Then

“I say a si­lent pray­er to Richmal Cromp­ton. I ask her to pro­tect our friends who are still on that ter­ri­ble train. Please don’t let them end up in a pit too.”

Richmal Crompton is Felix’s favorite author of children’s literature. Felix’s “prayers” to Crompton are a motif that runs through the series, serving as a reminder of the fact that Felix is still a child with naïve, childish views, despite the premature maturity that is forced upon him. The desperate elevation of his favorite author to near-godlike status also demonstrates his need to cling to whatever shreds of his former life he can manage to preserve. In this context, his subsequent theft of the Richmal Crompton book is entirely justified.

“Nailed to the side of the cart, right next to my face, is a tat­tered pa­per no­tice with print­ing on it. At the top is one word in big let­ters.

JEWS.

I read the rest of the no­tice.

Re­ward, it says. For each Jew cap­tured and hand­ed over. Two hun­dred (200) zlo­ty and one (1) bot­tle of vod­ka.

Sud­den­ly I’m not hun­gry an­y­more. I’m think­ing clear­ly again. This is why the man wants to take us to town. To get a Nazi re­ward.”

The flyer on the turnip farmer’s wagon demonstrates the perilous situation Felix and Zelda are in. Although the farmer, Mr. Krol, ultimately proves to be friendly, Felix’s instincts are not necessarily misguided. During this time frame, there are many Polish people who are sympathetic to Nazis and who would eagerly turn the children in to obtain such a reward.

“Sud­den­ly I un­der­stand. Zel­da must have left the lock­et in our bur­row. So she doesn’t have to think about her par­ents be­ing Na­zis.”

The central conflict that Felix must urge Zelda to face is to reconcile her memories of her parents with her fierce hatred of Nazis. The depths of her anger toward her parents’ Nazi affiliations is powerfully reflected in her willingness to risk her life by claiming to be Jewish in order to stay with Felix; this action also shows how loyal she is for someone so young.

“My face is burn­ing. Not from the wa­ter, be­cause I’m stand­ing up and it doesn’t even reach my knees. My face is hot be­cause Ge­nia is star­ing at my pri­vate part like it’s the most an­noy­ing thing she’s ever seen.”

Male circumcision is a common Jewish religious practice. Unfortunately, it is also physical evidence that Felix is Jewish, putting him in constant risk of discovery. As she bathes Felix, Genia recognizes that Felix can try to blend in, but if someone were to see him nude, there would be nothing he could do to conceal the truth of his heritage.

“‘Are you good at stories, Fe­lix?’ asks Ge­nia.

‘Yes, he is,’ says Zel­da. ‘He’s very good. ’Spe­cial­ly fun­ny ones and sad ones.’

‘Ex­cel­lent,’ says Ge­nia. ‘Be­cause from now on you both have to tell peo­ple a sto­ry about yourselves. How you’re two Cath­o­lic chil­dren from Pilica. How your par­ents were killed. How you’ve come to stay with your aunty, who from now on is me.’”

Genia decides that the best option for the children is to hide in plain sight by adopting aliases and false backstories. This tactic holds many risks, however, because Felix and Zelda must portray these alternate identities as authentically as possible in order for the ruse to work. While Felix is good at telling stories, he does not like lying, and Zelda’s hatred of the Nazis makes it difficult for her to stick to her new role.

“I’m shocked. Kill­ing in­no­cent chil­dren just to get their bed­rooms.

I’m also shocked to hear that the kid with the knife is Jew­ish. A Jew­ish or­phan whose friends are all dead ex­cept for Le­o­pold.

I wish I’d known that.

Per­haps me and Zel­da and the chick­ens could have been a bit friend­li­er.”

The Nazi’s murdered the orphans in order to use the orphanage as a headquarters for the Hitler Youth and the Nazi soldiers. The orphan who entered the barn likely escaped the massacre somehow. Genia also reveals that the orphans were used as slave labor by the Nazis and forced to work on local farms even before they were brutally murdered.

