"Germany invades Poland!"

Erik sees the paper on the newstand. He freezes, legs suddenly dead under him, his schoolbag hanging heavy from his numb shoulder.

No- no- he turns back, blindly to the bus, and if it had been still there he would have charged on back home- but it is gone. He stands alone in the middle of the street and a car honks, jolting him into motion.

He walks to the school gates in a daze. He needs to go home. He can't miss school. His parents would want him home. His parents would want him to go to school. His family- his family- his family his family his family-

Erik gets to the toilet just in time. He pulls the seat up ands collapses in front of it, his stomach kicking and roiling but he cannot bring anything out; his breakfast remains dull and heavy in the pit of his stomach and his eyes are stinging with tears.

He slams the lid down and crawls on the toilet, hugging his knees and burying his face against his legs.

His grandfather's face dances among the starbursts as he drives his knees into his eyesockets. Sad faced, serious, his hands worn soft and kind as they handed him the chess set.

Great Grandmother in her wheeled chair, complaining piercingly as they trooped to Temple. The dread of being sent to stay with her, holding their breath in case they put a foot wrong.

His aunts. His uncles, his cousins and grandparents and endless number of once-removed and twice-removed until everyone had given up counting them. All of them, the homes he had wandered in and out of since he could remember-

There's a knock on the door. "Erik? Are- are you alright?"

"Go away." He grits out.

"I- I saw the newspaper."

Erik cannot speak, his doesn't trust his voice. He wipes furiously at his streaming eyes, glares at the door and tried to think go away as loud as he can.

"Okay." Charles shuffles upright. "I'll tell you when it's time to go in, okay?"

Erik hugs his knees, rocks. He can't go in. His eyes are burning and his face is blood hot and they would all know.

He opens the door, peers out and is deeply relieved when he sees no one. He checks himself in the dented metal mirror and his eyes are red and puffy, he washes his face furiously until he's completely scarlet- it's not much of an improvement.

Charles pokes his head in, Erik looks at him dully, feeling heavy and awful and very much like not speaking.

"It's alright;" Charles comes up, glances back to make sure no one is looking. Closes the door. It's okay.

"It's not." Erik whispers.

"I'm sorry." And he comes up and puts his arms around Erik.

For a moment, misery is forgotten in a flash of fear what if someone sees? But Charles is warm, and solid and right now Erik would really rather have his mother but Charles is here and-

And he really needs a hug.

"It's okay." Charles steps back, brushes hair out of the mess of his face. "I'll make sure no one sees."

It means no one calls on them for the whole day, the teachers look at them and go rather glazed and seem to forget they exist. Erik is pathetically grateful to Charles. He puts his face down to the desk and stares blankly at the board, letting words just wash over him.

"I made notes for you." Charles hands him a sheaf of papers as they walk out of the gates that evening. "Will you- will you be in tomorrow?"

Erik shrugs. He should thank him. He should look at him. He can't bring himself to do either.

The nice things about having a friend who can read minds- Charles completely understands. He squeezes Erik's shoulder. "I'll see you soon."

He climbs on the bus and then desperately just wants to get off again. He doesn't want to go home. He doesn't know where he wants to go but not there, not with Father shouting and Mother angry and everyone crying and he gets off at the library and goes in and sits and stares blankly at the books around him.

"Erik?" A hand falls on his shoulder.

Erik jumps and the metal light fitting beside his head shatters. Else starts, then gives him a weary smile. "Come home, Erik."

"I-" he doesn't know what to say. If he goes home everyone will be upset and it won't just be him any more- it'll be real.

"Come on." Else pulls him out of the chair, puts her arm over his shoulder- she has to reach up a little bit now- and frog marches him out of the library.

Everyone at home seems to feel like him. They are sitting or standing with blank eyes- all except Mother, who is out at the communal phone, waiting, waiting for a connection.

"It's too early in the morning." Her voice shatters the awful silence, falsely positive. "They'll all be in bed, and there's no one at the post office at this time-"

The words fall into the silence, are swallowed up. They would have called. They would have telegraphed. The Nazis have cut the phone lines.

