11

As if heeding Uri’s words, bread soon became something more to believe in than to eat.

One day I went to my usual spots. Street corners near bakeries—these were the best. I waited at the first. No one came along with a bread bag. In fact, no one even came out of the bakery. I went to the next spot. Same thing. All day I went from corner to corner. Nothing. Not a single loaf of bread did I see.

I did something I almost never did—I entered a bakery. It was a bakery with a yellow star painted on the window. I was shocked. On the shelves against the wall there was no bread at all, only a single, sad round roll. Behind the glass in the case were two or three cupcakes.

The baker came from the back room. “You want to buy something?” he growled.

I stared at the roll. It was better than nothing. But it was too high for me to reach. My speed and quickness were useless.

I showed him my yellow stone. “Trade?” I said. I would not have given it to him. I just wanted to trick him into taking down the roll.

His face turned red. He jabbed at the door. “Out! Get out of here, you little thief!” He reached for me, but I was gone.

Back in the stable I said to Uri, “There’s no more bread.”

“Learn to eat pickles,” he said.

I did. I learned to eat a lot of things. If there was no food on the streets, under the arms of the ladies in the fox-face furs, I went to the shops. If the shelves of the shops were bare, I went to the homes. There was always food in the homes, especially the large, fine houses, the houses that the ladies of the fox-face furs went back to.

I had to be patient. It was hard to find an unlocked door. I learned to look for little children playing outside a large, fine house. When they went back inside, they often forgot to lock the door. In I walked, sometimes right behind the child. Some children looked back at me and said, “Who are you?” “Misha Pilsudski,” I said. Some children said nothing. They seemed to think that if I strolled in the door with them, I must belong.

I walked straight to the dining room or the kitchen. What happened then depended on who and where the people were. If there were only children, I might say, “Where are the cookies?” or “Where is the candy?” If there were grown-ups about, I grabbed the first thing I saw and ran. If there was no one or a very young child, I would take my time shopping in the kitchen.

One time I entered a house through an unlocked back door. I heard voices and laughter. I moved through the kitchen and suddenly found myself standing in a doorway, staring at a family of people having dinner around a long table. Food and silver and glass sparkled everywhere. In the middle was a great, golden roasted bird, perhaps a goose or turkey. I must have surprised them, for all movement stopped as they stared at me while I stared at the table—but not for long. As always, I was the first to move. I believe this was the first rule of life that I learned, though it was a twitch in my muscles rather than a thought in my head: Always be the first to move. As long as that happened, they would have to catch up, and I could not be caught.

I snatched the bird by the leg and bolted from the back door before they were out of their seats.

Of course, I could not do this more than once at any one house, but there were many large, fine houses in Warsaw.

Uri tied me to his own wrist when we went to sleep, so I could not deliver food to Janina in the night. During the day I left things on the back step—a jar of jam, a drumstick—but I could never be sure they were not stolen.

         

When the bread started to go, so did the trees.

I heard them going early one morning. I felt the night leash tug on my wrist. I joined Uri at the window of the loft. Outside, men were standing knee-deep in snow, chopping down trees.

“Why are they chopping trees?” I said.

“Firewood,” he said. “People are running out of coal. They’re cold.”

Wherever we went looking for food, we heard the sounds of hatchets and saws. And trees. Some trees fell with an almost silent whump into the pillow of snow. Some gave a groan. Some shrieked in protest. One, a thick, burly monster of a tree with warts, came down with a high, thin wail that sounded exactly like a baby crying.

Soon the parks were nothing but dry grass and stumps.

One day Uri went off by himself and came back with a sack of coal. “Black pearls,” he said. He took the black pearls to Doctor Korczak, to keep the orphans warm.

The next day I too went searching for black pearls. I scrounged deep into the rubble of collapsed buildings, tunneling for coal bins. I found a piece here, a piece there, but it was mostly coal dust. When my sack was finally full, I marched to the orphanage and rapped with the brass knocker.

An orphan boy came to the door. His mouth dropped open, his eyes bulged when he saw me. I blurted, “I’m not an orphan! I have seven brothers and five sisters!” I held out the sack. He ran.

In a moment Doctor Korczak appeared. Again I held out the sack. “Black pearls,” I said. “Keep you warm.”

His great white mustache stretched in both directions, and he laughed. “You”—he pointed at me—“are the black pearl.” He disappeared from the doorway. He returned with a mirror. “Look.”

A face black as coal itself stared back at me. I never knew eyes were so white. I looked at the rest of me, my hands, my clothes. I was a walking lump of coal. “I’m black,” I said.

He laughed again. “Not for long.” He took the sack of coal and led me into the house.

He waved his arm. “Welcome to our wonderful home.”

Soon I was in something called a bathtub and a lady on her knees was scrubbing me with a brush and soap, and as I became white again and my stone became yellow again, the water became as black as Jackboots.

In distant rooms I heard laughter and the sound of running feet. I felt orphan eyes on me, but I could not see anyone.

Doctor Korczak brought me new clothes, the second person ever to do that. As I put them on, he said, “So, little sack of warmth, I think you are a Gypsy. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I told him. “I used to be stupid, but now I’m silly.”

He laughed. He laughed a lot. “Who told you that?”

“Uri,” I said. “Uri is my friend. Do you believe in angels?”

He stopped laughing. He stared at me. “Yes, I do believe in angels.”

“So do I,” I said, deciding once and for all. “Uri believes in bread.”

He nodded. “Yes, I believe in bread too.” He was always smiling. His mustache made it seem a double smile. “What is your name, little man?”

“Misha Pilsudski,” I said proudly.

His eyebrows went up. “Ah! Yes.” He nodded and closed his eyes. He’s heard of me, I thought. “Misha Pilsudski . . .” He seemed to be tasting my name. “Tell me, Misha Pilsudski, where do you live?”

“In the stable,” I said. “With Uri. But the horses are gone.”

“And tell me, do you happen to be an orphan, Misha Pilsudski?”

I loved his goatee even more than his mustache. It was so soft and white. I wanted to rub my face in it. I wanted to climb inside it and live there and peek out. I think he wanted me to be an orphan very badly. I hated to disappoint him. “Oh no,” I said. “I have seven brothers and five sisters. And a mother and father and a great-great-grandmother who’s one hundred and nine years old and a horse named Greta if I can ever find her.” I told him how we had been bombed by Jackboots and the whole story.

Then Doctor Korczak left me waiting for a few minutes. When he returned, he led me to the great front room. I was amazed. There they were, the orphans, orphan boys and orphan girls, all of them standing at attention in rows from wall to wall.

Doctor Korczak snapped his fingers and everyone said at once: “Thank you, Misha Pilsudski!”

I was uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to say. Doctor Korczak shook my hand and opened the front door for me. “Come see us again,” he said. I walked away in my new clothes.