by Frank Nunez
“Oh I forgot, you Brits like to be all good and proper.”
“And you Americans don’t seem to understand the concept of manners.”
“Me, I got plenty of manners. Probably the most manners out of all the boys in this school. I actually opened a door for a girl once. God’s honest truth.”
“It that so?”
“Sure. One time I actually helped an old lady cross the street. She offered me a nickel, but I refused. She even called me a true gentlemen.”
“I suppose I misunderstood you, Mr. Hudson.”
“It’s ok. I suppose I was being a bit rude. Can you a least tell me your name?”
“Hannah.”
“Hannah. That’s a nice name. Hannah, I like the sound of that. Has a good ring to it.”
The boy with the shits barged into the examining room. His face red and flushed, like he was going to vomit. “Nurse. I’m not feeling well.”
“I’ll be with you in just a moment.” The stench from the bathroom permeated the air of the examining room, taking both Hannah and I aback.
“I guess that’s my cue,” I said.
The boy retreated to the waiting room. Hannah opened the door for me. “You should be able to take the bandage off in a few days. Just try not to have anymore ‘falls.’ ”
“I’ll try not to.”
The boy rushed into the room, using the bathroom in the examining room. “Good luck with that one,” I said as I left Hannah’s smile and good graces.
Dinner was being served in the hall. We were by no means kings, diplomats or men of stature, but boys. Boys who were deemed by the state unfit to attend its finest institutions and instead be thrown into Crowam, We were the leftovers, so to speak, like the leftovers that clung on the dirty plates Thomas and I washed. The hall wasn’t much, but suitable for our tastes, which were simple.
Felix took it upon himself to give a toast, not with wine, beer or vodka, but with water that looked like it was strained from a sock. “Gents, let us eat and be merry. For today we may be paupers, but in our hearts and souls, we our kings. Let us savor the sweet taste that is life.”
“Hear, hear,” the boys chanted.
“Well done, Felix,” Owen said.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Charles said.
“Why thank you lads.”
“Truly inspirational Felix. I must admit you almost brought me to tears with such a toast,” I said.
“Flattery won’t get you the extra bottle of vodka you asked for, Jake.”
“It’s for medical purposes. I’m a wounded man,” I said, pointing to the bandages on my head.
“Yes, that’s quite a bruise you got there.”
“Courtesy of Tom.”
“Yes, Tom can be quite a ruffian I’m afraid.”
“No kidding.”
“Never got that chap. Just doesn’t know how to handle his emotions.”
“I’ve always believed violence is for those who can’t settle disputes with their minds,” Thomas said.
“Tell that to Hitler,” I said.
“Why, yes, Thomas. Are you saying that the war was unnecessary?” Felix asked.
“I just think there is always an alternative solution to violence, that’s all. Take that over grown brute, Tom. He deems it necessary to hurt Jake because of emotions and personal issues he can’t understand. Frankly, he’s weak minded. “
“Don’t have Tom catch you saying that,” Felix said.
“Well, I’ve always believed that when you’re pushed against the wall, you have to push back. Nobody gets anywhere by just letting somebody get the best of you,” I said.
“Sometimes things aren’t as simple as they seem,” Thomas replied.
“Maybe they are. Maybe people just have a habit of over complicating things.”
“There’s always a grey area, Jake.”
“Yea that grey is just there to distract the rest of us from what’s really going on.”
“I don’t understand,” Thomas said
“All I am saying is that there is right and wrong, good and evil. That grey area you talk about is for those who don’t want to stand up and fight for something.”
“Oh enough with the philosophy already. My head is going to shrivel with all that nonsense. It’s all rubbish anyway, pure rubbish. It’ll rot your brain I tell you,” Felix said.
“Thanks for the warning. You see, Thomas. Reading those books will fry your brain,” I said.
“I believe you’re reading one of those supposed books as well,” Thomas replied.
“Say it ain’t so!” Felix said.
