbed a tree trunk with her free arm and is clinging to it.
‘We’re not going with you,’ she yells at the woman. ‘You’re horrible. You hurt people.’
The woman pulls Zelda away from the tree.
‘And you’re a naughty little girl,’ she says angrily to Zelda, ‘who by rights should be in that pit with your friends.’
She steers us along the forest path again, fast.
My brain is going fast too.
The woman thinks me and Zelda escaped from the group of children who got shot yesterday. That’s why she’s in such a hurry to take us to town. So she can hand us over to the Nazis and they can finish the job.
Desperately I try to think of another plan to get away.
Before I can, we come to the edge of the forest. It’s a different place to where we were yesterday, with a different valley. I can tell because it doesn’t have a children’s grave. Just lots of farms. And in the distance I can see a town.
I can’t see any Nazis in the town, but I know they’re there.
Now I’m panicking.
I’m panting almost as hard as the dog.
Zelda is still crying. I don’t blame her. Anyone would cry with a hurting arm and a hurting face both at once.
Suddenly I know what I have to do.
‘Zelda’s not Jewish,’ I say to the woman. ‘I am, but she’s not. Take me, but let her go, please.’
I look at the woman pleadingly.
Zelda stops crying. She gives me a glare.
‘Felix is wrong,’ she says to the woman. ‘I am Jewish.’
I can’t believe it. Why is Zelda saying this? It’s not true.
‘Don’t listen to her,’ I say.
‘I’m Jewish just like him,’ Zelda says to the woman. ‘I want to be Jewish and I am.’
I realise what Zelda’s doing. She’s saying this so we can stay together.
My head is bursting.
Doesn’t Zelda realise staying with me could kill her? Has she forgotten about the poor children in the pit?
‘Zelda’s parents weren’t Jewish,’ I say frantically to the woman. ‘Look at the photo in the locket round her neck. You’ll see.’
We stop. Without letting go of my collar or Zelda’s arm, the woman peers at Zelda’s neck.
I do too.
The necklace with the locket isn’t there.
‘Where’s the locket?’ I shout at Zelda.
‘I’m Jewish now,’ she shouts back. ‘You can’t stop me.’
Suddenly I understand. Zelda must have left the locket in our burrow. So she doesn’t have to think about her parents being Nazis.
I try to explain to the woman.
She’s not listening.
‘Both of you,’ she says angrily. ‘Be quiet.’
I give Zelda a look to let her know that the last thing I want is to be separated from her but I can’t think of what else to do.
Zelda stares back at me, angry and hurt.
‘You promised,’ she says.
She’s right, I did.
I feel terrible.
The woman marches us down into the valley, towards the town, towards the Nazis.
At least I can keep my promise now. Whatever happens next, at least it will happen to me and Zelda together.
Then the woman did a surprising thing. Instead of dragging me and Zelda into town and handing us over to the Nazis, she took us to a farm.
I think it’s her farm.
You know how when you’ve been expecting something awful to happen and it doesn’t, a field of cabbage stumps sparkling with morning dew can look even more beautiful than usual?
This field we’re tramping through now looks like that.
My empty tummy gurgles with hope as the woman hurries us along the track towards a farmhouse.
Maybe she’s a kind farmer after all.
OK, she’s not exactly behaving like one. She’s still gripping Zelda’s arm very hard. I can tell from poor Zelda’s face how much it hurts. And instead of dragging me by my shirt collar, she’s dragging me by my left ear, which also hurts.
Why are we going so fast? We’re almost trotting now. Zelda’s little legs can hardly keep up.
‘My feet hurt,’ says Zelda.
Poor thing. They must hurt a lot. On the way here the woman marched us through a field of cut hay. The stubble frayed Zelda’s bedtime slippers to bits. Her feet are bleeding.
‘Stop complaining,’ says the woman. ‘We’re nearly there.’
I should point out to the woman that Zelda is only six and is walking very fast for her age, but I can’t get the words out. My throat is too dry and my mouth is too weak with hunger.
Only one thing is keeping me going.
The trickle of smoke coming out of the farmhouse chimney.
Smoke can mean cooking. That might be why the woman is hurrying. And why the dog has rushed ahead and is barking at us. He might be letting us know that the sausage stew is done.
Just the thought of stew is giving me extra energy. Stew and boiled cabbage. I bet the cabbages on this farm are as beautiful as their stumps.
‘Cooking,’ I whisper to Zelda, pointing to the smoke so she can get extra energy too.
I notice something else very exciting about the farmhouse. It’s got two windows. That means it’s probably got two rooms. So if the woman lets us live with her, we won’t be overcrowded and getting on her nerves all the time.
I send a silent message to Zelda.
Please don’t bite the woman again. People don’t invite you to live with them if you bite them.
Zelda doesn’t bite the woman.
Even so, the woman doesn’t invite us to live with her.
Instead we all stop outside a low barn built from lumps of stone. The woman lets go of my ear, takes a key from her pants pocket, unlocks a big padlock and pulls the barn door open.
