Munroe and Stanka_The Beginning

by Daniela Jackson

  I can’t sleep. It’s so fucking cold that my teeth chatter together and my fingers go numb. A nurse leans over me and throws a blanket on my body. A few soldiers are getting drunk and start burbling, some of them go to be on guard whilst a few others come back from their watch to sit at the fire, as my mind drifts away to the sacred space of my childhood memories. I can’t fight it off. I should, but I can’t.

  I remember the warmth in my father’s glance when he looked at me, and the pride in his glance when he looked at my older brother. I remember his arguments with Vilma when he wanted to make a boy of me and she wanted to make a lady of me. The images float through my head, family gatherings, singing, joking. My beautiful pony. My books. My cousin Ana who died of tuberculosis at the age of twelve. My mother’s gravestone at the stone wall encircling the garden. My beloved brother. He taught me how to fish, how to swim, and how to climb a fence. How to scratch my knees and twist my ankle. Finally, the memory of that Jewish family in our basement. My brother fell in love with their oldest daughter, Alma. He wanted to marry her when the war ended. He broke her heart when the Germans killed him.

  Everything is lost now. My pain, my memories must be buried at the bottom of my heart. They must remain dead like my beloved family.

  I should be dead too. It would be easier. It would give me safety and peace.

  My eyes meet Munroe’s fierce gaze.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he growls as though he can see my thoughts.

  I lean against my elbow. “I—“

  “I know what you’re thinking about,” Munroe says, “and I’m telling you to stop thinking about it.” It sounds like a warning. “Sleep. It’s a long way to Dover.”

  He told me to sleep so I sleep.

  Munroe shakes my arm as the day is about to dawn. He hands me a half-full tin of toothpaste and a toothbrush. I thank him in a gruff voice then he tells me to jump onto the bike and we shoot into the misty greyness of the early morning.

  Munroe

  I don’t care what others think of me. I just can’t grasp my softness for that fucking little dandy behind me. It’s kind of interesting.

  I could have a son his age if I had a wife.

  I will make a man of him.

  Whoever raised him must have kept him far from the war. I could call him a fucking coward. I could. But I won’t. I’ll teach him to be a man instead. I will save him. I will save him from the world and from himself.

  I know what that sadness in his glance last night meant. I saw that sadness before. People who want to die have such sadness in their eyes. No fucking way. Not on my watch.

  We travel for many hours then I notice a half-burned barn surrounded by a few piles of stones. There is dry straw inside so I decide to stop for longer and get some sleep.

  Dandy curls into the stone wall as I throw a blanket over him and light an oil lamp. It exudes a musky scent blending with the smell of straw.

  I settle myself opposite him. “You know what women are for, dandy?”

  “They are born to be wives and mothers.”

  “You know what beautiful women are for?”

  “The same.”

  I take out two cigarettes from my pocket and light them, passing one on to the boy.

  “Beautiful women are for giving you a lot of fun,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  “Like sticking yer dick into a beautiful tight cunt.”

  Dandy coughs and sits up. He crosses his arms over his chest as though he wants to shield himself from some threat.

  “Have you ever been with a woman, dandy?”

  “No.”

  I thought so. “Smoke the cigarette.”

  He sticks the fag into his mouth and inhales. I expect him to have a coughing fit, but no, he smokes like he’s been a heavy smoker for years.

  “Good,” I say.

  “I stole a few from my father. I can smoke.”

  “Good. You’re not as much of a pussy as I thought you were.”

  He chuckles like girl, exhales a cloud of smoke and crushes the cigarette under his foot. “I’m sorry for earlier. They thought—“

  Now, I notice that his boots are too wide for him. “I don’t care.”

  I really don’t. I’ve seen enough evil in life not to care about unimportant things.

  Dandy reminds me of all the boys I saw die on the battlefields of Europe. They were too young to die, just kids who should have never witnessed the monstrosities of war, kids who should have had a long life, a future. Kids who sometimes made a desperate decision to die.

