by Frank Nunez
“I say when it is you are ready to leave, Mr. Hudson!” His yell was loud, stern, and brief. He took the pistol out of my hand. My hand trembled. His grin faded away. “You may go.”
I quickly got up from my chair.
“I hope our meeting was an educational one,” he said.
“Sure,” I said as I exited the office.
Thomas waited for me in the kitchen, getting a head start on the pots and pans. I immediately grabbed the pots and pans, submerging my hands in the soapy, dirty water.
“How was your meeting with, Mr. Hugo?” Thomas asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
“It couldn’t have been that bad.”
“How the hell would you know? Were you there?’
“Why are you so upset, Jake? I didn’t mean to pry.”
I splashed some of that dirty soap water on his face. I didn’t care about the sour meat and grime that floated in the water. “We’re in trouble, Thomas.”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
“This guy, Mr. Hugo. He’s no ordinary cat.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“He’s different. He’s not like these other headmasters I’ve come across.”
“What did he say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. You’re scared out of your wits and you won’t even talk about it.”
“Just forget it. I just want to finish the pots and pans and go to bed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yea, I’m sure.” I couldn’t find any words to describe my meeting with Mr. Hugo, especially words that Thomas would understand. Maybe my vocabulary was lacking. I knew one thing for sure. Our stay at Crowam no. 281 would be an unpleasant one.
Chapter 11
Even though I was tired, I just couldn’t sleep that night. I tossed and turned underneath my bed covers, unable to break free from my uneasiness. I wrestled with the tension that seemed to intensify with every day I stated at Crowam 281.
It was a God forsaken hour. I decided to read some more Dickens, starting where I left off. I read a few more chapters. I got out of my bed to wake up Thomas, who was sound asleep. “Hey, wake up.” I tapped his shoulder. He slept like a rock. I shoved him this time. “Hey Thomas.” He must have been in a coma. I shoved him some more. “Come on, wake up!” I yelled.
The kid nearly fell off his bed, he was so startled. His eyes were squinty and crusty from sleep. “What in the world?”
“You awake?”
“Of course I’m awake, you bloody fool. You woke me up!”
“I have a question.”
“A question? Now? Do you even know what time it is?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s probably very late or very early. Whatever the case, most human beings are sleeping at this hour.”
“Yea, yea. I get it, sorry. Look, can you answer my question or not?”
“I will do my best.”
“Atta boy. What’s the deal with Dr. Mannette?
“Dr. Mannette?”
“Yea, what’s his deal with making them shoes?”
“Oh, I see you’re reading some Dickens. Splendid!”
“Yea, whoo me, anyway, what’s his deal?”
“His deal?”
“Yea, Lucy found him making shoes like a mad man.”
“Well, you answered the question within your own question?’
“Huh?”
“Dr. Mannette was driven to make shoes out of sheer madness while staying at Bastille prison in France.”
“No kidding.”
“Yes, if it serves me correctly, he did it as a distraction from the horrors he witnessed at Bastille.”
“What happens to him?”
“You’ll have to keep reading. I don’t want to spoil it for you.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Trust me, it gets better.”
“Can I ask you another question?”
“I could really use some sleep, Jake.”
“Just one more question, promise.”
“Very well.”
“My meeting with Mr. Hugo. One of the things he talked about...”
Thomas eagerly leaned on the side of bed, curious at what I had to say. “Well, what is it Jake”
“Have you ever heard of Buchenwald prison?”
For a moment I thought I was looking at a ghost. His face flushed and then turned white. He laid back on his bed, his eyes filled with sorrow. “Yes, I’ve heard of Buchenwald.”
“Was it like the Bastille?”
“Worse, I’m afraid, much worse.” Thomas got up and looked out the small window overlooking the forest past the perimeter grounds.
I detected pain from his gaze. I got to him with my question and I didn’t mean to. He was so eager to learn about my conversation with Mr. Hugo, I figured I’d satisfy his curiosity.
“When I was a small boy, my parents moved to Germany, shortly before the war escalated. My mother was German, my father being British, of course. My father got a position at a small bank in Berlin, so we moved. I can remember all of us being so very happy. My mother always used to tuck me in every night. She would read to me as I fell asleep. Her voice was so soothing. Sometimes I imagine her reading to me as I go to sleep, even now. My father, every Friday, would bring me a toy from the local toy store. My favorite was a wooden horse that would rock back and forth. We were all so very happy, before the war, before the Gestapo.”
“What happened to your parents?”
“At first, it started with harassment. Then, they made us wear patches with a star so everyone knew we were Jews. My father knew what was coming next. He knew the worst was yet to come. So a family friend took me in the back of a truck to Spain, where I eventually made it back to England. I can remember the night I left. It was raining. Cold. My father, he was a man of few words. All he said to me was, ‘Thomas, you must be brave now. You must be very brave.’ That was the last time I ever saw my parents again. I learned a few years later that they were sent to Buchenwald.”
