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shouldn’t tell that to my brother.
    “You’re completely wrong, Marta!” he snapped. “I try to avoid getting into trouble, but in this case I had to say something. I just
had
to. Nemeth was so unfair. I kept asking myself why I should have to put up with such unfairness, such injustice. I wrote the better test, so I should have got the higher mark.” He banged his fist on the table. “I couldn’t stand it any longer! I’ve never done anything to them! I can’t understand why they hate us so.” He quickly wiped away the tears running down his cheeks. I pretended not to notice.
    “Finish your story,” I said. “You still haven’t explained what happened to your face.”
    Everything will be fine in the end. Germany will lose the war, and then everything will be back to normal. You must learn to be more patient.” My words sounded hollow even to my own ears.
    “Stein meets with some older kids who are with the Resistance. You know what we’ve heard about the Jews in Poland and Slovakia? Those aren’t rumors, Marta.” He sighed deeply. “I don’t want the same thing to happen to us. Look, I’ll show you what I’ve been doing, but you must promise not to tell Mama or Grandmama. I don’t want to raise their hopes.”
    “I swear!”
    Ervin handed me a sheet of paper from his desk. It had a list of names and addresses on it. Then he picked up one of the crunched up pieces of paper from the floor, smoothed it out, and gave it to me without another word. It was a letter, and this is what it said:
    27 Andrassy St.
    Budapest, Hungary
    May 19, 1944
    Dear Mr. and Mrs. Weisz,
I found your name in a New York telephone book in the central post office of my city. My last name, like yours, is Weisz. Do you think we might be distant relatives?
    I am a fourteen-year-old Jewish boy who is afraid for his life. I live in Budapest, Hungary, with my mother, grandmother, and fifteen-year-old sister. My father was taken away to forced labor in Yugoslavia a couple of months ago. We haven’t heard from him for a long time.
    The German army occupied Budapest two months ago. Every day, new regulations are being issued against Jews. We can’t go to high school or university or even get a job. We aren’t allowed to have telephones, radios, or cars. We must sew a six-pointed yellow star onto our garments so we can be identified whenever we leave our homes. I’ve been getting beaten up regularly on my way home from school (although I always give as good as I get!). We are always hungry. We are desperate.
    If you could find it in your hearts to sponsor us to come to America, I would do anything for you. You have my word on that. I would work for you twenty hours a day with no pay for the rest of my life, if that’s what it took.
    Respectfully yours,
Ervin Weisz
(P.S. I have enclosed an international stamp with my letter for your reply.)
    “There isn’t much else to tell,” Ervin said a little more cheerfully. “Sam was kicking me under the table to shut me up, and the rest of the boys were booing me in support of Pfeiffer.” He shrugged his shoulders. “That just made me more angry. Old Nemeth hushed the class and started yelling at me, calling me an officious Israelite who shouldn’t dare to compare himself to a fine Aryan boy like Pfeiffer. He sounded so idiotic that by then I didn’t even care about his stupid mark.” Ervin laughed, wincing at the pain from his cracked lips.
    “Your face?” I interrupted, prompting him.
    “Oh, that.”
    “Yes, that!”
    “Well, after school ended, Sam and I were walking home. Just after Sam turned down his street, Pfeiffer and two of his Arrow Cross buddies jumped me and beat me up. They must have been lying in wait for me. But I put up a good fight! Pfeiffer has a bloody nose and one of his friends is missing a tooth. I could have got all three of them, but they had wooden planks. In the end, I had to run away. They wouldn’t stop hitting me with the boards and calling me names.