The True Story of Hansel and Gretel by Louise Murphy Page A

pallor of his face. Hansel’s eyes looked even darker next to the hair. Unusual but possible.
    “It looks really Polish, Hansel.”
    “I want to look like the soldiers. They have blond hair.”
    “What soldiers?” Magda held his shoulder as he tried to squirm down from the table.
    “You know.”
    “Don’t ever say you want to look like the Devil.”
    “They have guns.”
    “They’re the Devil. They get out of bed and say, ‘Where is someone to kill this morning?’”
    “Nobody tells them what to do.”
    “Come outside, Hansel. We have to get wood.” Gretel didn’t want Hansel to make Magda angry. He had to stop.
    “Don’t go far, and if you see anyone, run back here.”
    And so began a stretch of days that lasted over a week. Each day it was the same. The children and Magda ate kasha for breakfast. There were wooden bowls for the food, but there were metal spoons. They drank hot water or shared Magda’s hot drink of rye and acorns. Then they looked for wood. The stove was voracious.
    At noon they ate cabbage soup and bread with beet marmalade on it. “It tastes like dirt,” Hansel told Magda.
    “There’s no sugar in it, but when did you eat dirt?”
    He had never eaten dirt, but he knew he was right. After lunch he sat on the snow and scraped until he had a clean patch of earth. He pinched up a lump of dirt and placed it on his tongue. It filled his mouth with the mold of long dead tree leaves and something else, something indescribable.
    “I’m right,” he shouted to Magda, running into the hut where she sat in the rocker. “Beet marmalade tastes like dirt.”
    Magda smiled but didn’t move. Her bones hurt while the weather was so changeable.
    “Once we are snowed in, I can move. Then in spring my bones will ache again until summer is here.”
    So the children played outside during the afternoon.
    “I’m cold, Gretel. I want to go in.”
    “We have to stay outside, Hansel. That way, she’ll forget we’re even here.”
    “I hated the turnips last night,” he said.
    “You have to eat them.”
    “Nobody liked them. They were mushy.”
    “If Magda doesn’t like them, then we have to like them a lot. That way she won’t say we’re eating all the good food and taking the best things away from her. We have to like all the bad food, Hansel. Then she won’t mind feeding us.”
    When Gretel was ahead of him and couldn’t hear, he whispered, “I hate mushy turnips.”
    They lived outside most of the time, running and moving to keep warm, eating everything allowed. The days went slowly. It wasn’t like home. Home was before the ghetto. Before the cart and horse and the airplanes. Gretel could remember the piano, toys, and books, whole walls of them everywhere. Hansel could remember nothing.
    “Not walls of them.”
    “Yes. Walls and walls of books from the floor to the ceiling.”
    He didn’t believe it. In the ghetto there had been three books, and not toys exactly but sometimes there was a piece of chalk for a game or the cigarette cards.
    Because his father had been a mechanic and went outside the barbed wire to work on the German trucks and cars, Hansel had the best collection of cigarette boxes of any boy in his building. The front of the box was always bright and clean and shiny. Cut apart, they made cards to play with or trade for something else.
    Hansel frowned. He had left them under the blanket in the corner where they would be safe. Someday he might go back and get them. He knew the street. He knew the stairs. He tried to remember the name of the city.
    No piano, Gretel thought, and her fingers twitched, remembering. Her mother’s hands moving over the keys. The white and black of the keys so clean. Washing her hands before she practiced. The Germans had the piano now. They probably had all the pianos in the world.
    It was hard to tell what day it was. Magda never went to the village. There were no calendars or clocks. The Germans didn’t allow church on most Sundays. They