Free Trophy Kid by Steve Atinsky Page B

of paper and a pen. Fortunately, Greta and Robert’s bedroom was on the far side of the house, away from the movie room.
    Greta’s laptop was on the bed. I opened it up, turned it on, and found my way to her address book. It took a while, but when I saw the name
Hana Malendenka,
I new I’d found my former nanny. I rapidly wrote down her address (the street she lived on turned out to be Waring) and, even better, her phone number. I turned off the computer and darted back into my room.
    I picked up the phone, dialed the number I had written down, and took a deep breath as the phone began to ring.
    On the sixth ring, there was a click, and an accented voice came on the line.
    “Hello?” Hana said.
    I was suddenly scared. What would Hana tell me was in that letter?
    “Hello?” she said again.
    I felt as if I might be unwittingly entering a dangerous place, like a dark cave. But there was something to be discovered, and I had to go on.
    My voice quavering, I said, “Hana?”
    “Who is this?”
    “Joe. Joe Francis.”
    “Josef! How are you? Did you get my birthday card?” Hana said happily.
    “I did,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
    “You are welcome. How does it feel to be eleven?”
    “Sort of like ten, only older,” I said.
    “That’s the Josef I remember. Always funny, even as a little boy. But I am thinking there may be another reason you have called me, other than to say ‘Thank you, Hana, for your card, and all the other cards you have sent me on my birthday that I never called to thank you for.’”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling a little guilty.
    “Don’t be. I am only joking, like you.”
    “Hana, I found a letter today. It was addressed to my mother from around the time my family was…” My voice trailed off. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
    Now the pause was on the other end of the phone. “Yes, I know this letter,” Hana finally said very seriously.
    “Can you tell me what it says?”
    “You should ask your parents about this letter,” Hana said.
    “But if they haven’t told me about it before…”
    “Maybe they won’t want to talk about it
now,
you are thinking. Yes?” Hana said, finishing my thought.
    “I don’t think they want me to know anything about what happened to my family before they adopted me…or even now,” I added.
    There was another long pause.
    “This letter came a few weeks after they’d brought you from Dubrovnik,” Hana explained. “It was from the Croatian Ministry of Defense. I told your father many times that when you were old enough, he must tell you about it. But he said it would be cruel to give you false hope.”
    “What does it say?” I asked, needing to know.
    “It says that the government was mistaken when they reported to your mother that your father had been killed.”
    “My father is alive?” I gasped.
    “No, it does not mean that, I am sorry to say,” Hana said.
    “But you just said…”
    “What the letter said was that the body of your father was not found. The letter said that he was missing in action.”
    “So he might still be alive?” I asked, still astonished by what Hana was telling me.
    “No, Joe, that is not possible. He could not have lived when the bridge was bombed. And after all these years…”
    “Maybe he’s in a coma,” I said, not taking in her words. “Maybe he has amnesia and doesn’t know his name.”
    “No, Joe, I don’t think so. And it is not good for you to think like that,” Hana pleaded. “Maybe I should not have told you this. I am sorry.”
    “Did the letter say anything else?”
    “No, Josef, nothing else.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Josef…”
    “What?”
    “Your father could not have survived.”
    “But you don’t know for sure,” I said. “Nobody does, right?”
    “Not absolutely, no.”
    “Thanks, Hana. Bye.”
    “Goodbye, Josef,” Hana said, her voice filled with sadness. “You call me again if you need me, yes?”
    “Okay, thanks,” I said, and hung up