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  I don’t understand. Heading north?

  ‘He asked me to give you a message,’ says Yuli. ‘To tell you he’ll come here as soon as he’s not needed there.’

  I try to make sense of this. I want to say he’s needed here too. He’s needed for sabotage missions here. Me and Dom need him here.

  I keep quiet.

  Yuli is looking tired and in pain and I don’t want to load my sadness onto her. Plus if I say anything, I’ll have to say everything.

  Tell her the awful thought that’s been nagging at me all day like a distant air-raid siren.

  I flop down onto the straw. I take my compass out of my pocket and stare at it.

  Maybe this is why Gabriek gave it to me. Maybe he’s had enough of the risk and danger of looking after me. Of the years of stress trying to keep a Jewish kid alive in a world full of Nazis.

  Maybe he’s decided he doesn’t want me around any more, and I have to find my own way.

  four more weeks passed and the end of March arrived all damp and muddy and gloomy, I finally accepted the truth.

  Gabriek won’t be coming back.

  Ever.

  I know he could if he wanted to. If he told the partisan leaders he wanted to do his missions from this camp, he’d be allowed to because he’s the best. The partisan leaders would let him come here to keep him happy. People do their best work when they’re happy, it’s a medical fact.

  ‘People who blow up trains,’ I say to Doctor Zajak, ‘they do their best work when they’re happy, don’t they?’

  Doctor Zajak gives me an uncertain look.

  But he nods.

  Then he puts his arm round my shoulder.

  ‘Or angry, Felix,’ he says quietly. ‘Some people do their best work when they’re angry.’

  I go outside and squat down next to the pit where we bury the things we amputate.

  I think about this.

  Doctor Zajak’s right. Some people definitely do their best work when they’re angry. Look at Adolf Hitler. He’s angry all the time and he’s the most successful mass-murderer ever.

  I’ve been so dumb. Just a feeble-minded kid who thought he could solve any problem by telling himself a cheerful story.

  What an idiot.

  Cooking pots. Gabriek hasn’t spent the last two months mending cooking pots. In two months you could make a mountain of brand new cooking pots, even if all you had to work with were melted-down fillings from dead Nazis. And you could turn about ten Nazi planes into alarm clocks in two months.

  I know the truth now.

  The reason Gabriek’s not coming back is because he doesn’t want to.

  ‘Felix,’ says Yuli. ‘Are you alright?’

  I bury my face in the straw.

  Yuli must be wondering what I’m doing here in the sleeping bunker at night. Partisans hardly ever sleep at night.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I mumble.

  Normally Yuli leaves people alone with their feelings, it’s one of the good things about her. But tonight is meant to be a happy night. The snow has started to melt, and Yuli’s shoulder is completely healed. Earlier today she did some fast shooting practice and hit every single one of the Hitler pine cones.

  ‘Are you thinking about Gabriek?’ says Yuli softly.

  I nod miserably into the straw.

  ‘Why did he promise?’ I say. ‘If he didn’t want to come back, he could have just said goodbye.’

  Yuli puts her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘He did want to come back,’ she says. ‘But things change and at the moment there are more important things he has to do.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say bitterly.

  ‘Felix,’ says Yuli. ‘Think about what I’ve told you. About the vital work Gabriek and the others are doing. Hurting the Nazis as they retreat from the Russians.’

  I shrug. I’ve heard all this before. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

  ‘We’ve just had new information,’ says Yuli. ‘About how urgent that work is. We have to stop the Nazis getting back into Germany and unleashing their secret weapons.’

  I roll over and look at Yuli.

  ‘Secret weapons?’ I say.

  ‘There are all sorts of rumours,’ says Yuli. ‘Fighter planes that fly faster than sound. Atomic bombs more powerful than a thousand volcanoes. And they’re not all rumours. The Nazis have already started launching giant rocket bombs at England. Rocket bombs that fly themselves.’

  I stare at her.

  England is where Richmal Crompton lives.

