The Wooden King. Thomas Maxwell McConnell

safe. I’m proud of you for studying early.”

      The boy shrugged, turned back several pages.

      “London looks a big city. You lived there.”

      “For a time. It was the biggest city in the world. I suppose it is still. I studied in a big library. For some reason it was called the British Library.”

      He waited for a smile to curve the boy’s cheek but none appeared so he combed his fingers through the boy’s hair twice.

      “Is the British Library still there?”

      “Yes.”

      “It hasn’t caught fire?”

      “No.”

      “And burned?”

      “No, it’s all still standing very safe and strong.”

      “How do you know?”

      “I’m sure I would have heard.”

      “Daddy?” He unbent his legs. Out of their deep wells his eyes looked up.

      “What is it, my boy?” Trn leaned and kissed almost the crown of his head but Aleks seemed not to feel.

      “Is England going to save us?”

      “Aleks. We must be very careful what we say. Remember?”

      “But we’re not outside the house.”

      “I know. But at times our tongues don’t recall where we are and our words escape before we think.”

      “Like when Mother shouts.”

      “We all shout sometimes.”

      “I don’t.” His fingers traced the shores of Britain. “You don’t.”

      “You remember what we said of politics?”

      “It’s complicated. It’s what you hear on the radio.”

      “That’s true. Politics is especially complex these days.”

      “Danko’s parents listen to the politics too.”

      “How do you know?”

      “He says they hold their ears very close to the radio like you do.”

      “Aleks, we must be very careful about politics and the radio now. We shouldn’t speak about it. It’s best if we don’t even mention the radio.”

      Aleks looked down at the page, the map.

      “Will we be rescued by Christmas? Can I ask that?”

      “This Christmas will be like last Christmas, I think.”

      The boy laid his chin on his arm.

      “Will we be rescued by my birthday?”

      “We must all be patient. Even if it is very hard.”

      “I will be eight.”

      “We will plan a celebration no matter what politics says that day. Agreed?”

      “It will still be permitted to have a cake then? A small one?”

      “Of course Mama will bake a cake.”

      “Daddy?”

      “Yes?”

      “How is England going to rescue us if it’s burning?”

      He laid a hand over the boy’s thin hand.

      “I don’t know, Aleks.”

      “Germany is burning too.”

      Trn nodded.

      “But we’re not.”

      “No, we’re not.”

      “But I have my mask if necessary. When I put it on you used to say I looked like a mouse. You called me a little mouse.”

      The hand escaped and lifted the pages back until the old republic was before them, a plump salamander nosing into the green lands of the Teutons. Aryan lands.

      “Daddy? Where are the scissors?”

      “I suppose they must be in Grandfather’s desk. Probably there in the kneehole drawer.”

      “Don’t we have scissors? You and me and Mother? Our scissors?”

      “I’m sure we brought them. Probably in a drawer in the kitchen. Why do you need scissors?”

      “I’ll show.”

      He pushed away from the desk, hopped from the chair, left the door open. Across the hall came the scrape of a drawer pulled out, another, Alena telling him to wash, clatter and rummage and then Aleks back with the long blades of Trn’s old desk scissors in his fist.

      “What are you going to do?”

      “Mr. Fischer said to bring our geography books with us on Monday.” He shifted the book on the desk, the yellow skin of the salamander pocked with local habitations, scars of dark roads. “Because he’s going to cut this map out of all our books. He says it’s no longer valid.” His eyes looked up at Trn’s. “He said those are his instructions.”

      “And so you’re going to do it yourself first.”

      “No.”

      He fitted his slender fingers into the handles, turned some pages until Africa reappeared, lifted and snipped at the gutter.

      “Aleks, what are you doing?”

      The small teeth bit the lower lip as the scissors rasped and bit through the border of the page.

      “Aleks, wait.”

      “It’s my book,” Aleks said. “It has my name in it.”

      The scissors opened and closed a final time and he brought away the whole continent, raised the jagged page with a small smile, his dark eyes beaming.

      “If this is all we need,” he said, “then I’ll leave the book at home and take only Africa to school.”

      He hadn’t put off his coat before she appeared from the kitchen and said, “A man came by today.”

      “What man?”

      “He came about lessons.”

      Trn paused, hooked his coat.

      “He said that?”

      “He wants to learn German.”

      Her eyes never left him as he looped his scarf over the collar.

      “He wants to learn German from me?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why should he think I would tutor him for German?”

      She looked at the floor.

      “Who is he?”

      “He left a paper.”

      She brought it from her apron pocket and he frowned at it in the dark hall.

      “I don’t know this name. Had you ever seen him before?”

      “No.”

      “How did he get in?”

      “I let him.”

      “Alena.”

      “He had graying hair. Father was here.”

      “And he came alone?”

      “Yes.”

      “Don’t let him in again.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because he might want something besides lessons.”

      “He said he wanted lessons.”

      “I