Then

by Morris Gleitzman

  We creep to the barn door, but there’s no sign of the kid.

  ‘Let’s chase after him,’ mutters Zelda. ‘With sticks.’

  But we don’t. We’re not the sort of people who go looking for trouble, not even when we’re angry.

  I hope we never see that kid again.

  After a while Genia arrives home from town.

  She’s got things she bought with the eggs. Pants for me and a dress and shoes for Zelda and warm underwear for us both.

  In the kitchen, while we try them on, we tell Genia about the horrible kid. She examines the last bit of the meat we’ve saved as evidence.

  ‘Rabbit,’ she says. ‘I could have made a stew with that.’

  ‘Or a pet,’ says Zelda.

  Genia frowns, thinking.

  ‘That boy must have escaped,’ she says.

  ‘Escaped from where?’ I say.

  ‘The orphanage,’ says Genia. ‘Apart from you two, the only other kids who ever made friends with Leopold were the orphans. The ones the Nazis murdered.’

  I look at Genia, surprised.

  She used to hate Jewish people. Why did she let them be friends with her dog?

  ‘The Nazis made the orphans do farm work,’ says Genia. ‘Growing food for the German army. The kids helped me plant my fields earlier this year. They did a good job. Beautiful crop of cabbages I had, before the Nazis took them.’

  Zelda is frowning now.

  ‘If the Jewish orphans were good at Nazi cabbages,’ she says to Genia, ‘why didn’t the Nazis let them keep being alive?’

  Genia scowls.

  ‘Who knows why those slugs do anything,’ she says. ‘I heard a rumour they needed the orphanage building for something else.’

  I’m shocked. Killing innocent children just to get their bedrooms.

  I’m also shocked to hear that the kid with the knife is Jewish. A Jewish orphan whose friends are all dead except for Leopold.

  I wish I’d known that.

  Perhaps me and Zelda and the chickens could have been a bit friendlier.

  Then Genia helped me and Zelda to be Wilhelm and Violetta. She got us fake Wilhelm and Violetta identity cards from a priest in exchange for eggs. She told us all about the place where Wilhelm and Violetta were born. For two weeks she tested us on our Wilhelm and Violetta childhoods.

  ‘What did your father do?’

  ‘He had a shop selling lamp oil,’ I say.

  ‘What was your mother’s first name?’

  ‘Jadwiga,’ says Zelda.

  ‘What street was your school in?’

  ‘Poznod Street,’ I say. ‘Next to the bank.’

  ‘What pets did you have?’

  ‘A chicken called Goebbels,’ says Zelda.

  ‘No,’ says Genia. ‘Not Goebbels. That was your pet chicken when you were Zelda. Now that you’re Violetta, your pet chicken was called Kranki, remember?’

  Poor Zelda. Genia is a tough questioner. I think she could be a Nazi herself if she wanted to be. Luckily she doesn’t.

  ‘Remember?’ she says to Zelda again.

  ‘Yes,’ sighs Zelda.

  I hope Zelda can remember. Specially this morning, because we’re on our way into town for the first time. So far, as we walk along the road past the local farms, we haven’t met anybody. But I can see somebody coming in the distance.

  Suddenly I don’t feel ready.

  ‘Genia,’ I say. ‘Can we go home and practise some more?’

  ‘No,’ says Genia. ‘People want to meet you. They’ve seen me buying things for you and they’re getting suspicious. We can’t put it off any longer.’

  Yes we can, I want to say. But how can you argue with someone as kind and generous and caring as Genia? Look what she’s doing for us, and she doesn’t even like Jewish people that much.

  ‘Kranki,’ Zelda is repeating sternly to herself as she clomps along the road in her new shoes. ‘Kranki.’

  The person coming towards us is a big woman with a grey headscarf and a red face.

  I’m shivering with nerves now, even though the sun is shining and my hair is gleaming yellow because Genia put more bleach on it this morning.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Genia whispers to me and Zelda. ‘Just don’t drop those eggs.’

  We’re carrying eggs in boxes. They’re packed in straw, but mine are wobbling around because I’m trembling so much.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Placzek,’ says Genia in the same fake friendly voice she used with the Nazi soldiers.

  ‘Good morning,’ says the scarf woman. She smiles at Genia for about one second, turns, and looks at me and Zelda.