  I should have died, but I didn’t.

  I can teach dandy to be a man. I can save him.

  I couldn’t save all those kids, but I can do something about this boy’s delicacy.

  Chapter 3

  Stanka

  He takes his gun out and holds it in front of my eyes, explaining how to handle it. I nod like I’m an expert on guns which makes him laugh. I must be providing him with the best entertainment he’s had in his life.

  “Hold it,” he says and I obey him.

  “It’s heavy,” I say.

  It’s heavy as hell and cold like ice. My arm quivers as I raise my armed hand.

  Munroe shakes his head. “Try harder.”

  I hold the gun as he told me to and aim it at the opposite wall.

  “Pull the trigger,” Munroe says.

  “It’s too dark. I could kill someone.”

  “You talk like a woman. Fucking hell. Like a woman. Pull that fucking trigger. There’s nobody here, except us.”

  Dread surges through me. I have to try harder to convince him I’m a boy.

  I rise to my feet and spread them, bending my knees slightly then I straighten my arm. My hand trembles at the heaviness of the gun. Holding a weapon scares me to death. What if I put a bullet into my own feet by accident?

  I want to pee. I want to drop the gun and escape. But I don’t move. I take a deep breath and I pull the trigger. The sound of the gunshot deafens me, my body driven backwards. I lose balance and fall down. My ass seizes with pain as Munroe erupts into laughter.

  “Good,” he says and takes the gun from my hand. “I will teach ye how to use yer hands in a fight tomorrow.”

  My heart stops beating. “I can fight.”

  I can’t risk his hands touching my body. He’d discover my secret.

  “Oh really?” He smirks. “What else can you do like a man?”

  “I can swear. I can say ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’.”

  “That’s something, but I’m really interested in developing your fighting skills. It’s a long way to Edinburgh and I need you on my side in case of any shit. Capito?”

  Panic strangles my throat then a thought blasts in my head. “I’m different, sir.”

  “I can see that.”

  “No, I mean I like men.”

  Munroe scratches his head and arches his thick eyebrows at me. “Like you’re interested in men?”

  I nod, my legs crossed, palms on my knees. I put on my most serious expression and hold my lips tightly together.

  “So,” Munroe starts, amusement coating his voice, “have you ever been with a man?” He nods as though he’s having fun at my expense.

  Coldness runs through my veins. Why does he need to know? And what’s so fucking funny about my declaration? He should despise me yet, his eyes flicker mischievously as though I’m a really good entertainment for him.

  “No,” I say.

  He lowers his head to hide his wide grin then raises his eyes to mine. “That’s fine as long as you’re not interested in me.”

  “I’m not. I’m very uninterested in you, sir.”

  “Good. I love women. I love their big tits and hot tight cunts.” He seems to float in his own thoughts for a moment. “You know, dandy, I’ve seen things in life. Horrible things. I’ve seen German concentration camps, I’ve seen Russians burn Polish estates and kill people like you, I’ve seen kids die on a battlefield.” He stops,
lights another cigarette and huffs out. His foot tramples the ash falling down from the cigarette. “I’ve seen good things like Germans helping Jews, Germans working and dying together with Polish and Czech partisans. I met two old folks in Portugal who claimed to be brothers, but the whole village knew they weren’t. They were a couple. Like a married couple.” He nods then tilts his head, his eyes shining like he’s watching the mystery of mountains in the morning. “Every woman of the village left their children with them because they were perfect nannies. I saw it with my own eyes. Those two folks were good people.”

  His eyes slide over the burnt part of the barn as I watch him, stunned. He looks forty years old, but emanates the wisdom and tolerance of a very old and experienced person. The same wisdom as Vilma’s.

  “I can teach you to read, sir.” As the last word leaves my mouth, I regret my offer.

  Munroe looks at me as though he wants to kill me, his jaws clenching. Then he nods.

  “I’ll teach you to fight,” he says, “and you’ll teach me to read. That’s a fair deal.” He extends his arm and we shake hands.

