Once by Morris Gleitzman Read Free Book Online Page B

They’ll have wheels instead of feet. Don’t you know anything?”
    “Sorry,” I say. “I forgot.”
    “Why do those people look so sad?” asks Zelda.
     
    I’ve been expecting her to ask. She’s been staring in a concerned way at the people walking with us. An elderly woman near us is crying and Zelda’s been looking at her a lot.
    I’m not sure what to say.
    Zelda squeezes my hand even tighter than usual.
    “Well?” she demands. “Why do they?”
    I know why the people look sad. They’ve been walking for hours and they’re tired and hungry and worried about their books and parents, just like us. We probably look sad to them.
    But I don’t say this to Zelda. When a little kid doesn’t even know her parents are dead, you’ve got to try and keep her spirits up.
    “They’re feeling sad because they haven’t got rags in their shoes,” I say to her. “They’ll be much happier when we get to the city.”
    I’m about to tell Zelda about the rag shops that are probably in the city when I see something out of the corner of my eye.
    The elderly woman has just fainted at the side of the road. She’s lying in the dust. Nobody is stopping to help her. Not the other Jewish people, not the soldiers, not me.
    I can’t give anyone else a piggyback. I can’t even lift Zelda, the way I feel now.
    “What’s wrong with that lady?” asks Zelda.
    I tell her that the lady is just having a rest, and after we’ve gone a farmer will come and take the lady home and she’ll live happily on the farm with his family and become very good at milking cows and in the year 1972 she’ll invent a machine that milks them automatically and also makes butter.
    Zelda thinks about this.
    “In 1972,” says Zelda, “cows will make their own butter. Don’t you know anything?”
    I’m tempted to say, “No, I don’t. Not anymore.”
    I look around at the tired hungry sick Jewish people staggering along the road. An awful question has been throbbing in my head for ages now. It’s the question I first thought of when I saw Zelda lying on her lawn.
    Why would the Nazis make people suffer like this just for the sake of some books?
    I need to try and find an answer.
    “Excuse me,” I say to a man walking nearby. “Are you a book lover?”
    The man stares at me as if I’m mad. His gray sagging face was miserable before, but now he looks like he’s close to tears. He looks away. I feel terrible. I wish I hadn’t asked.
    Not just because I’ve made a suffering Jewish man feel upset at the sight of a crazy kid. Also because I’ve got a horrible suspicion I know the answer to the question.
    Maybe it’s not just our books the Nazis hate.
    Maybe it’s us.

 
      I spent about six hours telling stories to Zelda, to keep her spirits up, to keep my spirits up, to keep our legs moving as we trudged through the rain toward the city.
     
    At least the rain is washing my hat, but my head is still hot and throbbing. Every time a Nazi soldier yells at me or at another person in our soggy straggling group, my head has stabs of pain.
    Me and Zelda have eaten our bread and we’re both hungry. As we trudge on I keep my eyes open for food. Nothing, just dark wet trees and big fields full of mud and wet grass.
    I keep thinking about Mum and Dad and hoping they’re not this hungry, but worrying about them only makes my head throb more.
    “Why have you stopped the story?” says Zelda.
    “Sorry,” I say. I’m telling her a story about how much fun kids can have in the city, but my imagination is as tired and hungry as my body, and my shirt’s wet and I’m worried my notebook is getting ruined.
    Zelda is looking annoyed. I don’t blame her. Her pajamas are as sodden as my shirt.
    “Keep going with the story,” she says. “William and Violet Elizabeth are in the big cake shop at the zoo. Remember?”
    “I remember,” I say. “Did I tell you about the elephants? The ones that float in by parachute with the extra supplies of