Rachel covers her face, turns away. The twins just look at everyone, eyes wide. The baby- not such a baby now, in her floursack dress, starts to cry.

Father straightens. "Come here, everyone."

They obey, he puts his arms around them- as far as they can go for so many. Mother tucks her face against his shoulder, his bicep presses into Erik's back.

"We are here." He says firmly. "We are alive. We may not-" he chokes off, closes his eyes. "We may not know what has happened to- to those we have- left behind-" his voice break. He blinks hard, takes a deep, shuddering breath. "But we are here. This is our family. While we are here, none of us will be alone. We are Jews. We will survive as we have for thousands of years. And when grandmother and father and- all of them- think of us, they know we are happy and safe."

It's not the words, but just the tone is enough. It diffuses the awful knot in Erik's stomach a little, and he draws the first real breath he's taken since- it feels- he saw the paper that morning.

"England is threatening war if they don't get out." Else puts in. "Maybe they'll run off with their tails between their legs."

"Maybe we'll win," adds Moshe. "We have an army too."

"Maybe." Father says heavily. "We'll have to wait and see. In the meantime, maybe we can put together a crate of our own for them- God only know they'll need it. And we'll wait for letters."

It's the best they can say. It's the best they can do. Erik lies in bed that night and stares at the stars through his skylight and dreams of- of- of what? Of going back over there and trying to fight off the Nazis? It was fun to dream with Charles but in real life-

He thinks of the tanks in the photographs. The marching men in the newsreels. The billowing smoke and flames from the synagogues in the pictures Mother thinks she'd hidden from them.

Maybe he could just go and get them. Get a big car or truck or train and pack all his uncles and aunts and cousins and grandmothers and grandfathers and everyone in the village and maybe just everyone in Poland and take them- somewhere far away. Somewhere no one could ever hurt them.

The weather grows cold. Erik can only hope the weather in Poland is better but they buy and pack good stout winter blankets and mother makes socks and balaclavas and even Else learns to knit and produces shapeless tubelike things to send in their crate and is very proud of them.

Erik looks at his hands. He thinks of making them big guns and maybe he could find a way of packing a tank into a box so it would spring out, ready to use, like a pop-up book-

But he doesn't know. He doesn't have time. He walks to school heavy and lost and only feels- slightly better- when he sees Charles waiting for him at the school gate.

Charles runs up to him. He has a newspaper under his arm and Erik glares at the hateful thing. He can't bear to look at the newspaper in case it carries more bad news or- worse- nothing about Poland at all. How can the world keep turning while his country is burning and his family could be- could be-

"Here-" Charles quickly unrolls the paper. "Look."

Britain declares war on Germany is printed in huge black letters.

"Oh." Erik tries to muster up something positive. "Good."

"They're the biggest empire in the world." Charles says firmly. "They'll stop Hitler."

"Why isn't he running then, if they're so big?" Erik looks blankly at the buildings around them. "Why isn't anyone here doing anything?"

"Well-" Charles shifts awkwardly. "A lot of people want to, but it's a long way off they don't think... I don't think... the last war was bad and they don't..." He trails off under Erik's flat, wretched gaze. "I'm sorry. You're right. It's awful." He touches Erik's shoulder.

Erik nods. He wishes that would be enough, that just saying it would make it better, but the dull weight is just as heavy and sore in his belly. "Thank you."

"Are you okay for school? I could try and make them think you're there, if you want to just not go."

Erik shakes his head. Maybe it'd be a distraction this time. Better than sitting with his head full of his own thoughts and awful wonderings.

That thought only lasts long enough for them to enter the new classroom. They're still two years ahead of their age, and the sixteen years olds in the class do read the papers.

It's quiet at first. Whispering as they pass, nudges, cold looks. Erik tries to ignore them and walks up to a little window desk with Charles.

Someone nudges his back as he sits down. "Hey Lehnsherr- is it true the Krauts only invaded to get rid your lot? Kike shit."

Erik twists, blood hot in his arms and face, blazing in his chest. Charles grabs his arm and hauls him back, frantically shaking his head.