  His grip is strong, hot, and his calluses scratch my skin.

  I want to scream. That’s a fucking dangerous deal.

  “What did you do before the war, sir?” I ask, paying attention to every word so he won’t discover my anxiety.

  Munroe chuckles. “I was a gangster.”

  Breath stops in my throat. He’s joking. Gangsters don’t fight in war, don’t behave like honourable men, and don’t show compassion for anyone.

  “Now I’m just a tired old soldier,” he continues.

  Pain sharpens his face like he’s on a battlefield again. Like he’s losing everything dear to him. My hand jerks up to touch his face and comfort him, but I shove it into the pocket of my trousers instead.

  I have to be careful.

  My father taught me to respect every human on earth, to help others especially those vulnerable, hurt, in need, but this man is dangerous. I have to remember this all the time.

  I doubt he was a gangster. He wants to scare me for his own entertainment, but, you never know. Maybe I should act around him like he is a criminal? No, too many fears will make me clumsy; I could expose myself. I have to be bold.

  “What are the medals for?” I ask, my voice as casual as I can manage.

  “For causing an explosion, for saving three important asses,” he says like he’s angry then pauses taking a few deep breaths, “and for surviving one big battle. No big deal.”

  “You’re too modest, sir. I’m sure your acts were brave enough to deserve those medals.”

  “Those who died should have received my medals instead of me. I was just lucky.”

  I don’t ask more questions. For some reason, he’s angry that he has survived the war while others haven’t. I know he couldn’t save them even if he wanted to. The war killed them.

  “You did a lot, sir,” I say.

  “Sleep.”

  Munroe

  I tell him to have a good sleep. He is a funny dandy. I know he wants to avoid fighting with me at all costs and I wonder why. Maybe dandies like him don’t like proving themselves.

  Well, I’m going to make a man of him whether he wants to or not.

  I tear him out of his nap early in the morning and we continue our journey.

  I notice an abandoned lorry and a tank so I stop to fuel my bike. Dandy knows what to do this time. He moves with a springy elegance. I’m watching him and smoking a cigarette ten steps away from him so I won’t cause any explosion.

  He fuels my bike, rubs his hands against his dirty oversized trousers, and smiles at me.

  “Good job,” I say.

  He raises his thumb up.

  I must admit he’s smart and learns things quickly. With his graceful movements, he could become a perfect thief. Maybe I could take an apprentice. He doesn’t need to join his fucking stiff family. Those aristocrats are only his distant relatives. I have a gut feeling that he’ll do very good under my command like the boys I once had under my command. I taught them the principles of thievery. I taught them to fight. I taught them to have honour.

  Well, I need to think about it.

  I throw my cigarette onto the ground and crush it with my boot. A flock of crows land on the ground about twenty steps away from us. They emit harsh caws, bringing gloom to my heart. I feel like I’m standing in the graveyard. Dandy must feel as uneasy as me because he cringes into himself.

  The flock rises up. Their wings flap dreadfully as I watch them flying farther and farther away from us. The sound of heavy footsteps diverts my attention as two men emerge from behind the lorry.

  Fuck. They look like German soldiers on the run, deserters probably, still wearing the scraps of uniforms. That means big trouble. I steel myself as they approach us and our glances meet. Their blue eyes radiate with primal fear then ruthlessness appears on their dirty unshaven faces. They bring their fists up to their chests.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” I say in my broken German.

  They are young, twenty years old at most, very much alike. Brothers possibly? Brothers who watch over each other, fight for each other.

  The war is over. I don’t want to kill anymore.

  The soldiers bend slightly forward and one of them leaps towards me as the other aims for the boy.

  I’m a good fighter. I’ve been fighting since I was orphaned by my parents. I dodge my opponent as Dandy’s squeal hits my ears. Rage fills my veins. My cold instinct of survival is all that guides me.

