I work my way across the clearing, going from body to body, checking for vital signs.
Nothing.
The dead partisans look like they’ve been shot extra times to make sure.
‘Yuli,’ I yell, in case she’s hiding somewhere, waiting for me.
I go and look. She’s not in the sleeping bunker, not even up the men’s end. I don’t bother looking in the storage bunker because the whole thing’s on fire. Instead I run to the hospital bunker. Yuli’s not in there either.
Doctor Zajak is.
He’s on his table. He looks like he’s just done fifty operations without time to put on a fresh apron. But the blood on his front isn’t from fifty operations, it’s from him.
I step closer and see the bullet holes.
Too many for hot.
Too many for clean.
Doctor Zajak’s eyes are open, staring at his scalpels on the shelf. I wish he could feel proud and satisfied at the thought of all the lives he saved with them. And I wish I could thank him for all the good education he gave me.
But that’s one of the worst things about war. Everything happens too quickly. You don’t get a chance to say goodbye.
Not properly.
Not to anyone.
Gently I close Doctor Zajak’s eyes like he taught me. Then I hurry out of the bunker, desperately trying to think where else Yuli could be.
A thought hits me. So far I’ve found eleven bodies including Doctor Zajak. But there were more than eleven partisans in our group, more than twice that many.
Where are the others?
Did they get away?
I run over to the hollow tree, the one we used to tether Dom to. Yuli said if the partisans ever had to move on, she’d leave a note there.
I reach inside the tree.
Gabriek’s violin is there, exactly where I left it, wrapped in a piece of oily sacking inside the violin case for safe keeping.
But no note.
Not inside the tree, or the case, or the violin.
I stand there, numb with disappointment. I can’t believe Yuli would shift camp without letting me know where she was going. Even if Mr Pavel was yelling at her to get a move on she’d leave a message.
Wouldn’t she?
I hear a creaking sound.
For a wild second I hope it’s Yuli, hiding up a tree, making the branch creak as she climbs down.
I look around at the nearby trees.
Oh.
It’s not Yuli, it’s Mr Pavel.
And he’s not climbing down. A rope is round his neck and his body is twisting in the breeze making the branch creak.
The Nazis like hanging people. It’s their way of showing the world they can break anything they want to.
Frantically I search the other trees for more hanging bodies, but there aren’t any.
So there’s still a chance.
Yuli and the others might have got away.
That’s what I think until I go over to the burning storage bunker, hoping a bit of food might not be burnt so me and Dom can eat it.
I smell a horrible smell.
A smell that’s like burning meat but different.
I smelled it yesterday in town, after the bombing, when me and Yuli hurried past burning buildings with dead bodies in them.
The frozen bodies of dead partisans used to be stored in this bunker. But when the snow thawed, we buried them.
So why is there this smell now?
Then I see it, lying by the entrance to the bunker. It’s only a fragment and it’s charred round the edges, but I’d recognise that red cloth anywhere.
Yuli’s headscarf.
I pick it up and stare at it and the horrible sickly smell of burning bodies makes me want to throw up and also makes me want to fall down because now I know.
The others didn’t get away.
None of them did.
Dom knows too.
He stands patiently, letting me hold on to him and press my face into him and make his fur wet.
In my imagination I give Yuli a last hug.
And thank her for the good protection.
And promise to tell everyone about her, so her name and her father’s name won’t ever be forgotten.
I can feel Dom’s muscles twitching sadly. I wish I had muscles that big. So big I could kill hundreds of Nazis with my bare hands. Just smash them and rip them and break their veins and arteries.
Except what’s the point?
It wouldn’t bring Yuli back. Or Mum and Dad. Or Zelda or Barney or Genia or anyone.
I’d still be missing them.
Year after year after year after year.
Sometimes you don’t have to actually live in a hole to feel like you’re in a dark and lonely place.
Life must go on, that’s what Gabriek always says.
I wipe my snot off Dom. He’s not complaining, just looking at me with his gentle eyes. I can see how sad he’s feeling about poor Yuli too.
He waits patiently while I bury the partisans.
The ones from the clearing, and Doctor Zajak.
It takes ages but Dom doesn’t mind.
Digging helps when you’re sad. It doesn’t make you feel better, but it helps you think.
I wonder why the Nazis didn’t burn all the partisans’ bodies?
Perhaps they couldn’t fit them all in the storage bunker. Perhaps their officers told them to stop wasting time being firebugs. Perhaps they just got bored.
Anyway, it’s an honour for me to bury these brave partisans. Specially Doctor Zajak. It’s a way of saying thank you.
And it’s helped me make a big decision.
I’m not going to bother with parents any more.
Wars aren’t a good time for parents. You see it everywhere. Kids upset and angry and bitter because of what’s happened to parents. It’s not the parents’ fault, it’s just the way it is.
I think in wartime you’re better off doing without parents.
Look at Dom. He hasn’t seen his parents for years and he doesn’t spend his time moping about them.
From now on I’m not going to bother with parents either.
the bombing started again, I knew it was safe to go back into town to get the rest of my tins of food.
