Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11 Max swallowed hard, gathering up his courage. It was all he could do to stop himself from diving back into his ditch. But if he had any hope of finding Zena and the others, he had to do it now. Already there must be soldiers in the forest. Soon they would be everywhere. He had no idea where to begin. He figured they wouldn't have gone far from where they'd last been together. So he turned and started to walk. He focused his senses, scanning all around him the way Aunt Hannah and Lev and Martin did,

checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed. And then, up ahead, he made out the shapes of two men — Nazi soldiers. He turned to flee, but something made him pause. He ducked behind a tree and watched them. One of the men was walking with his pistol raised and aimed, as though he was a hunter stalking a deer. Max followed the man's gaze…. And there, crouched by a fallen tree, were Martin and Zena. They had their backs to the soldiers, with no idea they were in danger. Max looked around frantically. What could he do? And then he remembered the rock. He grabbed it from his pocket. "Hey!" he screamed. The soldiers turned and looked at Max.

The man who had been aiming the gun was enormous. He looked Max up and down and sneered at him, the way Goliath must have first looked at David. That boiling rage Max had felt earlier came back to him, powering his muscles. He gripped the rock, and with all of his might, he hurled it at the sneering soldier's head. It flew through the air, a straight shot. Thwack. It hit the soldier squarely on the forehead. The man stood in shock, then stumbled backward. And now Martin was on his feet, his rifle aimed. Crack! He shot that soldier dead. But there was the other soldier, and Martin aimed his rifle again. He pulled the trigger. Click.

The rifle was jammed! Martin fumbled with it, tugging at the lever and cursing under his breath. Meanwhile, the other soldier stood there, staring at Max. He was small and skinny, and he looked very young, maybe just a few years older than Max. His uniform hung on him like it was three sizes too big. He reminded Max of some of his older friends from school, boys he had played cards with, traded comics with, raced on the playground.

Max and the young soldier stared at each other, their eyes locked together. There was no hatred in the other boy's eyes. He looked just as terrified and confused as Max was. Were they really enemies? Or were they just two boys caught in this net of evil? Martin had readied his rifle. He pulled back the bolt and took aim at the young soldier. "No!" Max screamed. Crack! Max was too late — the bullet hit the young soldier in the chest. And as he fell dead to the ground, his arm jerked. His pistol fired. A split second later, the bullet tore into Max's side with a searing, blinding pain. Max stared down in shock as blood gushed from the gaping wound. He dropped to his knees.

Zena screamed out his name. Her voice echoed through his mind as the world spun all around him and then went dark. Max lay in the dirt. Martin and Zena looked down at him. They spoke to him, but he couldn't hear. His whole body felt numb. The gunfire and the shouts around him grew faint. Max closed his eyes, and soon he had drifted away from the burning forest, from the war, from the fear and the pain. He thought of that young soldier, and felt himself moving closer to him. But from somewhere else, he heard Zena calling him. He felt her gripping his hand, as though she was trying with all of her might to pull him back to her. But it wasn't until the next day when Max finally opened his eyes that he realized he had