Then we ran for our lives, me and Zelda, up a hillside as fast as we could.
Which wasnt very fast.
Not even with me holding Zeldas hand and helping her up the slope.
You know how when you and two friends jump off a train thats going to a Nazi death camp and you nearly knock yourself unconscious but you manage not to and your glasses dont even get broken but your friend Chaya isnt so lucky and she gets killed so you bury her under some ferns and wildflowers, which takes a lot of strength, and you havent got much energy left for running and climbing?
Thats how it is now for me and Zelda.
“My legs hurt,” says Zelda.
Poor thing. Shes only six. Her legs arent very big. And shes wearing bedtime slippers, which arent very good for scrambling up a steep hill covered with prickly grass.
But we cant slow down.
We have to get away before another Nazi train comes along with machine guns on the roof.
I glance over my shoulder.
At the bottom of the hill, the railway track is gleaming in the sun like the shiny bits on a Nazi officers uniform.
I peer up the slope.
At the top is a thick forest. When we get up there, well be safe. Well be hidden. The next Nazi train wont be able to see us as long as Zelda doesnt yell rude things at them.
If we can get up there.
“Come on,” I say to Zelda. “Keep going. We mustnt stop.”
“Im not stopping,” says Zelda indignantly. “Dont you know anything?”
I know why Zeldas cross. She thinks Im lucky. I am. Im ten. Ive got strong legs and strong boots. But I wish my legs were stronger. If I was twelve, I could carry Zelda on my back.
“Ow,” she says, slipping and bashing her knee.
Gently I pull her up.
“Are you okay?” I say.
“No,” she says as we hurry on. “This hill is an idiot.”
I smile, but not for long.
Suddenly I hear the worst sound in the world. The rumble of another train in the distance, getting closer.
I peer up the slope again.
The forest is too far. We wont get there in time. If the Nazis see us on this hillside, well be easy targets. My shirts got rips in it that are flapping all over the place. Zeldas dress is lots of colors but not camouflage ones.
The train is getting very close.
“Lie flat,” I say, pulling Zelda down onto the grass.
“You said we mustnt stop,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “But now we mustnt move.”
“Im not moving,” says Zelda. “See?”
Were lying on our tummies, completely still except for a bit of panting. Zelda is clinging to me. Her face is hot against my cheek. Her hands are gripping my arm. I can see that one of her fingernails is bleeding from pulling up ferns for Chaya.
The noise of the train is very loud now. Any second itll be coming around the bend below us. I wish we had ferns to hide under. Near us is a rabbit hole. I wish me and Zelda were rabbits. We could crouch deep in the hillside and eat carrots.
But were not. Were humans.
The Nazi train screeches around the bend.
Zelda grips me even tighter.
“Felix,” she says, “if we get shot, I hope we get shot together.”
I feel the same. I squeeze her hand. Not too tight because of her fingernail.
I wish we were living in ancient times when machine guns were really primitive. When youd be lucky to hit a mountain with one, even up close. Instead of in 1942 when machine guns are so supermodern they can smash about a thousand bullets into an escaping kid even from the top of a speeding train.
Below us the Nazi train is clattering like a thousand machine guns.
I put my arm around Zelda and pray to Richmal Crompton to keep us safe.
“Zelda isnt Jewish,” I tell Richmal Crompton silently. “But she still needs protection because Nazis sometimes kill Catholic kids too. Specially Catholic kids who are a bit headstrong and cheeky.”
Richmal Crompton isnt holy or anything, but shes a really good story writer, and in her books she keeps William and Violet Elizabeth and the other children safe even when theyre being extremely headstrong and cheeky.
My prayer works.
No bullets smash into our bodies.
“Thank you,” I say silently to Richmal Crompton.
Down the hill I see the train disappearing around the next bend. I can tell its another death camp train full of Jewish people. Its got the same carriages our train had, the ones that look like big wooden boxes nailed shut.
On the roof of the last carriage theres a machine gun, but the two Nazi soldiers sitting behind it are busy eating.
“Come on,” I say to Zelda as soon as the train is out of sight.
We get to our feet. At the top of the hill the forest waits for us, cool and dark and safe.
I dont know how long till the next train, so we have to move fast. We might not be so lucky with the next one. The Nazi machine gun soldiers might not be having an early dinner.
