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	Milkweed He’s a boy called Jew. Gypsy. Stopthief. Runt. Happy. Fast. Filthy son of Abraham. He’s a boy who lives in the streets of Warsaw. He’s a boy who steals food for himself and the other orphans. He’s a boy who believes in bread, and mothers, and angels. He’s a boy who wants to be a Nazi some day, with tall shiny jackboots and a gleaming Eagle hat of his own. Until the day that suddenly makes him change his mind. . . .

Dear Readers,

OK, let's stop right there...

You are a reader, aren't you? Maybe you don't think of that as a big deal. (“Yo—I'm a Reader!”) Well, let me tell you, it is a big deal, at least as far as I'm concerned, because when I was a kid you couldn't use the word “Reader” to describe me.

Except for schoolwork, about the only thing things I read were sports pages and the backs of cereal boxes. I regret that now. I wish I could go back and change it, but I can't. The best I can do is have one of my characters (Maniac Magee) carry a book everywhere he goes. It's the closest I can come to going back in time and doing it right. But it's not too late for you. Be proud, Dear Reader.

And speaking of reading, let me put in a plug here for my new novel Milkweed. Unlike most of my stories, it takes place during another time (1939–1942) and far away (Warsaw, Poland). It's the story of a little kid with a big heart. A kid who finds himself trapped in a walled-in nightmare. A kid whose only allies are his own size and speed and a little girl named Janina. A kid whose life can be summed up in three words: Steal or starve.

I hope you like it. Even more, I hope you don't stop reading.

Jerry Spinelli

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