The Boy Who Saw in Colours

by Lauren Robinson

  Watching Oskar take a drag out of a much-needed cigarette moderately numbed the pain, but only just.

  “Josef, what did you do?” the top bunk called out. It had the breath of bacon, the crispy taste caressing my tongue. “You didn’t sell your paint, did you? It’s your only talent.”

  “I don’t care much for things I can’t take with me when I die. I want purpose and moments.” My friend’s eyes were big and alive.“Things I can remember.” Besides, I didn’t have it before the Schultzes gifted it to me.” My dignity was stood upon.

  At night, I sat on the cabin steps. The rain was staining the grass, and I let some tears loose on my face.

  In the distance, a boy walked ten feet off the ground. I tried to cover my face as he approached, but it could not be hidden.

  “Josef, what’s wrong? Have your nightmares come back?” It was Derrick. That laugh could come only from him.

  I was feeling mightily sorry for and laughing at myself.

  “Nein. It’s my paint. I’m pathetic, I know. You can laugh. It’s funny.”

  “We will get you more. I promise.” He lowered himself to the grass and looked at the stars.

  I was angry at myself for the selfishness.

  I am a greedy person; I want many things in life. I want to be selfish and unselfish, have many friends as well as solitude. The simple pleasures in life have never completely satisfied me. The same green hills could never content me forever. No matter how much my body craved the pleasure of a little life, my mind was unwilling to let me. No, I am not like my friends, but I do envy their laughter.

  42

  The Men with the Pink Triangles

  *Majorelle Blue*

  From behind the clouds, I could taste and smell the van nearing.

  “Look over yonder.” Penn pointed. “They are taking them to the camps.”

  “Who?” I hammered in a nail.

  “The fags. Or the Jews. I don’t know.”

  I disagreed. “Nothing in there but pigs and sheep.”

  He scoffed. “There are pigs in there, alright.”

  Derrick slapped his brother. “Don’t say that.”

  “Alright. Jesus. I’m sorry.”

  I had no idea where the convoy had travelled from, but the drivers were past students on Inland. It was perhaps four miles from the school, and many more to the Dachau concentration camp.

  Shovels landed loudly on the concrete, and many of the boys were laughing and telling jokes, but not a word was heard from the van.

  I could smell sadness from whatever or whoever was in it.

  Recollections tell me that many voices were going through Penn and Derrick’s minds, too.

  Why them and not me?

  Thank God it isn’t me.

  I thought about Von and the pink armband men.

  If there were people in there, and the rumours were true, Von couldn’t be in there, could he?

  Did they find out?

  I could not quarrel with the curiosity any longer. Fear was not able to hold me down. We had stopped for refreshments when the noise arrived in full. The farmer’s wife and daughter had brought us water.

  “The Jews.” She announced. “The poor souls.”

  Everyone turned towards the sound of stumbling feet and the muddled colour of my voice. I ran to meet the van. Straight up the hill would get me there quicker.

  “Josef, where are you going?”

  Voices just missed me. I was travelling too fast. But their sentences followed me up the grass and onto the road. I waited as the vehicle approached.

  There was an added emphasis in the shouting from the soldiers driving. If there were people, I thought they were most likely Jews, homosexuals, and other criminals. Perhaps some of them were mothers who wouldn’t let them take their children. Some might have the name Schultz.

  I imagined the men. Not people, but swastikas with faces and voices. Colours dribbled from their lips.

  I didn’t want to, but I watched.

  When the men saw me standing like a shadow on the road, they stopped. They weren’t going to run a boy over.

  They moved their arms.

  I would not move.

  “What’s wrong, boy. Get out of the road,” one called from out the window.

  I said nothing.

  I watched as the working boys made their way up the grass and onto the road like a catalogue of colours. Among them was Oskar. I could spot his face in the back. It was the deepest shade of grim that I had ever seen. When they arrived in full, the noise of their feet throbbed on top of the road. Their eyes were enormous. And the dirt. The dirt was moulded to them. They had all come to watch my act. A one night only performance they all had tickets to.

