February 1945
Paul crept out of his bunk. His mother was sleeping, and Oscar was outside with his friends. Roll call was over and they’d had their bread and coffee. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he slunk between the barracks where the women and children stayed and walked toward the men’s compound. He looked right and left for soldiers and vicious dogs. He was lucky. No one was paying attention to him.
“Uncle Elemir!” he shouted as he burst into the barrack.
“Paul.” Uncle Elemir jumped up from his bunk. “Back for another lesson?”
“Yes.” Paul pulled the piece of wood he’d taken with him last time from his back pocket. “The horse doesn’t have a tail.”
His uncle patted his bunk. “Sit.” He handed Paul the knife and showed him how to scrape off bits of wood to form the shape of a tail. They worked like this for about two hours. Then he took back the knife.
“You’d better go back. Your mother will be worried.” He stood, dusted himself off, and helped Paul up to his feet. “Go! And be careful.”
Paul walked back the way he had come. Every few minutes he patted his pocket. Yes, the horse was still there.
When he reached his barrack, Oscar was waiting for him. Paul looked up at his brother and shrugged. Oscar shook his head in resignation.
Paul wanted to be a good boy and listen to Anyu, but sometimes he was so bored he couldn’t help himself. He snuck out every day to meet his uncle. It became a game. When he saw a guard, he’d hide, and then when the coast was clear, he’d keep going. He felt bad sneaking out on his mother, but he didn’t want to give up the one thing that he liked—his whittling lessons.
But he was always scared. The guards, with their guns and dogs, were huge. He saw prisoners so thin he could count their bones. And garbage everywhere. But when he was with his uncle, he could, for a short time, forget everything that scared him and lose himself in the joy of making an animal out of a block of wood.