The Boy Who Saw in Colours

by Lauren Robinson

  Bells rang; a thousand cries, more or less distinct, mingled with the bursts of boys running out of buildings like they were set alight. Coming from every crack in the wall, and running in the direction of the canteen, like a stampede, not caring who they would trample in the process.

  “Well, come on!” Von said, as he hurried and joined the charge.

  It was dinnertime.

  We were boys.

  That’s all you need to know.

  A whistle blew, and the flock of uniforms formed a neat line, give or take a few stragglers, who stood to the side, talking to their buddies.

  There was an epidemic of anxiety that followed me.

  Feeling oddly as though my stomach was turning inside out, I stood behind Tomas, and flexuous strands of hair kinked out of his head in random places.

  I tried my best to flatten them, and told him to stand up straight, just like Mother taught me, as we walked towards the wooden doors of the canteen.

  The building itself was cold and completely colourless, aside from a Swastika mural that hung in the centre of the wall – it set the room on fire. Most of the flags were painted by the children and were giant eyesores. The canteen seemed to shiver a little more severely than the other buildings in Inland.

  When we came to the doors, older students greeted us with a “Heil” and produced a tray. The contents were our cutlery, a bowl, and a small plate. I tried to steady it all.

  Sitting with Tomas, Von, and the other boys from my cabin, I could hear hundreds of conversations that I wasn’t a part of. I didn’t join any of them either. I was too afraid, preferring to sit in a puddle of silence and listen. Tomas engaged in a few of the juvenile conversations. I had trouble looking them in the eye. Some boys sat alone and read the latest issue of Der Stürmer.

  Some were happily laughing with their friends. Oskar was sitting with another youth leader shovelling fistfuls of food into his mouth. He caught sight of me, winked, and I waved back.

  I had no problem looking Oskar in the eye.

  Manfret’s confidence stood up and began to speak to me, others listening in.

  “How are you settling in?”

  Food was served with dirty fingers.

  “Good…” Before I could finish, his words cut through mine.

  He apologised in his Manfret way. “I was saved by the Führer when I was eight. Mama said I would become brave.” Bravery that the boy had not yet obtained, but he was determined.

  Being saved by the Führer was a bizarre way to put it.

  MANFRET WÜNDERLICH: A HISTORY

  He had a strangely shaped face, which wasn’t to say unattractive. His features just took some time to make sense: his huge, murky, river-blue eyes, spotted cheeks, and strong jawline.

  He was the type of boy that the other children seemed to like because of how unique he was. How so not 1940s he was. Perhaps, for those same reasons, other people disliked him. People fear different. It’s a disease to them. So they sent Manfret off to a clean-cut school, with boring uniforms, boring rules, dull buildings, and hoped that by the end of it, every bit of his uniqueness would be burned away.

  He was sent to Inland at twelve. Herr and Frau Wünderlich sent him for his own good. Manfret’s monster stood in the door frame and waited for the pantomime that was to follow. A scene ensued: a teary-eyed mother, a determined father, and a long line of strangers that would have more control over Manfret’s actions than he would.

  “Papa, please let me stay here,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to go to boarding school.” He never felt so betrayed. He kicked and screamed before resigning in shock.

  His father would have none of it.

  His sixteen-year-old brother looked as scared as Manfret felt; he didn’t know about the arrangement either.

  “You must do as I say, Manfret. It will be a great experience for you. Toughen you up. I won’t have any son of mine be called a sissy.”

  Manfret had two older siblings. A boy and a girl. In later years, one would make the bullets; the other would be killed by them.

  He arrived the same way – by car.

  Manfret felt abandoned.

  He felt trapped.

  But as most children do, he adapted. He learned which leaders would make him tea at various hours of the night, and which ones would yell at him if he left the light on past curfew.

  Learned that snack food was a currency, and the wealthier you were, the more people would leave you alone.

  Learned to fit in everywhere but belong nowhere.