  Questions and Answers.

  Sometimes they took hold.

  Arguments broke out.

  Applause. Applause.

  Oskar watched above the heads of the crowding audience. He tried to push through, close the curtain, but there were too many boys. I’m sure his eyes were blue and strained. I looked through the gaps.

  Tomas arrived. I could smell the taste of his boots on the road. He bathed in the sunlight.

  The men evacuated the van. These men were not farmers, but uniforms with badges. “You, what are you doing?” He pointed at me. I ignored his calls. My focus was on the back. I had to see for myself. I had a depleted face – not full of fear. I was beyond that. Now, I just wanted questions.

  I found a window – a peering hole into the suffering. In a moment of sheer desperation and foolishness, I walked towards it. “What’s in there?” I could smell them – the pigs and the sheep – of course.

  A hand grabbed firmly onto mine, and I went struggling by. I could feel my hand getting slippy and sticky.

  It was Oskar.

  Familiar and warm.

  But I wouldn’t go with him.

  At my side, the soldiers also made their way to the crowd, ordering the entertained children to move on. The men were just boys. The had the Führer in their eyes.

  Louder now.

  “I want to see.”

  The uniforms spoke. “What’s wrong with him? Is he slow?”

  We struggled on the road together, and now Oskar was part of the show. An act all on our own.

  “No. I can handle him.” He remembered the faces. The men were graduates. No, they were not men. They were boys. Viktor Link was one of them.

  The boys made their way back to the van, confident in Oskar’s answer, but foolishly, I left his grip and ran again.

  “Josef, what the fuck are you doing?” Oskar’s voice tasted like fear.

  And then I looked.

  At first, I saw only my reflection until my eyes adjusted. Yellow stars were everywhere. I rubbed my eyes with black hands, and the stars turned to stripes – rosa.

  And then I saw them.

  Men and boys with raw and charcoal coloured eyes. They were raw in their skin. They felt paper-thin. The men were not Jews, but Germans. Criminals – gays. They had pink triangles.

  I felt cold in my skin. I withered and tried to peel at the wood on the side. How could I help them? I fell off the wheel, but I had to get one more look. Surely, they couldn’t have people in there. No, those vans were for animals. Bodies slammed against the inside of the truck. They were animals, not people. Animals. Tears formed. But Oskar said. Hitler said. The film said. They all said.

  Boys at the scene laughed at me, unaware of what was to come. Some stood serious and overlooked. Some tried to help Oskar reach me.

  I did not look again. There was no time. For when my nerve got up again, the soldier had me. “I said, get off!” I was thrown to Oskar.

  Wading through, another soldier arrived at the scene of the crime. He studied his accomplice, me and Oskar, and he looked at the crowd. “Don’t. Please.” That was the grappling voice of Oskar. He clung to my clothes and my tears. “I’ll take him now. We will leave.”

  It did no good.

  After another few momen
ts on the road, he took his fist and began.

  I was the first victim. He shoved Oskar aside and made his way through. One held me; the other beat me.

  A sudden flash came before my eyes.

  Oskar was on his knees. Everyone was loud. So loud. I covered my ears.

  His fist sliced my cheek open. It reached across and grabbed hold of my ear.

  “Josef!”

  I knew that voice.

  As the soldier swung his arm, I heard the voice of a distressed Tomas in the gaps of the crowd. He called out again. I could not see his tortured face. “Josef, get out of there!”

  I could not get out, for I was held. Or were my legs incapable of moving? I cannot recall.

  I closed my eyes and caught the burning sting of his fist, and my body hovered above the warmth of the road. It heated my legs. The man managed to hold me just above.

  I understood then. The poor voiceless humans were not taken to shiny camps where they played and sung songs. The Jews, homosexuals, gypsies, and every one different was taken to die. I should have been in there, I thought. And the one who orchestrated it all was him.

