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back then, in 1915, they didn’t do anything more than shout at him when he started talking politics. It wasn’t until later that they did worse things.
    That February, the same day that Alfie got a letter from his dad telling him all about the training barracks at Aldershot, Margie called him into the kitchen where she was counting out change from her purse. Back then, she was still at home most of the time where she was knitting from morning till night, as were most of the women from Damley Road, and sending socks and jumpers over to the men at something she called “the Front.”
    â€œRun down to Mr. Janá č ek for me, will you, Alfie?” she asked. “I need a couple of apples, a bag of flour, and today’s newspaper. Make sure it’s the latest edition. There’ll be a penny left over for a few sweets.”
    Alfie’s face lit up as he grabbed the money and ran down the street to where Mr. Janá č ek was standing outside his shop, staring, trembling a little, his face pale. The windows had been smashed, there was glass everywhere on the road, and someone had scrawled three words in paint all over the front door: No Spies Here!
    â€œWho’s a spy?” asked Alfie, frowning. “And what happened to your windows? And do you have any apple drops in stock?”
    Mr. Janá č ek, who was always so friendly, stared down at him but didn’t smile. His shoes were as shiny as ever. “What do you need, Alfie?” he asked in a voice trembling with rage and fear.
    â€œA couple of apples, a bag of flour, and today’s newspaper. I’m supposed to make sure it’s the latest edition.”
    â€œYou better go to the corner shop at Damley Park,” said Mr. Janá č ek. “I don’t think I’ll be open for business today. As you can see, my windows have all been broken.” My vindows have all been broken.
    â€œWho did this?” asked Alfie, feeling the soft crunch of the glass beneath his shoes.
    â€œI said go to Damley Park,” said Mr. Janá č ek, raising his voice a little. “I don’t have time for this right now.”
    Alfie sighed and turned away. He hated going to Mrs. Bessworth’s shop as she had a reputation for stealing children, baking them in pies, and eating them for her supper. (A friend of Alfie’s knew somebody whose cousin had a neighbor that this had happened to, so it was definitely true.)
    This wasn’t the last time that the shop windows were smashed, but every time it happened Mr. Janá č ek replaced them within a day or two. And then one evening, as Kalena was playing hopscotch on the street, the squares marked off in chalk on the pavement, and Alfie was sitting on the curb watching her, an army van appeared and pulled up outside number six; when Mr. Janá č ek opened the door they told him that he was to come with them immediately or there’d be trouble.
    â€œBut I have done nothing wrong!” he protested.
    â€œYou’re a German,” shouted Mrs. Milchin from number seven, whose two oldest boys had already been killed at Ypres and whose youngest son, Johnny, was about to turn eighteen. (No one had seen Johnny in weeks; the rumor was that Mrs. Milchin had sent him to her sister-in-law in the Outer Hebrides.)
    â€œBut I’m not!” protested Mr. Janá č ek. “I am from Prague. You are aware of this!” You are avare of zis! “I have never even been to Germany!”
    Kalena ran to her father and he threw his arms around her. “You’re not taking us,” he shouted.
    â€œCome on now,” said the army men. “It’ll be easier for you if you come peacefully.”
    â€œThat’s right, take him away. He’s a spy!” shouted Mrs. Milchin, and now Margie was out on the street too, looking aghast at what was taking place.
    â€œLeave him be,” she shouted, running down and jumping in between the Janá