"Yeah. Should get them to come over here." Another voice- Erik can't see through the rage. "Like fucking rats-"

"Shut up!" Charles snaps, glaring- Erik is beyond speaking. His fists clench. He tries to grasp for- something- to snatch at some metal and make them hurt-

He's too angry. It boils up inside him until he might just burst and his skin burns with tension like electricity-

He isn't sure what might have happened then, but Charles suddenly breaks the moment and hurls himself at the boys in the row behind.

Erik stares, the horrible tension broken and leaving him blinking as Charles lashes out in a blur of whirring fists- flailing wildly at the boys.

He catches one of them on the shoulder, the other on the arms- they're more bewildered than hurt. One grabs Charles by the to hold him in place and clenches his fist and Erik tenses to jump in and-

"What is going on here!"

The teacher freezes in the doorway. Everyone freezes too. "How dare you!" She snatches the ruler and marches down, lashing out left and right to beat them back; Erik gets a slap on the arm and throws his hands up to protect his face.

"Sit down at once, Lensherr! Xavier, Smith- to the Principal's office this instant. How dare you-"

Erik hovers, uncertain what to do, ears ringing and arm stinging as Charles and the hateful Smith are led out. The teacher is so furious that no one says a word and Erik sits down awkwardly, wondering if he should rush out to get Charles and- and-

He has no idea. He looks down at the desk and- only now- becomes aware that every particle of metal in the room, from the table legs to the iron filings, is vibrating faintly. It's a conscious effort to calm them down, calm himself down. He takes a deep breath and picks up his pencil.

Charles joins him at lunchtime, pale but smiling. "It's okay." One fist is clenched, trembling, when he sees Erik looking he sighs and opens it, reveals an ugly red weal on his palm.

"I'm sorry." Erik says helplessly.

"They'd have thrown you out." Charles sighs, "But they wouldn't dare with me- and anyway, I've wanted to hit Smith for years."

Erik can't help a snort, looks at him incredulously. Charles? Hit someone?

He must have heard it, he gives Erik an aggrieved look. "Oh, of course, just because I'm not Don Quixiote- diving into every fight with a giant-"

"Who?"

Charles' eyes light up.

They have a ceremonial burning of the unspeakably evil newspaper proclaiming America's neutrality. Erik packs a few nuggets of his uncle's gold into the crate, hidden inside a fur blanket where no one will find them, and watches as it is sent away in the post office.

They can only hope.

There is none in the newspapers. The Soviets invade. Poland falls only a few weeks later.

There is none in Rosh Hashana or Sukkot. Bitter sour festivals this year, Erik cannot forgive. Cannot forgive Germany and America and Britain for doing nothing but declare war and sit on its hands. Hates himself sick until he can only stare at his dinner in the little tent they set up under the kitchen table, and feel his stomach churn, the cutlery trembling until mother gently asks him to go upstairs and rest before he breaks anything.

And there is no hope in the phonecalls the telegraphs. Nothing comes, and when Mother finally gets a connection through the phonelines- the person at the other end is not their usual attendant, and will tell them nothing.

They have more evenings at the synagogue, more dinners with uncle Karl and his family. More time spent with the family they have, as the rest of their family drifts further and terrifyingly further away.

Erik stares at the skylight, watches the first thin fingers of frost trace over the glass. He wants someone to come. He wants to go downstairs himself and find someone. He doesn't want to be alone.

But he is too old now to be looked after- and it's not as if any of them are in any better state- and his room is too far away for Moshe or even the twins to come up to see him. And with mother and father no longer fighting- of course, they will go to here.

Erik balls himself in the heap of blankets. Tries not to cry. Around him, the great buildings roar dumbly into the void.

"Do you- want to do something this weekend?" Charles asks tentatively.

Erik blinks. "What?"

"It's just- it's been a long time." Charles shrugs, awkward. "I have some money and- if you want, we could go to the pictures?"

Erik looks at him, and for a moment- as though through a veil- thinks of the last summer. The buses outside the city, Coney island, dancing metal in the coin machines, the motion pictures.

Erik wants to go back there so badly it's like being kicked in the stomach.