Several chickens rush out.
Zelda grins, which is pretty amazing for someone who’s hungry and thirsty and in pain.
The woman doesn’t grin. She pushes me and Zelda into the gloom.
‘I don’t want to hear a squeak,’ she says sternly, and locks me and Zelda in.
For a long time we sit on a pile of straw, too worn out to speak.
Finally Zelda does.
‘I know why that woman locked us in here,’ she says.
I hope Zelda isn’t thinking the same thing as me. That the woman couldn’t be bothered dragging us all the way to town just for two bottles of vodka and four hundred zloty. So instead she’s sent a message for the Nazis to come and get us.
‘She did it as a punishment,’ says Zelda. ‘Because you broke your promise.’
I sigh, but I don’t argue. It’s better if Zelda isn’t thinking about Nazis. She’s too young to be hungry and thirsty and scared all at the same time.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I was just trying to protect you.’
‘Leaving me isn’t protecting,’ says Zelda. ‘Hiding me is protecting.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Let’s hide now. Under the straw.’
It’s our only hope. If the Nazis arrive and can’t see us, maybe we’ll have a chance to run
for it.
We burrow deep into the straw.
‘See?’ says Zelda. ‘This is good protecting.’
‘We have to practise being very quiet,’ I whisper.
‘I don’t need practise,’ she says. ‘I’m good at being quiet. Don’t you know anything?’
A loud snuffling fills the barn.
‘Shhh,’ I whisper.
‘It’s not me,’ says Zelda.
The snuffling turns into wheezing.
Zelda grabs me.
It’s dark in our hiding place and I can’t see her, but I know she’s thinking the same as me.
That we’re not the only ones in this straw.
‘Hello?’ I whisper. ‘Is anyone there?’
Maybe the farm woman has captured another Jewish person so she can get six hundred zloty and three bottles of vodka. Or maybe there’s a Nazi soldier already here in the barn waiting for us.
I stop breathing.
The wheezing turns into grunting.
‘That’s not me,’ whispers Zelda.
Suddenly there’s a violent movement next to us and most of the straw isn’t over us any more.
I blink in the faint haze of daylight coming under the barn door.
I’m staring up at a strange face. Two beady black eyes and a pink bald head and a big snout dripping with snot.
It’s a pig.
‘Naughty pig,’ says Zelda. ‘You’re too noisy.’
The pig shuffles back a few steps.
‘It’s all right,’ I say to Zelda. ‘I think it’s just lonely.’
I peer around the barn. I can’t see any other pigs. I know I’d get lonely, stuck in a barn on my own all day without any family. With just a few chickens who don’t even tell me when my nose is running.
I pat the pig.
Zelda grabs me. Outside, somebody is unlocking the barn door. We dive back into the straw. But before we can cover ourselves, the door swings open and the woman comes in. She puts a bowl of food onto the floor, and a bowl of water.
‘Go on,’ she says. ‘Get it into you.’
I hesitate. Does she mean me and Zelda, or the pig?
The woman doesn’t wait to explain. She steps out of the barn, slams the door shut and locks it again.
The pig doesn’t wait either. It sticks its snout into the food and starts gobbling.
Me and Zelda hurry over and grab some.
The pig doesn’t seem to mind.
‘Thanks for sharing,’ I say to the pig, my mouth full of delicious cold mashed potato and cabbage stalks.
‘That’s OK,’ says Zelda.
Her mouth is so full her cheeks are bulging.
You know how when you’re really hungry all you can think about is food, but as soon as you’ve eaten all you can think about is how thirsty you are?
That’s happening to me.
I take my glasses off and stick my face in the water bowl and drink and drink.
Zelda does too.
So does the pig.
We all drink and drink and keep drinking until the Nazis arrive.
As soon as we hear the truck coming towards the farm, me and Zelda scramble back under the straw and make sure we’re completely covered. Except for a tiny peephole so I can pick the right moment for us to run.
The barn door bangs open. I squint out through the straw. The woman comes in. She’s wearing a dress now, and makeup, and she’s brushed her hair. She takes a handful of something from her dress pocket and flings it around the barn.
What is she doing?
Outside the barn, men are yelling at each other in Nazi and slamming the truck doors. Suddenly my nose tingles painfully and I know what the woman is scattering.
Pepper.
The woman wants me and Zelda to start sneezing so much we can’t run. So we’ll be helpless and the Nazi soldiers can grab us and she’ll get her reward.
She’s not a kind farmer, she’s a horrible one.
Well, me and Zelda aren’t going to sneeze. I press my fingers against my top lip and I press my other fingers against Zelda’s.
‘I can do it myself,’ Zelda whispers indignantly, pushing my fingers away.
My hand brushes against something small and hard lying in the straw. I grab it. I can feel a chain. And a hinge. Zelda’s locket. She must have had it in her pocket all the time. It must have fallen out when she was diving in and out of the straw.
I keep my eye at the peephole.
