Free The Mascot by Mark Kurzem Page A

survival.
    â€œShe chased me round the cottage for them, that poor old babushka. I wasn’t ever letting go of them.” My father chuckled. “I wish I could see her again,” he said. For the first time my father’s eyes moistened slightly.
    â€œSo how long did you stay with her?” I asked.
    â€œOnly that one night. She’d settled me down on the floor near the fire, wrapped up in a thick woolen blanket. It was the first time I had felt this degree of warmth in such a long time. I felt myself nodding off, exhausted profoundly by all my time spent tied into trees. And then something happened that changed everything in a flash. The door flew open, and this enormous hulk of a man stormed in. I thought he was an ogre from a fairy tale that my mother had told me. He was filthy and smelly.
    â€œHe threw down the basket he was carrying and made a beeline for me. Before I knew what was happening, he’d grabbed me by both ears and dragged me out of the blanket. He lifted me off the floor so that my feet were dangling in midair. The pain in my ears was excruciating. I must have looked like a rag doll or a dead puppet.
    â€œThe babushka tried to intervene: she seized his arm, pleading with him to put me down, but he shouted at her violently. She retreated to the far corner of the room, looking worried and frightened. I heard him call her ‘Mother,’ and then I understood why he’d barged in—it was his home and he was in charge of it.
    â€œFinally he released his grip on my ears, but I was still immobilized by his enormous hand tightly grasping me by the scruff of my neck. I was petrified and moved as far away from him as possible, despite his grip on me. He yanked me closer. ‘So what have we got here? Let’s get a good look at you!’ He laughed out loud, looking me up and down very slowly and coldly, like a wild beast evaluating its prey. ‘A little forest creature? No. We’ve got ourselves a little Jew here.’
    â€œI knew I was in danger because his tone was so threatening. The babushka must have sensed it, too, because she chose that moment to put a big bowl of soup down on the table for her son. He grunted, and for a split second he was distracted.
    â€œI knew I had to get out of there. I made a dash for the door. But he just reached out and grabbed me around the neck and then savagely kicked me across the room like I was a football. I lost consciousness.
    â€œWhen I came to, the pain was so bad. There was this terrible ache in my hand. While I was out of it, he’d tied my hands together with rope and then tied the rope to the leg of the table. His feet, in big heavy boots, were resting on my back, pinning me to the floor. I tried to move to relieve the pressure, but he dug his heels into my back. ‘Stay there,’ he warned me. I did as I was told while he went on eating his soup.
    â€œWhen he’d finished he undid the ropes and yanked me up by the arm. Then he lifted me into the air as if I were a rag doll and put me into his wooden basket. He tied me tightly in. I couldn’t believe it. I struggled to free myself but it was pointless.
    â€œHe sat down by the fire and glared at me with a hideous smile. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said in a whisper, and then he indicated his throat being cut. I understood his meaning.
    â€œWhen I woke before dawn I was still tied into the basket. I remained there silently, listening to the ogre’s snores. I dozed on and off. The babushka was pottering by the fire.
    â€œI saw her look furtively at her son. Reassured that he was still sleeping, she then moved nearer to me and slipped me a piece of bread. But he stirred at the next moment and, fearful of him, she snatched the bread away and retreated to her corner of the room.
    â€œThe son rose and then slung the basket with me still in it onto his back and set off from the cottage. As we moved away I saw the babushka’s face at the