Hannah & Emil Read Free Page A

grass a little drier, coarser underfoot. Emil woke each morning expecting summer to be finished, for the rain to spoil his days, but it was just blue, over and over again. The men’s skin shone red as they worked, like his father’s when he came home from a day going door to door at the factories, looking for work. Emil’s memories of winter seemed distant: sliding along the iced-over river on Thomas’s toboggan, Papa pulling them both along, falling over, laughing, falling again for their entertainment.
    Sitting on the grass in the deep shade of the den, he leaned against the wall carefully; they had no cement to make it strong. He said the thing he’d been carrying around all morning. ‘Mama says I cannot go to school this year after all.’
    Thomas turned from his spy hole and reached down to punch him on the arm. ‘Of course you can. You’ve got to go to school.’
    Emil shrugged, picked at the grass. ‘She can’t get me shoes. The ones Papa got for me last winter are too tight now.’
    â€˜You don’t need shoes; you only need pencils and a satchel. Mama took me to buy mine last week.’
    â€˜You wait till next year too and we’ll start together. Ask your mama.’
    â€˜She’d whip me. Listen, Emil, have my shoes. I’ll get more.’
    Emil was silent for a moment. Papa told him all the time that if you had a good education you would never have to look for work. But Mama would not change her mind about the shoes. His parents shouted when he was trying to sleep.
    â€˜What would you tell your mama?’
    â€˜I’ll tell her I lost them. I lose everything .’
    Emil stepped out of the den and lay on the hummock. The men were on their lunch break. They sat on the pier hunched over their little boxes. His own stomach growled. If Thomas had not taken anything from his pantry, he would have to go home and find some bread and risk his mother roping him into some errand or other. Or they could go along the river, beyond the factories, to the copse where there were berries, but they turned his stomach watery.
    Thomas followed him out onto the grass and lay next to him, chin on his hand. ‘Tell your mama you found them.’
    â€˜She’ll say I’ve stolen them. I’ll tell her you grew out of them and gave them to me.’
    Thomas nodded. It was decided.
    They lay half asleep, the sun on their necks. Because it was summer, Emil’s hair was shaved for lice. Thomas’s curls rested on his shirt collar, black against the pale cotton of his shirt. Emil began to sweat against the hot grass. ‘Come on, let’s go for a swim,’ he said.
    â€˜Are the men still there?’
    â€˜No, they’ve gone back to work. Let’s go.’
    They jumped down to the towpath and ran along to the pier, warning each other to be quiet, but the sounds of hammers against steel and men calling out to one another were much louder than they were in any case. They reached the pier and flung their clothes behind them onto the bank, naked and laughing. Throwing themselves down on the warm boards to keep out of sight, they slithered out over the water, rolling down the steps and into the river, gasping at the cold. They gripped the poles of the pier as the current pulled their legs downstream.
    â€˜Look, I’m swimming!’ Thomas shouted, holding one arm in the air, swallowing water.
    Emil had watched people swim at the lake on Sundays, had dipped his head under close enough to see their actions through the dark water. They pushed the water away from themselves and kicked out their legs like frogs. He practised the frog kick for a few strokes. Easy, smooth, legs growing warm in the cold water. He let go of the pole with one arm, scooped water out and away, did it again.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ Thomas asked.
    Emil smiled at his friend and let go of the pole. The tugging water pulled him back and thrust him down