Free Stolen Child by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch Page A

humans.”
    Mychailo rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should read one,” he said. “Then you’d understand. They’re hilarious. And
Freddy Goes to Florida
is the first in the series. I’ve been trying to borrow this one for quite a while.”
    “I bet you don’t take those books to school with you.”
    “You’re right about that,” he said. “The hockey book is for taking to school.”
    I set
Black Beauty
down. It had too many words. “Can I try a Freddy book too?”
    “Sure,” said Mychailo. “Let’s see if there are any on the shelf.”
    There were a few, so Mychailo drew out a copy of
Freddy the Detective
. “This was the first one I read,” he said. “And it’s really good.”
    I flipped through it. Even though it was a bit thicker than
Black Beauty
, the print was big and there were some pictures. Not quite a picture book, but not as daunting as
Black Beauty
. I breathed in deeply the wonderful scent of ink on paper and ran my hand across a page. Even the
feel
of this book made me happy …
    I am in my four-poster bed in the German farmhouse. I should be asleep but I am woken by the rumble of voices from downstairs. I get out of bed. Shivering in my bare feet and thin nightgown, I slip down the stairs to see where the voices are coming from. The double doors of the library are open. Vater is seated with a brandy in one hand. Other men, their uniform jackets unbuttoned, sit around the table, telling each other stories and laughing. These are SS men. I know that because they have the very same badges on their collars as Vater
.
    But that is not what catches my eye. After all, I’ve seen them so often — at rallies in the city, and here for dinner parties. What I notice this time is the room they are in. It is usually closed. This room is lined from floor to ceiling with books, mostly in German, but some in other languages too. Fat books, thin books, some with gold lettering on their spines. I love books. I long to hold them. But I am not allowed to touch these books
.
    I walk back up to my room and pull out from under my bed the one book Vater has allowed me:
Der Giftpiltz.
I turn through the pages. The paintings are colourful and the print is large and clear. I want to love this book but I cannot. It talks about Jews and how they are poisonous toadstools but Germans are wholesome mushrooms. Something deep inside of me tells me this is wrong. I think of that girl
who wore the yellow star and my heart aches. I close the book and shove it back under my bed
.
    “We should be going,” said Mychailo. “Don’t you have to put supper on?”
    Suddenly I was back in the library in Canada. In Brantford. I looked at Mychailo, then up at the clock on the wall. We had been at the library for an hour.
    We walked to the checkout counter, him with his three books and me with the one novel. I still felt a little bit like I was in a dream world.
    An older boy who looked vaguely familiar from today’s recess was standing in line in front of us. He turned, caught Mychailo’s eye and nodded in greeting. He didn’t seem to notice me, and that was fine with me. A few more people stood behind us in line. I didn’t know most of them but recognized Linda. She was with a girl who was an older version of herself. It had to be her sister. Once my book was stamped, I waited for Linda and her sister to be checked through.
    Mychailo tugged on my sleeve. “Come on,” he said. “I thought you had to cook the potatoes.”
    “This will only take a minute.” I knew he didn’t want to be seen with me, but this wasn’t a boy from school, it was two girls, so what was the harm? He stood impatiently by my side as Linda and her sister had their books stamped.
    “Hi, Nadia,” said Linda. She glanced at Mychailo, then back at me. “This is my sister, Grace.”
    Grace was taller than Linda, but she had the same chocolate-brown eyes and glossy hair. “So you are Nadia,” she said, holding out her hand to me. “Good to meet you.”