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  ‘Your mummy and daddy loved you very much,’ I say to her gently. ‘Try to remember that.’

  ‘I can’t,’ says Zelda.

  ‘Try to think about a happy time you had with them,’ I suggest.

  It’s what I do when I’m feeling bad about Mum and Dad, but it doesn’t always work.

  ‘When I was little,’ says Zelda, ‘we had chickens. Not Nazi chickens, nice chickens.’

  She starts crying.

  I try to think of something else to say. Something to help Zelda have happy memories of her parents. But I can’t think of anything.

  ‘I wish I was little now,’ she sobs.

  Poor thing. It must be terrible to not have a family when you’re only six. It’s bad enough when you’re my age.

  ‘You’ve still got a family,’ I say quietly to Zelda.

  I reach out in the darkness and give her a hug so she knows I mean me.

  Zelda doesn’t say anything, but she snuggles closer and cries into my shirt so I’m pretty sure she does know.

  ‘Felix,’ she says when she’s finished crying. ‘Will you always be my family?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Will you stay with me for ever and ever?’ she says.

  I think about this. I remember how Mum and Dad promised to come back one day and they never did. But I know they wanted to. That’s the important thing with a promise. You must want to keep it.

  ‘I promise,’ I say.

  ‘I promise too,’ says Zelda.

  She snuggles into me.

  I listen for the soldiers again.

  Nothing, just forest insects and the wind in the trees. But the Nazis might not have gone yet. They could be back at the pit, smoking more cigarettes and covering the children with dirt.

  ‘I think we should hide here till morning,’ I say to Zelda.

  ‘All right,’ she says.

  ‘We haven’t got any dinner,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

  There aren’t even any weeds in this burrow, just old leaves. We daren’t eat those in case there’s mould on them that gets into our brains and makes us think we’re opera singers. I’ve seen it happen.

  ‘That’s OK,’ says Zelda in a small voice. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  I know she is because I am.

  I hug her even tighter. Sometimes love from your family can make your tummy not hurt quite so much.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ I whisper to Zelda.

  ‘Tell me a story,’ she says. ‘One where nobody gets dead.’

  I tell her a story about two children called Felix and Zelda who meet two other children called William and Violet Elizabeth. They all live together with some very friendly chickens who give them lots of eggs to eat. To say thank you to the chickens, Felix and Zelda invent a machine that feeds them automatically.

  ‘That’s silly,’ murmurs Zelda. ‘Machines can’t feed chickens.’

  ‘It’s in the future,’ I say. ‘1965.’

  ‘All right,’ says Zelda.

  Richmal Crompton doesn’t set her William stories in the future, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.

  The wind in the trees is getting louder now and the air is getting colder. Carefully I scoop some more leaves onto Zelda to keep her warm.

  ‘More story, please,’ she murmurs.

  ‘One of the chickens falls in love with Zelda,’ I say. ‘It wants to be her pet. She calls it Hubert.’

  ‘Don’t you know anything?’ says Zelda sleepily. ‘My pet chicken’s name is Goebbels.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  I tell her the next part of the story, about how Goebbels can juggle eggs.

  Finally Zelda’s soft breathing lets me know she’s asleep.

  I wish I could doze off too, but I can’t. There are busy insects in these leaves and they tickle.

  My brain is busy as well, wondering what we’re going to do next. If we don’t get food soon, we’re in big trouble. There’s not much point being snug and safe in a secret burrow if you’re dead.

  We need a safe hiding place that has food.

  The only safe place I know in the whole of Poland that definitely has food is the Catholic orphanage where Mum and Dad hid me. But it’s hundreds of kilometres away. We’d have to get past about a million Nazis to even find it.

  Zelda’s bedtime slippers just wouldn’t last the distance. Neither would our tummies.

  We need somewhere local.

  Which means I’ll have to ask a grown-up for help.

  But asking for help can be risky these days. A lot of grown-ups aren’t very good at listening to kids, specially not while they’re shooting them.

  Then I fell asleep and the next morning me and Zelda went to find some new parents.