A Nazi soldier comes into the barn. He’s got a rifle with a bayonet. A second soldier comes in with a dog. Not a floppy dog with sad eyes and comfy armchair fur. A vicious killer Nazi dog that’s straining at its lead, desperate to bite people.
If it sniffs out me and Zelda, we’re finished.
The Nazi dog coughs. The woman glances towards me and Zelda.
Oh no. I think she knows exactly where we are. She must have spotted our hiding place when she brought the food in.
It’s too late to run. I squeeze the locket tight in my hand. When the woman drags us out of the straw and hands us over, I’m going to give the locket to the soldiers. When they see the photo of Zelda’s father in Nazi uniform they’ll have to show Zelda mercy.
Sometimes you have to break a promise if it’s the only way to save your family.
That’s weird. The woman isn’t dragging us out and handing us over. She’s standing very close to the soldiers, who are sniffing the air and frowning.
‘Do you like it?’ says the woman. ‘My perfume?’
She gives them a cheeky grin, like Mum used to give Dad when she was up the ladder in the shop getting a book from the top shelf and Dad used to kiss her on the ankle.
The Nazi soldiers glance at each other.
The woman holds her wrist under their noses. They both sniff it. She gives them another cheeky grin. They both grin back.
I don’t get it. If she wants to be romantic with Nazis, why doesn’t she hand me and Zelda over first? That’ll make them like her even more.
The Nazi dog sneezes.
Suddenly I have an amazing thought.
What if the pepper isn’t for us? What if it’s for the dog? What if the woman is doing some good protecting?
‘Hope you find those two Jew kids,’ says the woman to the soldiers. ‘So you can finish the job. I reckon the little vermin are hiding in the forest somewhere. You’ll know them when you see them, they’ll look like that.’
Chuckling, she points to the pig, who’s in the corner, trembling, as far away from the Nazi dog as it can get.
The soldiers frown again. Is it because they don’t like seeing an animal scared?
Probably not. It’s probably because they don’t speak much Polish.
Oh no.
The soldier with the rifle is coming over to where we’re hidden. The woman looks like she wants to stop him, but she doesn’t. The soldier stabs his bayonet into the pile of straw next to ours.
Should I jump out and show him the locket?
Too late, now he’s raising his bayonet over our pile.
I want to put my arms round Zelda, but I daren’t move. I pray she won’t make a noise. I pray I won’t either, not even if that bayonet slices into me.
Help us, Richmal Crompton, please.
The bayonet blade hisses into the straw just past my head. And again just near my chest. I can’t see where it goes after that, but Zelda isn’t making a sound.
The soldier stops stabbing.
He gives the woman a shrug and a grin. The woman stops biting her lip and gives a half-grin back. But when the soldiers both turn away, she glances over towards me and Zelda again.
She looks very worried, like she really doesn’t want us to be stabbed.
Yes.
My insides do a dance.
Except I’m feeling worried too.
Zelda still isn’t making a sound.
The Nazi soldiers go out of the barn. The woman follows them. Just before she steps out the door, she forces a smile back onto her anxious f
ace.
‘Felix,’ whispers Zelda in my ear. ‘Are you stabbed?’
I’ve never been so happy to hear her voice.
‘No,’ I say.
‘I’m not stabbed too,’ says Zelda.
I put my arms round her and say a silent thank you to Richmal Crompton.
The Nazi soldiers are driving away. The woman is shouting friendly things after them, but I can tell she’s only pretending.
Zelda’s heart is going as fast as mine.
I’m not surprised.
It’s pretty exciting when you get a new parent.
Then me and Zelda crawled out of the straw and the woman checked us over for stab wounds and was very relieved we didn’t have any and took us into her house and gave us hot food including cabbage leaves and a whole turnip and a bath.
She also told us her name, which is Genia, and the dog’s name, which is Leopold.
Zelda is first for the bath, but she doesn’t want to get in.
‘Come on, Zelda,’ says Genia. ‘This water won’t stay hot for ever and I’m not heating any more.’
Zelda is staring at the kitchen floor, sticking out her bottom lip.
‘You slapped me,’ she says.
At first I can see Genia isn’t sure what Zelda is talking about.
‘In the forest,’ says Zelda.
Now Genia remembers. She crouches down in front of Zelda.
‘You bit me,’ says Genia. ‘So let’s make a deal. If you don’t bite me, I won’t slap you.’
Zelda thinks about this.
She nods and gets into the bath. The deal works. Zelda doesn’t bite Genia, and Genia is very gentle with Zelda’s cut feet.
Now it’s my turn.
My face is burning. Not from the water, because I’m standing up and it doesn’t even reach my knees. My face is hot because Genia is staring at my private part like it’s the most annoying thing she’s ever seen.
I look away and pretend not to notice.
I was right about this house. It’s got two rooms. There’s the kitchen we’re in now, and a completely separate bedroom. The house is made in a clever way. The wood stove is in the middle wall, so it heats both the rooms.
Genia is still staring at my private part.
Now she’s sighing loudly.