“Have you ever tried finding them? Maybe they survived.”
“I made several futile attempts, but with no luck. I have no delusions. I’ve heard of what they did to prisoners there. Once the Soviets occupied the camp, things got worse. They have their own methods for dealing with political prisoners.”
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t your parents escape with you?”
“My father was a well-respected man of the community. He was also a man of principle.”
“I’m sorry, Thomas.”
“It’s quite alright. Anyway, I hope you continue reading A Tale of Two Cities. It’s well worth the read.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Very good. Well, if you don’t mind. I’m off to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Thomas.”
I turned off the light. The moon’s shine struck Thomas’s side of the room. I watched him sleep for a moment before I went to bed.
Chapter 12
The boy’s locker room was in the basement, beneath the cafeteria where we heard the footsteps of those above us coming and going in the “matter of fact” of how things were run in Crowam. The lockers were green and rustic. The odor of sweat and youth and of athletic accomplishment that would symbolize the highlight for so many who longed for the past. A past that seemed so fleeting as to astound even the most astute observer of their surroundings.
It was a putrid odor nonetheless. A library of athletic sportsmanship whose books were the ghosts and memories of athletic competition that sustained itself through word of mouth, passed on by student to student. But there was no telling if those memories were passed on, only to be thrown into the ash heap of obscurity.
There was a pair of weights, a soccer ball, and a few other pieces of athletic equipment that seemed to have been unused for sometime. Crowam stressed the importance of physical condi
tioning. There was no sport about it. No competition. Just pure physical conditioning only a boot camp could accommodate. And worse, no fun.
It was a grey and cold day, even by Great Britain’s standards. Despite the cold weather, my gym clothes were drenched in sweat. We all ran one behind the other, running around the grounds of Crowam. Each lap was more agonizing than the next because of the cold. Me and some of the other boys managed to hold their own. Others struggled, huffing and puffing, trying to get some air into their lungs.
Poor Charles. The bastard could barely make it past three laps. He fell back behind me. “Come on tubby boy, move on with it now. Come on,” the physical education instructor yelled. He was a short man with a stocky and physical build. He even had a thick mustache.
Names were a luxury at Crowam. With the exception of Mr. Hugo and Hannah, nobody else ever gave us their names. They remained nameless, perhaps to conceal their past and who they really were.
Owen picked Charles up off the ground, helping him with each lap. “Damn it boy, I can’t run for you,” Owen said.
“I feel sick.” Charles vomited all over himself, getting some of the chunks on Owen.
“For God’s sake, Charles!”
“I’m sorry,” Charles said.
“What in bloody hell is this?” the instructor yelled.
“I don’t feel well,” Charles said.
“You don’t feel good?” the instructor yelled.
“No sir.” Charles fell to the ground.
The instructor kicked dirt in Charles’s face. “Do you feel good now?”
“No.”
He kicked more dirt at Charles. “How about now?”
“No sir.”
The instructor kicked even more dirt in Charles’s face. “Any better?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, help him up,” the instructor said to Owen.
Charles was limping from a sore knee, but he still managed.
Felix tried to make some fun out the whole thing. “Come on, gentlemen. Let us pretend we are marching into battle!”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Why yes. For love of country boys! Who shall we pretend to fight?” Felix asked.
“The Nazis?” I said.
“Yes, Nazis. Throw in some Russians. How about the French? No wait, Italy. Why not, we’ll fight them all!”
“I like your enthusiasm,” I said.
After our run, we performed numerous exercises like pushups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks. We were all exhausted at the end. Our grey sweatpants and sweaters were drenched in mud and dirt from the morning rain.
“I can barely feel my legs,” Thomas said. “They’re on fire.”
“A little exercise won’t hurt,” I said.
“It seems to hurt for me,” Thomas said.
“How are you feeling?” Owen asked Charles.
“Awful. God awful. My whole body aches. I don’t feel good.” Charles looked like he was going to vomit.
“Go in the corner and vomit all over yourself then. I still have your leftover breakfast on my sweater!”
Charles went off by himself and threw up some more. The vomit was now nothing more than yellow bile that oozed on the cold wet ground. His knees started to shake, looking like they were going to buckle underneath him. He wiped his mouth, coming back to the group.
“Feel better?” I asked.
“A little,” Charles said.
Across the yard, the PE instructor yelled at little Petey, making him do jumping jacks and pushups. “Come on you little twerp, move it now!” the PE instructor yelled like a drill sergeant. Petey couldn’t keep up with his instructions. He fell on the muddy, wet ground, making a splash. He began to cry loud enough so the boys could hear.
“You little twerp, what are you crying for? Get up!”
“I can’t,” Petey cried.
The instructor kicked mud at him. “Get up!” He kicked again. “Get up you little shit!”
I’d never seen a boy cry like that before. His cry hurt me inside, tearing me up pretty good. All the boys of Crowam stood there as this large brute of a man picked on this little child.