  Slowly.

  Carefully.

  Watching out for Nazis.

  ‘Why?’ says Zelda sleepily, rubbing her eyes as we creep along the forest path. ‘Why do we need new parents?’

  ‘To keep us safe,’ I tell her. ‘To look after our sore fingers and give us breakfast.’

  Zelda thinks about this. We’re both shivering in the cool damp morning air. We haven’t had anything to eat or drink for a whole day and two nights. I can see she likes the idea of a hot breakfast as much as I do.

  While I keep my eyes peeled for Nazi soldiers in the undergrowth and Nazi dive-bombers above the trees, I tell her my plan.

  She listens quietly.

  But not for long.

  ‘No,’ she shouts, and plonks herself down at the side of the path.

  I knew Zelda wouldn’t like this part of the idea. The part that involves going back to the big hole with the dead children in it.

  I don’t like it either, but it’s a vital and important part of the plan.

  I try not to get irritated with Zelda. Hunger and thirst can make you really grumpy if you’re not careful.

  ‘You won’t have to see the children,’ I explain to her. ‘They’ll probably be covered up with earth. A grave is a really good place to meet new parents. If the mums and dads are still alive, sooner or later they’ll want to visit the place where their kids are buried. And we’ll be there, offering ourselves as replacements.’

  Zelda frowns as she thinks about this.

  I glance nervously around the forest. I’m hoping she’ll agree it’s a really good plan, but I’m also hoping she’ll do it quietly.

  ‘What does replacements mean?’ says Zelda.

  ‘Parents with dead kids sometimes adopt new ones,’ I explain. ‘It’s no trouble for them, they’ve already got the bedrooms set up and everything.’

  Zelda slowly stands up.

  I can see she’s starting to understand what a good idea this is.

  But before she can tell me how grateful she is to have such a clever family as me, there’s a snapping and crackling nearby and something hurtles towards us out of the undergrowth.

  For a panicked second I think it’s a Nazi dog, one of those big vicious killer brutes trained to bite you even through your clothes.

  I try to get between Zelda, who’s cowering and whimpering, and the vicious killer brute.

  Except now I can see it isn’t a vicious killer brute.

  It’s another kind of dog, big and floppy and panting with untidy brown fur like an old armchair with the stuffing showing. And big sad eyes that stare up at me while it licks a bare bit of my tummy through a rip in my shirt.

  ‘Stop that,’ says Zelda sternly to the dog. ‘It’s rude to lick tummies.’

  I don’t mind. Mum used to lick my tummy when I was little.

  The dog turns and starts licking Zelda’s arm.

  She stops frowning and starts chuckling.

  I look around for the dog’s owner. I have a feeling he or she probably isn’t a Nazi, but you can’t be too careful. Before I can spot anybody, a whistle echoes through the trees and the dog gives Zelda one last lick and runs off into the undergrowth.

  I still can’t see anybody.

  ‘Pity,’ I say to Zelda. ‘A person
who owns a dog like that is probably nice.’

  Zelda thinks about this.

  Suddenly she yells as loud as she can.

  ‘Hey, dog man or dog lady. We’re over here. Felix and Zelda. Two kids who need breakfast and a mummy and daddy.’

  In a panic, I put my hand over Zelda’s mouth. Every Nazi in Poland probably heard that.

  Zelda pulls my hand away.

  ‘I was going to say please,’ she mutters, glaring.

  Before I can remind her we’re in a war zone, I hear more sounds coming through the trees.

  Thudding sounds.

  Rattling sounds.

  Getting closer.

  I grab Zelda and look frantically around for a hiding place in the ferns and creepers. Somewhere marching Nazi soldiers with machine guns won’t spot us.

  I see a place.

  ‘Come on,’ I hiss at Zelda.

  She doesn’t move. I love having her as my family, but sometimes I wish she wasn’t so stubborn.

  ‘Look,’ she says pointing, her eyes going big.

  I turn and look. Coming round a bend in the forest path is a wooden cart, rattling and squeaking, pulled by a plodding horse with thud-thudding hooves.