“What’s wrong with reading?” Charles asked.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Thomas said.
“Books are intriguing, but it is no substitute for life, gentlemen. It is those experiences we live that make living so bittersweet. Experiences you can never find in books,” Felix said.
“Ah, but it is books that we pass on those very experiences that others have lived and imagined. It is books where we learn and recognize those bittersweet moments you speak of,” Thomas said.
“Look at us here boys, we have William Shakespeare in the flesh, born again to educate us all on the duality of man,” I said.
“We should all be so lucky!” Owen said.
Tom got up to get himself a second serving of meat and potatoes. The lunch lady was unappreciative of his appetite “How about another serving beautiful?” Tom asked.
“Sorry. No second helpings.”
“What do you mean, no second helpings?”
“Just what I said. No second helpings.”
“You’re bloody joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking, you big buffoon? Get on out of here.”
“No. I want my second helpings!” Tom yelled.
“You can’t have any.”
The Bus Driver emerged from the back of the kitchen. “We got a problem here?” the driver asked.
“This boy thinks he deserves second helpings,” the lunch lady said.
“Is that right?” the guard scoffed.
“Why don’t you bug off,” Tom said.
The Bus Driver shoved the kitchen door open, banging the door loudly enough to startle the boys inside the hall. He took off his dirty apron, cracking his jaw. “What was that you said?”
“I said bug off.”
He gave a devilish smile, shoved Tom back, and knocked over some of the boys sitting behind him. He rushed toward the driver and punched him in his beer belly of a stomach. The driver grinned before Tom landed a hook to his jaw. His eyes erupted with anger. He laid a good one onto Tom’s right eye, but not enough to knock him down.
The two went at it like two prizefighters. Even considering Tom was the big brute that he was, he had a hard time holding his own against a man twice his size.
I didn’t know what the hell compelled me to do it. I got up from my chair and leaped off one of the tables, jumping on the Bus Driver’s back. I knocked him to the ground, blindsiding him. I had the upper hand. I threw a punch right at his noise. Blood exploded from his nostrils.
He grabbed me and shoved me off, tossing me near Tom’s feet. I got up and put up my fists.
“Enough!” the yell came behind us. Mr. Hugo, with two guards on each side of him, stood there. He motioned at the Bus Driver to get up. Two guards helped him. Mr. Hugo stood motionless, glaring at the scene. “I want these two in my office in five minutes. Clean up this mess.” His expression embodied disgust.
“I’m going to get you, boy! You hear me. You’re dead,” The Bus Driver said as he went back to the kitchen. The boys finished their dinner while I went with Tom to our appointment to meet the “wonderful” Mr. Hugo.
Chapter 10
The guards escorted us to Mr. Hugo’s office. Tom and I waited outside the hallway. I knew what Tom was going to ask. He’d been itching to ask me about it since the altercation with the Bus Driver. “Hey,” he whispered. I ignored him. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”
“What?” I asked.
“Can I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
“Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You bloody know what I’m talking about. What you did back there.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said.
“Are you saying I’m an idiot?”
“Did I say that?”
“Then answer my question.”
“I don’t have to answer anything, especially after you gave me this.” I pointed to my wound. That shut him up for a few minutes until he kept jabbering on again.
“Come on, tell me,” Tom said.
“Would you shut up.”
That pissed him off. He slammed his fist against the wall and got the attention of one of the guards responsible for watching us.
“What’s this?” the guard asked.
“Ask him,” I said.
“I ah, well,” Tom stuttered.
“Come on, speak up now,” the guard said.
I should have let him just sweat it out for a few minutes, but standing there watching him mumble like a buffoon was driving me nuts. “He was swatting a fly.”
“Swatting a fly?” the guard asked, unconvinced.
“Yea, a big one on the wall there. Didn’t feel right if he just let it get away.”
“You’re joking,” the guard said.
“Afraid not, sir,” I said.