  “Well, I was...” Stefan played with his carrots.”I was saved when I was ten.”

  “I was talking to him,” Manfret whispered.

  Stefan was tiny, but I’m sure it’s something he remembered for the rest of his life. I suppose we remember the moments in our lives that force us to act not so little. He was two years old when Hitler took power, and he lived with party members his whole life.

  “You don’t have to be rude!” Stefan said back, sticking his tongue out at Manfret, which made me laugh.

  Tomas sat to my left. Von was sitting opposite. During dinner, he loosened the scarf around his neck and took it off completely, throwing it down on the table with great defiance.

  “I hate this thing,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  “I like the uniform,” I said quietly.

  Tomas nodded. “And the knife. Kröger is helping me use it.” Tomas was never the type of boy who liked knives and fighting, but fitting in was important, crucial even. I never understood the importance of such things. Different doesn’t need fixing.

  Tomas had started to warm to Kröger after the beating initiation.

  “Well, I feel like a dickhead,” Von said, stuffing the tie into his shorts pocket.

  “I think you look great.” I realised what I said only when the words came pouring out.

  “Thank you,” he laughed.

  I looked at the enormous platter of food on the trays before me. Bread, eggs, ham. Bitter greens with tomatoes. Salads with lots of, what looked like mini trees to me. I have never seen so much food in my life. Mother’s special was usually Eintopf – potatoes and vegetables. I knew she would give anything to have such excellent food at home.

  Von turned his nose up at it all.

  An adult victory is a childhood defeat.

  It all looked appetising, but it was terrible. Teichmann is no cook.

  Tomas’ bread and jam were half-eaten on the table and curled into teeth marks. When he tried to eat another bite, that’s when the whistle blew.

  We stood. Von sighed, rolled his eyes, and reluctantly dropped his fork.

  Dohman’s puppet master shifted into position. He was ready to deliver his carefully composed, daily dinner speech, and calmed the seething mess of boys.

  All was silent, but there were a few boys who continued to whisper and giggle, excitement unintentionally slipping from their lips.

  “Schweigen!” Dohman said. “Silence.” There was no silence. “I would just like to say a few words before we part for tonight.” I could see his strings being pulled – clouds of delicate silver ropes on the ceiling.

  There was some talk about accomplishments by other students before he got into the meat of the speech. Von leaned over the table and secretly fed himself some bread.

  “Whoever marches in the Hitler youth is not a number amongst millions, but each of you is Germany’s future. And with our great Führer, we will help make Germany great again.” For just a moment, the strings severed, and Dohman spoke like an actual human being. “And I know we have some new students. Do your best to make them feel at home.”

  Von looked at me and smiled. Penn nudged Derrick on the shoulder. “I bet Von is going to have a good time with Josef,” and there was some giggling from around the table before they were silenced.

  Dohman remained at his table, looking out at the hunched-over mannequins. The strings returned.

  “Learn to sacrifice for your Fatherland. We shall go onwards.
Germany must live. In your race is your strength. You must be true, you must be daring and courageous, and with each other form a great and wonderful comradeship.”

  The enthralled assembly roared inside the room amid frequent shouts of “Heil.” Von Bacchman began drumming on the table, causing all of the boys to join in.

  Tomas laughed.

  “Now,” Dohman roared. “Let’s sing!”

  Excitement started to bubble at the bottom of the other boy’s stomachs, and a chorus of them sang – the room filled with the colour of music.

  “Adolf Hitler is our saviour, our hero. He is the noblest being in the whole wide world. For Hitler, we live. For Hitler, we die. Hitler is our Lord. Who rules a brave new world.”

  Tomas and I looked to each other, not knowing the words, and I laughed at Tomas trying to mime them. At the end of it, all the boys raised their right hand in the air and chanted three times.

  “Heil Hitler. Heil Hitler. Heil Hitler.”

