‘It’s rude to stare,’ says Zelda. ‘Don’t you know anything?’
‘You Jews,’ says Genia. ‘Only Jews would do that to a kid.’
Of course. Now I know why she’s staring. But it’s not Mum and Dad’s fault. They didn’t want to have me circumcised.
‘It wasn’t my parents’ fault,’ I say to Genia. ‘It was my grandfather. He was still alive when I was a baby and he made them do it. He said he’d get ill if they didn’t do it.’
‘Do what?’ says Zelda.
‘Chop off a perfectly good foreskin,’ says Genia.
Now Zelda is staring at my private part too.
But only for a moment. She gives me the towel and a sympathetic look.
Genia isn’t being sympathetic.
‘What a very clever grandfather,’ she says, taking the towel off me and drying my back. ‘Now every Nazi Jew-killer can spot you a mile off.’
‘He was religious,’ I say.
You have to stand up for your grandfather even if he did accidently put your life at risk.
‘Religious,’ says Genia scornfully. ‘That’s not my idea of religious.’
For a moment I wonder if she prays to Richmal Crompton too. But I don’t say anything about that because there’s something even more important I need to ask her.
‘If you hate Jewish people so much,’ I say, ‘why didn’t you hand me over to the Nazis?’
‘And me?’ says Zelda.
I wait anxiously for Genia’s answer. It’s a risky question to ask a person you hope is going to look after you and protect you and give you more turnips.
Genia chews her lip and rubs her head like some people do when a question is difficult. Szymon Glick used to do it in class all the time.
‘You’re right,’ says Genia. ‘I don’t like Jews. I never have. It’s how I was brought up.’
My insides sink.
Zelda is glaring. I can see she’s trying to think of an insult to say back at Genia.
‘But,’ says Genia, ‘there are people I dislike much more than Jews.’
‘Nazis?’ I say.
‘Oh yes,’ says Genia. ‘I hate Nazis a lot.’
I remind myself to make sure that Genia never sees Zelda’s locket, which I’ve hidden in my boot.
‘But most of all,’ continues Genia, ‘I hate anyone who hurts children.’
Now, with her eyes fierce, she looks even more like Mum. Even with her short hair that’s sticking up from where she was rubbing it.
‘When I heard a rumour the Nazis had killed the Jewish orphans,’ says Genia, ‘I prayed it wasn’t true. That’s why I was in the forest, seeing for myself.’
She screws up her face at the memory and smacks the bathwater, splashing me and Zelda.
Leopold gives a yelp and jumps back.
‘Those kids have lived in this district all their lives,’ says Genia. ‘What sort of monsters would do that to them?’
I’m not sure if she wants an answer, so I stand quietly while she dries me and Zelda again.
Genia stops frowning and looks at us both.
‘How did you manage it?’ she asks. ‘How did you escape from the shooting?’
I can see she does want an answer to this. But I’m not sure what to say. She thinks we’re local orphans and we’re not. If I tell her the truth, will she still want to look after us?
‘We didn’t escape from the shooting, we escaped from the train,’ Zelda says to her. ‘Don’t you know anything?’
Genia stares at us in surprise.
I wait for her to ask us to leave.
She doesn’t.
‘A train from the city,’ I say quietly. ‘On its way to a death camp.’
Genia puts her hand on my face, just for a moment, and I can tell from her expression that it’s going to be all right.
Zelda is frowning.
‘If you’re going to be our new mummy,’ she says to Genia, ‘you have to like Jewish people.’
Genia nods slowly, puffing out her cheeks as if it’s a very difficult thing to think about.
‘Felix can’t help it,’ says Zelda, pointing towards my private part.
Genia gives a long sigh.
‘Neither of you can,’ she says. ‘Come on, kneel down so I can do your hair.’
We both kneel down with our heads over the metal bathtub.
‘Keep your eyes closed,’ says Genia.
She wets our hair and rubs something onto it that smells horrible. And hurts.
‘Ow,’ says Zelda. ‘That shampoo stings.’