That’s the one good thing about bombing, it distracts Nazis.
‘Try not to worry,’ I say to Dom as we walk along a dark street, steering the cart between piles of rubble. ‘Most of the bombs are falling on the other side of town tonight.’
That’s mostly true, but sometimes there’s an explosion very close, even louder than a big horse stamping on a plank of wood right next to your ear. And straight afterwards there’s the creaking crashing noise of a building breaking into pieces.
The cold wind is full of gritty dust.
I’m alright, I’ve got glasses and Gabriek’s earflap hat. I’m glad I put a blanket over Dom’s head to shield his eyes.
‘The straw will protect us,’ I say to him.
Our cart is piled high with potatoes and oats and straw. Not stinky rancid sleeping-bunker straw. Clean fresh delicious straw. Enough to keep Dom going for weeks. If you choose the right farmer, it’s amazing how much straw and oats and potatoes a bag of jewels will get you, even in wartime.
If a lump of building does fall on us, I’m hoping the straw will cushion the blow.
It’s the people without straw I’m worried about. The Jewish girls in the apartment haven’t got any straw. If a bomb falls on their building, all they’ll have to cushion the blow is a few cushions.
‘Hello,’ I call out as I crunch my way into the girls’ apartment. ‘It’s me again.’
Silence, except for the distant sound of buildings breaking.
I know I should be getting the tins from next door and hurrying away, but now that I’ve started thinking about the girls I want to see if they’re alright.
I light one of Doctor Zajak’s candles and hold it up and look around the living room. And feel a jolt of d
isappointment.
The little hiding-place room at the other end is empty. The three mattresses are gone.
There’s much more rubble in the living room. And bits of furniture I haven’t seen before. Stuff must have fallen through the big new hole in the ceiling.
‘Shhhh.’
Was that a voice, or just some gas leaking in the bombed-out kitchen?
I stand very still and listen.
‘It might not be him,’ whispers a voice. ‘It might be a trap.’
The voice sounds like the oldest girl. But it isn’t coming from behind any of the piles of furniture, it’s coming from under the floor.
‘What’s the password?’ says another voice loudly. That one sounds like the middle girl.
‘We don’t have a password, idiot,’ whispers the oldest girl’s voice.
‘Yes we do,’ says the middle girl’s voice.
I hold my candle flame close to a crack between the splintered floorboards.
From my pocket I take the ring I saved to open tins with. I push the diamond part into a crack so the girls can see it.
‘Amcha,’ I say.
There’s silence, then sounds of movement.
In the corner of the room a couple of floorboards lift up and the oldest girl’s head appears. She looks tired and hungry and miserable. Her skin is pale and stretched tight, which happens to very hungry people.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ she says. ‘If you’ve come for more tins, you shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘I’ve come to see if you want to go to another hiding place,’ I say. ‘A safer one.’
The girl looks at me like I’ve been hit in the head by a piece of sideboard from upstairs.
I haven’t. I just said that without planning to. But I’m glad I did.
‘There isn’t a safer hiding place,’ says the girl. ‘The whole town’s being bombed every night.’
‘I know a place,’ I say. ‘In the forest. An island.’
The girl thinks about this. She looks partly doubtful and a bit hopeful. She climbs up into the room and helps her two younger sisters climb up.
‘Is there food on the island?’ she asks me.
‘And coconut trees?’ says the youngest girl.
I shake my head.
‘I’ll get more food from next door,’ I say. ‘More tins.’
‘No you won’t,’ says the oldest girl. ‘Next door’s been hit by a bomb.’
Mr Motyl has disappeared.
Outside the entrance to the basement flat next door, there’s just a huge pile of rubble. Nothing is sticking out, not even Mr Motyl’s feet.
I climb over the rubble and peer into what used to be the flat.
Lots more rubble. No tins.
The tins must be buried in here somewhere. But if something can get buried, it can get unburied. Gabriek would agree with that.
I make myself stop thinking about Gabriek. There’s just me now.
I wriggle into the flat and start digging.
It’s a slow job. I have to twist round and push each piece of rubble out through the opening behind me.
Twist after twist.
Brick after brick.
I’m tempted to ask the girls to come in from the cart to help me. But there are probably things in here the younger ones shouldn’t see.
Dead Hitler Youth boys, very likely.
I grab another piece of rubble. And another.
Rubble after rubble after rubble.
Then I move a chunk and something behind it glints in the light from my candle.
A tin.
I scrabble to get to it.
And hear a groan.
For a second I have a crazy thought. It’s Mr Motyl, back from the dead to stop me taking his tins. But there’s another groan and it comes from under my knees.
‘Help,’ says a muffled voice.
I claw at the rubble, flinging bricks and lumps of plaster away. Then I’m kneeling on something else.
The top of a table.
Ow.
A fork is sticking into my shin. I put it into my pocket because forks are scarce in wartime.
While I’m doing that, some of the rubble collapses, and now I can see what’s under the table.
Three people, huddled and sobbing.
One is hugging his knees.
Another is hugging a rifle and his little sister.
I recognise the uniforms even under all the dust.
‘Rescue us,’ says the little girl.
