Milkweed by Jerry Spinelli

**This title is on the nominee list for the 2007-2008 Soaring Eagle book award**

The first thing I remember was running, hugging stolen bread to my chest despite the shouts of "Stop! Thief!" Then another boy was dragging me and running. He was much bigger/older than me. He had been going after the bread too, but I was quicker. His name was Uri. We split the bread and he asked me my name. "Stopthief," I said. He took me to meet the others in a stable. They teased me about my size, and my adopted name. Was I a Jew? they asked. How old was I? I asked what a Jew was and the one-armed boy said a Jew was less than a bug, less than anything. I was a Gypsy, they decided. And laughed and threw food. And then we heard the explosions and the clouds were brown and black and we ran to a small building in an alleyway and into the cellar. It was home, at least as much of a home as I would know for a long time. I didn't understand much of what was going on. The bombing, the hatred of the Jews. When the Jackboots and Flops lined us up and screamed and poked at us, I thought of the stone angel so silent and still. I pretended that I was the stone angel and that I could not move. It was all a game to me. When people ran, I thought it was a race and was determined to win. I was innocent, and young, and small, and quick. I entered the Ghetto in Warsaw because I wanted to. And escaped each night to pillage for food through an opening too small for anyone else. I never got caught. And, I survived in my ignorance and innocence. Unlike so many others. (This booktalk was written by Sam Marsh, Booktalking Colorado).