A Boy Is Not a Ghost

  Copyright © 2021 by Edeet Ravel

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

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  Published in 2021 by Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press

  groundwoodbooks.com

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  Groundwood Books respectfully acknowledges that the land on which we operate is the Traditional Territory of many Nations, including the Anishinabeg, the Wendat and the Haudenosaunee. It is also the Treaty Lands of the Mississaugas of the Credit.

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  We gratefully acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the Government of Canada

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  The author gratefully acknowledges for their generous and invaluable financial support the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

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  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: A boy is not a ghost / Edeet Ravel.

  Names: Ravel, Edeet, author.

  Description: Sequel to: A boy is not a bird.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200391828 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200391836 |

  ISBN 9781773064987 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781773064994 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8585.A8715 B693 2021 | DDC jC813/.54—dc23

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  Illustrations by Pam Comeau

  Map by Mary Rostad

  Design by Michael Solomon

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  Groundwood Books is a Global Certified Accessible™ (GCA by Benetech) publisher. An ebook version of this book that meets stringent accessibility standards is available to students and readers with print disabilities.

  for

  Luke, Larissa and Ivy

  ONE

  DRIVEN AWAY

  1941

  SUMMER

  1

  Soon to Include: Natt Silver

  Exiled.

  Banished.

  Kicked out.

  Expelled.

  Driven away.

  Sent packing.

  I’m trying to think of all the words I know for what’s happened to us. In all the languages I know. German, Russian, Ukrainian, Romanian, Yiddish, Hebrew. I don’t actually know the word for “exiled” in Hebrew. I only know how to say, “Go away from here.” Lekh mi-khan.

  But German is still my first and best language, and I know at least ten ways to say “Get lost!” in German. All ten of which I have been using nonstop on the bugs that are eating me alive at the moment on this Train of Horrors.

  Yes, I now live on a train.

  It’s been six weeks and two days since we were forced to leave the city of Czernowitz. At this point, I feel like a world expert on what it’s like to be told to get lost. Or not exactly lost, since Stalin, who is now in charge of Russia, knows exactly where we’re going.

  Siberia.

  Area of Siberia: 13 million square kilometers. That’s almost one-tenth of all the land on the planet!

  Average temperature: I’m afraid to ask. But cold. Very, very cold.

  Famous for: Being big and cold. And for being the place where they send murderers and people who rebel against the government.

  Soon to include: Natt Silver.

  That’s me. Natt Silver, age twelve. Though I’m not a murderer or a rebel. And no one else on this train is, either.

  A year and a half ago, I had a completely different life. I lived in a house with my parents in a town called Zastavna. I had a nature collection that included snake skins and driftwood that looked like Albert Einstein. I had books, a kaleidoscope, a telescope, a globe of the world. My father had two horses and a warehouse full of grain. One of his helpers had a bouncy dog named Zoomie. I went to school.

  And I had a best friend with round glasses and red hair. That would be Max. Short and small, but the fastest runner you ever saw, and the best soccer player in Zastavna. Max was also very good at telling jokes and inventing stories to act out, especially the incredible adventures of the two Musketeers, Maximus and Natius.

  Now I’m on an actual real-life adventure. Or that’s what my mother keeps calling it. “We’re having an adventure!” she exclaims every time there’s a new catastrophe.

  She’s trying to cheer me up by looking on the bright side. You need quite a good imagination to find a bright side in our current circumstances. But my mother is up to the task.

  At the moment, I’m trying to decide which part of life on Train Two, Carriage One is the worst.

  Is it the fact that this is a livestock train, built for transporting cows and pigs?

  Is it going to the bathroom in public, squatting over a hole in the floor?

  Is it being squished with twenty-six other people in one small carriage?

  (Originally we were thirty-four but eight old people have died since we boarded.)

  Is it the suffocating heat that melts your brain and paralyzes your body, and only four small openings in the walls to (theoretically) let in (theoretical) air?

  Is it the body lice, the flies, the mosquitoes — and the resulting welts and rashes and UNBEARABLE ITCHING all over your body, day in and day out?

  Is it the water barrel that’s filled with scummy water, supposedly for drinking, and only inches away from the “toilet”?

  Is it the fact that we’re sleeping on narrow boards that faintly resemble bunks? Or the black loaf we get each day that faintly resembles bread? Or the bowl of rotten vegetables and warm water that doesn’t even resemble soup and has the occasional worm or fish eye floating in it?

  Or is it that we have no idea how much longer we’ll be on this train?

  Yes, that’s the worst part. We have no idea when this nightmare will end. And no idea what’s waiting for us once we reach our destination, wherever that is.

  In the meantime, we’re trapped between these four walls as the train clangs, clangs, clangs at a snail’s pace.