‘It’s not shampoo,’ says Genia. ‘It’s bleach.’
I don’t know what bleach is, but when I finally open my eyes I see what it does.
Zelda’s hair isn’t black any more, it’s yellow. And Zelda is staring at me with an amazed expression, so my hair must have turned yellow too.
I know why Genia has done this.
‘It’s so we blend in with the straw, isn’t it?’ I say to her. ‘For when we hide in the barn.’
Genia smiles.
‘Good thought, Felix,’ she says. ‘But you won’t be hiding in the barn any more.’
I stare at her. I don’t like the sound of this. Has she decided it’s too risky to have us that close to the house?
‘Where will we be hiding?’ I ask anxiously. ‘In a haystack?’
‘Out in the open,’ says Genia.
I stare at her even harder.
How can we hide out in the open?
‘Are you good at stories, Felix?’ asks Genia.
‘Yes, he is,’ says Zelda. ‘He’s very good. Specially funny ones and sad ones.’
‘Excellent,’ says Genia. ‘Because from now on you both have to tell people a story about yourselves. How you’re two Catholic children from Pilica. How your parents were killed. How you’ve come to stay with your aunty, who from now on is me.’
I try to take this in.
Zelda is thinking about it too.
I’m not sure how I feel about this.
‘Wouldn’t the barn be safer?’ I say.
Suddenly the barn doesn’t seem so bad. We could play with the pig. And the chickens. I try not to think about Nazi bayonets.
‘Only Jews hide in barns,’ says Genia. ‘And from now on you’re not Jews.’
For a moment I think Zelda is going to argue, but she doesn’t.
I don’t either, but I’m still not sure.
‘Which would you prefer?’ says Genia. ‘Being stuck in a barn the whole time, or being able to run around and play outdoors and sleep in a bed?’
‘A bed,’ I say.
‘A bed,’ says Zelda.
It’s a good point. We haven’t slept in a real bed for ages.
I’m starting to see that hiding in the open could be better, except for one problem. I look down at my private part.
Genia sees me looking and nods her head.
‘That is the weak link in our plan,’ she says.
I wish it wasn’t. But I do have one hopeful thought.
‘When I was younger,’ I tell Genia, ‘my parents hid me in a Catholic orphanage. I told the other boys I’d been circumcised for medical reasons because I’d had an illness of the private part.’
Genia shakes her head.
‘Good story,’ she says. ‘But the Nazis have heard it a million times before.’
We all look at my private part.
‘Only one thing to do,’ says Genia.
‘What?’ I say, hoping it won’t be painful.
‘Don’t show it to anybody,’ says Genia.
I nod. I’ll have to hope no Nazis want to see it.
‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t show it to anybody,’ says Zelda.
‘Good girl,’ says Genia. ‘Now, we have to find new names for you.’
Zelda’s eyes light up.
‘William and Violet Elizabeth,’ she says.
Genia thinks about this.
‘They’re names from our favourite stories,’ I explain. ?
??Our favourite story-writer Richmal Crompton is English. When her stories are changed into Polish, the names stay English.’
‘English names aren’t a good idea,’ says Genia. ‘The Nazis are at war with England.’
‘We like those names,’ says Zelda fiercely.
Genia rolls her eyes.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘But we have to make them Polish. Wilhelm and Violetta.’
Zelda grins.
I’m happy too. Now it’s almost like Richmal Crompton will be helping Genia look after us.
This bed is comfortable and warm, and Genia doesn’t snore that much, and she’s left a lamp burning low so we won’t be scared.
But I just can’t get to sleep.
Neither can Zelda.
‘Felix,’ she says, nudging me in the ribs. ‘Tell me a William and Violet Elizabeth story.’
‘You mean Wilhelm and Violetta,’ I whisper. ‘And don’t fidget. You’ll pull the covers off Genia and wake her up.’
It’s very kind of Genia to let us share her bed. Luckily there’s space because her husband’s away.