  Suddenly I know what an egg feels like. My disguise feels about as strong as a very thin shell.

  ‘These are the children I was telling you about,’ says Genia. ‘Wilhelm and Violetta.’

  Mrs Placzek clucks sympathetically.

  ‘Poor orphans,’ she says, reaching out.

  For a moment I think she’s going to touch my hair to see if the yellow comes off, but she doesn’t. Instead she grabs my cheek and gives it a squeeze.

  ‘Your poor dead mummy and daddy,’ she says.

  ‘Jadwiga,’ says Zelda.

  ‘My father had a shop selling lamp oil,’ I say.

  Genia is looking a bit concerned. I think it’s because we’re answering Mrs Placzek’s questions even before she’s asked them.

  ‘What have you got there?’ says Mrs Placzek, pointing to my egg box.

  I can’t think what to say. We haven’t practised this one. But after a moment my brain clears.

  ‘Eggs,’ I say.

  ‘Lucky boy,’ says Mrs Placzek. ‘I love eggs. Delicious.’

  Once again I’m not sure what to say. I haven’t eaten an egg since I was little. I can’t even remember what they taste like.

  ‘Eggs are good for us,’ says Zelda to Mrs Placzek. ‘Goebbels told me.’

  Mrs Placzek frowns.

  Zelda’s eyes go wide as she realises what she’s just said.

  ‘I mean Kranki,’ she blurts out.

  Genia is frowning too now.

  Mrs Placzek laughs.

  ‘Children,’ she says to Genia. ‘What imaginations. It must be a joy having them around.’

  ‘It is,’ says Genia, smiling, but still sort of frowning at the same time.

  I don’t care. Mrs Placzek hasn’t run off to fetch the Nazis. She’s smiling and waving to us now as we say goodbye and walk away.

  Our disguises are working.

  A horse and cart is approaching, but I’m feeling much more confident. I stay feeling more confident until I recognise the old man driving the cart.

  It’s the turnip man.

  Zelda recognises him too, I can tell from the little squeak she gives.

  As the cart gets closer, I see the reward notice still stuck to the side. The cart doesn’t have any turnips in it today, probably so he can fit more Jews in.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I whisper to Zelda. ‘He won’t recognise us.’

  I hope I’m right.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Krol,’ says Genia.

  Mr Krol doesn’t stop the cart. His only reply is a grunt. But as he rumbles past, he stares at me and Zelda for a long time, not smiling.

  I feel a desperate urge to tell him my father had a shop selling lamp oil.

  I manage not to.

  ‘Bad-tempered old turnip,’ mutters Genia once he’s gone.

  I agree, but at least he didn’t try to get us into his cart. Our disguises are working even with somebody we’ve met before.

  I think we’re going to be OK.

  After a couple of minutes I glance over my shoulder. I can still see the cart in the distance. Mr Krol is turned round in his seat, still staring at us.

  It’s all right, I tell myself. He’s probably just thirsty for a drink of vodka and he’s wishing me and Zelda were Jews.

  Then we got to the town and it wasn’t all right.

  At first I felt at home. The stone houses a
nd slate roofs and cobbled streets were a bit like the ones in the town where I lived when I was little. When I was Felix, not Wilhelm.

  But in the town square there’s something I’ve never seen before.

  Big wooden posts with dead people hanging from them.

  ‘Don’t look,’ says Genia to me and Zelda. She tries to hurry us across the square.

  But we are looking. You have to. It’s terrible. The hanging people with ropes round their necks aren’t soldiers, they’re just people. A lady in a green dress. An older lady wearing an apron. Several men in shirts. One in pyjamas.

  The other people in the square aren’t looking. They’re hurrying past, staring at the cobbles. Which is what Genia is trying to make us do.

  ‘Are those people dead?’ says Zelda, pointing. She’s starting to get upset.

  ‘Yes,’ whispers Genia. ‘They were sheltering the Jew in the green dress. The Nazis caught them and killed them and everyone else in their family.’

  That’s awful. And it’s extra awful just to leave them there like that.

  The Nazis must be doing it as a warning.

  To people like us.

  ‘I hate Nazis,’ says Zelda bitterly.

  Genia gives her an anxious look as we cross the square.

