Barney Character Analysis

“They’re in danger,” I croak. “Really bad danger. Don’t believe the notebook. The stories in the notebook aren’t true.”

I want to yell at them, Don’t you know anything? Our parents are out there in a dangerous Nazi city. The Nazis are shooting at people. They could be shooting our parents. A story isn’t going to help.

But I don’t. It’s not their fault. They don’t understand what it feels like when you’ve put your mum and dad in terrible danger. When the only reason they couldn’t get a visa to go to America is because when you were six you asked the man at the visa desk if the red blotches on his face were from sticking his head in a dragon’s mouth.

Suddenly I’m thinking about another story. The one Mum and Dad told me about why I had to stay at the orphanage. They said it was so I could go to school there while they traveled to fix up their business. They told it so well, that story, I believed it for three years and eight months.

That story saved my life.

A story?

Then I get it. When Mum went to the dentist, she had an injection to dull the pain. Barney hasn’t given this patient an injection. Times are tough, and there probably aren’t enough pain-dulling drugs in ghetto curfew places.

Suddenly my mouth feels dry. I’ve never told anyone else a story to take their mind off pain. And when I told myself all those stories about Mum and Dad, I wanted to believe them. Plus, I didn’t have a drill in my mouth.

This is a big responsibility.

“Once a princess lived in a castle. It was a small castle, but the princess loved it, and she loved her family who lived there with her. Then one day the evil goblins came looking for information about their enemies. They thought the princess knew the information, but she didn’t. To make her tell, the goblins gave the princess three wishes. Either they could hurt her, or they could hurt the old people, or they could hurt the babies.”

Chaya pauses, trembling, staring at the floor. I can see how hard it is for her to finish her story.

“The princess chose the first wish,” she says quietly. “But because she didn’t know any information, the goblins made all three wishes come true.”

“Sometimes […] parents can’t protect their kids even though they love them more than anything else in the world. Sometimes, even when they try their very hardest, they can’t save them.”

If Zelda’s dad’s a Nazi, does she deserve carrot soup and aspirin?

Yes.

She can’t help what her father did. Plus he’s dead now and so’s her mum and I don’t know if she’s got any other living relatives but after what we’ve been through together that makes me one and I say yes.

“Zelda,” I moan. “Why didn’t you stay?”

“I bit the Nazi,” she says. “Don’t you know anything?”

You can’t force people to believe a story.

“They’re in danger,” I croak. “Really bad danger. Don’t believe the notebook. The stories in the notebook aren’t true.”

I want to yell at them, Don’t you know anything? Our parents are out there in a dangerous Nazi city. The Nazis are shooting at people. They could be shooting our parents. A story isn’t going to help.

But I don’t. It’s not their fault. They don’t understand what it feels like when you’ve put your mum and dad in terrible danger. When the only reason they couldn’t get a visa to go to America is because when you were six you asked the man at the visa desk if the red blotches on his face were from sticking his head in a dragon’s mouth.

Suddenly I’m thinking about another story. The one Mum and Dad told me about why I had to stay at the orphanage. They said it was so I could go to school there while they traveled to fix up their business. They told it so well, that story, I believed it for three years and eight months.

That story saved my life.

A story?

Then I get it. When Mum went to the dentist, she had an injection to dull the pain. Barney hasn’t given this patient an injection. Times are tough, and there probably aren’t enough pain-dulling drugs in ghetto curfew places.

Suddenly my mouth feels dry. I’ve never told anyone else a story to take their mind off pain. And when I told myself all those stories about Mum and Dad, I wanted to believe them. Plus, I didn’t have a drill in my mouth.

This is a big responsibility.

“Once a princess lived in a castle. It was a small castle, but the princess loved it, and she loved her family who lived there with her. Then one day the evil goblins came looking for information about their enemies. They thought the princess knew the information, but she didn’t. To make her tell, the goblins gave the princess three wishes. Either they could hurt her, or they could hurt the old people, or they could hurt the babies.”

Chaya pauses, trembling, staring at the floor. I can see how hard it is for her to finish her story.

“The princess chose the first wish,” she says quietly. “But because she didn’t know any information, the goblins made all three wishes come true.”

“Sometimes […] parents can’t protect their kids even though they love them more than anything else in the world. Sometimes, even when they try their very hardest, they can’t save them.”

If Zelda’s dad’s a Nazi, does she deserve carrot soup and aspirin?

Yes.

She can’t help what her father did. Plus he’s dead now and so’s her mum and I don’t know if she’s got any other living relatives but after what we’ve been through together that makes me one and I say yes.

“Zelda,” I moan. “Why didn’t you stay?”

“I bit the Nazi,” she says. “Don’t you know anything?”

You can’t force people to believe a story.