Free Broken Song by Kathryn Lasky Page A

knife.
    “Uh-oh!” said Rachel as the head fell into the snow.
    That night the sky was clear, and with the moon nearly full, there would not be much camouflage on the road. Reuven felt that it might be best to stay in the woods while traveling. They were so tired they stopped early and Reuven built a small fire. He had plucked the chicken and chopped it into roasting-size pieces. Rachel had played with the feathers while he had prepared their dinner. He should have brought those cakes from the priest’s house. A sweet would have tasted good. They had a bit of bread with the chicken.
    “We are eating well, Miss Rachel, considering,” he said as he handed her a piece of chicken.
    “Considering.” Rachel said the word clearly.
    Reuven looked at her in amazement. How quickly she was learning.
    Reuven wondered how much he could teach her. “Drumstick,” he said, pointing at the piece of chicken she was eating.
    “No, chicken,” she replied fiercely.
    “Well, yes it is a chicken, but that part of the chicken leg is called a drumstick.”
    “No, chicken,” she said.
    “Okay, chicken.”
    “Okay, chicken,” she repeated
    This baby was a wonder. He would try and teach her the latke rhyme.
    “
I have a little potato
.
    It’s nice and round
.
    I’m going to chop it up
    and fry it golden brown
.
    It’s a little latke
    ready to go
    right into my potke
    and I want more
!”
    “Again!” Rachel demanded. He said it once more, then twice more. After five times, Reuven was bored silly. “Come on, Rachel, you have to say it too.”
    “Mama,” Rachel said. The game suddenly stopped.
    “Mama? No, Rachel.” His face turned stern. “We’re singing the latke song.”
    “Mama,” Rachel repeated. “Mama, Papa, Prinka.”
    The trees around them swirled. The flames of their small fire suddenly became tongues, all crying “Mama.” Rachel’s face had turned red, her cheeks slick with tears. Reuven felt a panic seize him. What should he do? He reached for Rachel and grabbed her to him, pressing her to his chest. He buried his face in the thick nubbly knitof her little wool hat. He could smell her hair through it. He could smell her diaper. What in God’s name was he to do with this smelly howling baby in the middle of Russia?
    “This isn’t fair!” he cried. “This is not fair! I can’t be doing this. I know nothing about babies. I am not a father. I am not a mother. I am a brother. They are gone, Rachel! They are gone! They are all gone!”
    “Gone,” Rachel said. The single word rang like a chime in the dense forest. She looked up and touched his wet cheeks. He saw a look of confusion in her eyes. She scrambled out of his lap and stood up.
    “Gone.” She said the word again and paused, as if she were listening to its sound. “Gone, gone, gone.” She stomped her feet on the cleared ground near their fire. It was a sound to her, a meaningless sound. In that instant, Reuven realized that fairness had nothing to do with anything. They had each other, and that was all they had in this world. It was all that counted.
    As Rachel stomped on the ground and repeated the word, he watched her antic shadow lace between the light of the flames cast from the fire, her little arms jerking, her head bobbing. Her shadow grew longer until it became tangled with his own shadow’s hunched still form. The little shadow stomped away and stretched. With the little peaked cap, it could have been that of a fierce devil of the woods—the arms slashing the night frantically in some kind of manic dance.
    “Gone! Gone! Gone!” Rachel’s voice roared into the blackness of the night.

TWELVE
    60 KILOMETERS TO VILNA.
    “No! It can’t be.” Reuven stared at the sign at the crossroads dumbfounded. They had been on the road for three days already. He had been sure they would be in Vilna tonight. He thought he had already crossed the Russian-Polish border. But he had been mistaken. This sign meant three more days, three more days at