books slide off the shelves and onto me. With one hand I arrange books over all the bits of me that feel uncovered. It’s not easy in the dark. I pray to Richmal Crompton that I haven’t missed any bits. Then I slide my hand under the pile and stay very still.
Bang.
The bedroom door is kicked open.
Torchlight stabs between the books.
I hold my breath. I can hear someone else breathing. Then footsteps, leaving the room.
I wait.
More banging and shouting in other rooms. Dogs barking. Getting farther away. I think they’ve gone.
I wait more.
I can’t hear them at all.
I scramble out from under the books. I strike a match and find Just William for Zelda and the others. Then I run. Down the hall. Out into the stairwell. Down the stairs. Skidding on the clothes and shoes that have been chucked around everywhere. Jumping over the cooking pots. And the musical instruments.
Oh, no, I’ve tripped.
I’m falling.
Ow.
Quick, get up. I don’t think I’m hurt. I’ve got my glasses. The carrot and the aspirin are safe in my pocket. Just William is still in my hand.
That wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Except for the torchlight that’s suddenly dazzling me from the doorway of one of the ground-floor apartments.
It’s a Nazi soldier.
He’s yelling at me. He’s got a pile of clothes and stuff in a box clutched to his chest. He’s aiming his torch at me and coming closer.
I put my hands up to show I’m not armed.
The soldier tucks his torch under his chin.
Why does he need a spare hand?
For his gun?
No, to grab Just William from me. He stares at it, frowning. He puts it in his box. Now he’s staring at something else. On my chest. Zelda’s locket, which is smashed and hanging off the chain in two halves. He peers at it, breathing smelly drink fumes out of his hairy nostrils.
Then he lets go of it and turns and sticks his head back into the apartment and starts yelling. I think he’s calling to someone else. A William fan, maybe.
I don’t wait to find out.
The gate to the back alley is open. I fling myself through it and run down the alley and into the next one, weaving from alley to alley, not stopping, going for the narrowest ones I can find, the ones not wide enough for a tank to squeeze down, or a troop carrier, or a Nazi soldier loaded up with stuff he’s been looting.
I only stop when I suddenly find myself in a wide street, bright with moonlight, empty and silent.
I crouch down next to a wall, gasping for breath, and have a look at Zelda’s locket to see what the soldier found so interesting.
One half of the locket is empty.
In the other half is a tiny photograph. A man and a woman standing in front of a Polish flag. Zelda’s parents, they must be. Her poor dead parents. The woman has hair a bit like Zelda’s, only shorter, and a face a bit like Zelda’s, only older.
I rub some Nazi finger grease off the photo and see Zelda’s father more clearly and the clothes he’s wearing and I almost stop breathing even though I’m still desperate for air.
Zelda’s father is wearing a uniform.
A Nazi uniform.
Thank you, God, Jesus, Mary, the Pope, and Richmal Crompton. I thought I was never going to find my way back, but I know where I am now.
This is the street next to where our cellar is.
If I can get past that corner without any Nazi patrols coming along, I’ll be in our cellar in no time and Zelda can have her carrot soup and aspirin.
I know what you’re thinking, God and Richmal and all the others. If Zelda’s dad’s a Nazi, does she deserve carrot soup and aspirin?
Yes.
She can’t help what her father did. Plus he’s dead now and so’s her mum and I don’t know if she’s got any other living relatives but after what we’ve been through together that makes me one and I say yes.
Oh, no. I can hear trucks. And soldiers shouting. And dogs barking.
Where are they?
I look around desperately.
They’re not in this street.
I crouch by the building on the corner and
Bang.
The bedroom door is kicked open.
Torchlight stabs between the books.
I hold my breath. I can hear someone else breathing. Then footsteps, leaving the room.
I wait.
More banging and shouting in other rooms. Dogs barking. Getting farther away. I think they’ve gone.
I wait more.
I can’t hear them at all.
I scramble out from under the books. I strike a match and find Just William for Zelda and the others. Then I run. Down the hall. Out into the stairwell. Down the stairs. Skidding on the clothes and shoes that have been chucked around everywhere. Jumping over the cooking pots. And the musical instruments.
Oh, no, I’ve tripped.
I’m falling.
Ow.
Quick, get up. I don’t think I’m hurt. I’ve got my glasses. The carrot and the aspirin are safe in my pocket. Just William is still in my hand.
That wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Except for the torchlight that’s suddenly dazzling me from the doorway of one of the ground-floor apartments.
It’s a Nazi soldier.
He’s yelling at me. He’s got a pile of clothes and stuff in a box clutched to his chest. He’s aiming his torch at me and coming closer.
I put my hands up to show I’m not armed.
The soldier tucks his torch under his chin.
Why does he need a spare hand?
For his gun?
No, to grab Just William from me. He stares at it, frowning. He puts it in his box. Now he’s staring at something else. On my chest. Zelda’s locket, which is smashed and hanging off the chain in two halves. He peers at it, breathing smelly drink fumes out of his hairy nostrils.
Then he lets go of it and turns and sticks his head back into the apartment and starts yelling. I think he’s calling to someone else. A William fan, maybe.
I don’t wait to find out.
The gate to the back alley is open. I fling myself through it and run down the alley and into the next one, weaving from alley to alley, not stopping, going for the narrowest ones I can find, the ones not wide enough for a tank to squeeze down, or a troop carrier, or a Nazi soldier loaded up with stuff he’s been looting.
I only stop when I suddenly find myself in a wide street, bright with moonlight, empty and silent.
I crouch down next to a wall, gasping for breath, and have a look at Zelda’s locket to see what the soldier found so interesting.
One half of the locket is empty.
In the other half is a tiny photograph. A man and a woman standing in front of a Polish flag. Zelda’s parents, they must be. Her poor dead parents. The woman has hair a bit like Zelda’s, only shorter, and a face a bit like Zelda’s, only older.
I rub some Nazi finger grease off the photo and see Zelda’s father more clearly and the clothes he’s wearing and I almost stop breathing even though I’m still desperate for air.
Zelda’s father is wearing a uniform.
A Nazi uniform.
Thank you, God, Jesus, Mary, the Pope, and Richmal Crompton. I thought I was never going to find my way back, but I know where I am now.
This is the street next to where our cellar is.
If I can get past that corner without any Nazi patrols coming along, I’ll be in our cellar in no time and Zelda can have her carrot soup and aspirin.
I know what you’re thinking, God and Richmal and all the others. If Zelda’s dad’s a Nazi, does she deserve carrot soup and aspirin?
Yes.
She can’t help what her father did. Plus he’s dead now and so’s her mum and I don’t know if she’s got any other living relatives but after what we’ve been through together that makes me one and I say yes.
Oh, no. I can hear trucks. And soldiers shouting. And dogs barking.
Where are they?
I look around desperately.
They’re not in this street.
I crouch by the building on the corner and
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