37. Whatever it takes Maxine Price

I saw the Nazis in the distance marching towards our town. I knew that I didn’t have time to warn all the other Jews that they were coming. No, I only had time to pick Peter up out of his crib, grab John’s hand and run, run far away from the place we called home. For soon in would just be a big, black pile of ash. Tears sprang to my eyes as I thought this.
I tried not to think about the hundreds of Jews would be marched like my parents up to the concentration camp, to be shot. John was crying so much I thought for a second that he knew the terrible danger we were in.
‘Where are we going’ asked Peter as he stumbled along side me.
‘What ever it takes I’m going to get you safe. We’re going to Poland,’ I answered. I had to slow down a little so he could keep up.
‘But Poland’s miles away,’ he exclaimed.’
We’ll ride in a cart or something’ I panted.
I understood that Poland would be too far for a six year old to walk.
‘Nazis are stupid!’ he growled.
I sighed, poor kid, he doesn’t know. Some of those Nazis were hard working and forced to be murderers. John stopped suddenly and sat down on a log.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked him.
‘We’ve been running for hours’ he explained. ‘I’m tired.’
I sighed and looked around. We were in a dark forest; from the bark under-growth I could hear birds, chirping happy songs.
‘Lucky things,’ I thought. Haven’t got a care in the world.’
I looked down at Peter; he had fallen asleep in my arms, his gentle snoring echoed off the trees.
‘I’m hungry,’ John complained suddenly. ‘Where’s dinner?’
‘I haven’t got any,’ I sighed. Food had been the last thing on my mind when we left. ‘Well, I’ll sleep then,’ he sighed as he dropped to the ground.
‘Good night.’ ‘
Good night,’ I smiled and placed a sleeping Peter down next to him, then laying myself down next to my brothers.
Three days, three days we hiked without food or water. Peter was dying. Without food or water poor darling Peter would die. On the fourth night I fell asleep hoping that when I woke up he’d still be alive. When I woke up on the Fourth day, Peter was dead. I felt like one hundred knives were stabbing my heart. I had broken a promise. I had sworn to my parents before they left, that I would take care of my brothers, Peter especially. It felt like Peter hadn’t just died, but my heart, and for the first time, my parents as well. Some sister I was. Then my sadness turned to rage. If the cruel, heartless Nazis hadn’t attacked our small innocent town then Peter would still be alive. I knew that I was using it as an excuse, as I felt like the real murderer. John and I buried Peter in ferns and wild flowers. He deserved a hero’s grave, but we had no time.
I was still crying when we started hiking. In about an hour’s time we’d reached a river, a dirty, brown river, but it didn’t matter. We dropped to our hands and knees and started drinking. We drank until I realized something: if we’d hiked just for one hour more yesterday, Peter might still be alive. Suddenly the water didn’t taste so good.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked John, his face was wet and dirty from the river.
‘Nothing’ I lied. I couldn’t bring myself to tell a six year old the truth.
‘Jenny,’ he whispered his face pleading.
‘We’re going to die, aren’t we.’
It wasn’t a question. I turned my head away looking at the apple trees would be easier than looking at his heart-broken face when I told him that we were going to starve. Then I cursed my stupidity. I reached up and plucked a shining red apple from the green leaves of the tree. I took a bite; the taste was so sweet almost like honey.
‘No’ I said between bites. ‘Not yet.’
John grinned, picked his own greeny-red apple and took a hungry bite. Now apple juice mixed with the hardening mud on his face. We ate many sweet, red apples until we felt sick. Then John lay on the brown, damp soil of the riverbank. I lay next to him, instinctively leaving a space for Peter. I shuddered and tried not to think about how cold and pale his little body had been when we burned him.
The sun shone in the morning, melting the rainbow-colored drops of dew and warming the air. I stretched; my body was stiff from the night. John was still asleep, so I passed the time picking apples for the journey ahead. I tried not to think about poor little Peter’s corpse rotting away under the ferns.
My thoughts were shattered by John’s loud yawn.
‘Good morning,’ I said absentmindedly.
‘Good morning,’ he grumbled back.
We hiked all morning; not so much hiked, but stumbled. When the sun was high above us we ate lunch, the not so sweet any more apples. I stared at the horizon and tried to figure out how long we had to hike before it got dark. I gasped. There on the horizon was something exceptional. I swiftly got up and made my way towards it.
‘What are you doing?’ John called as he raced after me.
I ignored him and kept going as if I were in a trance. John called several annoyed things after me but I wasn’t listening. Suddenly the dense forest opened up to a beautiful valley but we weren’t looking at the valley; we were looking at something beyond the valley, the border of Poland. As I walked into the horizon I thought the word, ‘Home.’