  We did have one break from train hell.

  Three weeks ago we were allowed to leave our carriages and wash in a crystal lake next to one of the stations. It seems like a dream now, but it really happened.

  It was bliss to cool off and wash ourselves and our clothes (we hadn’t washed in over a month, so you can imagine the stench). On top of that, I ran into kids I knew from Zastavna. And, most miraculous of all, we met my old Hebrew teacher Elias and his wife, Cecilia, and their little girl, Shainie. They were supposed to be on a different train, but they managed to switch.

  And then they managed to arrange another switch, from their carriage to ours.

  Of course it cost money. We had to bribe the guards and also the passengers who traded places with them.

  As a result of the switch, our little group has expanded. Before, it was me, my mother and Irena. Irena is a pretty eighteen-year-old teacher from our town. Her parents were sent to Siberia, but she wasn’t at home when the police came for them. She was in Czernowitz, studying to be a teacher.

  Irena is the only person who actually asked to join the exiles. She wants to find her parents. They could be anywhere in Siberia, but Irena is determined to track them down.

  I don’t know what Mama and I would have done without Irena. She’s very good at taking charge. In fact,
she’s the representative of our carriage, along with an old man who is — or used to be — a geologist.

  Now that Elias and his family have joined us, we’re a group of six. Each one of us can be described by what we say most often. Which, when you’re living together twenty-four hours a day with barely room to move, you get very, very used to hearing:

  Mama: Aren’t we lucky to be moving away from the fighting! (The war is taking place in Europe, and we’re moving east, away from Europe.)

  Irena (to the other passengers, who are always fighting): Stop behaving like two-year-olds!

  Elias: Stalin certainly understands equality — we’re all equally doomed.

  Cecilia: Elias, please, I’m begging you, hold your tongue, someone will hear!

  Shainie, their cute curly-haired four-year-old: Tell me more story, Natty!

  Me: I’m going to literally die of itchiness!

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  I’ve also become friends with Andreas the Tall, who was a close friend of our lawyer, Bruno the Bald. Max was the one who invented those names for Andreas and Bruno.

  Bruno the Bald lived in a side section of our house, back when we had a house. He disappeared last year, as soon as the Russians arrived. No one knows where he went. Maybe Andreas knows, but he’s not telling.

  Finally, there’s Felicia, who is very sweet and has a tiny little baby. Even though it’s boiling hot in the train, her head is wrapped in a cherry-red scarf that makes her look like a genie. We’ve taken Felicia under our wing. So we’re actually a group of eight and a baby.

  I hope we’ll be able to stay together. That is, I hope we have enough money to bribe the guards to let us stay together.

  Money has become a matter of life and death. We need it for the bits of food the Russian farmers sell for preposterous prices at station stops.

  I haven’t written to Max yet. I don’t want to lie to him and I can’t tell him the truth, because it isn’t safe. Stalin’s soldiers read all the mail, and saying anything bad about Stalin or the Soviet Union can get you sent to a Gulag prison.

  That’s where poor Papa is, though not because of anything he said or did. You can get sent to the Gulag just because Stalin has a quota, which means his soldiers have to send a certain number of people to prison. The soldiers don’t care who they arrest, as long as they meet the quota.

  If they don’t meet the quota, they can get shipped off to the Gulag themselves.

  But today is Max’s birthday, and I really feel like writing to him.

  Suddenly I have an idea.

  I’m going to write in code. Max is smart. He’ll understand.

  2

  First Letter to Max

  August 2, 1941

  Dear Max,

  Happy Birthday!

  I hope by now your father has sent you and your mother and sisters tickets to join him and David in Switzerland. But in case you’re still in Zastavna, I’m writing to wish you happy birthday (save me a slice of cake!) and update you on our trip to Siberia so far.

  Everything is going truly splendidly. We are proud to be contributing to Comrade Stalin’s vision of a better world!

  After we left Zastavna, we were very thoughtfully taken to a school gym in Czernowitz, where we waited for a week. As soon as we arrived at the gym, Irena showed up and asked if she could join us. Yes, Irena the music teacher’s daughter. She wants to find her parents, who left for Siberia before we did.

  Guess who else showed up at the gym? Mr. Elias! Along with Cecilia and little Shainie. Only he says to call him plain Elias now that he’s not our teacher. Shainie is always asking me to tell her stories. If I run out of ideas, I can tell her about the adventures of Maximus and Natius . . .

  Then, just as German warplanes began dropping bombs on Czernowitz, we left the gym and headed for the train station.

  Minutes after we boarded the train for Siberia, bullets began to rain down on the platform and on the roof of the train. It was pretty terrifying, but thanks to the courage and wisdom of Stalin’s leadership, we all survived. The soldiers on the platform were truly brave and returned fire. No one hid under the train to escape the bullets.