"Maybe- on Sunday;" Erik says finally. "I can't- not on Saturday." He feels sick when he remembers how he had run away- had God been angry? Was this why-

"That's fine." Charles smiles, touches his hand.

Erik looks at their joined hands, and Charles quickly snatches his away. Erik is a bit sorry for losing it. It was- nice, to have someone who cared. Someone who wasn't family or from the Temple. Someone who wasn't also wondering if their family was dead.

Erik jerks at the thought, shoves it away and blinks hard. No.

Charles flinches, but tries to push past it. "So, nine o'clock? We can meet at that cafe."

Erik nods vaguely, ducking down over a lunch he can't taste.

Now he's thought of it he can't stop. It's with him all day, in all his classes, in every step, in every ring of the bell. Dead dead dead dead.

They can't be. There were dozens of them, A hundred even. No one could have killed them- it's not possible. He wants to go home and- forget pride- tell his Mother the terror, just as he had so many awful nightmares.

But when he goes home, waving goodbye to Charles taking the tramcar, he doesn't say anything.

Mother's smile is a little too brittle. Her eyes go too often to the telephone. Father says nothing, stares at the newspaper without seeing it, finds little trails of earth in the seams of his hands and rubs it between his fingers, over and over.

He can't say it, because he can't make them think it as well.

"Erik?" Mother's voice cuts through his fog. He starts. "Erik, dear, can you go out and see if you can pick us up a few potatoes, or a turnip? Whatever the grocer has."

She presses a few cents in his hand. Erik takes a deep breath, and tries to shake himself out of the horrible black mood. Maybe a walk might help.

The dirty street air is bitingly cold. It will be Hanukkah soon. He thinks of the great feast they had had only a year ago. The heavy candelabra now still wrapped in paper at the bottom of father's case. The burst of sweet dark chocolate. The forced cheerfulness of grandfather, great-grandmother, uncles and aunts that crowded the table. They had known they might not see them again for years. They had known they might never see them again-

Something catches his eye, and jerks him back to here. He blinks, shakes his head. He had been walking aimlessly, Mother's net bag in his hand. The foggy, musty darkness of the New York night.

He isn't alone, it's hard to see in the fog. He is about to turn away but- it's like a scratching, inside his head, he turns again, and takes a few steps- but whoever it was is gone. He shakes himself, and picks up his pace to get to the grocer's before it closes.

The grocer frowns at him when he comes it, she is just about to turn her open sign to closed. "What do you want?" She grunts in Yiddish.

"Potatoes." Erik offers his bag.

The grocer sighs, but fills it with potatoes- Erik standing on the doorstep the whole time and- there's something here, he keeps turning around, trying to catch sight of it- whatever it is.

"Here;" The weight of the bag staggers him, "Thirty cents."

Erik hands the money over, hoists the bag and turns to go and- there, there's a flicker of movement, just down the street. Erik picks up his pace and all but runs down to the junction, bag thumping roughly against his side. He spins around the corner, just in time-

Just in time to catch sight of the small, hunched figure walking slowly away in the gloom.

Erik's mouth drops open. "Charles?"

Charles jumps, turns. He blinks. "Erik?"

"What are you doing here?" He almost drops his bag of potatoes.

Charles, frowns, then shakes himself and fixes a horribly fake smile on his face. "I- I mean, what are you doing here?"

"I live here!" Erik bursts out. "We're miles from the school- why are you here? Didn't your car come"

Charles is silent, and Erik blinks, "They didn't come? I thought you said-"

Charles looks away, shoulders coming up as though he was trying to crawl up inside himself and away from Erik and- it all starts to click together. The man at the bakery. Charles never inviting him to his home. Charles asking for money to go home. "Where are you going?"

Charles shrugs again, still staring fixedly at the ground; Erik takes a step forward and- feels a sudden burst of absolute shame and misery radiating from his friend. "Charles..."

"I'm.. okay." Charles says finally, "They just- forget, sometimes."

Erik's mouth drops open. He can't imagine his parents ever forgetting him- and Charles doesn't even have any brothers and sisters! "That's- awful!" He wishes he could get a better- angrier word out, but he's so shocked and furious he can't think of any.