Zelda lies very still and I whisper a story to her. It’s about how Wilhelm and Violetta are rescued by a kind lady called Genia. They live happily ever after with Genia, and with her friendly dog who likes to be tickled, and with a nice pig who likes to be tickled too, and with some very loyal chickens. Sometimes Wilhelm and Violetta play hide-and-seek with the chickens, and at no stage do the chickens betray them to the Nazis.
By the time I’ve finished the story, Zelda is asleep.
‘Good story,’ whispers Genia.
I’m startled. I hadn’t realised she was listening.
‘Can you tell another one?’ she says. ‘About a Polish man who’s forced to go to Germany to work for the Nazis and who comes home safely.’
I look at her, confused. I’m not sure if I know enough to tell a story like that.
‘He likes to be tickled,’ says Genia.
While I’m waiting for my imagination to come up with something, I see the sad smile on her face and I realise who she’s talking about.
‘Does he come home at weekends?’ I ask. ‘Your husband.’
Genia shakes her head.
‘I haven’t seen him for two years,’ she says quietly.
‘That’s terrible,’ I say.
I tell Genia the story she asked for, but while I’m telling it I’m also thinking about something else.
Why do people start wars when they know so many sad things are going to happen?
I don’t get it.
After I finish the story, me and Genia talk for a while. She doesn’t get it either.
Finally she says, ‘I must let you sleep. Good night, Wilhelm. And thank you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For protecting me and Zelda. I mean me and Violetta.’
We’re both lying here, breathing quietly, Zelda asleep between us.
I don’t know Genia very well, but I can guess what she’s thinking.
The same as me.
We’re both hoping our stories come true.
Then me and Zelda lived happily with Genia for more than a week without any sad things happening.
We also lived happily with Leopold the dog and Trotski the pig.
And a bit less happily with the chickens, who won’t stay still long enough for us to feed them with our automatic chicken-feeding machine.
‘Stop running away,’ says Zelda crossly, waving her arms at them and chasing them all over the barn. ‘You have to line up.’
I’m not surprised the chickens are a bit scared. They’ve probably never seen a gherkin tin nailed to a rafter before. Specially not one with a string hanging down that you have to pull with your beak to make the tin wobble and the grains of wheat fall through the holes in the bottom.
New inventions are always a bit confusing and scary. I remember how nervous Mum and Dad were at home when we first got a tin-opener. You can’t blame these chickens for feeling the same.
‘Give them time to get used to it,’ I say to Zelda.
But Zelda grabs a chicken and staggers with it over to the chicken-feeding machine. She holds its beak and tries to make it pull the string. The chicken spits the string out, squawks indignantly and flaps out of her arms.
‘Idiot,’ Zelda yells at it. ‘You have to pull the string. Don’t you know anything?’
I smile to myself.
When Zelda asked me to build the automatic 1965 chicken-feeding machine from our story, I had a feeling it might be a bit too advanced for these 1942 chickens. But I didn’t care because it was such fun inventing and making it. Nothing takes your mind off sad war things like an automatic chicken-feeding machine.
For a while, anyway.
‘You’re all idiots,’ Zelda is yelling at the chickens. ‘And Nazis.’
Leopold the dog and Trotski the pig are cowering in the corner of the barn.
The chickens are looking pretty stressed too, which I’m now remembering isn’t a good thing.
Before Genia went into town this morning, she explained that these days eggs are so precious they’re like money. In fact, eggs are Genia’s only money. Which is why instead of us eating them, she takes them to town to swap for things.
When she gets home this afternoon I don’t want her to find all the chickens have stopped laying eggs because Zelda has been calling them Nazis.
I decide to give the chickens a break.
‘Let’s play hide-and-seek,’ I say to Zelda.
She looks at me like I’m an inventor who’s not taking inventing seriously enough. But after a few moments she grins.
‘All right,’ she says.
We help Leopold hide in his kennel and we give Trotski a hand to lie down behind an old horse harness. After that we burrow down into the straw.
