The Boy Who Saw in Colours

by Lauren Robinson

  I sauntered towards the door. “Move it!” Viktor yelled. “We don’t have all day.” I moved it. I walked the path, climbed the steps, hesitated, knocked the door, and waited for the scorn that was about to come my way.

  No Scorn. Just a set of rollers answering the door.

  Frau Schultz wasn’t overly old, but her body had aged past her years. She wore the wizened features of an old crone. The occasional strand of her once golden hair could still be seen through the lifeless grey mane that limply framed her ageing face.

  “Do you have any materials for the war effort?” I asked, so quietly and quickly that she didn’t hear any of it. I had to repeat myself, as was usual.

  She looked over my shoulder and saw Viktor at the bottom of the steps. That’s when she danced over to a wooden table beside the door and handed me a few Pfennigs. She didn’t seem all that bad. I ran my fingertips along the indentations of the coins. Frau Schultz was going to speak before a loudspeaker voice came from the other room.

  “What are you doing?” I could see visions of mustard-amber squares flying down the hallway towards me like knives.

  “Danke schön,” I said to Frau Schultz.

  There was no answer – only the wooden door in my face.

  Not nearly as bad as I expected.

  “See! The rich bitch. Doesn’t even care about our cause at all.” Viktor showed little appreciation despite her just handing me something for our cause. He took the money from me and placed it in a small bag, writing her name on the notebook he carried.

  In the evening, the boys compared what we were given in the various houses we visited – the competitive nature of children.

  “I think I did the best,” Penn said with his signature cocky smile.

  “I collected heaps of scrap metals, and I got one Pfennig.” Heads nodded and agreed, half afraid of disagreeing with him, half fed-up with arguing with him.

  I didn’t say anything about the Pfennigs.

  Oskar sat carefully, composing a letter to his family back in Mittenwald. It was his fifth one, and he sat amongst the white river of failed attempts on his bed.

  “Dear Elsbeth,

  Weather is nice.”

  Too boring.

  “Dear Mama,

  I got shitfaced last night and…”

  Too much information.

  “Dear Elsbeth,

  I want to fuck the shit out of you.”

  Too crude.

  You see the problem.

  To him, his words were always too cold and flat. Too meaningless. Not what his beloved and Mama deserved. So, when he did write home, he stuck to the basics. “Things are well in Inland,” and all that sort. Why can’t people ever say what they mean? Why are words so hard sometimes?

  In the corner of the cabin, the freckled boy sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a book with a red cover. I tried reading the front. He sat with it on his lap. Occasionally, he’d look up and catch me staring at him in the fading candlelight.

  After keeping to ourselves for a while, we thought it would be a good idea to go out to play with the other kids. Well, correction, Tomas thought it would be a good idea. I thought it was a horrible idea, but I wasn’t going to let Tomas go alone, so I dragged my feet behind him. Before Tomas had to ask if we could play, a younger boy, who shared the same cabin as Tomas called out to him.

  “Tommy, come play with us.” No one ever called him that before.

  There was something about Tomas that drew people to him. I guess it didn’t hurt that he was a friendly-looking boy, but it was more than that. He was quiet, but not painfully shy. It was a kind of reservedness, let’s say, like a conscious choice to observe the lie of the land before he got involved. Yet, he wasn’t stand-offish either. He stood friendly-faced and welcoming. It wasn’t like he sat down one day and planned to be like that. It’s just the way he was. It was just Tomas.

  I never saw him go out and deliberately make a friend; they just came to him. Of course, these boys were unaware of the incident that happened a few years back. An incident rarely spoken of, but highly regarded as the Robin Hood Incident.

  “Can my brother play too?” Tomas asked the boy, and before discussing it over with the team, they agreed.

  In Inland, friendships were important. Like any group of boys, we conducted our favourite pastime – trappers and Indians. And not just any old game. It was Olympic-level trappers and Indians.

  It wasn’t winning any gold medals anytime soon.

