Stay Where You Are and Then Leave by John Boyne

you? Help me. They said it’d be over by Christmas. They just didn’t say which Christmas. Everywhere I look all I can see is—
    And then there were no more letters and everything went quiet.
    *   *   *
    Margie had baked a cake for Alfie’s ninth birthday. He didn’t know where she’d found the flour or the cream, but somehow she’d got hold of them. He’d heard that Mrs. Bessworth from the corner shop at Damley Park had an in with the black market. Granny Summerfield came for tea, and so did Old Bill Hemperton, just like they had four years earlier when the war broke out. Kalena and Mr. Janá č ek were missing, of course. No one seemed much in the mood to celebrate. When Alfie read his birthday card it said: Happy birthday, Alfie! Love from Mum and Dad . Joe Patience put a quarter pound of apple drops through the letter box and no one knew where he had found them; Granny Summerfield wanted Alfie to throw them away, but Margie insisted that he be allowed to keep them.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he asked his mother that night when everyone had gone home again. Margie was sitting by the gaslight with a basket of clothes and she was holding a shirt close to her face as her sewing needle went in and out and in again.
    â€œWhat does it look like I’m doing? I’m sewing.”
    â€œWhose clothes are they?”
    â€œNot ours, that’s for sure. Have you seen the quality of them?” She held the shirt up for Alfie to feel, but he shook his head.
    â€œWhose clothes are they?” he repeated.
    â€œOh, you don’t know her,” she said. “Her name’s Mrs. Emberg. She’s a friend of Mrs. Gawdley-Smith’s. Very well-to-do. She said she’d give me a shilling for every basket I do. Every ha’penny helps, Alfie.”
    â€œSo you’re working day and night as a Queen’s Nurse, you’re taking in laundry, and now you’re doing sewing for some rich lady too,” said Alfie.
    â€œOh, Alfie.”
    â€œMum, where’s Dad?”
    Margie dropped her needle on the floor and it made a tinny sound as it hit the stonework of the fireplace. She didn’t have a shift at the hospital that night; she’d swapped with one of the other girls for Alfie’s birthday.
    â€œYou know where he is,” she said. “What do you want to go asking a silly question like that for?”
    â€œTell me the truth this time.”
    Margie didn’t say anything for a few moments, but she picked up her needle and held the half-finished shirt in front of her. “I’ve to finish six of these by the end of the month,” she said, shaking her head. “This one’s not bad, is it? I told you I always wanted to find something I was good at. Maybe this is it. I’m in a race with Granny Summerfield. Do you know, she knitted thirty pairs of socks last month! That’s a pair a day. And with her bad eyesight! I sometimes wonder if she puts it on for effect.”
    â€œMum!” said Alfie, tugging at her sleeve. “Where’s Dad?”
    â€œHe’s away at the war, isn’t he?” she snapped, turning on him now, her voice growing cold. “He’s away at this blessed war.”
    â€œHe never writes anymore.”
    â€œHe can’t at the moment.”
    â€œWhy can’t he?”
    â€œBecause he’s fighting.”
    â€œThen how do we know?”
    â€œHow do we know what?”
    â€œHow do we know that he’s all right?”
    â€œOf course he’s all right, Alfie. Why wouldn’t he be all right?”
    â€œMaybe he’s dead.”
    And then something terrible happened. Margie threw down her sewing, jumped out of her seat, and slapped Alfie, hard, across the face. He blinked in surprise. Neither Georgie nor Margie had ever hit him in his life, not even when he was very small and acting up. He put a hand to his cheek and felt the sting there but