“But in the town square there’s some­thing I’ve nev­er seen be­fore.

Big wood­en posts with dead peo­ple hang­ing from them.

‘Don’t look,’ says Ge­nia to me and Zel­da. She tries to hur­ry us across the square.

But we are look­ing. You have to. It’s ter­ri­ble. The hang­ing peo­ple with ropes around their necks aren’t sol­diers, they’re just peo­ple. A lady in a green dress. An old­er lady wear­ing an apron. Sev­er­al men in shirts. One in pa­ja­mas.”

The Nazis hang anyone caught aiding and abetting Jews in the town square as a gruesome reminder of the consequences of opposing their regime. Seeing this, Felix realizes that these hanged people could just as easily be Genia, and so the boy fully realizes the extreme risk she is taking by helping him.

“My heart jolts.

It’s a Richmal Cromp­ton book. In Po­lish, just like the ones I used to have, ex­cept this is one I’ve nev­er read.

I try to be Wil­helm and drop it back into the crate, but I can’t help it, I’m Fe­lix and I stuff it in­side my shirt.”

Seeing the Crompton book tests Felix’s ability to maintain his disguise. Stealing the book may seem out of character for Felix, who is ordinarily honest to a fault, but this moment shows that he is still just a child, despite everything he has gone through, and he is desperate to hold onto this physical reminder of one of the fondest aspects of his former life. As it happens, taking the book will have important consequences for Felix, for he will develop an unexpected bond with Amon, the Hitler Youth boy, and this connection will ultimately save his life.

“He grins at me. And with a small move­ment of his hand, so the oth­er Hit­ler Youth can’t see him, he gives me a thumbs-up.

I blink. Did he re­al­ly do that?

Is he tell­ing me he’s a Richmal Cromp­ton fan too?”

The Hitler Youth boy whom Felix encounters in the town square, Amon, reveals himself to be a Richmal Crompton fan. This scene represents a brief moment of shared humanity between Felix and someone who should be his enemy. Thus, the author demonstrates the capacity for good that all people have, regardless of their outward political affiliation.

“Ge­nia doesn’t un­der­stand.

Kids like us don’t for­get our real par­ents.

Not ever.

And un­til Zel­da feels bet­ter about hers, she’s go­ing to keep pok­ing her tongue out at Na­zis.”

Felix has the advantage over Genia when it comes to Zelda’s situation because of the trauma that Zelda and Felix share and the fact that they are both children. Though Felix is slightly older than Zelda, he is much more easily able to empathize with her point of view than Genia. He understands that Zelda’s tendency to misbehave in the presence of Nazis stems from her own inner conflict concerning her parents’ Nazi affiliations.

“Cyryl is look­ing me right in the eye, his wet lips gleam­ing. I can see ex­act­ly what he’s think­ing.

He’s hop­ing I’ve got a Jew­ish pri­vate part.

He can’t wait to show the Nazi sol­diers.

If my pants come down, we ha­ven’t got a chance. The Na­zis’ll take me into town and kill me on a post. Same with Ge­nia for hid­ing me. And Zel­da doesn’t stand a chance ei­ther. Even Nazi kids get ex­e­cut­ed if they pro­tect Jews.”

Cyryl demonstrates the cruelty of someone raised with antisemitic views. Rather than minding his own business, he is determined to expose Felix as a Jew, even though it would mean that Felix, Zelda, and Genia would all be hanged for it. Because Cyryl’s attitude is a result of his upbringing, his cruel behavior indicates that his parents are likely dangerous and untrustworthy as well.

“We stand with our arms around each oth­er for a long time, and I don’t ever want to stop be­cause I’m so lucky to have a fam­i­ly like Zel­da and Ge­nia.”

Protecting family members is Felix’s main motivation in Then, and this tendency demonstrates his big heart and great capacity for love despite all he has experienced. Having lost his own family of origin, Felix develops a strong bond with Zelda and Genia, who serve as important substitutes; he would do anything to keep them safe.