I grab Zeldas hand and we start scrambling up the slope again.
Zelda trips on a rabbit hole and almost falls. I save her but accidentally almost yank her arm out of its socket.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Its not your fault,” says Zelda. “Its the rabbits fault. Dont you know anything?”
She lets go of my hand and holds her shoulder and her dark eyes fill with tears.
I put my arms around her.
I know her shoulder isnt the only reason shes crying. Its also because of whats happened to our parents and our friends. And because the most powerful army in the history of the world is trying to kill us.
If I start thinking about all this, Ill end up crying myself.
Which is not good. People who are crying cant climb hillsides very fast. Ive seen it happen.
I try to think of a way to cheer us both up.
“In the next valley there might be a house,” I say. “With a really kind cook. Whos made too much dinner and whos looking for people to help eat the extra platefuls of delicious stew.”
“Not stew,” says Zelda. “Sausages.”
“Okay,” I say. “And boiled eggs.”
“And marmalade,” says Zelda. “On bread fingers.”
Its working. Zelda has stopped crying. Now shes pulling me up the hill.
“And bananas,” I say.
“Whats bananas?” says Zelda.
While we climb, I tell her about all the exotic fruit Ive read about in stories. Thats another way Im lucky. I grew up in a bookshop. Zelda didnt, but shes still got a really good imagination. By the time we get to the top of the hill, shes fairly certain the cook has got mangoes and oranges for us as well.
We plunge into the forest and hurry through the thick undergrowth. It feels really good to be in here with the ferns and bushes and trees sheltering us. Specially when I suddenly hear a scary sound in the distance.
Machine guns.
We stop and listen.
“Must be another train,” I say.
We look at each other. The machine guns go on and on, not close but still terrifying.
I dont say anything about train people trying to escape, in case theyre getting shot dead. Theres only so much getting shot dead a little kid like Zelda can take.
“Do you want to rest?” I say to her.
What I actually mean is does she want to hide, but I dont say that either because I dont want her to feel even more scared.
“No,” says Zelda, pushing ahead. “I want my dinner.”
I know how she feels. Better to get farther away from the railway line. Plus, its almost evening and we havent eaten all day.
I follow her.
At last the distant shooting stops.
“The house is this way,” says Zelda, scrambling through a tangle of creepers.
Thats the good thing with stories. Theres always a chance they can come true. Poland is a big country. Its got a lot of Nazis in it, but its also got a lot of forests. And a lot of houses. And quite a few sausages.
“Has the cook got chocolate?” says Zelda after a while.
“Maybe,” I say. “If we think about it really hard.”
Zelda screws up her forehead as we hurry on.
By the time we get to the other side of the forest, Im pretty sure the cook has got chocolate, a big bar of it.
We pause at the edge of the trees and squint down into the next valley. My glasses are smudged. I take them off and polish them on my shirt.
Zelda gives a terrified squeak, and grabs me and points.
I put my glasses back on and peer down at what shes seen.
Zelda isnt pointing at a distant house belonging to a kind cook, because there arent any houses. Shes pointing at something much closer.
A big hole in the hillside. A sort of pit, with piles of freshly dug earth next to it. Lying in the hole, tangled up together, are children. Lots of them. All different ages. Some older than me, some even younger than Zelda.
“What are those children doing?” says Zelda in a worried voice.
“I dont know,” I say.
Im feeling worried too.
They look like Jewish children. I can tell because theyre all wearing white armbands with a blue blob that Im pretty sure is a Jewish star.
Trembling, I give my glasses another clean.
“This wasnt in your story,” whispers Zelda.
Shes right, it wasnt.
The children arent moving.
Theyre dead.
Thats the bad thing with stories. Sometimes they dont come true, and sometimes what happens instead is even worse than you can imagine.
I try to stop Zelda from seeing the blood.
Too late.
Shes staring, mouth open, eyes wide.
I go to put my hand over her mouth in case she makes a noise and the killers are still around.
Too late.
She starts sobbing loudly.
Directly below us on the hillside, several Nazi soldiers jump to their feet in the long grass. They glare up the hill toward us. They throw away their cigarettes and shout at us.
I know I should get Zelda back into the undergrowth, out of sight, but I cant move.
My legs are in shock.
The Nazi soldiers pick up their machine guns.
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