Hide and Squeak

I press my ear to the floorboards, counting the footsteps below. Four soldiers. Maybe five. Their boots scrape against the bakery floor, methodical in their search pattern. Beside me, Sofia stifles a giggle, her small body practically vibrating with the effort of keeping still.

"Shh, little mouse," I whisper, gently squeezing her shoulder. "Remember the game?"

She nods, dark curls bouncing against her round cheeks, and clamps both hands over her mouth. Her eyes, large and luminous in the dim light filtering through the cracks, sparkle with excitement rather than fear. At six years old, my sister still believes this is all just an elaborate game of hide-and-seek.

And it's my fault we're playing it alone.

"Tomas," Sofia whispers, too loudly. "Why do the cats always have such shiny buttons? Do they polish them with their tongues like real cats?"

Despite everything, I have to bite back a smile. "Maybe. But mice don't ask questions when cats are hunting, remember?"

She nods solemnly, but I can see the questions still bubbling behind her eyes. Sofia has never been silent for more than two minutes in her entire life. Mama used to say she was born talking, and Papa would joke that even her first cry sounded like she was trying to form words.

Mama and Papa. The familiar ache tightens in my chest. Three weeks since we got separated during the raid on our camp. Three weeks of hiding in abandoned buildings, scrounging for food, and me pretending I know where we're going.

"They're leaving," I murmur, hearing the bell jingle as the bakery door opens and closes. The heavy footsteps fade, but I count to one hundred before relaxing. "All clear, printsessa."

Sofia immediately springs up, narrowly missing hitting her head on the low ceiling beams. Unlike me, she can still stand upright in our hiding place between the bakery ceiling and the floor above.

"I was the best mouse, wasn't I?" she demands, twirling in a little circle of triumph. "Not even one squeak! Except for my tummy, but that's not my fault. Tummies don't know about cats."

"You were perfect," I assure her, pulling our meager supplies from behind a roof support. "Now, let's see what the mighty hunters have caught for dinner."

I unwrap a small bundle containing half an onion and a wrinkled apple I'd found behind the bakery yesterday. Sofia looks at our feast with wide, hopeful eyes, and I feel the familiar stab of inadequacy. I'm twelve years old and supposed to be the man of the family when Papa isn't around – that's what he always told me – but all I can provide are scraps that wouldn't satisfy a real mouse.

"We'll share," I say, cutting the apple carefully with Papa's pocket knife – the only thing of his I managed to grab when we fled. "Half for dinner, half for breakfast."

"I love apple dinner," Sofia declares, accepting her portion. But I don't miss how she winces when she bites into the mealy flesh, or how her eyes dart longingly toward the bakery below where real food used to be made.

The truth is, we need to move on. We've stayed in this hiding spot for five days already – too long. The soldiers are searching more thoroughly now, and our food is almost gone. But each time I suggest finding somewhere new, Sofia cries. She's convinced that if we leave, Mama and Papa won't be able to find us.

As if they're looking. As if they're even alive.

No. I can't think like that. I have to believe they made it through the fence, that they're waiting at Grandmama's village just like we planned. That I'll find the way there, somehow, with my chattering shadow in tow.

"Tell me a story, Tomas," Sofia pleads, having finished her apple half in four dainty bites. "The one about the clever Roma girl who tricked the gadjo king."

I smile despite my exhaustion. "Again? Don't you know it by heart now?"

"Not like when you tell it," she insists, curling up beside me on our nest of flour sacks. "You do the voices just like Papa."

The comparison warms me, though I know it isn't true. Papa could bring stories to life like they were happening right before your eyes. His hands, rough from years of crafting violins, would paint pictures in the air as he spoke. I'm just a poor imitation.

"Once, in the days when our people first came to these lands," I begin, falling into the familiar rhythms of the tale, "there lived a Roma girl named Nadya, whose cleverness was as boundless as the night sky..."

Sofia listens, entranced, though she mouths some of the words along with me. By the time I reach the part where Nadya presents the king with three impossible riddles, my sister's eyelids are drooping. Her head grows heavy against my shoulder.

"And so Nadya won freedom for her family," I conclude softly, "proving that sometimes the smallest person can outsmart the most powerful enemy."

"Just like us," Sofia murmurs sleepily. "We're outsmarting the cats."

"Just like us," I echo, though my throat tightens around the words.

As she drifts to sleep, I carefully extract Papa's violin string that I wear around my wrist – the only other keepsake I have from him. He had been restringing his beloved violin the morning of the raid, and one of the old strings had fallen into my pocket when I helped him. Now I twist it between my fingers, a worry bead and talisman combined.

"We'll find them tomorrow," I whisper to my sleeping sister, the same promise I've made every night for twenty-one days. "Just one more day of being clever mice."

But I know our luck is running out, along with our food. And I have no idea which way to go.

I wake to Sofia's insistent poking and the unmistakable smell of baking bread.

"Tomas! Tomas! Someone's downstairs!" she stage-whispers, practically bouncing. "And they're making manro!"

