days. He and the Captain spoke only of escaping before they all met the same fate.
The Captain figured the enemy war effort was desperate, that was why they needed every half-dead prisoner to scrape coal. Each day in the mine there were fewer and fewer bodies. At night, Eddie heard bombing; it seemed to be getting closer. If things got too bad, the Captain figured, their captors would bail out, destroy everything. He had seen ditches dug beyond the prisoner barracks and large oil barrels positioned up the steep hill.
"The oil's for burning the evidence," the Captain whispered. "They're digging our graves."
T HREE WEEKS LATER, under a hazy-mooned sky, Crazy Three was inside the barracks, standing guard. He had two large rocks, almost the size of bricks, which, in his boredom, he tried to juggle. He kept dropping them, picking them up, tossing them high, and dropping them again. Eddie, covered in black ash, looked up, annoyed at the thudding noise. He'd been trying to sleep. But now he lifted himself slowly. His vision cleared. He felt his nerves pricking to life.
"Captain . . ." he whispered. "You ready to move?"
The Captain raised his head. "What're you thinking?"
"Them rocks." Eddie nodded toward the guard.
"What about 'em?" the Captain said.
"I can juggle," Eddie whispered.
The Captain squinted. "What?"
But Eddie was already yelling at the guard, "Hey! Yo! You're doing it wrong!"
He made a circular motion with his palms. "This way! You do it this way! Gimme!"
He held out his hands. "I can juggle. Gimme."
Crazy Three looked at him cautiously. Of all the guards, Eddie felt, he had his best chance with this one. Crazy Three had occasionally sneaked the prisoners pieces of bread and tossed them through the small hut hole that served as a window. Eddie made the circular motion again and smiled. Crazy Three approached, stopped, went back for his bayonet, then walked the two rocks over to Eddie.
"Like this," Eddie said, and he began to juggle effortlessly. He had learned when he was seven years old, from an Italian sideshow man who 43
juggled six plates at once. Eddie had spent countless hours practicing on the boardwalk—pebbles, rubber balls, whatever he could find. It was no big deal. Most pier kids could juggle.
But now he worked the two rocks furiously, juggling them faster, impressing the guard. Then he stopped, held the rocks out, and said,
"Get me another one."
Crazy Three grunted.
" Three rocks, see?" Eddie held up three fingers. " Three ."
By now, Morton and Smitty were sitting up. The Captain was moving closer.
"Where are we going here?" Smitty mumbled.
"If I can get one more rock . . ." Eddie mumbled back.
Crazy Three opened the bamboo door and did what Eddie'd hoped he would do: He yelled for the others. Crazy One appeared with a fat rock and Crazy Two followed him in. Crazy Three thrust the rock at Eddie and yelled something. Then he stepped back, grinned at the others, and motioned for them to sit, as if to say, "Watch this."
Eddie tossed the rocks into a rhythmic weave. Each one was as big as his palm. He sang a carnival tune. " Da, da-da-da daaaaa . . ." The guards laughed. Eddie laughed. The Captain laughed. Forced laughter, buying time.
"Get closer," Eddie sang, pretending the words were part of the melody. Morton and Smitty slid gently in, feigning interest.
The guards were enjoying the diversion. Their posture slackened.
Eddie tried to swallow his breathing. Just a little longer. He threw one rock high into the air, then juggled the lower two, then caught the third, then did it again.
"Ahhh," Crazy Three said, despite himself.
"You like that?" Eddie said. He was juggling faster now. He kept tossing one rock high and watching his captors' eyes as they followed it into the air. He sang, " Da, da-da-da daaa ," then, " When I count to three ," then, " Da, da-da-da daaaa . . ." then, " Captain, the guy on the lefffft . . ."
Crazy Two frowned suspiciously, but Eddie smiled the way the
The Captain figured the enemy war effort was desperate, that was why they needed every half-dead prisoner to scrape coal. Each day in the mine there were fewer and fewer bodies. At night, Eddie heard bombing; it seemed to be getting closer. If things got too bad, the Captain figured, their captors would bail out, destroy everything. He had seen ditches dug beyond the prisoner barracks and large oil barrels positioned up the steep hill.
"The oil's for burning the evidence," the Captain whispered. "They're digging our graves."
T HREE WEEKS LATER, under a hazy-mooned sky, Crazy Three was inside the barracks, standing guard. He had two large rocks, almost the size of bricks, which, in his boredom, he tried to juggle. He kept dropping them, picking them up, tossing them high, and dropping them again. Eddie, covered in black ash, looked up, annoyed at the thudding noise. He'd been trying to sleep. But now he lifted himself slowly. His vision cleared. He felt his nerves pricking to life.
"Captain . . ." he whispered. "You ready to move?"
The Captain raised his head. "What're you thinking?"
"Them rocks." Eddie nodded toward the guard.
"What about 'em?" the Captain said.
"I can juggle," Eddie whispered.
The Captain squinted. "What?"
But Eddie was already yelling at the guard, "Hey! Yo! You're doing it wrong!"
He made a circular motion with his palms. "This way! You do it this way! Gimme!"
He held out his hands. "I can juggle. Gimme."
Crazy Three looked at him cautiously. Of all the guards, Eddie felt, he had his best chance with this one. Crazy Three had occasionally sneaked the prisoners pieces of bread and tossed them through the small hut hole that served as a window. Eddie made the circular motion again and smiled. Crazy Three approached, stopped, went back for his bayonet, then walked the two rocks over to Eddie.
"Like this," Eddie said, and he began to juggle effortlessly. He had learned when he was seven years old, from an Italian sideshow man who 43
juggled six plates at once. Eddie had spent countless hours practicing on the boardwalk—pebbles, rubber balls, whatever he could find. It was no big deal. Most pier kids could juggle.
But now he worked the two rocks furiously, juggling them faster, impressing the guard. Then he stopped, held the rocks out, and said,
"Get me another one."
Crazy Three grunted.
" Three rocks, see?" Eddie held up three fingers. " Three ."
By now, Morton and Smitty were sitting up. The Captain was moving closer.
"Where are we going here?" Smitty mumbled.
"If I can get one more rock . . ." Eddie mumbled back.
Crazy Three opened the bamboo door and did what Eddie'd hoped he would do: He yelled for the others. Crazy One appeared with a fat rock and Crazy Two followed him in. Crazy Three thrust the rock at Eddie and yelled something. Then he stepped back, grinned at the others, and motioned for them to sit, as if to say, "Watch this."
Eddie tossed the rocks into a rhythmic weave. Each one was as big as his palm. He sang a carnival tune. " Da, da-da-da daaaaa . . ." The guards laughed. Eddie laughed. The Captain laughed. Forced laughter, buying time.
"Get closer," Eddie sang, pretending the words were part of the melody. Morton and Smitty slid gently in, feigning interest.
The guards were enjoying the diversion. Their posture slackened.
Eddie tried to swallow his breathing. Just a little longer. He threw one rock high into the air, then juggled the lower two, then caught the third, then did it again.
"Ahhh," Crazy Three said, despite himself.
"You like that?" Eddie said. He was juggling faster now. He kept tossing one rock high and watching his captors' eyes as they followed it into the air. He sang, " Da, da-da-da daaa ," then, " When I count to three ," then, " Da, da-da-da daaaa . . ." then, " Captain, the guy on the lefffft . . ."
Crazy Two frowned suspiciously, but Eddie smiled the way the
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