Two nights later, when it was cold and clear, Lipiczany arrived. The train tracks curved off side by side into a forest. The rails, of new metal, were gleaming, like the path left by a pair of giant snails. The forest itself seemed enchanted. The frosty trees had no leaves. High up in the crossed branches, in the switches and twigs, the moon was sitting, like a bright owl. There are many folk tales in which a child, with a kindly, befuddled father, and a mother who wishes to kill him, is left in just such an unnamed wood. Nisel, his head spinning, plunged in.

In reality, of course, there was nothing mysterious about this spot. You can look it up today on a good map of Poland. Indeed, one hundred years ago there was a town nearby, and a small industry based on pulp from the trees. But Nisel did not know where he was. To him, half delirious, the solid ground gave way like a mattress on springs. A sign of high fever. Suddenly the trees stopped, although the twin rails continued. In the center of the cleared space there was a guardhouse, from which a zebra-striped barrier protruded over the tracks. There were also four wide-awake guards. Totenkopfers! With moonlight, in patches, stuck to their helmets.

Nisel detoured. But the break in the trees went on and on. He would have to run through fifty meters of stumps. He tried it, tripping and stumbling, and got halfway across. Then he came to a wire fence. It was twice as tall as he was, taut and barbed. He squinted. There was a second, identical, fence just beyond this one. At that moment, between the two barriers, three men and a dog sauntered along. Nisel ran back as far as he dared, then hurled himself down. The patrol passed him by. Then he doubled back, stooping, to the rim of the standing trees.

He sat for some time without being able to think of a thing to do. At last, when his breath quieted down, he heard a gushing, gurgling noise. Keeping parallel to the swath of felled trees, he made his way to what turned out to be a swift, dark, downrushing stream. White boulders stuck up in the current like huge mushroom caps. The boy hopped from one to another until he came to the place where the wire was stretched over the water. What luck! Lots of room to get through. Nisel ducked under the lowest strand and made his way uphill to the inner forest. He climbed and climbed. When his strength gave out he curled around the bony white base of a birch tree. All night he heard it groaning and creaking, as if it were a mast of a ship in the wind.

Dawn. Nisel woke up. The sky grew only so bright, no brighter, as if there had been a reduction in current. He saw the pale, straight trunks of the trees. Then the familiar train whistle hooted. Nisel jumped to his feet and scrambled quickly to the top of the hill. He peeked over. There, just below him, making smoke, was the black locomotive, its tender, its passenger cars. It was already backing up, already moving away. The shades were up, the carriages empty. With a second blast of its whistle, it rolled out of sight.