I'm instantly alert, hand clamped over her mouth before she can say more. The rich, yeasty scent of fresh bread fills our hiding place, making my empty stomach cramp painfully. Below us, I hear movement – not the heavy tread of soldiers, but lighter footsteps. Humming. The clang of pans.

"Stay absolutely still," I breathe into Sofia's ear, removing my hand only when she nods.

I press my eye to our best spying crack in the floorboards. A man moves about the bakery kitchen, sliding loaves into the ancient brick oven. He's Roma – I can tell from his dark features and the way he ties his apron strings with the double loop like Papa does. But that doesn't mean he's safe. Some of our own people have turned informant, trading information for ration cards or promises of protection.

Sofia's wide eyes question me silently, a miracle of temporary restraint.

"Someone's baking," I confirm in the barest whisper. "We need to be extra quiet until they leave."

But the baker doesn't leave. He works steadily through the morning, and the torture of smelling fresh bread while our stomachs growl becomes almost unbearable. Sofia's face grows pinched with hunger, and I know mine must look the same.

Then something strange happens. The baker pauses in his work, looks up toward the ceiling – almost directly at our hiding spot – and calls out.

"I know someone's up there. I can hear you moving."

Sofia gasps. I freeze, signaling her to be silent. It could be a trap.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the man continues. "If you're who I think you are, your parents sent me to find you."

My heart hammers against my ribs. Parents? A wild hope surges, quickly tempered by suspicion. The Germans have become cleverer in their hunting.

"If you're really from our parents," I call back cautiously, "what's my sister's favorite bedtime story?"

Sofia looks at me with wide eyes, impressed by my test.

There's a pause. "I don't know that," the voice admits. "But I know your father is Anton, the violin maker. Your mother is Mirela, who does the finest embroidery in three counties. And they told me to look for the boy who can juggle six eggs without breaking one, and his sister who talks more than all the birds in the forest combined."

Sofia tugs my sleeve excitedly. "That's us! That's exactly what Mama says about me!"

I hesitate, torn between hope and caution. The details are right, but...

"I'm going to slide some bread through the crack in the ceiling," the voice says. "Then I'll go to the front of the shop. If you want to talk more, come down the back stairs. If not, take the bread and I'll pretend I never saw you."

True to his word, a small loaf of fresh bread appears through a gap in the floorboards. The steam rising from it carries a scent so mouthwatering that Sofia actually whimpers.

"Tomas, please," she begs. "I'm so hungry for real bread."

I break the loaf in half, giving her the larger portion. It's still warm, the crust crackling beneath my fingers, the inside soft and yielding. Sofia devours hers in seconds, making small sounds of pure joy.

I eat more slowly, thinking. If this man truly knows our parents, he could be our salvation. If not...

"I'm going to check," I decide, setting aside the remaining crust. "You stay here until I call for you."

"But I want to come too," Sofia protests.

"Remember the mouse game? The smallest mouse stays in the nest while the bigger mouse checks for cats."

She sighs dramatically. "Fine. But hurry!"

I make my way to the hidden access panel that leads to a narrow staircase. Each step feels like walking into a trap, but the promise of safety – of finding our parents – pulls me forward.

The bakery kitchen is warm and bright with morning sunlight streaming through partially covered windows. At the front counter stands a middle-aged man arranging loaves on a shelf. He wears a baker's apron dusted with flour, and his mustache curves upward at the ends, giving him a permanent half-smile.

"Hello," I say quietly, ready to bolt back up the stairs at the first sign of danger.

The man turns, his face breaking into a genuine smile. "Ah, there you are. Anton's son, yes? You have his eyes."

"How do you know my father?" I demand, staying close to the staircase.

"We grew up together in Shantrala," the baker says, naming our home village. "When the troubles started, many of us made plans to help each other. I've been away – the Germans decided bakers were useful enough to keep around, but they sent me to work at their garrison. I escaped three days ago and came back to check on my shop."

"Did you see my parents? Are they alive?" The questions burst from me before I can stop them.

The baker's expression softens. "They made it to the meeting point. They're safe, hidden with others from our community. They've been sick with worry about you two."

Relief makes my knees weak. "It was my fault," I confess, the guilt I've carried for weeks spilling out. "I wasn't paying attention during the escape. I was showing Sofia a juggling trick instead of watching for soldiers."

"And how old are you, boy?"

"Twelve," I answer, straightening my shoulders.

"Twelve," the baker repeats, shaking his head. "Not a man yet, no matter what your father has told you. This war is not your fault."

From the stairway behind me comes Sofia's voice: "Tomas! You said you'd call me if there weren't any cats!"

The baker laughs, a warm sound that seems to chase shadows from the corners. "And this must be the little chatterbox."

Sofia appears, practically tumbling down the stairs in her eagerness. "Your mustache looks like two caterpillars kissing!"

The baker roars with laughter. "And you must be Sofia. Your mother said you had an opinion about everything."