  I’m not entirely sure how we got anything done around Inland, with all the heiling.

  Most days after that, Von made a particular point in seeking me out during the breaks, and he didn’t care what noises the other children made at him for doing so. He was with me at the beginning, and he’d be with me at the end.

  But evening times; those belonged to Tomas and me, and only us.

  We escaped to the back of the school and climbed the hill, running alongside, elbowing each other out of the way. We sat on the grass for hours on end regardless of the weather conditions. It was a place that almost nobody wanted to go, but we did.

  Everything was dark-skied, and small chips of rain started to fall.

  From a distance, we could hear children playing. Occasionally, I would look behind me for further clarification that no one would disturb us, and I would watch them.

  The muggy air made them look more like ghosts. Not people, but shapes moving under the grey clouds. Their charcoal pencil lines smudged with a thumb. I tasted grit in my mouth and swallowed it.

  Most of the time, we sat in silence, communicating only in expressions. Sometimes, words were exchanged.

  “What do you think of Teichmann’s food?”

  Tomas looked at me, blue eyes gangly and glowing in the dusk.

  “The worst.”

  The sunset held him.

  I don’t quite know how long we stayed that way, but we would watch the sun go down together, the burnt-orange sphere sinking towards the river and painting the hills until only shadow and darkness remained.

  I lay back on the grass. Tomas followed. We felt the last drops of sunlight on our legs. There wasn’t always a lot to say, and that was alright. My brother enjoyed my silent words. He listened to them. He was a boy who always knew what to say in the right moment, and left unsaid the wrong thing in the tempting moment.

  Most people didn’t listen with the intent to understand, but to reply. To show me how bigger and better their words were. When did it become this way? Why can’t we just listen to people talk about something they love, see the passion in their eyes, and simply smile? No one-uppers, no under-cutters, just bliss.

  We talk about our joys, and no one listens, but if we talk about our sadness, everyone does.

  I think a lot of people forgot how to listen.

  19

  Tomas and the Painted Js

  *Tyrian-Purple*Titanium-White*Terra-Cotta

  Before we begin in full, there are a few things you should know about Tomas.

  He was my very best friend and secret keeper.

  He loved to read, but he wouldn’t do so in the company of others.

  And he tried his best to make sure everyone’s happiness was true, even at the sacrifice of his own.

  I wasn’t there for the infamous incident, and it was never really spoken highly of by the Berliners. When I look back, however, I realised that I felt as though I was there – telling it through Tomas’ stories. I was in the crowd, cheering him on. It became just as much a part of my story as it was his.

  The date was June, 1937.

  Grandmother gifted Tomas a book as an early present for his eighth birthday, the Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle. He couldn’t understand a word of it, but one of the townspeople did, and Tomas would spend countless hours sitting by their fire, listening intently to the words, inhaling them through his nose and breathing them out as colours.

  Robin and his band of Merry Men offered Tomas more than enough adventures and thrills to keep him turning the pages.

  What eight-year-old could resist the arrows, flying, danger lurking, and medieval intrigue? The book itself was an act of defiance all of its own – an anti-hero doing bad things for good reasons.

  Three years prior, on the night of May 10, 1934, students and brown-shirted soldiers tossed hundreds of books into the flames, burning an evil spirit from the past, while giving the Hitler-armed salute and singing Nazi anthems. Such books were “un-German,” and getting rid of them was for the greater good of the people. Robin Hood was a black sheep. All copies were forbidden, and the people watched as the words were set alight, burning childhood forever, but imagination was not so quickly smoked out. I don’t think any of this was Howard’s intentions for his beloved book.

  Howard Pyle pitch–

  Howard: “It’s about a legendary outlaw.”

  Nazis: “Yes.”

  Howard: “Robin protects local justice by banding together a group of outlaws to prey on the rich and give to the poor.”

  Nazis: “Burn it!”

  My father’s mother kept it hidden in a shoebox, wrapped up in a blanket until a certain curious little boy claimed it as his own.