  There were two teams.

  We formed platoons, pinned red and blue flags onto our shirts, and we were to hunt down the enemy and rip off the other coloured armbands. This, as you can imagine, often resulted in physical fights between platoons. Younger, and weaker boys were pummelled, while platoon captains stood and encouraged the fighting.

  Sometimes, even the adults joined in.

  Everyone enjoyed the games.

  The blue and red flags were ready, and by the standard way of division, the children would pick teams – a real confidence crusher. There were two captains, and in this case, it was Von Bacchman and Penn Pichler.

  A small question and its answer

  Guess who got picked last?

  Yes, that’s right – me.

  Now, understand one thing. I know why I was chosen last. I would have chosen myself last too, were I the captain (which I never was.) I was too skinny and weedy to play such a physical game effectively, and of course, I was the new kid, so who would take a chance on choosing me? But still, just because I intellectually understood why, it didn’t make in any less painful.

  I didn’t even remember the outcome of the game before the Pichler incident. I just remember that I was picked last.

  I was standing there in the street that looked like an unfinished painting. So much of the canvas was still perfectly white, waiting for the artist’s hand to return, watching as the team captains called another boy, one by one. The same boy, who called out to Tomas before, whispered something in Von’s ear and soon after, he called Tomas’ name.

  He ran to join the straggling line of shivering children, until, finally, only Manfret Wünderlich and myself were left in the childhood battle-zone, the unlucky team captain already turning away, scowling and complaining to the others.

  “Fine, I’ll take Manfret,” Von sighed.

  It was Manfret’s lucky day.

  Wünderlich looked over-shoulder for support, and we exchanged looks as if to say, “I know how you feel, you poor bastard.” I slinked over to my team, who all hated me by now, the other team glad I wasn’t on theirs. Being the new kids, Tomas and I were immediately jammed in between two bigger boys, for protection.

  All went quite nicely for a while until the moment when Penn Pichler realised that he wasn’t winning, and brought Von Bacchman down onto the mud and snow in a foul of rage. There was some struggling as Pichler tried to get Von’s flag, but Von was determined not to let him have it.

  Von took Penn’s flag in the end.

  “What?!” Pichler shouted. His faced twitched in desperation. “That’s not fair!” His eyebrows were covering half of his face.

  Everyone in Von’s team cheered in triumph until it was only Von Bacchman and me. I somehow managed to stay out of the way, flag intact.

  He crouched down on a grubby mound of snow, confident of the usual outcome. Von hadn’t failed to get anyone else’s flag during the game, and most of his team were still standing. It was just me remaining, and the pressure sat heavy on my legs. Von shuffled in, found his target, and I somehow dived out of his way, smashing my elbow up on the pavement.

  My celebration was short-lived. For when Von got me down again, he took the flag and waved it around in front of his teammates.

  By now, everyone was trying to force me out of the next game.

  “Jesus Christ, Josef. You’re terrible.” And they made their decision. “Get out!”

  “Nein! Let me play! I’ll be better next time. I promise.” I pleaded with Pichler
, the obvious alpha. “I want to practise.”

  “Verpiss dich,” he replied. “Piss off!” Penn was wiping at the stray beads of sweat on his forehead.

  His brother stood beside him, scratching pathetically at his pink river rash on his arm, giving him his support in the best way he could. “We don’t want you to play with us, you little Mischling.”

  You can’t play with us: a childhood punch in the gut.

  Also, I should probably explain what Mischling means.

  Mischling – a foul name for someone who comes from mixed blood.

  Rumours had their way of travelling quickly around Inland, despite the school’s attempts to conceal our past.

  “Come on, let him stay. It was our first time.” Tomas pleaded.

  Von nodded in approval. “It’s not polite. Let him stay.”

  The other boys said nothing. No one dared to argue with Penn Pichler.

  “I want to practice. Let me practice. Please,” I said as I tried to force my way through the taller boys in front of me.

