At the Dovercourt Holiday Summer Camp, the boys and girls formed a long line, leading into the main hall of the camp. The refugee committee volunteers greeted the children and began leading them in groups to the small wooden cabins built for summer camp.
A volunteer escorted Stephen, Hans, Peter, and a boy named Ralph, a chubby child who always spoke loudly, to a cabin. Peter opened the door and cautiously walked in. Hans, Stephen, and Ralph followed.
Inside the cold cabin, there were small beds with one woolen blanket each and small, misshapen, stained pillows, several small windows, and a sink. The boys set their suitcases down. Peter carefully placed his violin case on his bed.
Stephen patted the thin mattress. “All right, I want to go home now. What do you think, Peter?”
“Home doesn’t exist anymore,” Peter said.
That night, the boys slept with all their clothes on under their single wool blankets, for protection against the cold. Peter lay awake in his bed, his fingers playing the chords of a pretend violin, and his other hand guiding an invisible bow. He fell asleep to a rather difficult Mozart melody running through his mind.
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