Adam and Thomas

Chapter 1

They walked quickly, hand in hand, and at sunrise they reached the edge of the forest. “Adam, dear,” said his mother, “we’re there. Don’t be afraid. You know our forest very well, and everything that’s in it. I’ll try very hard to come this evening. But if I’m late, go to Diana’s, and I’ll come later and pick you up.”

Adam stood next to his mother, still drowsy, and he didn’t know what to ask. His mother repeated: “Don’t be afraid. You know our forest very well, and everything that’s in it. Sit down under a tree, like that one with the round top, read the book by Jules Verne, or play jacks. The time will pass quickly.”

His mother hugged him and said, “I have to run. I’m going to hide your grandparents.” She slipped out of his arms and set out. Adam stood where he was. He wanted to call out, “See you later, Mom,” but he didn’t manage. His mother was already out of sight.

The forest was waking up, and the first rays of light scattered on the ground. Adam walked forward slowly. He knew the trees and the paths, but still this was a slightly different forest: an early morning forest. He was used to coming to the forest with his parents, usually in the afternoon, and sometimes toward evening, but never early in the morning.

“Strange,” he said to himself. “I’m walking in the forest by myself.”

Meanwhile he reached the tree with the round top, placed his knapsack at his feet, looked around, and said, “Nothing has changed here. It’s the same forest, except my parents aren’t with me.”

Adam was nine and about to finish fourth grade. He wasn’t an outstanding student, but on his last report card three A’s stood out, which pleased his parents, and they bought him a new soccer ball.

The war and the ghetto had put an end to walks in the forest. For a moment he was happy that his mother had taken him out of the walled-in ghetto. She had brought him here and was sure he would manage by himself.

A stream ran near the tree. It was still covered in thin darkness, but spots of light flashed on the flowing water.

Adam felt hungry and took a sandwich out of his knapsack. The sandwich was wrapped in brown paper. Adam remembered how his mother had stood next to the kitchen window and sliced the round loaf of bread to make him sandwiches.

They had left the house at dusk. They went from cellar to cellar, scurrying through dark tunnels, crawling in narrow places, and at last, after an effort, they had come out of the darkness into a field. They crossed the Johann Bridge and in a few minutes they were at the edge of the forest.

“You know our forest very well, and everything that’s in it.” He heard his mother speaking to him again. Now he sat down and looked at the light spreading at his feet.

Suddenly he rose, knelt, scooped some water from the stream with his hand, and brought it to his mouth. The chilly water tasted good. He kept drinking until his thirst was slaked.

“Interesting,” he said. “Mom’s not here, but I can see her clearly, and I feel her hand in mine.”

He had come to this enormous forest with his father and mother in the spring and summer. They had trees they liked to sit under, streams whose water they liked to drink. Miro used to run and skip and add his joy to the pleasure of the walk.

“Miro!” Adam called out. Suddenly he could feel the dog’s round body in his hands. Everybody loved Miro. He wasn’t as big as a German shepherd, but he filled the house, and even when he was napping in the entrance, he was alert. Now Adam saw the house, the carpentry shop, his father and mother, and his grandparents, and Miro jumping from place to place, or standing still in surprise. The more he saw those familiar sights, the more his fear died down. His eyes closed, and he fell asleep.