have to soak the sugar beet for twelve hours before feeding it to a horse,” the kapo said, grinding the apple skin into the dirt under the heel of his boot. “Carrots,” he said, pointing to another container, as if Alexander had forgotten what real food looked like. Alexander stared at the impossibly orange carrots and then at the apples – whole apples, red and green apples, plump with juice – in a basket by the door. “The potatoes are over there.” The kapo pointed to a full basket. Alexander stared longingly at the dirty brown vegetables.
Potatoes
. His stomach twisted.
“If anyone catches you with so much as an apple core down your pants …” The kapo’s face darkened.
“Of c-course,” Alexander stammered, rushing to the corner of the room to grab a bucket. He plunged his hands into a bin, pulled out a handful of oats and tossed them into Serafin’s feed bucket, feeling the grain slip through his hands before bringing his fingertips to his nose to inhale the scent.
“Don’t even think about it.” The kapo’s voice was wintry. “If you eat your horse’s feed, one of two things will happen. Either a guard will catch you and tie you to that whipping pole outside,” he paused, his bushy eyebrows knitted together, “or your horse will lose weight, and you’ll be tied to that whipping pole outside.” He swung the door open. “Feed your horse. The commander will be here to ride him at two o’clock.”
Alexander set the bucket down in front of Serafin and slipped back into the feed room to fetch a bucket of cool, clear water. He set the bucket of water down and waited for the horse to approach it, pleased that Serafin had left a smattering of oats and a beet at the bottom of the feed bucket. He bent over slowly and reached for the beet just as Serafin pulled his nose from the water and kicked out angrily.
“C’mon, you won’t miss one handful,” Alexander cooed, reaching towards the bucket. Arabians were desert horses, they could get by on scraps. The horse lashed out, his eyes bulging.
“The commander’s got you trained but he’s made you mean,” Alexander said, escaping the stall. He supposed he could make Serafin warm to him eventually. A horse could be trained to do anything, with time and enough sugar. Alexander had time – he wasn’t going anywhere – but he didn’t have the energy. Serafin was obedient and would do as he was told. And that was more than enough. Becoming attached to the horse would only complicate things.
They didn’t have to like each other.
Chapter 7
The lunch room was crowded with men bent over their bowls slurping soup. Some sat on chairs, others sat cross-legged on the cement floor sipping water from cups. The horses’ feed room was crammed with buckets of vegetables and baskets of fruit. The lunch room was empty save for a metal cauldron sitting on top of a table, a splintered wooden ladle licked clean beside it and an empty pitcher.
Alexander had missed lunch. He found a chair and collapsed into it, distraught. There was plenty of hay in the stable. If the horses could eat it, he consoled himself, so could he. He’d work faster tomorrow and when the lunch whistle blew, he’d be first in line. He sat quietly and watched the men eat.
“There’s still some left,” the kapo grunted between mouthfuls of soup. He pushed his empty bowl aside and dragged another bowl to his chin. Alexander unclipped his cup from his belt and peered into the tureen. A puddle of grey soup lay at the bottom of the pot. It looked like the water in his mother’s laundry bucket after she’d washed the floors, and smelled faintly of potato. He picked up the ladle, scooped out the remaining broth and slopped it into his cup.
At home, his mother had always given him the biggest portion. She liked to watch him eat, especially in those last weeks before they were sent to the ghetto, as if the act of filling his stomach might protect him from hunger later. He wondered where
Potatoes
. His stomach twisted.
“If anyone catches you with so much as an apple core down your pants …” The kapo’s face darkened.
“Of c-course,” Alexander stammered, rushing to the corner of the room to grab a bucket. He plunged his hands into a bin, pulled out a handful of oats and tossed them into Serafin’s feed bucket, feeling the grain slip through his hands before bringing his fingertips to his nose to inhale the scent.
“Don’t even think about it.” The kapo’s voice was wintry. “If you eat your horse’s feed, one of two things will happen. Either a guard will catch you and tie you to that whipping pole outside,” he paused, his bushy eyebrows knitted together, “or your horse will lose weight, and you’ll be tied to that whipping pole outside.” He swung the door open. “Feed your horse. The commander will be here to ride him at two o’clock.”
Alexander set the bucket down in front of Serafin and slipped back into the feed room to fetch a bucket of cool, clear water. He set the bucket of water down and waited for the horse to approach it, pleased that Serafin had left a smattering of oats and a beet at the bottom of the feed bucket. He bent over slowly and reached for the beet just as Serafin pulled his nose from the water and kicked out angrily.
“C’mon, you won’t miss one handful,” Alexander cooed, reaching towards the bucket. Arabians were desert horses, they could get by on scraps. The horse lashed out, his eyes bulging.
“The commander’s got you trained but he’s made you mean,” Alexander said, escaping the stall. He supposed he could make Serafin warm to him eventually. A horse could be trained to do anything, with time and enough sugar. Alexander had time – he wasn’t going anywhere – but he didn’t have the energy. Serafin was obedient and would do as he was told. And that was more than enough. Becoming attached to the horse would only complicate things.
They didn’t have to like each other.
Chapter 7
The lunch room was crowded with men bent over their bowls slurping soup. Some sat on chairs, others sat cross-legged on the cement floor sipping water from cups. The horses’ feed room was crammed with buckets of vegetables and baskets of fruit. The lunch room was empty save for a metal cauldron sitting on top of a table, a splintered wooden ladle licked clean beside it and an empty pitcher.
Alexander had missed lunch. He found a chair and collapsed into it, distraught. There was plenty of hay in the stable. If the horses could eat it, he consoled himself, so could he. He’d work faster tomorrow and when the lunch whistle blew, he’d be first in line. He sat quietly and watched the men eat.
“There’s still some left,” the kapo grunted between mouthfuls of soup. He pushed his empty bowl aside and dragged another bowl to his chin. Alexander unclipped his cup from his belt and peered into the tureen. A puddle of grey soup lay at the bottom of the pot. It looked like the water in his mother’s laundry bucket after she’d washed the floors, and smelled faintly of potato. He picked up the ladle, scooped out the remaining broth and slopped it into his cup.
At home, his mother had always given him the biggest portion. She liked to watch him eat, especially in those last weeks before they were sent to the ghetto, as if the act of filling his stomach might protect him from hunger later. He wondered where
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