Charles just shrugs. "I'll be okay," he says softly, "I- I'm used to it." he tries a smile. "I'll see you on Sunday?"

He's going to stay out until Sunday. The knowledge almost drops into his head. Charles wasn't going to be picked up until maybe Monday. The only way he could go home was if Erik got the money from the slot machines. "No."

Charles' seems to shrink further. "Oh. Okay. I'll see you- at school, I suppose." He turns to go.

"No-" Erik grabs his arm. "Don't be- an idiot. Here- come."

He marches Charles back along the street. Charles pauses a few times, but Erik tugs him on. "Erik, please don't go to the police."

Erik stares. "The police?" He almost spits.

Charles tries to shrink away. "I mean, yes. I thought- I know it's illegal but Kurt has so much money and mother doesn't care- it'll just make more problems. Just leave it, it'll be okay."

Erik pauses, takes a breath, tries to calm down enough to speak properly. "You're coming back with me."

Charles starts, "What? No! Your family has enough problems, you don't need me-"

"Yes." Erik says firmly. "We do. Now come."

Here can't explain it, but letting Charles go into the fog, doing nothing- it's more than he can bear.

They walk in silence for a few more streets, then, "Can I help with the bag?" Charles offers, meekly.

Erik gratefully slides the bag off, and Charles hoists it up with a wince. "Is it far?" It's rather close to a whine.

"No," he tries not to smile. "Here."

He leads Charles up the four flights of stairs. It's only when he faces the front door with its little mezuzah that he wonders what Mother will actually say when she sees Charles.

Well, she won't throw him out. Erik tries to smile at Charles- he still doesn't look very comfortable- then opens the door.

"Ah Erik- where have you been? And- oh, who's this?"

"This is Charles." Erik offers in Polish, glancing back at Charles, "Charles, this is my mother."

"Um, hello;" he holds out his hand awkwardly. "It's- really nice to meet you."

Mother frowns, just a little, looks between Charles to Erik. Erik looks back pleadingly. Don't say anything please just pretend this is normal

Maybe he's picked up a little of Charles' mind-reading, because Mother smiles brightly and waves Charles in. "It's so good to meet you at last Charles, we've heard so much about you from Erik! I've been telling him to invite you for dinner for months."

Charles hesitates, he can probably tell it's not exactly true, but Mother's smile is so firm and she's got a hand on his shoulder now, guiding him in. "You bought the potatoes Erik? Good, take them into the kitchen, we'll have plenty for everyone, and I'm sure we can put up a spare bed-"

Charles is bustled into a chair at the dining table, still slightly stunned. Mother fixes Erik with a gimlet eye and he hurries into the kitchen, starts to unpack the potatoes. Mother follows him in, "What happened?" Her voice low, switching quickly to Yiddish.

Erik takes a deep breath. "I saw him in the street. He said his family forgot to take him home, he lives outside the city." He looks down at the potatoes. "I think it happens a lot." His hands clench, he feels the cutting knives starts to twitch in their racks.

Mother's stern gaze cracks, her eyes close. "I see." Her mouth pulls into a weary smile. "We get so absorbed in our sorrows we forget other people have problems." Erik blinks, not sure what she means, but she shakes her head. "No Erik, you did the right thing. And maybe it will be good to think about- something else for a while." She hands him a bowl, two knives, and nods at the potatoes. "You can pack those up and take them to the table, see if Charles can help with peeling them."

Charles is delighted to be able to help, and makes a complete butchery of the first two potatoes he's given to peel before Erik shows him how to do it properly. When the others come down, there are a few odd looks but everyone is nice.

In fact, everyone is- more than nice. They all want to ask what do you think of New York, Charles or And which part of Westchester do you live in, Charles which would be annoying since Charles is his friend, but Erik sees the brightness in everyone's eyes, the way the tension eases for the first time in days and just smiles at Charles as his friend's pale face warms to pink in the steam from the kitchen, the cheerful chatter as Moshe tries out his still-tentative English, and Father asks Charles' opinion of their school.

The world feels... not right- never right, not any more- but safe. A sense that whatever might be happening outside their walls, in here they are warm, and safe, and together.