  Nobody I care about is safe from the Nazis. They’ve made Gabriek so stressed that he doesn’t want me any more, and now they’re even trying to kill Richmal Crompton.

  ‘I wish I could do vital work hurting the Nazis,’ I say bitterly.

  Yuli looks at me.

  I see her make a decision.

  ‘Felix,’ she says. ‘Would you like to come on a mission with me and Dom?’

  I don’t say anything. Did I hear her right?

  ‘Tomorrow night,’ says Yuli. ‘To the town where you got the bazookas.’

  Now I don’t want to bury my head in the straw.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I would.’

  It’s exactly the sort of cart I’d planned to get. A big wooden farm cart with strong wheels. The partisans took it from a farmer who was friendly with the Nazis.

  Sitting on the seat, holding the reins while Dom pulls us along the dark forest path towards the town, me and Yuli look like a typical farmer and her son.

  ‘Not son,’ says Yuli. ‘I’d have been nine when I had you. If anyone asks, we’re brother and sister.’

  I know she’s right, but I don’t care.

  In my imagination she’s my mum, and we’re on a mission to hurt Nazis together.

  I was a bit disappointed at first when I found out my first mission was only a food mission. But I’m not any more. Yuli explained that for partisans, food is as important as bullets. Every potato we bring back is another stab in the heart of the Nazis. And every turnip.

  Which feels good.

  This mission was her idea. It’s simple and very clever, which is what you’d expect from the person who had the idea of putting Hitler moustaches on pine cones to make targets.

  Instead of stealing food and risking a shooting battle, we’re going to the market to buy food. The Nazis won’t even know we’re partisans. And we’re travelling at night because real farmers always get to market very early, before dawn.

  ‘Yuli,’ I say as we creak along behind Dom. ‘Where did the money come from to buy the food?’

  ‘The same Nazi supply truck as your coat and glasses,’ says Yuli. ‘But it’s not exactly money.’

  She hands me a cloth bag.

  It feels heavy. I look inside.

  Jewellery.

  Gold and silver and gemstones sparkling in the moonlight.

  I remember that the Nazi supply truck was bringing stolen Jewish possessions from a death camp. I also remember that Mum had a silver watch that used to belong to her mum.

  I start rummaging among the jewellery.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ says Yuli.

  ‘My mum’s watch,’ I say.

  Yuli gently takes the bag from me and closes it.

  ‘Different camp,’ she says softly. ‘Your parents would have died in a camp further north.’

  We don’t say anything for a while. That’s how it is with war, people have so much sadness to think about.

  There are lots of rings in the bag. Hundreds. I can’t imagine how many memories people would have had about those rings.

  ‘Yuli,’ I say. ‘Do you think you’ll ever get married?’

  If she’s planning to, she should save a ring for herself. I’m sure the person who owned it wouldn’t mind.

  Yuli shakes her head.

  She looks sad. Maybe she’s feeling the same as me about Gabriek not coming back.

  ‘Why not?’ I say. ‘Why won’t you ever get married?’

  �
��It’s personal,’ says Yuli quietly.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  But Yuli tells me anyway. I think she remembers how I’ve told her quite a few personal things about myself.

  ‘Last year,’ she says, ‘I got a lot of shrapnel in me from a Nazi grenade. I won’t ever be able to have children.’

  I think about that. I can understand why some men wouldn’t want to marry a woman if she couldn’t have children.

  But not all men.

  ‘What if you fall in love with a man who’s already got a child?’ I ask. ‘Even just a borrowed one?’

  Yuli doesn’t answer.

  I understand. It’s not the same.

  Poor Yuli.

  No wonder she wants to kill Nazis so much.

  We hear the shooting just after we’ve been through a small village on the outskirts of the town.

  Yuli steers Dom and the cart off the road and we stop under a tree.

  Ahead of us the road goes down a slope, and at the bottom are the lights of a farmhouse.

  A few figures with lanterns are moving around in front of the house.

  I think two or three of the figures have got Nazi uniforms on.

  One of them raises a gun and points it at the head of what looks like an old woman.