Sofia beams. "Are you taking us to Mama and Papa? Tomas said we had to be patient, but I've been patient for three whole weeks!"

"Not quite forever," the baker says with a wink, "but certainly long enough. And yes, I can take you to them, but we'll have to be very careful. The cats, as you call them, are everywhere these days."

"I know all about being careful," Sofia declares proudly. "I'm the best mouse ever."

The baker – who introduces himself as Yanko – explains his plan. We'll travel in his delivery cart, hidden under empty flour sacks. If stopped, we'll pretend to be his niece and nephew. It seems too simple to work, but I'm out of better ideas.

As Yanko prepares the cart, I gather our few belongings from upstairs. Sofia dances around the bakery, examining everything with inexhaustible curiosity.

"Will there be more bread where we're going?" she asks Yanko, watching him wrap several loaves in clean cloth.

"The best bread," he promises. "And Mirela's stew. Your mother has been cooking every night, hoping it would somehow bring you both home."

The mention of Mama's cooking – her rich, fragrant stews seasoned with herbs she grew herself – brings a lump to my throat. I think of her hands, always busy with embroidery or cooking or braiding Sofia's unruly hair. Of Papa's deep laugh and the way his fingers, stained with violin varnish, would ruffle my hair when I managed a difficult juggling trick.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll hear that laugh again soon.

The journey through town is the most terrifying experience of my life. Sofia, surprisingly, plays her role perfectly – skipping alongside the cart where I'm hidden, chattering to "Uncle Yanko" about nonsense, waving cheerfully to passersby. We pass two patrols of soldiers. Each time, I hold my breath until spots dance before my eyes, but Sofia's innocent prattle and Yanko's papers allow us through without suspicion.

Beyond the town limits, I'm allowed to sit up front with Sofia between us. The countryside unfolds around us – spring green touched with wildflowers, deceptively peaceful. Sofia points out every bird, rabbit, and interesting cloud, seemingly unaffected by our ordeal. I envy her resilience, her ability to find joy even now.

"How much longer?" she asks for the dozenth time as afternoon stretches toward evening.

"Not much," Yanko promises, urging his tired horse up a gentle slope. "See that forest ahead? Our people are camped on the other side."

"Will everyone be there?" Sofia presses. "Cousin Nadia with her new baby? Old Stefan with the wooden leg? Grandmama with her stories?"

Something in Yanko's pause makes my chest tighten. "Many got away," he says carefully. "Others... will find us later."

I understand what he's not saying, and silently squeeze Sofia's hand. She looks at me questioningly, but for once doesn't demand an explanation.

As twilight descends, we enter the forest on narrow paths that wind between ancient trees. "These are old Roma roads," Yanko explains. "Not on any German maps."

"Papa showed me how to find such paths by reading the stars," I say, remembering nights spent with him, learning the constellations. "He said they would always lead us home."

"Anton was always the best navigator among us," Yanko agrees. "Even as boys, he could find his way anywhere."

The path widens, and suddenly I see them – the warm lights of cookfires, the shapes of vardos arranged in a protective circle, figures moving between them. A small settlement, hidden in a forest clearing.

Yanko calls out a greeting in our language, the traditional words carrying through the evening air. Heads turn. And then – my heart stops – two figures break away from the main group, running toward our cart.

"Mama! Papa!" Sofia shrieks, recognizing them instantly. She's scrambling over the side before I can stop her, tumbling into Papa's outstretched arms as he reaches the cart.

I follow more slowly, suddenly shy. What if they blame me? What if they're angry about my carelessness that separated us?

But Mama's arms are around me before I can finish the thought, her familiar scent of rosemary and embroidery thread enveloping me like a blanket. "My brave boy," she whispers, tears streaming down her face. "You brought her back to us."

"But it was my fault we got lost," I confess, the guilt of three weeks finally spilling over. "If I'd been paying attention instead of showing off—"

"No," Papa interrupts, shifting Sofia to one arm so he can pull me close with the other. "The world tore us apart, not you. War, hatred, fear – these are not the mistakes of children."

"We were mice," Sofia announces, still perched in Papa's arms. "Tomas taught me to hide from the cats. I was the best mouse ever, wasn't I, Tomas?"

"The very best," I agree, feeling something tight inside me finally begin to unravel.

We walk toward the circle of wagons together, our small family somehow intact despite everything. The smell of Mama's stew reaches us – rich with paprika and wild herbs – and nearby, someone begins to play a violin. The familiar melody of "The Cricket's Wedding" fills the air, one of Papa's favorite tunes.

Sofia, never one to miss an opportunity for attention, immediately begins to dance, her small feet stamping in perfect rhythm despite her exhaustion.

"Some things never change," Mama laughs, squeezing my hand.

And watching my sister twirl in the firelight, her face alight with joy despite everything we've endured, I think perhaps that's the greatest magic of all – this ability to find moments of happiness even in the darkest times.

The mouse game is over. But we're still here, still together. And for now, that's enough.