  I see why. A group of Nazi soldiers are strolling towards us. A couple of them are looking at us.

  ‘Come on, Wilhelm and Violetta,’ says Genia loudly. ‘Be careful with those eggs.’

  I’m finding it hard to be careful with the eggs. I’m having too many feelings all at once. That could be me and Zelda and Genia hanging there. And if it was, Genia would be dead for looking after me, and Zelda would be dead for being my friend, and it would all be my fault.

  Genia takes us to a shop on the other side of the square.

  On the door is a sign.

  NO DOGS OR JEWS.

  I hesitate.

  ‘Don’t dawdle, Wilhelm,’ says Genia. ‘You’re blocking the doorway.’

  I go in, trying to look like I couldn’t care less about the sign.

  ‘That sign isn’t fair,’ says Zelda loudly. ‘Our dog Leopold would have hurt feelings if he saw that sign.’

  Behind the counter is a big woman with her sleeves rolled up. She does the sort of laugh people do when they’re not really amused.

  ‘My dog already got hurt feelings,’ she says. ‘Right around the time I decided not to waste any more food on it.’

  Zelda stares at the woman, shocked.

  ‘Wilhelm and Violetta,’ says Genia hastily, ‘this is Mrs Szynsky.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say politely.

  ‘Hello,’ mutters Zelda.

  Mrs Szynsky doesn’t reply. She just looks me and Zelda up and down.

  ‘Must have a lot of food to spare,’ she says to Genia. ‘Oh well, your loss.’

  She fiddles with her blonde hair for a while, then points to our egg boxes as if she’s only just noticed them.

  ‘How many eggs?’ she says.

  ‘Fourteen,’ says Genia.

  We all put our boxes on the counter and Mrs Szynsky counts the eggs, picking each one up and peering at it closely.

  ‘What do you want?’ she says, not looking at Genia.

  ‘A coat and a hat for each of the kids,’ says Genia. ‘When they were bombed out in Pilica they lost all their winter clothes.’

  Mrs Szynsky looks scornful.

  ‘For fourteen eggs?’ she says. ‘Not a chance. You can forget the hats for a start.’

  ‘Ten eggs for the coats,’ says Genia. ‘With scarves.’

  While Genia and Mrs Szynsky haggle, I peer around the shop. It’s full of amazing things. Furniture and piles of clothes and unusual shoes and stuffed animals and paintings and decorated plates and glass cases full of jewellery.

  Genia is holding Zelda’s hand, but not mine.

  I wander around the shop, gazing at everything.

  Up the back, next to a pile of clocks, I find a polished wooden box.

  Inside are the shiniest knives and forks and spoons I’ve ever seen. Even shinier than the ones we used to have when I was little.

  I take out one of the spoons.

  I wish I could buy it for Genia. She’s only got wooden ones.

  ‘Put it back,’ hisses a voice.

  Guiltily I put the spoon back.

  A boy of about my age leaps out from behind a rack of hanging suits and snatches the box.

  ‘No touching the goods,’ he says in a bossy voice.

  That doesn’t seem fair. Next to us two burly farmers are trying on shiny red waistcoats. I open my mouth to point out that they’re touching the goods. But I remember I’m Wilhelm, not Felix, and close it again.

  ‘This is my family’s shop,’ says the boy. ‘You were going to steal that spoon, weren’t you?’

  He’s glaring at me, his lips wet and his face pink. His hair is so fair I can even see the pink skin on his head.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t. Honest.’

  I can feel my face going pink too, with panic. If he calls the police…

  The boy gives me a wet grin.

  ‘Only kidding,’ he says.

  I stare at him, stunned.

  ‘Can’t you take a joke?’ he says, looking a bit offended.

  I pull myself together.

  ‘Course I can,’ I say, dizzy with relief. I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Wilhelm Nowak.’

  I shake the boy’s cold damp hand.

  ‘I’m Cyryl,’ he says.

  Suddenly he leans towards me like I’m his best friend.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, tapping the cutlery box. ‘Guess how much this cost.’

  I haven’t got a clue. Thousands of zloty probably. Millions.

  ‘Two eggs,’ says Cyryl.

  I wait for him to tell me he’s only kidding again.