The guard caught my bullshit, but didn’t care enough to inquire further. The alcohol on his breath indicated that he wasn’t too interested in doing his job that night. “I don’t want to here anymore ruckus out of you two, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
The guard moseyed on back to his post.
“Thanks,” Tom said hesitantly.
I don’t know why I helped out this guy. I felt like punching the guy right then and there. I could of just told the guard he was trying to punch me. That would have gotten him in trouble. A little payback for my flesh wound. Tom kept asking me, almost to the point of obsession, on why I helped him. I could tell it was rattling his brain. He couldn’t understand it. Why anyone, especially me, would help him.
“Don’t kid yourself. I wasn’t helping you,” I said.
“Then why?” he asked.
“Well, because…it wasn’t a fair fight,” I said.
“Wasn’t a fair fight?” Tom looked confused.
“Yea that’s right, it wasn’t a fair fight.”
“I had him right where I wanted him.”
“He’s twice your size. Even a big guy like you would have had trouble with him.”
“I’m telling you, I had him. I didn’t need your bloody help.”
“Look, I don’t really care what you think. “
“You bastard. I should have bashed your head in that shower.”
“You might as well have. It would have been better than listening to the likes of you.” That really rattled him up. I saw him clench his fist, ready to throw a punch.
A guard leaned out of the door of Mr. Hugo’s office “Mr. Hugo is ready to see you now.” The guard motioned to me, indicating that I should follow him into the office.
The office provided a stark contrast with the rest of Crowam, which was bland and old. Mr. Hugo’s office was decorated with cherry wood furniture, bookshelves filled with books, and a mantle with two pistols still in their holster.
Mr. Hugo sat at his desk, with his hands folded on top of some files and papers. “Good evening, Mr. Hudson. Please have a seat.”
The chair’s leather was soft and ample, contouring to me like I’ve sat in that very chair for years. It was one of the most comfortable chairs I ever sat in. It was easy for me to doze off with the soft leather supplying undeniable comfort. That would have made things interesting, Mr. Hugo blathering on while I dozed off in an expensive chair. I don’t think he would have appreciated that very much.
“How are we this evening?” Mr. Hugo asked.
“Fine.”
“Jake, is it?”
“Yea.”
“Good.” He rummaged through the papers neatly stacked on his desk, analyzing each page with meticulous detail. His wire-framed glasses sat perfectly on his thin face, complimenting his slicked black hair. “You have quite a record. Six schools in three years. You don’t seem to like staying in one place for very long.”
“I guess not.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I like new surroundings, I guess.”
“Perhaps it is because you’re not very fond of authority?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Yea.”
“Mr. Hudson. You are not the first boy to come to Crowam who thinks he knows how to game the system. Your kind thinks you have all the answers. Perhaps thinking you have it all figured out. I can assure you, Mr. Hudson, that is the furthest from the truth. To be blunt, you’re simple minded and two-dimensional. You only care about one person, and that is yourself.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“As I said, Mr. Hudson, I know your type. Observing you, watching you, you don’t want to be here anymore than any of the other boys, even if that means causing enough trouble so that I have no choice but to transfer you yet again to another school before you finally are too old to stay.”
“Maybe I like it here.”
“Do you?”
“It has its own charm, I guess.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“Yea, why not.”
He examined the files again. “Your father was a pilot, yes?”
All of a sudden, I got uneasy. Even though the chair was comfortable, I didn’t want to sit in it. While I didn’t mind trading bullshit with Mr. Hugo, I didn’t expect him to bring up my parents. “Yes?”
“Flew ten bomber missions over Europe. Was shot down in Germany after ten missions.”
“That’s right.”
“It says here the plane crashed in Duisburg. There wasn’t much left of the wreckage. The bodies burned before they could even recover them. Tragic.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. I thought you already knew.”
“I don’t need the details.”
