Do not cue your favourite fight song, for this stopped there.
Tomas was filled with thoughts of burning his fag brother, his weakness and kindness. The thing that scared him the most was the relief that he felt in his stomach. How could he feel this way? How could he? He didn’t want to, but he was helpless to it. He had escape to collect his thoughts. In other words, the boy ran away.
Ran, as usual, to Kröger. He was breathing heavily. A quick explanation and Kröger was not pleased. “You don’t ever run away from a fight, Tomas. You make me want to throw up. I will make a man out of you if I have to break you in two.”
Kröger woke his body. Tomas screamed at him. He pulled his knife out.
“What the hell are you going to do with that?”
Tomas said nothing. He didn’t know either. The weapon was dropped. “Don’t take it out on me because you fucked up your own life.” Kröger readily accepted the words.
He made a man out of him, alright. Little boys do what little boys do. They try to fit in, then lose themselves by the age of fifteen and have to start all over again. Crossing out what isn’t them and keeping what was. The problem, however, is that the two overlap. They meet in the middle. Most people, I decided, are in the middle. It takes an act of true madness to push people to the truth of themselves. Like saying, “I want to be a painter.” Or “I want to be Robin Hood.” I want to be more than what small minds will allow.
Rouvon accompanied me most nights to the painting hill. Just the two of us.
The sky had pink stripes, but there was an absence of clouds. For once, it was calm and so too was my mind. Gentle colours gathered but didn’t protest. For once, my mere existence was not difficult.
Von wanted to be my muse, and I let him. I liked watching his brows furrow, his lips tense up. “Relax your face,” I told him. “So serious,” he replied. I laughed. I was caught in an emotional experience. I have always been captivated by the white magic that is art.
Von was intrigued. “I think art is fascinating.”
“I thought you didn’t like it.” I held out my thumb to get his proportions correct.
“I find it fascinating when you talk about it.”
“Shut up.” His choice of words was strong and meant something. “I don’t even know what to say to you sometimes.”
A laugh.”With eyes that smile like that, you don’t need to speak.”
Again, with my famous counterattack. “Shut up, Bacchman.”
Dinner time was in progress. Food was getting more scarce by the minute, so Teichmann did her best. Hitler promised us many things that he could not deliver.
We had a gulp of air for breakfast. A feast had to be prepared for us growing boys. Tonight it was potatoes. It was my job to deliver the food to the tables, and as Teichmann handed the plated tray to me, her body deflated for a single moment and sank into the tiles. “It’s pathetic, I realise. But it’s the best I can do.”
I took the trays and her Weltschmerz smile.“ It’s not pathetic.” The smile was returned, and I shot a capricious joke at her lips. “Maybe we can ask some rich kids’ Papas for money.”
Weltschmerz – literally, world pain. Melancholy.
Teichmann laughed. “They won’t admit it, Josef, but they are struggling, too.” Everyone in ’43 was struggling, even the ones who weren’t. “And you have paint on her hands again. Wash them.”
That evening, boys shoved the potatoes into their mashed mouths as they had various discussions in boyish breaths.
“Frau Teichmann is a ride.” Conversations always turned sexplicit in those days.
Swear words fell on the table.
Derrick called out to me from across the canteen and tried to launch a spoonful of potatoes.
“Josef, have you done it yet?”
Again with the “IT”. Apparently, Derrick Pichler had, in fact, done IT with the neighbouring Inland girl. However, I still hadn’t decided quite what IT was.
Allegedly, hormones made Teichmann look somewhat desirable. I couldn’t see it. I made a sound that was too quiet for them to hear and rolled my eyes.
The usual five from my cabin sat together. The hall was warm with teenage bodies, but Manfret still sat with his jumper on, nervously looking out.
“Don’t you ever sweat?” Penn asked.
“No.” Wünderlich painfully scratched as his acne-covered face. His Hitler Youth knife was impaled in the table, sitting upright and yelling in his face.
It was true that he didn’t sweat. He was in the larva stage. The pained shedding of the child’s body. This is what boarding school was for. To store children away during years like this, so they didn’t have to suffer the embarrassment of their parents watching.
Tomas sat with older boys who were tutoring him on fist-fighting and swearing. I watched as my little brother poured his unique, individual light into a mould. His muscle rivalled that of Oskar, but you wouldn’t know it under his baggy clothing. It didn’t happen overnight, of course. His love for the Reich and his willingness to learn pushed him forward. The boy achieved things that others only dreamed of. He could shake the stars that boy – he could do anything if he only dared. A smile tapped him on the shoulder when I’d walk past, and he’d roll his eyes because he knew it was me.
Too many conversations were happening at once, and there was a constant flow of flavours dripping onto my tongue, one taste after another, varying in flavour and intensity and overlapping in my mouth.
The sun rose through the window, bathing the trees in vibrant hues. Finding Oskar outlined in the blue was the best part of dinner for me. This day, it looked like he too was in transition. His happiness was like a cloudless spring day and he didn’t notice the weather or colours at all. He was showing the other youth leaders a letter, and they patted him on the back. After some staring, he caught me and waved.