  ‘From the dumb Jews,’ he says, grinning. ‘My dad takes eggs and milk and bread over to that other part of town, you know, where we put all the Jews, what’s it called…?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  I do, it’s called a ghetto. But I don’t tell Cyryl that. If he doesn’t know, Wilhelm shouldn’t.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Cyryl, pointing around the shop, ‘the dumb Jews swapped all this stuff for bits of food.’

  ‘Perhaps they were hungry,’ I murmur, and immediately wish I hadn’t.

  But Cyryl hasn’t noticed. He’s grinning at me and licking his lips. His teeth are crooked and he’s got a dribble problem.

  ‘What’s the difference between a Jew and a rat?’ he says.

  ‘Don’t know,’ I say, trying to be Wilhelm.

  ‘Once you’ve got them out from under your floorboards,’ says Cyryl, ‘who cares?’

  I can feel my face going pink again. With anger this time.

  Don’t do anything silly, I beg myself. Like opening the cutlery box. And doing something to Cyryl with a fork.

  ‘Hey,’ says Cyryl, stepping close to me again like he’s sharing another big secret. ‘When Jews say their prayers, it makes cheese go mouldy. My dad told me.’

  I struggle to be Wilhelm.

  Cyryl looks at me for a moment.

  ‘You’re new,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen you before.’

  ‘We just moved here,’ I say. ‘From Pilica.’

  ‘If you want,’ says Cyryl, ‘you can join my gang.’

  I don’t know what to say. I wouldn’t join Cyryl’s gang if you gave me a whole box of cutlery and an uncircumcised private part.

  I’m saved by a yelling voice.

  ‘Cyryl, come back here, you haven’t finished this job.’

  A teenage girl with blonde pigtails is sticking her head out of a back room and glaring at Cyryl.

  His shoulders slump and he gives her a sulky look.

  ‘Sisters,’ he says to me, scowling. ‘They’re worse than Jews.’

  I nod. I don’t trust myself to actually say anything. Cyryl doesn’t notice. He’s too busy being indignant.

 
; ‘I do everything around here,’ he says. ‘I have to sort through all the new stuff that comes in. Half of it’s junk. The Jews are always trying to cheat us.’

  ‘Cyryl,’ yells his sister, furious.

  ‘That’s all Jew junk there,’ says Cyryl, pointing to a big wooden crate as he walks off.

  I wait till Cyryl’s in the back room before I look in the crate. Perhaps there’ll be something cheap in there that Genia needs. She might be able to add it to the coats for the same number of eggs.

  The stuff in the crate doesn’t look like junk to me. There are cooking pots, shoes, ornaments, all sorts of things. A bit scuffed but not bad. There’s even a book. OK, it looks like it’s been in a fire, some of the pages are a bit burned and…

  I pick it up and glance at the cover.

  My heart jolts.

  It’s a Richmal Crompton book. In Polish, just like the ones I used to have, except this is one I’ve never read.

  I try to be Wilhelm and drop it back into the crate, but I can’t help it, I’m Felix and I stuff it inside my shirt.

  Cyryl said this was all junk so I’m not really stealing.

  Yes I am, but I don’t care.

  Suddenly I do care.

  A voice is screaming at me. A voice so angry I can’t even make out the words.

  Is it Cyryl? His sister? Mrs Szynsky?

  I turn, weak with fear.

  And go even weaker.

  It isn’t any of the Szynsky family, it’s a Nazi soldier.

  He’s got a rifle and he’s pointing it at my head.

  Then the Nazi soldier started waving his rifle. I still didn’t understand any of the Nazi words he was yelling, but I could see he was ordering me out of the shop.

  I felt sick.

  What’s the Nazi punishment for stealing a Richmal Crompton book? Getting hung from a big wooden post in the town square with the other dead people?

  I walk slowly towards the door of the shop.

  Once I’m outside I’ll run. It’s all I can do. The book is inside my shirt, so I can’t pretend I was buying it.

  I don’t look at Genia and Zelda. If I ignore them, maybe the Nazi soldier will too.

  But Genia doesn’t ignore me. She grabs my hand.

  ‘Don’t,’ I whisper. ‘The Nazi soldier will think you’re in on it.’

  Genia gives me a puzzled look. She doesn’t let go of my hand.