  “It’s five against two. He’s going, Bacchman.”

  Despite my protestations, I was booted off the team.

  Literally.

  “Fuck your stupid game,” I said as I kicked a stone down the painted, cobbled road.

  I was sniffing into my sleeve.

  A few stomps of self-pity later, I felt a palm reach for my shoulder. I thought it was Pichler, back for more. Thankfully, it was not. It was Tomas. There wasn’t anyone behind me even a second ago. He must’ve run, and fast at that. He gave me a grin as I turned towards him and the wind. “Where are you going?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You were so bad,” he laughed, rubbing his eye.

  “You didn’t have to come. You should have played.”

  “Nein.” He said, still gathering his breath. “It would have been uneven teams anyway.”

  “I guess.” My eyes looking towards the snow.

  By now, the snow stopped falling on the grimy pavement, muddy footprints of boots embedded into the white. The next thing I remember was a flash of rosewood red and Von Bacchman tackling me to the ground.

  “How do you like that?” he shouted.

  “You dickhead,” I whispered.

  Only Tomas could hear it. He made a sound from the deepest part of this throat that best sounded like a laugh.

  “What happened to the game?” Tomas asked. “I thought you were still playing.”

  Von Bacchman didn’t answer; instead, he spoke in my direction.

  “Sorry we kicked you off, Josef, but, you were shit.”

  When he looked my way, it was with a grin that tells me he’s going to be a fun kid to know. That sort of half-smile that ticks up on one side.

  He looked away again, pale blue eyes to the ground, but not in shyness, more like that withdrawn gaze that tells you you’ve been dismissed. He didn’t care if we were his new friends or not, or perhaps that’s what he wants us to think.

  “That’s alright,” I grinned cheekily. “Next time, I’ll beat you.”

  I sounded confident, even though I knew it was a lie.

  Oskar had secretly made Von promise to look out for us, and to his credit, Von was happy enough to comply. Probably bribed with sweets from the sweet man. He was not a hostile type of boy at all. In fact, he liked me a lot and wanted to be my friend. (Hence the snow tackle.) But he would not make it so easy for me to see – not right away anyway. He would keep me guessing.

  Von Bacchman was the kid that always looked punchable. Every childhood group had at least one kid like that in it, and he was ours. He had cheeks that always seemed flushed and curls that did a lively dance when he ran. I knew the moment I met him that I liked him, and he smiled because he knew.

  He was the type of boy who was unafraid to make a decision. In this case, Von Bacchman had already made his mind up about me. He liked me, and he didn’t care how strange the other boys said I was.

  I liked that a lot.

  The snow around the corner on the main stretch of the courtyard was reduced to slush. It was rarely thick enough to play in. More of a nuisance than anything, getting into our boots and making our socks soggy. Boys still threw snowballs, but the contents were mostly dirt, stones, and ice. You didn’t want to be hit with one. A lop-sided snowman stood with a cork for a nose and a coal-black smile.

  Soon after, the other boys caught up, and Von was showing Tomas and I some of Inland’s best landmarks. At least, he managed to fit it all in between telling Stefan Rosenberger to shut his mouth and him telling Von to shut his.

  “Go away, pup!” Those children bloodied and battered each other. They shared each other’s secrets and broke each other’s hearts, but somehow it could always be repaired, sewn together with silver threads. Some friendships never break.

  “Pup?” I asked.

  Rouvon nodded. “We call him that because his foster papa works in a kennel.”

  As was always the case, a herd of troops in training came marching past, to our right. They were freshly graduated from Inland, and students all the boys knew. They were met with cheers. But despite it all, the uniforms still kept straight-faced and marched upright, their black boots further polluting the snow. At the back, a straggler broke the act and waved to us younger boys. We were thrilled, and coal-black smiles were dotted on our faces.

  The first thing Von pointed to was the fence with pointy spikes that ran around Inland playground. “Don’t ever try to climb that,” he warned. “Electric.”