“Everything is in the details, but I apologize if I’m upsetting you. I’ve always believed when one dies, that it is important to view the body. It brings closure and peace of mind. Seeing the stillness of the corpse before it is buried. Some people are disturbed by this, but I find a sense of beauty in it. Perhaps you saw your mother this way when she died.”
“Go to hell!” I yelled.
The guard entered urgently entered the room. My throat hurt from yelling. Mr. Hugo knew how to push my buttons. I felt like leaping out of the chair and strangling him. He sat in his chair motionless, only nodding at the guard, reassuring him I was no trouble, his smirk staying intact.
“Touchy subject I see. I’m sorry if I upset you. My curiosity does get the best of me.” His attempt at sincerity was pathetic. He enjoyed my anger, almost getting a rise from it, thriving off of my pain. “My parents, too, went their separate ways when I was a boy. My father was a businessman. He liked to drink. There were many times he would come home and take it out on us when the alcohol got the best of him. I would be in my bedroom and hear my parents argue. Sometimes the screams would put me to sleep. My mother left him when I was a teenager.”
“Why didn’t you go with her?”
“I suppose it was because I admired my father’s flaws. I thought I could perhaps help him, reform him. But I suppose some people can’t change. My mother, she eventually left to be with another man, leaving me alone. But as you see, Mr. Hudson, we are not that much different.” He got up and went to the mantel, taking out both pistols from their holsters. He brushed the metal of the pistols with his hands, caressing the cold metal, “I forgot to mention, I was in the war myself. It seemed so long ago. Yet the mem
ories are so vivid, so fresh, like they were yesterday. Are you familiar with firearms?”
“Not really.”
“This is a Luger PO8. This was given to me from a German soldier captured in Buchenwald prison shortly after it was liberated.” He grabbed the other pistol, holding both in his hands. “This is a Nagant M1895. This was also given to me by an officer, from the Soviet Army, as a gift for his liberation from Buchenwald. You see this pistol is unique because it has a gas steal system. The cylinder moves forward when you cock the gun, increasing velocity. Very unusual for a pistol of this type. The Luger is a semi-automatic. It’s sufficient, but the Nagant can be silent, deadly, precise.”
I sat uneasy as I watched Mr. Hugo give a lesson on weaponry.
He handled the pistols with care and diligence, making sure the chambers were clean and ready to use, even cocking the Nagant. “I remember the stories the officers told me about Buchenwald and the gulags. The methods that were used. The way violence was used to bring about order, to bring fear among the prisoners so they fall in line. There’s something about violence that is pure, so clean. I’m not talking about savage violence with no means to an end, but organized violence. Violence with a purpose. To bring order, to reform. Precise violence, Mr. Hudson. It’s in man’s nature to be violent. Why, the war was a perfect example. All the lives lost, the carnage. I saw such carnage in Buchenwald. The bodies of the prisoners stacked in pits in the ground. The smell of rotten flesh. That’s what I remember most vividly.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Mr. Hugo said with a slight grin.
“Would you like to hold it?” Mr. Hugo handed the Nagant handle first to me.
“What?”
“Hold it. Don’t worry, I want you to.”
I grabbed the pistol from Mr. Hugo’s firm grip. The handle was still warm.
“How does it feel?”
“Heavy.”
“That’s normal. I assume it’s your first time handling a firearm.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you feel like a cowboy?”
“Cowboy?”
“Yes, you Americans are fond of cowboys, aren’t you? The Wild West, is that you prefer to call it?” He stood holding the luger, pointing it in my direction.
I felt helpless, uncertain of Mr. Hugo’s intentions. I didn’t even know if the gun was loaded. He grinned wider now than when he spoke about violence and the horrors of Buchenwald, gulags, and the war. For the first time in my life, I was scared. I was intimidated by a man who seemed to have no soul or sense of morality; authority, order and violence occupied his soul. Seconds seemed like an eternity. I urgently handed him the Nagant. “I have to go. Pots and pans duty.”