‘Come and find us,’ Zelda calls to the chickens as she snuggles next to me.
I’m not sure if the chickens will be any better at this than they are at feeding themselves automatically, but it doesn’t matter. It’s fun here in the straw with no Nazis around.
‘Felix,’ whispers Zelda. ‘I like it here. Can we stay here for ever?’
At first I think she means in the straw, which would get a bit itchy after a while because of the insects.
‘On this farm,’ says Zelda.
‘I hope so,’ I reply, but before I can explain that it’s up to Genia, the barn door gives a loud creak.
I blow the dust off my glasses and peer out through the straw.
The barn door was shut to keep the chickens in, but not locked. Now somebody, I can’t see who, is slowly pulling it open.
‘Shhh,’ I whisper to Zelda.
We hold our breaths.
Leopold barks.
I pray it’s just Genia home early and I wait for her to step inside.
She doesn’t.
Instead, a lump of something is tossed through the doorway and lands with a splat on the dirt floor.
A lump of raw meat.
I stare at it.
This is incredible. Meat is even more precious than eggs. Who would throw a lump of meat onto the ground?
‘Good boy,’ I hear a voice whispering from outside. ‘Good boy, Leopold.’
Leopold comes panting out of his kennel and goes straight to the meat and starts eating it.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Leopold is an important family member and we love him a lot, but you don’t give meat to a dog, not in wartime, not when people are lucky if they have it once a month.
I’m tempted to crawl out of the straw to remind Genia about this, but before I can, somebody comes into the barn and it’s not Genia.
It’s a kid.
He’s about my age with dark hair and old grown-up clothes that are too big for him. He kneels down next to Leopold, who’s still scoffing the meat.
‘Good boy,’ he says in a gruff voice, and gives Leopold a hug.
Gently I squeeze Zelda’s arm to let her know we should
stay hidden until I can work out who this kid is. We can’t be too careful. Kids like rewards too, even if they don’t drink vodka.
Zelda is stiff with fright. I know what she’s hoping. That the chickens don’t suddenly get good at hide-and-seek and find us.
Wait a minute, that kid looks a bit familiar.
Have I met him before?
While I’m trying to think if I have, Trotski the pig goes over to the meat and starts gobbling it too.
Leopold doesn’t mind, but the kid does.
‘Get lost,’ he says, and smacks Trotski on the head.
Before I can stop her, Zelda is on her feet, straw flying everywhere, striding towards the kid.
I stand up too.
The kid jumps back, startled, dark eyes glaring.
‘Don’t hit Trotski,’ Zelda yells at the kid. ‘He doesn’t like being hit. He only likes being tickled.’
Zelda puts her arms round Trotski, who looks slightly dazed by all the attention.
The kid grabs Zelda and gets one arm round her neck. In his other hand he suddenly has a knife close to her throat.
There’s blood on the knife.
Please, I beg silently, let it be blood from the meat.
‘Stop being a bully,’ squeals Zelda.
I take a step towards them. The kid moves the knife even closer to Zelda’s throat.
‘Let her go,’ I say. ‘We’re Leopold’s friends too.’
The kid doesn’t reply. Just glowers at me with the angriest eyes I’ve ever seen.
‘Leopold isn’t your friend,’ Zelda says to the kid. ‘Bite him, Leopold.’
Leopold growls, but stays with the meat. I don’t think he likes fighting.
I’m going to have to grab the knife. I don’t like fighting either and I haven’t really done much, but I can’t think of any other way.
The kid looks like he’s done a lot of fighting. He’s got a big scab on his forehead.
Here goes.
But before I can fling myself at him, the kid suddenly mutters some swear words and pushes Zelda away and runs out of the barn.
I let him go.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask Zelda, helping her up and checking her for stab wounds.
‘Children shouldn’t play with real knives,’ she says tearfully. ‘Doesn’t he know anything?’
I hug her. Leopold licks her. Trotski burps in a sympathetic way. The chickens run around clucking excitedly, but I think that’s just because they’ve found us.