  Hitler.

  Hitler, the lover of children and animals. Hitler, the charity giver. The man who banned human zoos. Hitler, the artist. Hitler, the good. More tears. More blood. He did all of this. It was him we had been heiling. I let the realisation run down my face and sting my cheeks.

  More words arrived – this time from Link.

  “Stand up!”

  The sentence was not directed to me, but the kneeling Oskar. It was elaborated upon. “Get up, you dirty asshole. His voice broke. “Get up. Get up!”

  Oskar hoisted himself up.

  His feet moved.

  “You know me!” His voice dragged and travelled on. “We ate together!”

  I was let go of and fell to my knees. The onlooking wall of children crumbled around me. So many voices. So many shapes. I believe that it was Tomas who had begun to cradle me. Blood soaked his shirt. My knees heated on the road. Smoke rose.

  Then it was Oskar’s turn.

  “Please. I’m a teacher at the school. You know me.”

  Nothing cared.

  I swallowed as Oskar was beaten on the road. I expected cracks to appear on his face. He was struck four times until he, too, hit the ground. Oskar was helped up and held.

  The men continued. No surrendering. That’s what we learned in Inland. I knew the colours in their minds tried to break through, telling them to stop this madness at once, clipping them on the ears, but they did not stop. This minor inconvenience would not deter them.

  Homosexuals needed to be taken to Dachau.

  I was not finished.

  Pause.

  What happened next was my fault. I was to blame.

  Please don’t hate me.

  Resume.

  I heard the men in the truck – the broken, bruised, and insane.

  I followed it.

  I imagined Tomas and the other boys helping Oskar to his feet. Every breath I took was a different shade of green.

  Some watched in shock. Some were crying themselves.

  All Oskar could think of was one thought: “Where is Josef?”

  I recognised his voice. “Jesus Christ.”

  I watched the van stagger further down the road, my selfish mind unable to think of Oskar.

  Cars drove past, some stopping at the side of the road to see the show. Some drove by, staring out of windows.

  And I ran. Quickly. My personal best for 10,000 metres was 48 minutes. I could catch the van.

  The men must’ve seen me, for they slowed and eventually stopped. Now I had done it.

  We were stopped at the bridge.

  I looked again at the men. Through the window. Once in a while, a man – no, they were not men, they were homosexuals – would find my face among the crowd and their blue eyes would stare into mine. Dangerous eyes. I could only hope that they could read the depth of sorrow on my face, to recognise that it was true and not fleeting.

  I am like you.

  But I knew that it was utterly worthless to these people. They could not be saved, and in a few moments, their true hopelessness would reveal itself to me.

  In a small gap, there was an older man – much older than the others.

  He wore desperation so well on his face.

  “I will save you.”

  Herr Link.

  Herr Link.

  I was addressed personally. “Josef!”

  My classmates arrived, but the second soldier would not allow them to come any farther.

  “You want to see so desperately?” Link pointed.

  I knew what would come next. “No, I don’t….” I wept bitterly. “Leave them alone! You can’t.”

  I was punched. “You see these medals, little boy? I can do any damn thing I please. I’m in charge! Me!”

  He opened the back and pulled out a man. He forgot how to walk. Forgot what the sun tasted like.

  Oskar secretly made his way through, as did Tomas, but for now, he would only watch from the grass. Soon, I was wiping at tears again. Oskar stood with me.

  I could not hear over the crashing water below our feet, but my friends’ screams were getting louder. The soldiers practically became a human wall to hold them back.

  I escaped Oskar again and made my way to the man. I grabbed his shoulders.

  “Don’t touch him!” Link tried to pry my hands away, and soon, Oskar was pulling at my waist. We wrestled on the road.

  The man used all of his remaining strength to stand. His gaunt face was stressed with torture. He avoided the eyes of the people at the side of the road. His eyes pleaded with mine. “Let go of me, boy.”

