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Title: Talking About Orcas Tom: Hi, Anna! Do you like animals? Anna: Yes! I love animals. Do you know about orcas? Tom: Orcas? Yes! Orcas are big dolphins. Anna: Really? I didn’t know! Dolphins are mammals, right? Tom: Yes! Dolphins and orcas are mammals. They both breathe air. Anna: Oh, so orcas breathe air too? Tom: Yes! Orcas are mammals. They breathe air just like us. Anna: What do orcas eat? Tom: Orcas are strong hunters. They eat other animals. Anna: Do they hunt alone? Tom: No, they hunt in packs. Orcas are hunters in packs. Anna: Wow! Orcas are big dolphins, mammals, and hunters. Tom: Yes! Orcas have sharp teeth and big fins. They are strong hunters. Anna: I like orcas! They are big dolphins, mammals, hunters, and they live in packs. Tom: Me too! Remember, orcas breathe air, are mammals, are hunters, and live in packs.

The following days are a jumble of gunfire, digging, gobbled food, soldiers running in and out of the forest in small groups, distant explosions, stray shells, bandaged heads and unexpected lulls. On the very first day, before dawn, I am ordered into one of the newly dug trenches. I huddle there, squeezing my magic buttons and singing songs to the dog. When the fighting stops, the dog disappears, but a new companion takes his place. A strange little soldier crawls along the trench toward me. ‘Private Sasha!’ he cries. ‘I’ve been looking for you all day long!’ He’s old, like a grandfather, a dedushka. He has a black patch over one eye, a tape measure around his neck and a row of pins threaded into his sleeve. Hanging from his belt is the most enormous pair of scissors I have ever seen and I wonder if he uses them as a weapon. He doesn’t tell me his name, so in my head he becomes Dedushka. Dedushka squats, cups his hand to his ear, peers over the top of the trench and smiles. ‘It’s safe to be upright . . . for now.’ He helps me to my feet, dusts me off and commands me to stand as tall and straight as I can. Then he measures me. Everything from head to toe – even my toes! He writes numbers in a little notebook, strings his tape measure back around his neck, salutes and hurries away. It’s all very strange, and I wonder if Dedushka has been bumped on the head during the battle and is now a little bit muddled. I should have given him a hug before he left. I chase after him but stop when I’m hit by a shovelful of flying dirt. Sleepy Bear is digging a cave! ‘Are you going to hibernate?’ I ask. Sleepy Bear chuckles. ‘No, although that would be wonderful! I could do with a lo-o-o-ong sleep.’ He sighs and closes his eyes. He doesn’t open them again and I realise that he has gone to sleep. Standing up! I shake his arm, and he opens his eyes and keeps talking. ‘No, I’m not hibernating. I’m digging a little nook where I can sleep and eat. I’ll hang up my raincape as a door that can open and close so it feels just like a real home . . . except for the lice . . . and the bad smells . . . and the bombs that make the walls shake and crumble.’ He points further along the trench to where other soldiers are digging. ‘We’re all making little houses in the ground.’ ‘Like rabbits and moles,’ I say. Sleepy Bear chuckles. ‘Yes! And soldiers who need to hide from German bullets and bombs.’ He stops digging to roll a cigarette. ‘Should I be making a house?’ I ask. ‘I want to hide from German bullets and bombs, too.’ Sleepy Bear flops to the ground, lights his cigarette, closes his eyes and takes a deep puff. I wait for him to answer, but, instead, he begins to snore! I poke him in the side. He snorts and he murmurs, ‘I think someone has already built you a house, Sasha. Keep going along this beautiful village street and you are sure to find it.’ He falls asleep once more. I kiss his dusty cheek and whisper, ‘Thank you, Sleepy Bear.’ A little way along, I see Cook in a cloud of smoke. He has lit a fire, right here in the middle of the trench, and is stirring a cauldron full of kasha. He squats as he stirs. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. ‘Cooking supper, of course!’ he cries. ‘But why are you doing it here?’ Cook points his spoon at the ground above the trenches. ‘Because if I do it up there, my pot will be filled with holes from German bullets and all of the kasha will leak out onto the ground. It’s bad enough that our supplies can’t get through German lines and there’s nothing to cook but buckwheat for kasha. But if we lost the kasha, too . . .’ ‘Hungry soldiers,’ I say. Cook nods. ‘And grumpy!’ ‘Like Boris!’ I gasp. ‘Even worse,’ warns Cook. I picture the kasha pot full of bullet holes. And then I realise that if the kasha pot were full of holes, then Cook would be, too. I wrap my arms around Cook’s neck and say, ‘I think this is a very good place for cooking our supper.’ I kiss his smoky cheek and run along. At the end of the trench, I find the biggest hole of all. It’s wide and deep and as busy as a beehive in a blossom tree. Above, a group of soldiers is rolling logs into place for a roof, while below, typewriters rattle and pencils scratch and papers flutter and voices crackle out of five different radios. Their words tangle together to tell a strange wartime fairy tale about German guns and a loving father called Stalin and a Red Army regiment that is lost in the deep, dark forest and a wicked beast called Hitler and a delivery of vegetables that was hit by a bomb and blown into a million tiny pieces too small even to make soup. In the middle of it all, wrestling with a rumpled map, his rifle still slung over his shoulder, is Major Scruff. ‘Major Scruff!’ I run and jump into his arms. ‘Is this our new home?’ ‘Yes, Sasha. I suppose it is.’ ‘Is it safe from German bullets and bombs?’ I ask. He stares at me. ‘Were you scared in the trenches today, Sasha?’ ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I had magic buttons and a dog and some songs to sing. Were you scared in the forest, Major Scruff?’ ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Poor Major Scruff!’ I press my hand against his cheek. The dark, rough stubble is grubby with grit and his eyelids are taking a long time to open after every blink. ‘You need a shave and a nap!’ I scold. He chuckles. ‘I am too tired to shave and too busy to nap.’ I scrunch my nose while I consider his problem. ‘I know!’ I cry. ‘You nap and I will shave your whiskers. That will be two jobs tumbled into one!’ And so that’s what we do. Major Scruff slumps into a chair and snoozes while I lather his face with soapy water and shave his whiskers. The soap suds travel from his face, up into his hair and down the front of his uniform, and I have to shave his jaw and chin three times because I keep missing bits, but I finally get it all done. I am just wiping his cheeks dry when the dog appears. He licks my hand, then stretches up and licks soap suds from Major Scruff’s ear. Major Scruff wakes with a start. He feels his newly shaved face and cries, ‘Wonderful, Sasha! I feel smooth, clean, rested and ready for action.’ He ruffles my hair. ‘We must do this again tomorrow. Although next time, you might wake me with a gentle shake of the shoulder instead of licking my ear.’

