Free My Brother's Secret by Dan Smith Page B

it’s kind that you said you’d share.’
    ‘Well, that’s what friends do, isn’t it?’
    So, just like that, Lisa and I were friends. No oath, no swearing-in ceremony, no rituals or exchange of punches. Just a few words, and that was that. Friends.
    I couldn’t help smiling.
    ‘What?’ she asked.
    I shrugged. ‘Friends. It’s … nice.’ I held out my hand for her to shake. I don’t know why. I just felt as if I needed to fix the friendship in some way.
    Lisa glanced at my hand, then smiled and looked me in the eye. ‘Really? A handshake?’ She shook her head. ‘You’refunny, Karl Friedmann.’
    The queue moved in front of us as two women left the shop, so we shuffled closer towards the door. One of the women was Frau Oster who lived over the road from Oma and Opa, a few houses down from Lisa. She was younger than Mama, slim and with mousey hair held back from her narrow face. Her husband was fighting in Russia, just like Papa had been, except he was a panzer driver in the SS. Oma said that you’d think he was a general, the way Frau Oster talked about him.
    ‘It’s not getting any better,’ she complained to her friend as she passed. ‘There’s still not enough to go round. I don’t know how long this can go on.’ She was carrying a folded copy of Der Stürmer at the top of her basket.
    ‘Not much longer, Monika. Hitler will win this war for us soon enough and then …’ The rest of the conversation was lost to me as the women moved along the street.
    The man on the radio told us that everything in Britain had been rationed since the beginning of last year. Things were better here, but they were getting worse. There was never quite enough in the shops any more and you had to have the right stamps to buy certain things – white for sugar, blue for meat, green for eggs, yellow for dairy. I didn’t hold out much hope of there being any chocolate in the shop, but didn’t say that to Lisa. She looked so delighted at the prospect, I didn’t want to spoil it. I just enjoyed her excitement and shuffled a little closer to the shop every time someone came out and another went in.
    When it was our turn, Lisa opened the door and we entered to the sound of a tinkling bell.

    The walls were lined with wooden shelves. Some were empty, but others were heavy with jars and bottles and tins. There were boxes of vegetables on tables, but they were small and few, and most of them could only be bought if you had the right stamps. On the counter, a huge pot of sauerkraut sat beside a set of scales, and next to that was a pile of Der Stürmer newspapers.
    On the front of the paper, there was a scary cartoon of a dark Jew holding a knife and standing over a blonde German woman who was screaming. At the bottom the words ‘The Jews Are Our Misfortune’ were printed in bold letters. I had seen lots of these papers before – they put them on the walls at school so everyone could read them. They were also displayed in special glass-fronted notice boards in the city.
    There were a few women inside the shop, passing bags and containers to Herr Finkel, who stood behind the counter. He filled them and weighed them and took stamps and money as he chatted to his customers.
    Herr Finkel had sparkling blue eyes and ruddy cheeks speckled with tiny red veins, and his dark-blue apron bulged around his large stomach. He looked older than Opa, with hair that was almost completely white. He showed me a sad smile when he looked down at me from behind the counter. ‘Karl,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to see you, but I’m so sorry about your papa. He was a good man.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘I remember when he used to bring you in here and you were only this high.’ He held one hand at waist height. ‘I liked him; he always had a smile on his face anda good word to say.’
    I nodded.
    ‘How’s your mama holding out?’
    ‘She …’ I struggled for the right words.
    ‘It’s all right,’ Herr Finkel said. ‘Don’t mind me. It’s