Strong, northern winds howl through the crack in my windowsill, rattling it with every gust as if the wind were about to rip apart my whole window at any given second. I lie in bed covered in layers of blankets from head to toe, to protect me from the bitter cold, only ever peeking my head out to see if my window remains attached to my room.

  "Another winter in Poland," I think. "Just as cold as the last."

  I've never been fond of Poland, despite it being my native country. The winters here are long and brutal, with only a day or two of mercy from the intense cold that fills the months from December to March. On top of that, the people here are very rude and impatient, especially toward Jews. I do not know what my mother sees in this place.

  I have dreamed of living in the United States for as long as I can remember, and I even keep my own collection of American comics on my bookshelf. I beg my mother all the time to move us there, but she always refuses. My father is American, though I've never met him.

  RING!!!!!

  I let out a huge gasp and jerk myself up in bed. It's only my alarm clock letting me know it's past 6:00 AM. I hit it with annoyance to turn it off. I don't want to walk through that blizzard to get to school today, but I suppose I have no choice in the matter.

  I push the layers of blankets off of me and brave the frigid cold of my room, at least long enough to change into a large coat and boots. I rush into the kitchen and see my mother up preparing placki ziemniaczane, her homemade potato pancakes, which only slightly warms the bone-chilling air in the room.

  I greet her and pull up a chair as I notice an open newspaper spread across the table.

  My mother speaks to me in Yiddish, the same warm, familiar language she's used my whole life.

  "Dreadful night last night," she says, handing me a cup of hot chocolate.

  "Not much has changed, from the looks of it," I joke, looking out the window into the snow-covered glacier that used to be our street.

  "You mustn't have gotten much sleep," my mom adds. "You should skip school today and rest up."

  "Nah," I say, shaking my head. "I'm fine, mom, really."

  She lays my plate down on the table as well as hers and pulls herself a chair.

  "Well, you can hardly walk to school with the street being as it is," she persists.

  "I've walked to school in snow countless times, Mom," I reassure her.

  She looks down at the newspaper that sits on the table.

  "Daniel," she says softly, "I don't think it's safe for you to go to school anymore. The Germans are cutting down on Jewish students, and if they were to find out—"

  "—They're not going to find out, I promise," I interrupt.

  Unlike my mother, who has brown skin and dark eyes, one would not think I was Jewish. I favor many of my looks from my American father, or so I am told. I have jet-black hair, ghostly pale skin, and big, ice-blue eyes that my grandmother describes as "Husky eyes."

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  "You remind me so much of your father," my mother sighs. "Once you put your mind to something, there's no way to change it. Just please, please, be careful. We're living in such a dangerous time at the present, and I couldn't bear to lose you."

  I place my hands on my mother's as she leans in and kisses my forehead.

  "Well," she exhales, in more high spirits, "we had better finish up here, we wouldn't want you to be late."

  She glances about our drafty, dull, old house, and smacks her lips together to say, "It's about time we start putting up our Christmas decorations."

  I finish up and walk out the door into the blistering cold. Nothing extraordinary happens on my way to school, other than having to climb my way through the layers of snow like a flight of stairs, but that's life in Poland for you.

  Although I can't shake the feeling that something is off. Other than the occasional breeze and the trudging of my boots against the snow, everything else remains deathly silent. Hardly anyone is out on the street today, which isn't unusual given the extreme cold, but every so often, I find myself being watched by a couple of bearded men standing on their snow-covered porches, which I find very unpleasant.

  Finally, I reach my schoolhouse, and, as usual, I am the latest student to arrive. My teacher, Mrs. Majewska, waits impatiently for me in the snow and scolds me as soon as we walk into class.

  Mrs. Majewska switches to Polish the moment we step inside the schoolhouse.

  "Daniel," she announces, impatience sharp in her voice, "How many times have I told you how important it is to show up to class on time?"

  "But the snow—"

  "Never mind, you shall be tasked with extra homework to make up for the extra time that was lost. Now take a seat, and let us begin class."

  I groan and restlessly sink into my chair as my classmates laugh.

  "Now," Mrs. Majewska begins, "We're going to start the day with some simple mathematics: Euclidean geometry."

  This is the perfect time to doze off by the window next to my desk, staring with tired eyes out into the falling snowflakes dropping slowly from the cloudy sky and piling onto the ground. My school only offers a handful of subjects, yet I often skip more than half of them out of the impatience to pick up on where we left off in geography.

  The only history this school has to offer is that of the Soviet Union, and math makes my brain hurt, but geography is the only topic that includes America and all of its natural wonders that make up the United States.

  As noon arrives, Mrs. Majewska dismisses the class for lunch, and I see a lot of students, whose families couldn't afford to bring them food, walking out of school to the soup kitchen across the street. I, along with several other kids, am among the most "fortunate" to have been given a slice or two of rye bread from our parents that would have to suffice as lunch.

  We make our way to the Sala Jadalna, the dining hall, and take a seat. As I nibble on my slice of bread, I notice everyone else has a partner or two, gossiping to one another about the latest news, the weather, or maybe just how evil Mrs. Majewska is, and here I am, sitting all alone in a little corner.

  Everyone in school knows who I am, just as I know who they are, but none wish to know me anything more than a fellow peer—probably due to me being the youngest—and I prefer it this way. My mom's the only friend I need, and I am thankful I am let out of all of the breakup drama that goes around here.

  Jerry breaks up with Iwona, Iwona throws a fit, screaming her lungs out all through the Sala Jadalna, Jerry hooks up with some new chick, Iwona's girl friends plot that poor chick's death, one half of the class shames Jerry, the other half shames Iwona, a civil war breaks out, then Iwona gets together with a new boy and the cycle starts all over again, sometimes in reverse. This whole process involves just about everyone in school.

  Everyone except me, thank god. The thought of courting a girl makes my stomach twist. I'd rather stay home and read my comics any day.

  After school, as twilight approaches, I walk back home exhausted, carrying a truckload of homework. As soon as I reach my room, I drop the papers down on my desk, turn on the radio, and lean back against my chair with the warm light of my lamp flickering across my dark, cold room.

  "Now," I say to myself, stretching my arms out in the air, "I got a lot of studying to do..."

  I take a peek at a comic book lying near the edge of my desktop, grin, and say, "Righhht after I catch up on where I left off on Superman last night."