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currycomb and a thick-bristled brush. He found them crammed between a gleaming leather saddle and a bridle. The stable was well equipped. There were halters, lead lines, hoof picks, blankets, buckets for water and a metal trough for feed. There was protective cream for the pink skin around the horses’ noses and fly-fringes to keep the insects away. Alexander thought of all the things he’d left behind on the farm and the things he’d packed for the train but had to leave on the platform: his calfskin gloves – a present from his father – a black-and-white photo of Sari, and the miniature wooden horse his grandfather had carved out of oak. He grabbed a hoof pick and ran back to the stall.
    He started with the currycomb, moving in broad circles over the pony’s back and hindquarters, soothing her with his voice until she relaxed under his touch. He skirted the sensitive skin on her legs and picked her feet out with the hoof pick, checking her shoes for damage. By the time he was finished his shirt was plastered to his back and his arms were streaked with dirt, but the pony looked beautiful. Alexander breathed in her horsey smell. It was wrong to say he was happy, but he found himself smiling.
    “Tack her up,” the commander ordered, cracking his whip against his boot. “Heinz, show the boy where Chestnut’s tack is kept.”
    Chestnut
, Alexander thought.
The pony has a name, not a number.
    The kapo swung the door open and the commander left the stall.
    “Her saddle is over there.” The kapo raised his giant hand and pointed to a saddle hanging from a peg on the back wall. It had a small seat with a leather horn – the type of saddle children used when they weren’t accustomed to riding. Alexander grabbed the saddle.
    “Sure you can handle a horse that size?” Isidor walked up and grabbed a saddle blanket. “I’m in the stall next door to you, so if you need any help …” A smile split his face.
    “She’s a pony, not a horse.” Alexander rolled his eyes.
    “Either way,
you
should’ve got the commander’s horse,” Isidor whispered. “Do you reckon the commander knew he was giving his horse to a Nussbaum?”
    “A Nussbaum?” Alexander shook his head, confused.
    “The boy who got the commander’s horse.”
    Alexander waited.
    “I went to school with him. His father, Isak Nussbaum, is a breeder.
Was
a breeder,” Isidor corrected himself. “The boy’s family owned the biggest stud farm in Poland. That big white horse …”
    “Stallion,” Alexander butted in. “A male horse is a stallion, unless he’s been castrated, then he’s a gelding.”
    Isidor nodded.
    “The commander’s stallion,” he said, “probably came from Nussbaum’s farm.”
    Alexander grabbed a lead line and returned to his stall. There were guards in the stable, but if he crouched down behind the stall door, they couldn’t see him. He bent over the pony and breathed in her dusty smell. The last time he’d been this close to a horse, he’d been saying goodbye to Sari. He’d fallen asleep in the stall and woken at midnight to find his horse lying on her side with her neck pressed against his back. He hoped their neighbour, who now owned their farm, was looking after her. He hoped Radomir Hudak was feeding her twice a day and washing the mud from her hocks.
    “Are you done?” The kapo swung the door open and Alexander jerked away from the pony, reminding himself that the animal was a means to survival, not a pet.
No getting soft
, he said to himself.
Soft is dangerous.
He swung the saddle blanket onto the pony, smoothed out the wrinkles and slid the saddle onto it.
    “Bring her out,” the kapo ordered. Alexander slipped a halter over the pony’s nose and led Chestnut from the stall.
    “The children like to ride her.” The kapo lowered his voice. “It’s a distraction from the gloominess.”
    Children?
Something stirred in the pit of Alexander’s belly. What children? He dragged on the rope and hurried to the