“For a mo­ment eve­ry­thing else seems to stop. But only for a mo­ment. Now the wa­ter is ex­plod­ing again, as loud as be­fore.

‘Don’t,’ I yell at the kid.

But I can’t hear my own voice, so I’m sure he can’t ei­ther.

The kid’s arms twitch and the Nazi sol­dier falls for­ward onto the riv­er­bank.

My head is ring­ing, and my glass­es are cov­ered with spray. The kid is just a blur now, but he seems to be bend­ing down, reach­ing for some­thing.

When I fin­ish wiping my glass­es, he’s gone.

So has the gre­nade bag.”

The reappearance of Dov, the Jewish orphan from the barn, is a reminder that the cycle of violence can also be perpetuated by people who are oppressed and victimized. Felix tries to resist the temptation to seek revenge, not wanting to become like the orphan. For now, he still believes in altruism and the essential goodness of humanity, although the climactic events of the novel will sorely test those beliefs.

“Ge­nia is star­ing at me with the ex­pres­sion peo­ple get when some­body has dug a hole in the floor of their barn and they don’t un­der­stand why.

‘It’s for Zel­da,’ I ex­plain. ‘I mean Vi­o­let­ta. An emer­gen­cy hid­ing place. In case the Na­zis come for her. I’ve made it big enough so she can lie down. We can put straw in the bot­tom and Le­o­pold’s ken­nel over the top.’”

When Felix sees Dov kill a Nazi soldier, he panics and believes that the other soldiers will come for Zelda. The secret shelter he digs is only big enough for one person; in his fear for his surrogate sister, he completely forgets about himself, demonstrating his own selflessness in the face of grave danger. In an instance of tragic irony, however, the end of the novel shows that he is the one left hiding in the shelter.

“‘Fe­lix,’ she says, ‘af­ter Ge­nia’s hus­band gets here, what if he doesn’t want us?’”

Gabriek poses a risk on which Felix had not counted. Though Genia claims that Gabriek will be sympathetic to the children’s plight, there is a very real chance that he will send them away in order to keep Genia safe. Felix knows by now that war forces people to make hard, cruel decisions.

“‘I wish Richmal Cromp­ton was in charge of Ger­ma­ny in­stead of Adolf Hit­ler,’ he says qui­et­ly. ‘If she was, I wouldn’t have to be in the Hit­ler Youth. You and me, we’d both be at home with our par­ents. I wouldn’t be sleep­ing in a dead kid’s bed.’”

Amon Kurtz shows Felix that not everyone on the Nazis’ side is inherently bad. Many of the Hitler Youth boys, for example, were likely forced to participate by their parents. Like Felix, Amon is a child forced into a bad situation—though Felix’s circumstances are much more dire.

“Just when I think he’s not go­ing to tou­ch it, he sud­den­ly picks up the pen­cil and starts draw­ing. Not with care­ful lit­tle move­ments like Zel­da does when she draws. With big vi­o­lent slashes. Some­times he tears the pa­per, but he keeps go­ing.

Me and Zel­da and Ge­nia watch.

He’s draw­ing a pit in the ground. I rec­og­nize what it is. The chil­dren’s gra­ve. There are lots of peo­ple ly­ing in it and lots of peo­ple stand­ing next to it and lots of Na­zis shoot­ing them.

A drop of liq­uid splashes onto the pa­per.

It’s a tear.”

Dov’s tragic story gives Felix new insight into the boy’s violent hatred for the Nazis. This scene therefore represents an example in which storytelling—through drawing—proves therapeutic. The act of drawing the tragedy allows Dov to release the emotions he has kept pent up inside him ever since his parents’ and friends’ deaths.

“‘This is me and my mum­my and dad­dy,’ says Zel­da. ‘We’re not Jew­ish, but we still love each oth­er.’

I smile at her.

‘I’m glad,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you’re not cross with your mum­my and dad­dy an­y­more.’