The two Hitler Youth boys don’t say anything or do anything, just stare at me. They don’t look like they care who I am or what I’m here for. But I can see they want me to rescue them too.
For a few moments I don’t want to rescue them. I think of Mum and Dad and Yuli and the others and I want to hurt them.
Then I remember I’m doing without parents now.
People who aren’t bothering about parents shouldn’t bother about revenge either.
We’re nearly at the forest, which is a relief. I was worried daylight would start before we got here.
It’s not Dom’s fault, he’s been working his hardest. It’s just that the cart is so loaded. A layer of tins and a layer of straw and a layer of potatoes and oats, and on top of all that another layer of straw and a layer of kids and another huge layer of straw.
‘Are we there yet?’ calls a grumpy voice from under the straw.
I sigh. I knew being patient and quiet was going to be hard for the little kids, who are only about five, but I didn’t think it would be this hard for the Hitler Youth boys as well.
‘Almost,’ I say. ‘Be patient.’
‘If these filthy Jews don’t stay over their side,’ says Helmut’s voice, ‘I’m chucking them out of the cart.’
‘You touch my sisters,’ says the oldest girl’s voice, ‘and you’ll get this tin in your teeth.’
Helmut mutters something in German.
I sigh again.
I’m tempted to tell them that if they don’t stop squabbling, they can all get out and walk.
But I don’t. It’s not their fault. You have to expect arguments when you’ve got Jews and Nazis in the same cart.
Things will be better when we get to the island. When they see we’re all in this together. All sharing the same good protection.
I hope.
it’s been in a Nazi’s mouth?’ exploded Hannah, pushing my toothbrush away. ‘No chance.’
I sigh.
I struggle to stay patient.
This is our third day on the island and I thought we’d finally got the rules sorted out.
Wees and poos into the north side of the swamp, drinking water and washing water only from the south side.
No fires during the day.
No mixing up our sleeping hay and Dom’s eating hay.
Leg exercises twice a day for those who have to do them, which is just me at the moment.
And no going to bed without cleaning our teeth.
Obviously we still haven’t got that one sorted out. I wonder if Mr Pavel had this problem.
‘I’m not sharing a toothbrush with a Nazi,’ mutters Hannah.
I sigh. I was hoping an oldest sister would set a better example.
‘I’d rather have rotten teeth than Jew-spit in my gob,’ retorts Axel the bicycle boy.
‘Stop it, both of you,’ I say. ‘You’re lucky we’ve got a toothbrush.’
I’ve explained to them all why partisans are so strict about teeth cleaning. You can’t stay in a forest with toothache. You make too much noise, plus you could get a jaw infection and die.
‘OK,’ I say to Axel. ‘Don’t clean your teeth. Your decision. And in a couple of weeks you can go back to the bombing and try to find a dentist.’
Axel glares at me, and mutters something in German, but he grabs my brush and starts cleaning his teeth.
After Axel and Helmut do theirs, and Helmut’s little sister Bug does hers, I boil the brush in the potato pot and Hannah, Beryl a
nd Faiga do theirs.
I stare at the tattered bristles. It was an old brush when Yuli gave it to me, and now it’s looking even older. I wonder how much longer it’ll last with seven of us using it.
Live life one day at a time, that’s what Gabriek used to say when I was in the hole.
I shouldn’t have done that. Started thinking about Yuli and Gabriek. If I get emotional, Axel and Helmut will think I’m going weak and they might try to take over as leader.
The truth is I’d love somebody else to take over. But I can’t risk it while they’re all squabbling.
‘Come on,’ I say sternly. ‘Bedtime.’
I get Dom to lie down on his straw. Hannah helps me lift our pine-branch sleeping shelter over him. Then we all lie down and snuggle up against Dom and each other and pull our coats over ourselves.
‘I can’t sleep with a Jew on my foot,’ says Helmut.
I lose my temper.
‘Helmut,’ I say angrily. ‘We’ve been through this. We haven’t got any blankets. We need to share body warmth. You don’t hear Dom complaining, and he doesn’t even have to sleep lying down. He’s just doing it to be kind.’
‘Anyway, Helmut,’ says Hannah, ‘there are worse things than having a Jew on your foot.’
‘Like what?’ scowls Helmut.
‘Well,’ says Hannah, her voice suddenly icy. ‘How about if you were killed in the night? By a Jew who’s decided to make you Nazi pigs pay for what you did to our parents?’
There’s a long silence.
Helmut and Hannah glare at each other.
I don’t know how I’ll get them apart if this turns violent. Axel doesn’t look like he’ll help.
Helmut suddenly rolls over and curls up with his back to Hannah.
‘Just stay off my foot,’ he growls.
Hannah gives him a last glare and rolls over with her back to him.
Slowly the others settle back down.
I take a deep breath.
In the distance, through the dusk, I can hear the faint sounds of something moving in the undergrowth.
A wild animal?
A Nazi soldier looking for our footprints in the mud?
I’m glad there’s a swamp between us and whatever it is. A swamp you need a big strong horse to carry you across.
But what if the Nazis get a big strong horse?