Free Once by Morris Gleitzman Page A

far.
    Barney suddenly looks serious.
    “She also told me,” he says, “that you haven’t seen your parents for nearly four years.”
    I feel myself blushing in the candlelight. What a stupid storytelling mistake. That was as stupid as Father Ludwik telling us Adolf Hitler is a great man.
    Desperately I try to think of a way to make the story better. Would Barney believe me if I tell him that I only have to take the pills once every four years?
    I don’t think so. This is pathetic. I can’t tell a decent story to save my life anymore. Or Mum and Dad’s.
    Barney puts his hand on my shoulder and I wait to be escorted back down into the cellar.
    But that doesn’t happen. Barney hands me the candle, picks up his bag, and steers me toward a big rusty door in the wall of the printing factory.
    “I’m glad you want to come with me, Felix,” he says.
    “Why?” I say, surprised.
    Barney suddenly looks very serious.
    “I have to confess something,” he says. “I read one of the stories in your notebook.”
    I stare at him, stunned. He just doesn’t seem like the sort of person who’d read a private notebook without permission.
    “I’m sorry,” he says. “But I wanted to find out what I could about your parents.”
    Before I can say anything about my stories being dumb and not true, Barney grips my shoulder and looks me right in the eyes.
    “You’re a very good storyteller,” he says.
    I don’t know what to say.
    Before I can think of something, Barney goes on.
    “The reason I’m glad you’re coming with me, Felix,” he says, “is because I need your help.”
    We pause in the doorway of the printing factory while Barney looks up and down the dark street.
     
    In the moonlight I can see his leather jacket has a small hole in the back. I wonder if it’s a bullet hole.
    Did Barney get shot once?
    Did his family?
    Is that why he’s looking after other people’s kids in a secret cellar?
    It might not be a bullet hole. A candle flame could have done it, or a rat. Barney might be a teacher or something. The Nazis might have burnt all the books in his school so he brought some of the kids here to hide them.
    “This is the dangerous part,” whispers Barney, still squinting up and down the street. “If anyone sees us leaving this building, we’re sunk.”
    Or he could be a sailor.
    “Come on,” says Barney. “All clear. Let’s go.”
    The streets of the city are filthy, scraps of paper and rubbish everywhere. Some of the buildings have got bits missing from them. The whole place is deserted. I know it’s night and everything, but we haven’t seen a single person apart from a couple of dead bodies on a street corner.
     
    I manage not to cry.
    Barney makes us cross over to the other side, but it’s all right—I’ve already seen they aren’t Mum and Dad.
    “Where are all the other people?” I say.
    “Indoors,” says Barney. “There’s a curfew. That means everybody has to stay indoors after seven at night.”
    We go down a narrow lane with tall apartment buildings on both sides. I can’t see a single person through any of the windows. I read once that cities have electric lights, but there doesn’t seem to be much electricity going on around here.
    Finding Mum and Dad isn’t going to be easy, even if I can slip away from Barney while he’s concentrating on getting food.
    “What happens if people don’t do the curfew?” I ask.
    “They get shot,” says Barney.
    I look at him in alarm. I can tell from his voice he’s not joking.
    He holds up his leather bag.
    “We’ll be all right,” he says.
    I wonder what’s in the bag. Money, maybe. Or something the Nazis need. I hope it’s not guns they could use to shoot Jewish booksellers.
    I change the subject.
    “Why is there a curfew?” I ask.
    Dad taught me to use every new word as much as possible after hearing it for the first time.
    “This is a ghetto,” says Barney. “It’s a part of the city where the Jews have been sent to live.