By the time the instructor was through, Petey was covered in mud. He walked alone in the corner of the yard and whimpered silently to himself as we stood by and did nothing. I stood by Charles as he wiped chunks of puke from his gray sweater.
After exercise, the guards marched us to the front of Crowam. We all stood in full military attention, lined up beside one another like we were awaiting orders from a general. We were told not to speak, only to look straight ahead.
Mr. Hugo, along with another guard, exited Crowam with his hands behind his back. He walked to the front of the line of boys awaiting inspection. He slowly made his way up the line of boys, methodically inspecting each one. Charles was a mess. His sweater was stained with vomit, some of it still on his mouth. He had trouble standing up, seeming like he was going to puke again.
Charle’s day wasn’t getting any better. Mr. Hugo stopped at Charles, unamused. “What’s wrong with this one?” he asked the guard.
“Seems like he had trouble with his run this morning, sir. A bit out of shape.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Hugo said.
Charles leaned over to gag again. The guard pulled out his billy club, pressed it on Charles’s chin, and raised it with force. “Stand in attention during headcount boy!”
Mr. Hugo calmed the guard. “It’s quite alright. Like you said, he’s out of shape.” He pulled out his clipboard, examining the list. “Charles Montgomery is it?”
“Yes sir.” Charles nearly gaged, swallowing the bile back.
Mr. Hugo was unamused and disgusted. He even rolled his eyes. “You seem to be ill Charles.”
“Upset stomach, sir.”
“Having too many biscuits, are we?”
Charles shrugged his shoulders.
“We are a bit pudgy, aren’t we?”
“I prefer to be called husky, sir.”
“Are you questioning my judgment?”
“No sir, I just...”
“Just what?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing? You were in the middle of a retort. Am I incorrect?”
“Well I...”
“Mr. Montgomery, you seem to have very little respect for my judgment.”
“That’s not true, sir.”
“So, I’m a liar now?”
“No, sir.”
“You seem to be a very confused and ‘husky’ boy, Mr. Montgomery. Perhaps a little more exercise will do you some good.” Mr. Hugo snapped his fingers, before the guard barked orders at Charles.
“Alright, move it now, run, let’s go,” the guard yelled at Charles as he struggled to jog around the courtyard.
Mr. Hugo continued to examine each boy. Mr. Hugo reached me. He stopped for a moment, only to smile, then moved on.
Chapter 13
The light from the candle flickered in the darkness of the basement. It became our sanctuary away from the everyday routine of Crowam. Pots and pans were awful, leaving the smell of sub-par food on my hands and body. We drank vodka around the ambience of the candles that lit up the basement. Petey was by himself, looking down at the floor, as the rest of the boys had their fun. I felt sorry for him, a young boy alone in a teenage world, losing his childhood with every day wasted in this godforsaken place. In a way, we all lost our childhood there.
“How you doing, sport?” I asked Petey, who continued to stare down at the floor. “Rough day today, huh?”
He wiped his eyes a bit. It looked like he was going to cry again. I was shocked the kid had more tears left in him after this morning. “You’re not gonna cry again, are you?”
“I’m not crying.”
“Well, it sure as hell looks like you are”
His eyes squinted as he tried to fight back the tears.
“I gotta say, you’re a pretty tough kid.”
A smile broke out on his fac
e. “Really?”
“Yea. I think you gave our PE instructor a run for his money. You hung tough even when he was getting underneath your skin.”
Petey jumped up with a renewed sense of vigor. “I guess I was tough!”
“That’s the spirit. You’re a regular Gary Cooper!”
“Yup, yup!” He pointed at the glass of vodka I was holding.
“What, you want a sip?”
He nodded his head.
“I don’t know kid. This stuff’s no good for you. It’ll rot your insides. Besides you…” Petey’s lips started to quiver again, his eyes were ready to burst into tears. To be honest, the kid cried too much for my taste. He reminded me when my mom died. I cried like I was a human faucet. I promised myself I would never cry like that again. I’d give the kid a break. He had a rough day. “Alright kid. Just a sip if it will keep you from bawling all over again.” I handed him the glass. He took a sip, his face cringed with disgust. He took another swig. I took the glass away from him. “Alright that’s enough kid. Christ, you’re going to turn into an alcoholic at the tender age of six!”
Charles was dining away on some biscuits and vodka, an odd combination for someone who was regurgitating his breakfast earlier in the day.
“Sure, that’s a good idea to eat all them biscuits?” I asked.
“Owen snuck them from the kitchen. They’re putting me on a diet. I only had dry meat and an apple for dinner.”
“Don’t you know, Mr. Hugo is a fine human being. A splendid fellow who’s looking out for your best interest!” I said.
“Bloody nonsense!
“Charles has the appetite of three men. How can he suffice on such paltry fair?” Owen asked.
Charles sure loved to eat. A boy with one hell of an appetite. I suppose we all had our appetites.