  He shoots her.

  Oh.

  ‘Look at those scum,’ mutters Yuli. ‘Looting for themselves.’

  I know what she means. In a history lesson with Gabriek once, I learned what retreating armies usually do. They destroy stuff so the other side can’t use it, and they loot for themselves.

  Of course. I should have realised.

  That’s probably why the Nazis burned our farm.

  ‘Wait here,’ says Yuli.

  I look at her, startled. Where’s she going?

  She pulls something from her boot.

  A knife.

  I start to panic. She’s going after Nazis and she hasn’t even got a gun. Mr Pavel said not to bring one in case we get searched.

  Too late. She’s gone.

  I stare down the road at the farmyard, where the Nazi soldiers look like they’re drinking out of bottles.

  No sign of Yuli.

  To take my mind off things, I tell Dom a story. About a Russian farm horse who can’t have children. She meets a Polish farm horse who already has a young donkey he looks after, and together they all rebuild his barn.

  I can’t finish the story. I used to like animal stories, they reminded me of my friend Zelda. But this one feels stupid.

  I see Yuli.

  In the farmyard.

  She’s got her arm round one of the Nazi soldiers, and she’s drinking out of his bottle. She and the soldier are both laughing.

  I don’t know how she can do that, drink out of the same bottle as a Nazi.

  Her arm moves really fast and the Nazi soldier isn’t laughing any more. He’s on the ground, kicking his legs and clutching his throat.

  Yuli spent half this afternoon sharpening her knife and now I can see why.

  Look out Yuli, the other two Nazis.

  I don’t have to worry. With another fast arm movement she grabs the first Nazi’s gun and flames start spitting out of it.

  I feel proud of her.

  And I feel proud of myself too. I helped Doctor Zajak do a good job mending her shoulder, so in a way I’m helping her blow those two Nazis’ brains out.

  we got to the square in the middle of the town, me and Yuli did the same as the other people who’d arrived early for the market. We stretched out in our cart under a blanket and closed our eyes. But only for a while because then the town was bombed.

  Sirens screaming.

  Searchlights in the dark sky.

  The sound of thunder getting closer.

  At first I don’t know what’s happening.

  ‘Quick,’ yells Yuli.

  I help her steer Dom and the cart into the middle of the market square, next to the posts for hanging people. It’s so that buildings can’t fall on us. We get Dom to lie down, then we both lie flat too, huddled together next to him on the cobbles.

  All around us other farmers are doing the same.

  The first explosions shake the whole square.

  I put my arm on Dom’s head to try to keep him calm. You don’t get noise like this on farms, not even in a hailstorm.

  The noise gets worse.

  Not just explosions, the roar of breaking buildings.

  A few times I hear bits of buildings whizzing over our heads. From the screams in the square I think some of them are landing nearby.

  I squint up to try to see the vicious heartless Nazi planes that are killing innocent farmers and don’t even care.

  ‘Keep your head down,’ yells Yuli.

  Gradually the explosions stop, and the buildings aren’t crashing so much, and the thunder high above us slowly goes away.

  ‘Dom,’ I croak. ‘Are you alright?’

  He is. So is our cart.

  We peer around.

  Others aren’t so lucky. Dead bodies and weeping people and broken carts.

  ‘Come on,’ says Yuli. ‘We have to find food.’

  For a moment I want to stay and help the wounded people in the square. There might not be anybody else here with medical experience.

  Then I remember we’re on a mission to hurt Nazis.

  This town is completely broken.

  Every street has bits of buildings lying in it, and bits of people. Other people are wandering around crying. When we find food, I hope we don’t have to take it from crying people.

  ‘Those Nazi vermin pilots,’ I say. ‘Bombing people who aren’t even in armies.’

  I wish I had the bazooka rockets from the bike. I could have blasted those Nazi vermin planes out of the sky.

  Yuli is giving me a look.

  ‘That wasn’t the Nazis doing the bombing,’ she says. ‘It was the British and the Americans.’