Zel­da is look­ing sad­ly at the pic­ture.

‘They couldn’t help be­ing Na­zis,’ she says qui­et­ly. ‘I couldn’t tell them not to, I was too lit­tle.’

I give Zel­da a hug.”

Dov inspires Zelda to finally explore her emotions concerning her parents. This act of reflection allows her to forgive them, but, more importantly, it allows her to forgive herself. Her realization that she was too young to tell them not to be Nazis reflects Genia’s earlier statement that children are not responsible for who their parents are.

“Half­way to the door, I stop and go back to the ta­ble and find a clean piece of pa­per and write some­thing else.

The sto­ry of Zel­da and Ge­nia and their lov­ing hearts.

It’s the most im­por­tant sto­ry I’ve ever writ­ten, and it’s very easy to write be­cause it’s al­ready come true.”

Felix wishes to preserve his and Zelda’s stories, as well as the memories of Genia and Zelda, in case anything were to happen to any of them. This is Felix’s way of showing his new family how much they mean to him, and it ultimately helps to preserve their memory.

“‘I’m Gabriek,’ says the man, stand­ing up in the hole. ‘Ge­nia’s hus­band. I got here in the mid­dle of the night. When I looked through the win­dow and saw somebody in bed with my wife, I…’

He doesn’t fin­ish the sen­tence, but I know what he’s try­ing to say. In war­time, with peo­ple be­ing killed eve­ry day, a lot of peo­ple end up in bed mar­ried to oth­er people’s hus­bands and wives.

‘I de­cid­ed to wait till morn­ing,’ says Gabriek, ‘to find out who this per­son was and…’

‘It was me,’ I say. ‘And Zel­da. Ge­nia’s been pro­tect­ing us.’”

Through a tragic instance of misreading the situation, Gabriek mistakenly thinks that Genia has remarried when he sees her in bed with the children. If he had confronted the situation directly, Genia and Zelda may not have gone to town, and they may have lived.

“Then I see Zel­da and Ge­nia.

I pray it’s not re­al­ly them. I pray that any se­cond they’ll come up be­hind me and give me a hug and Zel­da will tell me off for hav­ing smudgy glass­es and not be­ing able to see clear­ly.

She won’t.

Be­cause I can see clear­ly. Even with smudged glass­es. Even with tears.

Oh, Zel­da.

Oh, Ge­nia.

The breeze turns them gen­tly, and now they’re fac­ing me.”

Seeing his new family dead nearly breaks Felix. However, he has overcome the denial he constantly faced in Once, and he quickly accepts the fact of their deaths. In a crucial inner turning point, he quickly channels his sorrow into a need for revenge, accelerating the novel to its violent conclusion.

“‘This was in your sis­ter’s coat,’ he says. ‘Wil­helm, I’m sor­ry.’

I take it from him.

A lock­et.

Not sil­ver like Zel­da’s. A gold one.

It’s open. In­side each half is a tiny draw­ing. A boy on one side, a girl on the oth­er. They’re fac­ing each oth­er. Un­der the girl is the let­ter Z. Un­der the boy is the let­ter F.

I stare at it.

My birth­day pre­sent.

I stare at it for a long time.

Then I take my hand off the gre­nade in my pock­et.”

Seeing the locket and hand-drawn pictures from Zelda saves Felix from becoming like the Nazis by exacting his revenge. Felix knows that Zelda would not want him to harm anyone, not even the people responsible for her death. Felix’s caring, altruistic side ultimately overcomes his rage and need for revenge.

“I’ve kept it strong by tell­ing the sto­ry of me and Zel­da in my head as I lie here on the straw. It’s what I do all day. It’s how I’m keep­ing my prom­ise to Zel­da. It’s why I de­cid­ed to live.”

By keeping Zelda’s memory firmly in his mind, Felix keeps his promise never to leave her. He lives on so that she can live on as well. Felix therefore uses his faith in The Power of Storytelling to keep Zelda and Genia’s memories alive.