Free The Mascot by Mark Kurzem Page B

cottage window. She waved to me and then with a somber expression she made the sign of the cross. I had no idea where we were going.
    â€œBy this time I’d been in the basket for hours. The pain was excruciating. I again struggled to free myself. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, and raised his hand, saying, ‘Do you want this again?’ I held my breath, even though I wanted to groan from the pain.
    â€œAfter quite some time he stopped abruptly at a gate. We’d come to a small yard next to a tiny schoolhouse. It was dusty but there was a smattering of snow on the ground. He slung the basket down and untied me. The next thing I saw were people slumped against the rear wall. They were mainly men. Of all ages.
    â€œA moment later I was able to take in the entire situation. On the opposite side of the yard there were about a dozen soldiers. Some were squatted down on the ground, smoking, laughing and joking among themselves, and swigging something from a big flagon.
    â€œAnother soldier appeared. His face was grim. He said something to the soldiers, but it was in a language I’d never heard before. The soldiers slowly got up.
    â€œThey all had rifles with bayonets. They began to line up. Two of them prodded the people by the wall with the tips of their bayonets, shouting and kicking at them. At that moment the babushka’s son seized me around the waist, strode across the yard, and tossed me down in front of the soldiers. He laughed and said, ‘Another one for you! From the forest.’
    â€œI cowered before them. All I could see were the soldiers’ boots. I waited, unsure what would happen to me, and then I decided—I don’t know why—to raise my head up so I could get a clearer view of their faces.
    â€œI was surrounded by them. Smiling, but not in a friendly way, they all stared down at me. One of them started to kick me, forcing me to crawl toward the wall to join the others. I sat beside an old man. I felt his arm go around my shoulder. He spoke the same language as me and told me not to be frightened.
    â€œI held on to him. One of the soldiers ordered us all to stand up straight. Then another shouted an instruction and the other soldiers raised their guns. I knew what was to come next. I’d seen this before, in my village.”
    My father paused and then said, “I thought, ‘I’m hungry. If I am about to die, then I want something to eat before that. I want to taste bread.’
    â€œAt that moment my eyes met the eyes of one of the soldiers, the one who appeared to be in charge. I broke away from the old man and I ran toward him, exclaiming defiantly, ‘Bread! Give me bread!’ I don’t know what prompted me to do it—something much more than hunger, I suspect.
    â€œOne soldier hurtled toward me and roughly propelled me back into the line. The old man tried to pacify me, but something got into me. I dashed forward again. This time another soldier came at me, pointing a pistol at my head. Even now I’m sure he was going to shoot me, but before he could pull the trigger I heard the lead soldier shout out so that he lowered his weapon and the soldiers all lowered their rifles, too.
    â€œA few of them began muttering among themselves, seemingly resentful because the lead soldier had intervened and they couldn’t get on with the shooting.
    â€œInstinctively I knew that I had to do something at that moment to make the atmosphere less tense. I stepped forward and thrust out my distended stomach to emphasize how hungry I was. To make sure they all understood, I started to mime eating a piece of bread, all the while chanting, ‘Bread! Bread! Give me bread!’
    â€œIt must have looked comical because I saw the glimmer of a smile cross the lead soldier’s face. I was scared but I trusted him. He had warm eyes. I started to think of him as the good soldier. Then some of the other soldiers burst out laughing. They