  I stare at her.

  The Americans are on our side. Doctor Zajak told me. And Britain is where Richmal Crompton lives.

  ‘The railway junction here is a Nazi transport hub,’ explains Yuli. ‘And there’s a Nazi regional headquarters here too. The way the British and Americans see it, with this many Nazis around, it’s easier just to take out the whole town.’

  I’m shocked.

  I bet Richmal Crompton would be too.

  Yuli grabs my arm.

  ‘Talking of Nazi headquarters,’ she says, pointing down the street.

  I see what she’s pointing at. A tall broken building with half a tattered Nazi flag hanging off the front.

  ‘Wait here with Dom,’ says Yuli, jumping down from the cart. ‘Look for food.’

  She takes off her leather jacket and headscarf and throws them into the back of the cart. I don’t know why she’s doing that. It’s barely daylight and it’s freezing.

  Now I do.

  There’s a dead Nazi soldier lying near us. Yuli takes his jacket and helmet, puts them on, grabs his gun and hurries towards the Nazi headquarters.

  I wish I was going with her.

  I’d like to help her kill some Nazis in their own regional headquarters.

  I find a quiet side street that doesn’t have people wandering around in a daze or lying around in bits.

  There must be food in at least some of these broken buildings.

  I tether Dom to what’s left of a lamppost. I don’t want to leave anything in the cart because one of the things about war is that people take what isn’t theirs. Clothes, bikes, food, you name it. So I put Yuli’s jacket on over my coat, stuff her headscarf into the pocket, and grab the bag of jewellery.

  I look at the buildings.

  I try to decide which is riskier. Searching for food in an upstairs flat where the floor might give way, or in a basement flat where the ceiling might collapse.

  Before I can decide, I see someone move behind a bombed-out window.

  I freeze.

  Yuli told me that sometimes Nazi s
oldiers from the local barracks kill town people and steal their apartments. What if this is a Nazi soldier? One who’s popped home to see if his stolen kitchen crockery has survived the bombing?

  He wouldn’t expect a partisan to creep up on him. And shoot him in the head while he’s inspecting his dinner plates for cracks.

  I wish I had a gun. I could go and find one. Or I could go and get Yuli and we could kill the vermin Nazi together.

  Slowly I back away towards the cart.

  I glance at the bombed-out window again.

  And see a face. A young girl. She’s got dark hair and dark eyes.

  I stare.

  Zelda?

  No, that’s stupid. I saw Zelda’s poor dead body myself more than two years ago.

  I hear children’s voices whispering, and the young girl disappears from the window as if she’s been pulled away.

  I can’t hear any grown-ups. If there are children alone in that wrecked apartment, they must be scared. I remember how terrified Zelda was about being left alone in wartime. I know how I feel myself sometimes.

  Slowly, so the children don’t think I’m attacking, I go over to the building to see if I can help.

  It’s easy to get into the building because a large part of the front is missing. I walk into what used to be a living room, crunching on broken glass and chunks of ceiling plaster.

  ‘Hello?’ I call, trying to sound friendly.

  I hear whispers coming from behind a pile of wrecked furniture.

  ‘I am being quiet. Stop being bossy,’ a young voice hisses indignantly.

  Then I notice something at the back of the room. Part of the wall has broken away, and behind it is another room, a little one with no windows. On the floor of the little room are three kid-size mattresses. There’s also a bowl with wees and poos in it, and a water bottle.

  It’s a hiding place.

  I know what hiding places look like because I lived in one for two years and two months. And there’s mostly only one type of kid who has to live in a hiding place in Poland in 1945.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I say to the pile of wrecked furniture. ‘I’m Jewish too.’

  No reply.

  Of course. If I was a Nazi, I’d say that, wouldn’t I? To get them to come out so I could kill them.

  ‘Amcha,’ I say carefully.

  It’s a word Yuli taught me. It’s not Russian, it’s Hebrew. It’s a kind of Jewish password. Nazis can use it too, but they don’t know how to say it properly.