to try and warn the rest of us.”
My head is hurting.
Death camps?
“You’re making this up,” I yell at Barney. “If it was true, you would have warned the people leaving tonight.”
I feel his chest heaving for a long time before he answers.
“They wouldn’t have believed me,” he says. “They didn’t believe the man from the death camp. Not even after the Nazis killed him. And I need to be alive so I can take care of you and the others.”
It’s on Barney’s face, I can see it.
He’s telling the truth.
Oh, Mum.
Oh, Dad.
My imagination goes into a frenzy, trying to think up ways for them to escape, places for them to hide, reasons why none of this has happened to them.
Every time I start to think of something I remember the poor little kid in the kitchen.
Barney is still holding me tight and I can feel the metal syringes in his coat pocket pressing against my cheek.
Suddenly I want him to stick one of the syringes into me so I can go into a deep sleep and never wake up and never feel this bad ever again.
I loved stories and now I hate them.
I hate stories about God and Jesus and Mary and that crowd and how they’re meant to be taking care of us.
I hate stories about the beautiful countryside with much food and easy work.
I hate stories about parents who say they’ll come back for their children and never do.
I roll over on my bed. I push my face into my sack so I can’t hear Barney over at the other side of the cellar, reading some stupid story to the others. I never want to hear another story. I never want to write another story. I never want to read another book. What good have books ever done me and Mum and Dad? We’d have been better off with guns.
“Felix,” says a faint voice in my ear.
It’s Zelda.
I ignore her.
“Are your parents dead too?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
I feel her put something round my neck. It’s her silver chain with the little heart on it.
“This is to make you feel better,” she says.
I don’t want to feel better.
I don’t want to feel anything.
I just want to be like the Nazi officer, the murderer one. Cold and hard and bored with people.
Zelda strokes my head.
I try to ignore that too. But I can’t. There’s something wrong.
Her hand is hot.
Very hot.
I sit up and look at her. Her face is pale. But when I touch her cheek, her skin is burning.
“I’ve got a temperature,” she whispers. “Don’t you know anything?”
Then her eyes go funny and she flops down onto the floor.
“Barney, quick,” I yell, my voice squeaky with panic, “Zelda’s sick.”
“I don’t like you going out alone,” says Barney.
I can see he doesn’t. I’ve never seen him look so worried. All day while we took turns wiping Zelda’s hot skin with wet rags, Barney was telling us she was going to be all right. But ever since the other kids got exhausted and went to bed, he’s been looking more and more worried.
“Chaya can’t run with her bad arm,” he says. “Jacob and Ruth and Moshe get too scared outside, and the others are too young.”
“I’ll be all right on my own,” I say.
“I can’t leave Zelda like this,” says Barney, dipping the rag into the bucket of water and pressing it gently to her face. “But she needs aspirin. If we can’t get her temperature down in the next few hours…”
He stops because Zelda’s eyes flutter open.
“I’m hot,” she croaks.
I lift her cup to her white lips and she swallows a little.
“There’ll be aspirin in the dental surgery we were in last night,” says Barney.
I don’t say anything.
I try not to think of what’s in the kitchen of that apartment.
“But if you don’t want to go back there,” Barney says, “you’ll find empty apartments in most of the buildings. And you’ll almost certainly find aspirin in one of them. In a bathroom or kitchen or bedside drawer.”
I nod. I know about aspirin. Mother Minka used to get headaches from praying too
My head is hurting.
Death camps?
“You’re making this up,” I yell at Barney. “If it was true, you would have warned the people leaving tonight.”
I feel his chest heaving for a long time before he answers.
“They wouldn’t have believed me,” he says. “They didn’t believe the man from the death camp. Not even after the Nazis killed him. And I need to be alive so I can take care of you and the others.”
It’s on Barney’s face, I can see it.
He’s telling the truth.
Oh, Mum.
Oh, Dad.
My imagination goes into a frenzy, trying to think up ways for them to escape, places for them to hide, reasons why none of this has happened to them.
Every time I start to think of something I remember the poor little kid in the kitchen.
Barney is still holding me tight and I can feel the metal syringes in his coat pocket pressing against my cheek.
Suddenly I want him to stick one of the syringes into me so I can go into a deep sleep and never wake up and never feel this bad ever again.
I loved stories and now I hate them.
I hate stories about God and Jesus and Mary and that crowd and how they’re meant to be taking care of us.
I hate stories about the beautiful countryside with much food and easy work.
I hate stories about parents who say they’ll come back for their children and never do.
I roll over on my bed. I push my face into my sack so I can’t hear Barney over at the other side of the cellar, reading some stupid story to the others. I never want to hear another story. I never want to write another story. I never want to read another book. What good have books ever done me and Mum and Dad? We’d have been better off with guns.
“Felix,” says a faint voice in my ear.
It’s Zelda.
I ignore her.
“Are your parents dead too?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
I feel her put something round my neck. It’s her silver chain with the little heart on it.
“This is to make you feel better,” she says.
I don’t want to feel better.
I don’t want to feel anything.
I just want to be like the Nazi officer, the murderer one. Cold and hard and bored with people.
Zelda strokes my head.
I try to ignore that too. But I can’t. There’s something wrong.
Her hand is hot.
Very hot.
I sit up and look at her. Her face is pale. But when I touch her cheek, her skin is burning.
“I’ve got a temperature,” she whispers. “Don’t you know anything?”
Then her eyes go funny and she flops down onto the floor.
“Barney, quick,” I yell, my voice squeaky with panic, “Zelda’s sick.”
“I don’t like you going out alone,” says Barney.
I can see he doesn’t. I’ve never seen him look so worried. All day while we took turns wiping Zelda’s hot skin with wet rags, Barney was telling us she was going to be all right. But ever since the other kids got exhausted and went to bed, he’s been looking more and more worried.
“Chaya can’t run with her bad arm,” he says. “Jacob and Ruth and Moshe get too scared outside, and the others are too young.”
“I’ll be all right on my own,” I say.
“I can’t leave Zelda like this,” says Barney, dipping the rag into the bucket of water and pressing it gently to her face. “But she needs aspirin. If we can’t get her temperature down in the next few hours…”
He stops because Zelda’s eyes flutter open.
“I’m hot,” she croaks.
I lift her cup to her white lips and she swallows a little.
“There’ll be aspirin in the dental surgery we were in last night,” says Barney.
I don’t say anything.
I try not to think of what’s in the kitchen of that apartment.
“But if you don’t want to go back there,” Barney says, “you’ll find empty apartments in most of the buildings. And you’ll almost certainly find aspirin in one of them. In a bathroom or kitchen or bedside drawer.”
I nod. I know about aspirin. Mother Minka used to get headaches from praying too
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