“Well, then,” said Jacob, sitting down again and bringing his knees up against his chin, “can you tell me, what were you running from?”
The boy plucked a piece of straw from the pile and turned it over in his hand.
“Running away? Weren’t we all running away from the same thing? Running away from them?”
Jacob sighed. Until his conversation with the boy had begun, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted, how much he needed, to speak with another person. It wasn’t Mama. It wasn’t Papa, or even Leon, but it was someone.
“Yes, that’s true. What I mean is, before this, before you came here, were you at home with your parents, or were you in hiding?”
“Well, yes and no, and maybe both, because my parents had hidden me after Stefan left. And when the men came finally to our house, I knew just what to do. Did I tell you my father was an architect, and so I knew the place to go, a secret wall in the attic, that he had built when I was about five years old? It was a pirates’ room with toy boats and costumes, even a treasure chest with money and its own lock. Stefan and I would go there on rainy days, but then Stefan had to work, because Papa said the family needed to eat since there were no more jobs in building houses. They—the Nazis—weren’t building new homes or businesses; they were destroying them. So that’s why Stefan had to go to work. I don’t know exactly what he did. Maybe hauling boxes. He had wanted to become an architect like Papa—we both did—but one day Papa told us they had shut the schools, and later Mama sewed on the stars, such as we all have.” Zalman pointed to the spot, continuing, “I tore mine off. You see there? Mama told me to do so as soon as I got to the pirates’ place.” The child shifted, throwing the blade of straw that had been in his hand into the hayloft.
“Mama had kept Stefan’s soup warm all night. But when he hadn’t come home that night, we knew that he had been taken. Papa said it had only been a matter of time, and sat down at the kitchen table, covering his face with his hands. Mama just went into her room and cried. After that, she was always crying.”
Jacob caught sight of the boy’s eyes, which were brimming with tears, and he envied him.
And then the story came fast, as if the child had tamped it down so long that the words exploded in a flurry. Stefan had, in fact, been put on the train, the event confirmed by Stefan’s best friend, Sammy, who had managed to escape and stopped by the house the following morning. He, too, didn’t know what would become of Sammy, perhaps flight into the woods like some of the others.
Zalman confessed that as he listened to Sammy’s tale, he’d wanted to cover his ears, to stop it all, to go back in time when the world had been somewhat normal, but he’d known, even at his young age, that this was impossible. He became a voyeur of sorts, no longer a participant in his own life. Just like watching an old movie reel, not being a part of anything, not feeling. That was the only way to exist, to cope.
And that was what he did when the neighbors arrived with news that the Nazis were coming. House by house, taking them all; not a mouse, a bauble, or a speck of bread was to be spared. Zalman allowed himself to be hugged by each of his parents before going up to the pirates’ place, where enough cans of vegetables, some baked potatoes, hard cheese, stale bread, and water had been stored. There were the books, too, even Treasure Island, which lay unopened on the floor along with a couple of broken toy boats and the useless treasure chest.
He heard them arrive the next day. And, like a moviegoer, he watched the corners of the room and listened to the sounds. The angry voices, the cries that made the walls tremble, a shot, then another, his mother’s scream. And just as quickly, there was the silence. He listened to it for days as he ate some cheese and potatoes, peed into the enormous kettle in the corner. The books still lay unopened as Zalman crept downstairs, only to discover his father kneeling against the closet door as if he were praying, impaled by a single gunshot through his head. And then his eyes still dry, Zalman opened the door, and ran.
Zalman met Jacob’s face. Tears slid down Zalman’s cheeks.
“And you, Jacob, what’s your story?” It was his boldest question yet. As Jacob pondered how he was going to answer the question, or if he was going to answer it at all, a sharp light invaded the barn, illuminating the skinny chickens in a cage, a tired pig that was opening one lazy eye.
Zalman jumped up against the wall as if stricken by a bayonet. The barn door squeaked shut, merging with the sound of Jacob’s laughter.