The unmistakable colour of burnt orange came into view in front of me, like a circle of light. I knew that it was the voice of Penn Pichler.
“He’s a right nancy boy, that Josef.”
The others protested. It was mostly Stefan, just reaching over the rest of them. His purple colour and taste of fatty bacon fell on my tongue.
“He can’t be, Penn. He kicked your ass. He’s very brave.”
I understood that in their minds, I could not be gay and brave. For them, the two were incompatible.
What’s it like being a faggot? The words that were getting louder chased me.
They cut a nerve in Von Bacchman that night. He rubbed his eyes. Recently, it was like his smile was not fully complete until he received a letter from home, or when he read on the hill. I watched him play with his potatoes, cutting them with his frozen eyes. He tried to numb it, but after some more cutting, he could listen no longer.
He was on his feet. I saw more legs than boy.
“Where are you going?” I called out to him, rather loud, in fact. Brown uniforms turned to make sure that the voice was coming from me.
By then, I was also on my feet, walking towards the brown oak door.
Tomas pulled at my coat when I walked past his table. “Dohman will be giving his speech soon, Josef.”
“I’ll be back soon.”
That was a lie.
I found Von Bacchman sitting in our usual spot, and I could just hear the beginning of the speech. Von’s legs were dangling over the crest of the hill.
“Sieg Heil!”
When he turned, it was with such a great relief that he asked me to come sit with him.
We sat in silence and listened to the speech. The longer Dohman spoke, the more the crowd was whipped into a frenzy of enthusiasm. They interrupted his words with impassioned shouts of “Heil!” I imagined Dohman clenching his fists hard.
“Are you alright?”
He nodded and offered me a cigarette.
“I don’t have a light.”
A match-box rattle.
Von shielded the cigarette from the wind, and it lit. It was wonderful.
Life’s most mundane things become beautiful when they are done by a loving hand.
“… more disciplined, fit, and trim.”
Von laughed.
“…do not want to see class and social differences anymore…must not allow it to happen.”
“What’s wrong? Why are you laughing?”
“Nothing.”
Von’s skin smelt like the light – it tasted like the stars.
“We want our people to love and honour… you must declare… in your youngest years.”
“Have you ever felt love before, Schneider?” Von asked.
“Nein. Never really thought about it.”
That was a lie. I thought about it often.
“Have you?”
A cloud of smoke sat between us.
“…demand for you, boys and girls.”
“I think so.” He laughed at the grass.
“What’s it like?”
“I don’t know. Hard to say.”
“Alright. What does it feel like then?”
Dohman silenced to gather his notes.
“…Everyone’s heart runs over with joy when they see you.”
“Hard to say. Many things are difficult to explain, Josef.” When he smiled this time, the freckles and dimples danced upon his face.
“Alright.”
“I know it cannot be any other way.”
“I can try to show you... if you want.”
I took a nervous drag of the cigarette. Again, I tasted the damn cherry tobacco. “Alright.”
I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I want you to imagine Von’s freckles moving towards me, his sleepy eyes closing, his lips puckering, and all the other sounds of the world going silent – the rustling of our clothes, the chaos from inside, the birds’ song – all silent. I’m not sure if the speech ended or if I stopped listening. I gripped the damp grass as Von’s highly educated fifteen-year-old lips met mine.
A balance of soft wetness and firm strength. Everything felt intense and bright.
Somewhere, in the middle of it all, it occurred to me that he’d been leaning towards me throughout the speech, so when his moment came, he’d be in the perfect proximity to make his move.
What a dickhead. I wanted to punch his shoulder.
And then, somewhere below it all, my heart reacting. An unexpected touch. I broke the kiss. I sat stiffly on the grass with my arms across my knees.
“Did I hurt you?” Von sounded genuinely concerned.
“No.” I stared at the painted landscape. “That wasn’t bad.”
But we were bad.
I knew it. Faggot.
Rouvon stood as though he didn’t feel it, offering his hand to me.
“Do we have to go right now?” I crossed my legs.
“You’re a sweet boy, Josef.” Grinning again, at the grass, he sat down, and I thumped his shoulder hard.
I lay in bed awake that night. It was just past two o’clock. I played with the colours in the darkness, and I couldn’t shift one recurring thought from my head: that word. Faggot.
I gulped the air.
I counted with the colours.
1 – poppy red.
2 – cigarette ash grey.
3 – green, like the rolling hills.
4 – the powdery, perfectly harmless, blue-grey.
When I got to five, I turned to Oskar.
“Oskar?”
He didn’t hear me. He was asleep and clutching the photo of his beloved with the letter, but I didn’t have the selflessness to allow him to sleep. I was a boy with questions. Questions that needed answers.
Louder.
“Oskar? Are you awake?”
A slight twitch.
“Josef.” Oskar rubbed at his swollen eyes in their tiredness and made a noise from his throat. “Ja, what do you want?”
“I’m sorry, Oskar,” I sat up in my bed and leaned toward him. There was a long breath and a scratchy voice. “What’s...” Quieter. “What’s a faggot?”
