Run, Boy, Run(20)

That feeling was justified. In the days to come the woman took care of him devotedly and Srulik recovered his strength. She gave him good, warm clothes to wear.

"What did you do with my old ones?" he asked.

"I threw them out."

He grieved for them until she took down Marisza's magnifying glass from a mantel and gave it to him.

***

Christmastime came. Srulik could already say the Catholic prayers. He never touched his food until the pretty woman had said grace and he had crossed himself. Around his neck she had hung a cross and a medallion of the Madonna holding baby Jesus. One day she brought him a pair of shoes.

They were big for him. She stuffed them with newspaper.

"That's what my mother used to do," Srulik said.

"Don't tell me anything about yourself," she told him. "It's better for me not to know. Just tell me how old you are."

He thought for a moment.

"I was eight last summer," he said.

"What should I call you?"

"Jurek Staniak."

"That's a fine name," the woman said.

She wouldn't let him go near the windows during the day. At night, after she lit the kerosene lamp in the main room, he had to stay in an alcove in the back. It was dark there and the windows were covered by thick curtains.

"Why?" he asked.

At first she wouldn't tell him. Then she did.

"I have two sons in the partisans. Do you know what that is?"

He nodded.

"I had a daughter, too, but the Germans tortured her and hung her in the forest. She couldn't have told where her father and brothers were even if she had wanted to. She didn't know."

Her eyes were dry as she told him this. Her face was pale and severe.

"I think they've left me here as bait. They keep me under surveillance to see who visits me. That's why I have to hide you. It's too dangerous to run the risk of going out or being seen through a window. And at night, when the lamp is lit, you could be spotted even more easily. I'm afraid that you won't be able to stay here. If the Germans come looking for my husband or sons, they may kill you."

She opened a trapdoor in the kitchen. A ladder led down from it to a basement full of vegetables. "Meanwhile, if anything happens I'll hide you here," she said.

He helped her to decorate the little Christmas tree she brought home. On Christmas Eve she lit some candles on the tree. He watched from the door of his alcove as she knelt and prayed, beating her breast.

The next day she gave him a hat. He took fright.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'm not sending you away just yet."

She told him to go to his alcove, shut the door, and knock. When she opened it, he was to enter the big room, take off his hat, and say, "Blessed be Jesus Christ." Then he would wait for her to answer, "Forever and ever, amen." They practiced it a few times.

Finally she said, "Very good. And what will you say when you're asked where you're from and who your parents are? You have to be prepared."

"I don't know."

She sat him down in front of her and told him, "You were born in a little village. You don't remember its name. You don't know how old you are. All you remember is that one day your father hitched the horses to the wagon, loaded all your belongings on it, and set out with you and your mother."

"I don't have brothers or sisters?"

"No. You're an only child."

"I used to be the youngest," he said.

"The three of you set out. The road was full of wagons, horses, cars, and soldiers. You don't remember how long you traveled. All of a sudden you heard a loud noise. A plane flew over you very low, on a strafing run. Bullets hit your wagon and your horse. Your parents fell and didn't move. They didn't answer when you called to them. Their clothes were sticky and red. Some people took you to their village. You don't remember how long you were there. But the man got drunk and beat you, so you left. Since then you've drifted from place to place. Can you remember all that?"

"No."

Every day she repeated the story to him. He didn't have to remember it exactly as she told it, she said. He just had to know some version of it by heart. When he was asked about himself, he had to tell as if it were true.

One day she asked without warning, "Where are you from?"

"I don't remember."

"Where are you parents?"

"They were killed when a plane strafed our wagon."

"How old are you?"

"I guess I'm nine."

"Very good," she praised him. "Now I'll teach you what to do when the people you work for take you to church."

"What people?"

"Whoever."

She explained what he should do when entering the church and leaving it. During the service, he should imitate the others.