  The driver is an old man.

  I check to see if the nice dog is riding on the cart or running alongside. It doesn’t seem to be.

  The old man sees us and winks.

  Zelda is still staring at him with big eyes.

  ‘The kind cook,’ she whispers.

  He doesn’t have oranges piled up in his cart, or chocolate. But he’s got something almost as good. A huge mound of crisp fresh turnips. Suddenly I can taste them and I feel weak with hunger. Normally I don’t like turnips, specially raw, but now the thought of that turnip juice running down my throat makes me desperate to have some.

  The old man stops the cart.

  I can’t see the nice dog anywhere.

  ‘You kids lost?’ says the old man.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ says Zelda. Right now she’ll say anything for a turnip.

  The man looks at us thoughtfully.

  ‘Get on,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  I hesitate.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

  ‘To my farm,’ says the man.

  I think about this.

  ‘Did you grow those turnips?’ I say.

  The man nods.

  I put my arm round Zelda. I’m pretty sure the man isn’t telling the truth about where he’s going. I don’t know much about farming, but where I come from if a person grows turnips on his farm, the reason he puts them in a cart is to take them to town. And in my experience towns are where Nazi soldiers have their headquarters.

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘could we just have a turnip?’

  ‘Or some sausages,’ says Zelda.

  The man smiles, but there’s something a bit strange about the way he does it.

  ‘Hop on,’ he says. ‘You can eat as much as you like on the way.’

  Zelda starts to climb onto the cart.

  The man reaches behind him and lifts her up. I step forward to pull her back down, but I’m so hungry I’m starting to feel dizzy and my tummy’s making me have second thoughts.

  Maybe we should go with the man. He might be telling the truth. He might be going back home to get something he’s forgotten, like more turnips. He might give us stew and let us work for him and even offer to be our new parent or grandparent.

  If he’s lying, we can always jump off the cart and hide before we get to town.

  I grab onto the side of the cart and begin to climb up after Zelda.

  And stop.

  Nailed to the side of the cart, right next to my face, is a tattered paper notice with printing on it. At the top is one word in big letters.

  JEWS.

  I read the rest of the notice.

  Reward, it says. For each Jew captured and handed over. Two hundred (200) zloty and one (1) bottle of vodka.

  Suddenly I’m not hungry any more. I’m thinking clearly again. This is why the man wants to take us to town. To get a Nazi reward.

  I drop back onto the ground.

  ‘Zelda,’ I yell. ‘Jump off.’

  Zelda glares down at me and shakes her head. Her cheeks are bulging and she’s got mud and turnip juice round her mouth.

  ‘Zelda,’ I scream. ‘It’s a trap.’

  The horse rears up. The old man swears at me. The cart lurches forward. The old man doesn’t try to stop it. He obviously thinks one reward is better than nothing.

  I run after the cart. The back flap is held in place by two big rusty metal pins. I grab them and twist them out. The flap drops and hundreds of turnips roll off the cart and knock me over.

  Zelda rolls off the cart too.

  ‘Ow,’ she says as we lie on the ground with the turnips. She takes her knee out of my mouth. ‘That hurts. Don’t you know anything?’

  I’m not thinking about knees, not even Zelda’s hurting one. I’m thinking about the horrible thing I glimpsed in the cart, after the load started spilling and before my glasses got knocked off.

  A boy, half-buried in turnips, not moving, covered in blood.

  The old man must already have caught one Jewish kid today and bashed him unconscious and hidden him under the turnips.

  The cart has stopped and the old man has jumped down and is picking up turnips and yelling angrily at us. For a fraction of a second I wonder if I should try to rescue the boy.

  No.

  Get Zelda to safety.

  You have to look after your family first. Plus the boy could already be dead.

  I find my glasses and scramble up and grab Zelda’s hand and drag her into the forest without looking back at the cart.

  ‘Run,’ I pant at her and we both do. We run until we’re out of breath, which happens pretty quickly when you’re weak from no food.