Soggy Stepsisters Ada and Rachel were fighting again. Ever since Ada's mom married Rachel's dad, it seemed as though they couldn't stop. "Are you going to wear that?" Ada asked, pointing to Rachel's old pants. "I know we're on vacation, but this is taking it too far." "Yes," Rachel said. "We're going outside. But if you want to break an ankle in those shoes, go ahead." Ada sighed. "I think I'll be bored to death long before that." "Dad and I come to this cabin every year," Rachel snapped. "We love it." Ada laughed. "I guess you have nothing better to do." "Great!" Rachel said. "Now we're going to hear about New York again." "Girls!" said their dad. "Stop arguing. I'll make a deal with you. Get through this morning without fighting, and you can do whatever you want this afternoon." The girls looked at each other. "All right," they said. "Let's go out in the canoe," Rachel suggested. "Ugh," Ada said and then looked at her stepdad. "I guess." Rachel showed Ada how to paddle. "We need to work together," Rachel said. "This is dumb," Ada complained. "These life jackets are hot, and they look silly." Rachel said nothing as the canoe moved slowly out into the lake. "Paddle harder, Ada," Rachel called. Ada rolled her eyes and pretended not to hear. When they made it to the middle of the lake, Ada felt a gust of wind. She looked up. Dark clouds filled the sky. Rachel said, "We'd better turn around." The wind blew harder. "Why aren't we moving?" Ada yelled. "Paddle with me," Rachel yelled back. "One... two..." Ada was wild with fear. "Help!" she screamed. She stood up and waved her arms. "Ada, no!" Rachel yelled. "Sit down!" It was too late. The canoe rocked and flipped over. "What do we do?" Ada yelled, spitting out water. "Grab the canoe," Rachel told her. "We're going to have to swim it back to shore." "Can't we climb back in?" Ada gasped. "This is safer and easier," said Rachel. "It's not far, and we have life jackets on. Let's go!" They swam. Ada was scared, but Rachel helped her. "You're doing great," Rachel said over and over. Their parents came running as they got to shore. "What happened? Are you all right?" asked their mom. We're fine-thanks to Rachel," Ada said. "I guess it's good that you come to the cabin every year." She looked at her stepsister. "Thank you." Rachel smiled as she said, "Let's go change. You can help me pick out what to wear."

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