  We played many pretend battles in our back yard that summer. Tomas told me about the story, but I never actually read it.

  Naturally, he was Robin Hood, while I was his right-hand man, his partner in crime, Little John. There was some arguing about the fact. Boys tend to move through life quickly, and it’s hard to see the love that passes through, but if you look hard enough for it, you can find it. You just have to dig around a little.

  Every Saturday morning, Mother and Tomas would go into town to shop. I was asked to go but thought better of it. I’d rather be getting lost in a painting than being trampled on by a swarm of people who didn’t even know me. I hated shopping. I hated crowds, the queues, and the aching feet.

  But Tomas loved it. What added to the adoration was the weekly gift mother and father would let him pick out if he was good. He would usually spend it on sweets or toys, and when I went, I would usually spend mine on well, you guessed it – paint.

  Tomas would breathe in the colours, the aromas from the food stalls and the atmosphere like an elixir. He thrived on interacting with the stallholders, each one almost a caricature of bubbly friendliness. Mother often went there back then, so the owners knew Tomas by name and often kept something back for him, like lollipops or chocolate.

  Everyone liked Tomas; they just dealt with me, but always seemed genuinely fond of Tomas, partly because I never really looked at them, even if I was addressed, much to the dismay of my mother, who would tell me that I was rude.

  Nevertheless, Tomas was the favourite.

  This particular day, he edged through the dense flow of people, with mother’s bags getting fuller by the minute. The air was perfumed with produce. The ground was porous stone, and there was a perfect summer chill: no irritating music, just a busker with a violin. Beside him was an old dog that never moved.

  Tomas was mesmerised by the music and the statue dog, of course. The crescendo coming out of the violin reminded him of waking up after a sweet dream. When he heard the pizzicato, he remembered playing hide and seek with me in our back yard. The vibration of the magical shoulder instrument reached inside him and struck a chord that he didn’t know existed.

  The man was standing on the steps of a church that were damp from the morning rain, just across from the busy markets. Mother was having a seemingly import
ant conversation with the stall owner about identity cards: something about a J, the name Sarah and poisoned blood.

  Staring at the man’s face for as long as he dared to, Tomas made his move. Mother had only let go of his hand seconds before. Edging closer, he continued to study the man’s face. It was skeletal. Not human-like at all.

  Tomas thought for a moment about his beloved book – Robin Hood. He gives to the needy, he thought. He rattled through his satchel, digging through the marbles and tissues, and grinned maniacally. Mother was still talking and didn’t yet notice the boy’s absence.

  “Hallo, sir. Are you needy?” Tomas asked.

  At first, the man wouldn’t speak, just frowning down at the small boy and away just as quickly. Tomas was not deterred. A shrivelled, toothless man, he was feeble and walked with a cane, using the railing to keep balance. His hand trembled to play each perfect note – lungs starved for air.

  “Halloo,” Tomas said again, but louder this time.

  “Excuse me?” The older man was impressed with my brother’s persistence.

  Tomas sighed and repeated. He verged on eye-rolling exasperation.

  “Are you needy?”

  “Excuse me.”

  “I’m Robin Hood,” Tomas replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Are you now?” He smiled down at him this time. “Where’s your mother? You shouldn’t be here.”

  “She’s talking to someone over there.” Tomas reached in for the Pfennig note. “I wanted to give you this.” His eyes glowed.

  “I can’t take that, child. Go back to your mother.”

  “But I’m trying to play Robin Hood. He helps poor people—”

  “What makes you think I’m poor?”

  The man’s eyes never met my brothers. He thought Tomas didn’t notice, but he did.

  “You must be. You’re filthy and out here playing violin for money.”

  The man leaned against the railing – slowly. He blinked briny tears from bloodshot eyes, his thick lashes stuck together in clumps as if he’d been swimming. “I’m a doctor, actually.”