Noah knew how the boys felt. He’d watched his parents beaten to death for trying to protect their home on November 9, 1938. He was little and hadn’t really understood, but he knew the Nazis had no right to destroy their home. His parents had stood up to the Nazis, and the retaliation was swift.
On that long-ago night, when the blood from a blow to his mother’s head had splattered in the Nazi’s face, Noah saw his chance and fled the house his parents had bravely refused to vacate. The Nazis hadn’t even bothered to chase him. A boy his age on the street would be dead by morning, especially on that night when Nazis stalked the streets, hunting Jews. But not Noah. He had an uncanny ability to live.
He’d wandered the streets that night in a trance of shock and horror, an orphan whose last images of his parents were brutal and bloody. He couldn’t even remember how he got to the orphanage, but he could remember the sausages he was fed that night. Although not much had changed with the brutality, somehow, since he’d found Peter, he didn’t feel so alone. A small sliver of hope had returned. Outside the hay truck that night at the border, Noah tried to comfort the other two boys.
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