Oskar stared at the ceiling. “Why do you want to know that?”
In my head, I circled the moments in my life. I heard that word but declined to tell Oskar. “Don’t know. Just want to know.”
Oskar’s face turned towards the incoming daylight, and as he did so, I could see the light shining onto his blond whiskers – he needed a shave. He couldn’t seem to get the sleep off his eyes.
He gave a slight laugh. “It’s just two fag...”
Oskar stopped there when he looked at me and saw the concern on my face. “It’s just a word that people call homosexuals. A stupid word.”
“But what does it mean?”
“It doesn’t matter what it means. People’s words… people’s words are exactly just that, Josef. Words.” His whispering continued.
“Am I a faggot?”
He sat up now. The colours were foreboding. Dark or light. It didn’t matter. The room spoke to Oskar.
I was dragged outside.
Oskar lit two cigarettes before he spoke again. It was the last of his tobacco. He looked at it like he may never see another cigarette again. “Don’t ever let anybody call you something that you don’t want to be called. People don’t get to decide who you are. Only you can do that.”
We sat with backs against the door. There was a five-minute silence, and I realised Oskar had decided to close his eyes, to get the left over sleep he so desperately needed. He didn’t get it.
“Everyone always says words here like they are bad, but I don’t think…” I couldn’t find the right words to finish.
Oskar considered it. He dodged the sentence, leaning forward.
“I have some advice for you, little man.”
I waited.
“Talk less, smile more. Don’t let them know what you’re thinking.” He winked at me Oskar-like, and I threw a confused smile at him.
“Does the Führer decide?” I finally asked. A fifteen-year-old boy is many things but stupid.
“Fuck the Führer.” I could see the regret spiralling yellow as he spoke.
I nodded. “I think a lot of boys would if they could.”
A deep sigh mixed with a laugh.
“You’re killing me, Josef.” I had warmed Oskar’s heart like the sun.
The wind changed direction on Oskar’s face that night. I studied the stars, and as usual, Oskar was perched on them. But I could not comprehend the lines on his face. Oskar and his many night faces. More questions. “What’s wrong?”
He was waiting for me to ask that question all night. He explained by reading the letter. The letter was already taken from his pocket.
“My dear Oskar,
This is a joyous letter to write. I hope as joyous for you to read, despite the intuitive shock I know you will feel.”
He skipped a few parts because he knew I didn’t have the maturity to weigh the words. I stared at the moon as he read, my head on his shoulder.
“I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure, and now I am. You are going to be a father.”
“So, this is why I can’t afford tobacco.” Oskar’s excitement peeked around the corner. I was happy. There may have been tears, but I can’t recall.
Oskar found my eyes. “I know now is not the best time... but…” The sky poured over him, and so too did my heart. Oskar Frederick, as a father, was something that simply made sense to me. I was pulling at him to keep reading, which he did.
“You may have guessed from the way I was floating in mid-air for these past few weeks. I am happy. You have made me very happy.”
Oskar felt my head get heavy on his shoulder. It finally struck him that I had fallen asleep when he heard my breathing deepen. Nothing can ever be perfect, but things can be just right. This moment was the just right kind, and I know that half of my fifteen-year-old heart belonged to only one man. The other belonged to a boy.
Oskar was a good man.
I had not yet made up my mind about the popular dichotomy of good and bad. But here is what
I knew back then.
Good: Oskar; Tomas; and, I think, the Führer.
Bad: me; the Jews.
You cannot be gay and good.
35
The Prince and the Thief
*Palatinate Blue*Pale Carmine*Pale Spring Bud
The clouds were only just coming back to life after the air-raids. They happened nightly. The people of Inland were still trying to comprehend how a simple little town could be a target, even by accident, but we were preparing for the worst anyway. Signs were removed from the road, provoking many passer-by conversations.
“They can’t come for us if they can’t find us.”
Newspapers filled the sky. Berlin was the talk of Munich.
The front page read like this: “Hundreds of German women saved their Jewish husbands from death camps.”
Frustrated by the lack of information, they stood in the freezing temperatures. They chanted, “Give us our husbands back.”
When lethal force was threatened, some of them were afraid, but most of the frost-bitten women stayed and faced them. “They can’t kill all of us.”
Goebbels ordered the release of the men and children at Rosenstrasse two days later.
They were loud, and they listened. I can only think of the words stapled in the sky.
The sky was fake and painted like it had been put there to fool us. Many vans passed by the farm when we worked. More than usual. I pitchforked hay into the Schubkarre, and I do not know the English word. Perhaps you can find out. Learning a little German is not such a bad thing.
The van could be spotted from the bottom of the hill, and I followed it until it was out of sight.
It was just after seven and three friends sat on the grass, still in our training uniforms. Earlier in the day, we ran. The sunset chased us. Tomas beat us all, much to the dismay of Penn Pichler, who sat with arched eyebrows for the rest of the day.
Tomas knew he was improving, and he knew he was one of the best in Inland. He would always let himself feel the pride while making sure to remain humble and help others rather than patronising them.
The Boy Who Saw in Colours Page 22