  Von pushed his way through the growing crowd of boys, forcing his way to me and trying not to stare for too long. We walked the rest of the road side by side.

  A lot of the boys became faceless through the years, and most of their names space my memory. I do, however, remember Von Bacchman’s face. Every simple, facial expression, and smile. His smell, his taste, his colours. Everything existing forever in my memory.

  “And don’t worry about Pichler. He’s a dickhead to everyone. Don’t take it personally.” He realised that we didn’t know which twin was who yet. “The ugly one!”

  “Oh!”

  Penn had thick, bushy eyebrows that dominated most of his face. His brother, Derrick’s, was a little less wild. They still looked like two brown, dead caterpillars stuck to his forehead, but they weren’t like Penn’s. Those were his trademark, and how most people in Inland told the two apart.

  “Before he came here, he cut his papa’s face out of the family photo because he spoke against the Führer.”

  Tomas rolled his eyes.

  “Bulls… nonsense,” he said, correcting himself mid-sentence, for even though Mother and Father were gone, he still obeyed by their rules – to be polite. “You’re just trying to scare us.”

  “Nein! I swear! I cross my heart.” Von said, which put an end to that debate. A kid wouldn’t just cross his heart and hope to die if he were lying.

  THE DAY THE PICHLER TWINS CUT TIES

  It certainly was the truth, as hard as it is to believe. If it makes you uneasy, I would suggest getting used to that feeling. You will be feeling it a lot. Get comfortable with feeling uncomfortable.

  It was five on a spring morning – a Monday. Cloudy pink.

  The air felt grey and chilled.

  Two brothers, stern-faced and determined, made their decision, and everything in the room was conspiring to make it happen.

  The night before, there was a party. Derrick overheard his father tell a group of his friends that the Führer was a “crazed maniac”. Of course, he relayed this information back to Penn, who wouldn’t speak to his father for the rest of the night. To Penn, what his father said was contradictory to what he had been learning in the Hitler Youth. They were nice to him there. Made him feel important, didn’t treat him like a child, and at the forefront of all of that was the moustache man and his orchestra of colours.

  Their father was a Nazi, but not out of choice.

  He had mouths to feed and a status to uph
old. If that meant being a Hitler supporter, so be it.

  Herr Pichler would stand behind Germany’s leaders and watch as the less fortunate stood in line for bread.

  Nazi Germany was an auspicious place if you didn’t mind the spies.

  It was dark, and the light in the twins’ hearts grew more potent and powerful with each step, not fully realising that if they spoke out against their father, he would be marched to Sachsenhausen.

  Derrick eyed the Frankfurt sky from the large window while his older brother carried out the deed. It had been Penn’s idea. Derrick tagged along, for support if nothing more.

  The clouds were dark and dense. A storm was undoubtedly on its way, despite being spring. German weather was often a tricky thing to pin down.

  Penn used his Hitler youth knife to cut his father’s smiling face from the family portrait, and I imagine that it bled. Ink all over the living room, and Herr Pichler’s cutout smile on the floor.

  It was the final straw for the Pichlers, and the decision was made to send to pair off to Inland. Better to send the problem away than to fix it.

  The twins were asked about the school, and although there were some unexpected tears and uncertainty from Derrick, there was still a rather enthusiastic acceptance of the idea. They realised that they would no longer be trapped in their circumstances. It would be their chance to see something different – to experience something new.

  On their eleventh birthday, the twins were sent away on a train – alone, with two suitcases. They were able to bring one personal belonging each, and the thought of the twins clutching a pot of raspberry jam and their copy of Birds Of Prey is still enough to bring tears to my eyes. Derrick embraced both his parents before they left. Pictures were taken with sideways caps. Penn wouldn’t even look his parents in the eye, and their dead-eyed mother announced,

  “I’ve lost him. I’ve utterly lost him.”

  The twins’ father’s camera followed his sons down the street until they were out of sight.

  18

  The Puppet-String Man

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