  I’ve been helping Irena with her Russian and she’s been teaching me geography, biology and General Information. I especially like learning about the life of insects.

  Insects are quite fascinating. For example, the difference between body lice and mosquitoes is extremely interesting. They both live on human blood but are very different in the way they pierce human skin to suck out the blood. We’re also learning a bit of chemistry, such as the composition of air and why we all need oxygen.

  So you see our time on the train is very productive!

  We are being truly well taken care of on the train. The barrel of fresh drinking water is replaced at every station, and we are given a large loaf of solid, nutritious bread and a bowl of hearty vegetable soup every day. In addition, the kind farmers of Russia sell us food on the platform at every station. The prices are reasonable and we’re all eating well. I’m in much better shape than I was. As you know, I was a bit chubby before we left. Now I have a much more lean, athletic look.

  Guess who else is in our train carriage? Andreas the Tall! He arrived with his mother, but unfortunately she passed away. She was very old, and though everything was done to ensure her comfort and well-being, she died. Andreas is reading The Magic Mountain. It’s about people who lie under blankets in the Alps and think about life.

  The train carriages are equipped with a type of very clever and convenient Barrel Toilet, but in our carriage, the Barrel Toilet was replaced with a Floor Toilet at the first stop we made, thanks to a helpful guard with a saw. The Floor Toilet is even better.

  Believe it or not, three weeks ago we stopped at a lake. We had the time of our lives, splashing around in the cool, refreshing water!! As you know, this is a beautiful part of the world, with its crystal waters and the tall mountains in the distance, and the deep blue sky. I met some kids from school at the gym in Czernowitz and then again at the lake. They’re on our train, but in different carriages. We’re all a little pale from the long train ride, but as soon as we arrive at our destination, the fresh air will bring the color back to our cheeks.

  Thank you again for the envelopes and pencils and paper you gave me before we left. As you see they’re now coming in very handy. As are all your other precious gifts. I’m sure the funny hat will be especially useful.

  Once we’re settled in our new home, I will send you an address. We are very excited about our future in Siberia, which we know will be a truly satisfying experience! If I see any Siberian tigers, I’ll let you know. (If I live to tell the tale, that is.)

  I will write again soon. Shainie is pestering me to tell her another story so I will sign off. Also my hand is getting tired. Regards to all.

  Your brother-in-arms, Natius

  3

  Natt the Tiger

  No-vo-si-birsk. No-vo-si-birsk.

  I repeat the word over and over, trying to turn it into something ordinary instead of the name of a strange new place a million miles from home.

  Our train journey is over at last. The city of Novosibirsk, Siberia, is our final stop.

  Surely nothing can be worse than life on Train Two, Carriage One?

  But . . . what if it is worse?

  As we fold what remains of our filthy blankets, pillows and quilts, my mother tries to pretend, as usual, that everything is splendid.

  “Novosibirsk!” she says happily. “What good news! It’s a really big city, 400,000 people, and it’s in southern Siberia!”

  She’s ignoring the fact that her left toe is black and blue and probably infected, one of her eyes is red and puffy, she has welts all over her body from insect bites, and she’s so skinny I’d never know it was my own mother if I saw her from the back.

  Irena is smiling, t
oo. “I’m sure I’ll be able to get information about my parents now,” she says. “The army’s Siberian headquarters are in Novosibirsk.”

  Then, all of a sudden, tears well up in her eyes.

  I can’t help being shocked. No matter how bad things were on the train, Irena always told us to rise above it. “Rise above it, rise above it,” she kept saying, whenever someone wailed that they couldn’t take any more.

  Irena often sat with me on my top bunk, and we looked at the passing landscape through the small window opening. She’d begin with facts about what we were seeing — the Ural Mountains, types of wildflowers, phases of the moon — but she’d soon move on to volcanoes, African jungles, space rockets. She taught me about the Periodic Table and why water boils (molecules!) and how magnets work.

  I think Irena literally saved me from losing my mind.

  “I’m just relieved, Natt,” she says, wiping her eyes. “We’re here, finally. What a long train ride. It would have been faster to walk!”

  There’s a loud creak as the soldiers remove the door bolts, and we all pour out onto the platform.

  Anyone seeing us would think we were drunk, the way we’re stumbling and losing our balance. We haven’t used our leg muscles in so long, they’ve forgotten how to hold us up.

  The station is even bigger than the one in Czernowitz, and the station building is even more like a palace.

  That means we can spread out.

  And right now, spreading out under the warm sun seems like the greatest luxury known to man, woman or child. I imagine a tiger feeling this way, if he was let out of his cage after years in a zoo.

  That’s me, Natt the Tiger.

  “Natt! Over here!”