  I sweep my arm, slamming my fist into my opponent’s chest. He growls a German swear word as he falls to his knees. I step back, watching him recover. We circle around one another then I plunge towards him and punch him in the abdomen. He groans and falls down, curling on the ground. I kick his abdomen, making him vomit, hard enough to immobilise him. He’ll survive though. I don’t intend to kill anybody today.

  I turn around and fix my eyes on the boy. He’s lying on the ground and the other German soldier is on top of him. They look like they are fucking and that thought freezes me. Fucking hell. What a circus. The soldier freezes in a funny position like a mannequin and Dandy kicks him in the crotch, making him groan. A wide grin crosses my face as the boy shakes his opponent off him and scrambles to his feet.

  I move towards them, lean over the soldier, and punch him in the face to immobilise him.

  “Kill them,” Dandy growls and sobs like a girl.

  “No killing,” I growl. “The war is over. They are as scared as ye are. They only want to survive at any cost like you.”

  I slap him on the back and he bends, huffing out.

  “Don’t touch me,” Dandy growls.

  “Just wanted to praise ye for yer achievement.”

  “Your kind word would be more valuable to me, sir.”

  Kind word? Not under my command. “Men slap each other’s back, boy.”

  Stanka

  I can’t breathe.

  Munroe raises his hand to slap my back again so I move to the side and shield myself with my hands.

  I was lucky.

  The soldier knocked me out with just one kick. He crushed my body with his and discovered my breasts. It made him freeze with consternation and gave me an advantage.

  I jump onto the bike and wave my hand to Munroe so we can leave this area as soon as possible, before my knocked out opponent spills my secret.

  I’m safe with Munroe for as long as he thinks I’m a boy.

  I’m determined to keep my true identity secret.

  It seems like I’m determined enough to even kill.

  Germans killed my brother. I hate them, but Munroe seems like he doesn’t. I wonder whether he’s tired of killing, or knows more than me. He’s tolerant, more tolerant than me. Wiser than me. Well, he’s much older than me so he should be wiser. I’m only eighteen. I know nothing about life.

  The bike shoots forward and I hold on to Munroe, but smother all the sympathy for
him sprouting at the bottom of my heart.

  I should be scared of him. I should be careful around him. I should hate him.

  Chapter 4

  Stanka

  We travel for a few hours then stop in front of a house built of red brick. Two black skeletons of once beautiful oak trees guard it like two dead knights resurrected from ashes. A red flare on the horizon gives the area an unearthly appearance like we’re standing at the gates of hell as the cold seeps into the marrow of my bones.

  Munroe knocks on the front door touched by time and harsh weather. The damage is visible in cracks and a black tinge on the wood.

  The owners of the house, an old man and his wife invite us in and serve us a meal in the kitchen. They’re scared of Munroe, silent like two gravestones, despair visible in every glance of their pale eyes.

  Poverty radiates from each corner of the kitchen, but it’s surprisingly clean as are our hosts’ clothes. I smell myself and stir in embarrassment. I’m too dirty to be in this house, but our hosts don’t reveal whether they disapprove my unhygienic condition or not.

  I settle myself at the table and my eyes slide over two framed photographs of four young men that hang on the cracked white walls.

  “Your sons?” I ask in German.

  The woman nods several times as her eyes turn glassy. Her chest shakes and she hugs herself then rubs her palms against the grey apron atop her long flowery skirt. Her movements are nervous and I can see she’s on edge, but her husband shoots her a cold glance and she composes herself then leaves the kitchen, disappearing into another room.

  “We’re still waiting for them to return,” the man says in a hoarse voice and pours more ale into Munroe’s glass.

  “Your names?” Munroe asks.

  “Anselm and Hilde,” the man says and takes a seat opposite Munroe, hostility darkening his glance.

  We are intruders, violating the peace of this house. My stomach feels like something is twisting it.

  No, our hosts are Germans, the monsters who started the war, and they owe us food and shelter. They deserve to be scared of us now.

  “Munroe, and this is Mattias,” Munroe says, jutting his chin towards me.

  Anselm bows his head to Munroe and ignores me like I’m just dust on the cupboard.