  He fell at Oskar’s knees. His legs could take no more.

  The homosexual looked at Oskar’s coat and expected brutality. Oskar would not give it to him. “I’m sorry, young man. I’m sorry.” The man watched with everyone else as Oskar Frederick helped the man to his feet. “It’s alright. I’m sorry.”

  You do not say sorry to fags, Oskar.

  The man slid down, and he buried his face in Oskar’s shins. “Thank you.”

  I watched with tears in my eyes.

  I looked into the van. “Run,” I whispered, but they were stuck there – all of them watching this small futile miracle.

  When the man looked to me for the last time, he looked with sadness at the child who was now kneeling on the ground. At least, he would die like a human. Knowing that he was one.

  And that was when he ran for the bridge. “Freiheit.” The voice amazed me. It made the sky white from shock. The man was going to jump.

  I stepped towards him, but a weight pulled me down. “Tomas, get off me!” He wouldn’t. Never had a single moment been so long. My heart had never felt so tired.

  Struggling, my voice trailed fell away completely. I had to re-find the courage to speak again.

  “Don’t.”

  I called to the man.

  Louder.

  “Don’t jump.”

  I struggled.

  He heard me. And he leaped over the bridge. I heard him hit the water. I would have leaped in, too, if Tomas had let me go. We were like a human twister on the grass.

  My brother’s face fell on mine. It reached down and spoke gently. “I’m here, Josef,” He repeated it. “I’m here now.”

  There was an intense sadness in his eyes. They swelled.

  From within the stream of people, I caught sight of the van door closing. They were leaving. I could not save the man, but maybe I could free the others.

  My face was burning, and there was such a committed ache in my arms and legs that it was numb, painful, and exhausting. I stood for the last time. I shrugged away and began to run.

  “Josef, what the hell are you doing?”

  I escaped the grip of Tomas’ words and the eyes of the gathered people. Most of them were mute. Hair was in my eyes.

  Everything began to fade. I cried out.
r />   “They lied to us.”

  “Please forgive me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  It felt like a joke that the whole world was in on but me. Like every time I laughed, they would cry; and every time I cried, they would laugh.

  Tomas ran after me. It made perfect sense that it was him.

  I didn’t get far before Tomas tackled me once more. Hands were clamped upon me from behind, and he was able to bring me down. My brother collected my tears, words, kicks, and punches. I begged for him to let me go, but he was able to hold me down so beautifully. When I tried to lift my head, it was again met by the roughness of the road. It tore at my skin. Blood was everywhere.

  When the outcast people were gone, Tomas and I stood. I did not speak. There were no answers to Tomas’ questions.

  I saw Oskar weeping on the road. Cars slammed on brakes and beeped horns.

  Anger overtook me. “You said it was pigs and sheep, Oskar.” My tears punched through him. Others stood and watched. “Pigs and sheep!”

  “I didn’t know, little man. I didn’t know. I swear it.” He tried to grab me by my elbows. “Come here.” He wanted me to give him the same comfort he gave me all those years ago, but he did not get it.

  I did not go back to the cabin, either.

  I went to Teichmann. Of all people.

  My shift was due to begin.

  Everyone found me.

  The usual gang gathered outside and listened, but they were sent away.

  When she found out what had happened, she hit the table with her fists.

  In Teichmann’s kitchen: five pm.

  Picture it.

  Oskar leaned forward. His arms outstretched on the wall. He was tripped up by sheer shame.

  “What have we done? What have I done?”

  I did nothing. I said nothing.

  If I could relive one moment from my past, it would be this one. I would have taken Oskar Frederick in my arms. If only my fifteen-year-old heart was old enough to know.

  Tomas said nothing. He did nothing. He assembled the puzzle and left.

  “Tomas?”

  But he was gone. A slam of the door confirmed it.

  43

  The Colours On Fire