  We flop to the ground behind a big tree. I’d like to be further away from the man, but I’m hoping he won’t want to leave his cart in case somebody steals the Jewish boy to get the reward.

  When my breathing quietens down, I listen carefully.

  It doesn’t sound like the man is following us.

  ‘He wasn’t a kind cook, was he,’ whispers Zelda.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says sadly. ‘I didn’t get you a turnip.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say.

  Looking at Zelda’s kind concerned face, I feel a glow inside that makes the hunger seem not so bad.

  ‘I know what we can do,’ Zelda says. ‘After the man’s finished picking his turnips up and he’s gone, we can go and see if he’s missed one.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I say.

  I don’t tell her that no matter how hungry I am, I’m not sure if I could eat a turnip that’s had blood on it.

  Zelda gives me a hug.

  ‘Thanks for saving me, Felix,’ she says. ‘I’m lucky to have you as my family.’

  I’m about to tell her I’m lucky to have her as my family too, but I don’t get the chance.

  Twigs snap.

  I try to spin round.

  Too late.

  ‘Run and you’re dead,’ says a gruff voice.

  Strong hands grab us.

  Then I knew me and Zelda were doomed. I knew what would happen next. We’d be bashed and thrown back onto the cart. Taken into town. Handed over to the Nazis. Made to lie down in a hole in the ground and…

  I was wrong.

  You can be sometimes when your eyes are watering with hunger.

  It’s not the turnip man who’s grabbed us, it’s the dog lady.

  I think she’s a farmer too, judging by her clothes. And how strong she is. She’s gripping my collar in one hand and there’s no way I can get free. In her other hand she’s got Zelda’s arm and she’s not letting go of that either, even though Zelda is trying to bite her on the finger.

  ‘Stop that,’ says the dog lady.

  I
stop wriggling. The big floppy dog is licking my tummy again. I look into its sad eyes. And at the friendly dribble hanging from its friendly mouth. This dog is definitely not a Nazi. Which means its owner probably isn’t either.

  I glance over at Zelda.

  She’s still wriggling.

  ‘Kind farmer,’ I mouth at her.

  Zelda frowns. Either she doesn’t understand what I’m saying, or she thinks I’m wrong.

  I think I’m right. Now that I’m having a closer look at the woman, I can see she’s got sad eyes like her dog. Her face isn’t particularly friendly, but she’s got the same sort of mouth as Mum, one that’s kind at the corners. Her hair is shorter than Mum’s though. You probably have to have short hair on a farm or the cows chew it. Mum was a bookseller so she didn’t have that problem.

  ‘Stop wriggling,’ the woman snaps at Zelda.

  ‘You’re not the boss of me,’ says Zelda fiercely.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say to Zelda. ‘She’s friendly.’

  I’m wrong about that too.

  ‘You stupid Jews,’ says the woman.

  I stare at her, not sure if I heard right.

  ‘You yids are meant to be smart,’ says the woman. ‘I don’t call staying around here smart. Not after what happened to your lot yesterday.’

  I did hear right. Only people who hate Jews call us yids. Suddenly the woman’s mouth doesn’t look so kind after all.

  ‘We don’t want to stay around here,’ I say. ‘If you let go of us, we’ll leave.’

  The woman doesn’t stop gripping my collar or Zelda’s arm.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ says the woman.

  She starts pulling me and Zelda away through the forest. My collar is twisted and she’s half choking me. She must know about the reward.

  ‘You’re hurting my arm,’ says Zelda.

  The woman ignores her.

  Zelda finally manages to get her teeth into the woman’s hand.

  The woman lets go of my collar, slaps Zelda’s face, and grabs my collar again before I can do anything.

  Zelda cries.

  The dog whimpers.

  ‘I’m reporting you to the police,’ I yell at the woman, but straight away I know that’s a dumb thing to say because the police are all Nazis too.

  The woman drags us both down another forest path. As we stumble along, I give Zelda a look to let her know I’m sorry I couldn’t defend her. And that I’m trying to think what to do next.