The Boy Who Saw in Colours

by Lauren Robinson

  “Things are going to get crazy, and you will see a lot of scary things. But look for the helpers. There are always going to be people who will help.”

  “But...”

  “We’ve talked about interrupting, Josef. We don’t want to make a big fuss. Maybe someday we will come back and live as… as a family again. Maybe not. Ich weiss nicht. I don’t know.”

  There was that word was again – “maybe”.

  Maybe.

  Maybe.

  The meaning of “maybe” in the grown-up dictionary: never.

  Like the time I wanted to get a new bicycle, because I had fallen off my old one and broken a pedal off, and Father said maybe he would buy me another, but I never did get that bicycle. In my mind, I tried to make the definition of maybe turn into definitely, to keep me sane – to keep me holding onto some hope that we would return home soon.

  Tears welled.

  “Are we leaving because of the men in uniforms?” It was a dangerous question and one that I should have asked that day. Maybe then Mother would have seen me as a child capable of understanding grown-up emotions. Perhaps then she would have shared her calm instead of joining in on my chaos. “Ja, Mama. I understand.”

  I wanted to tell Mother that day how hard it was for me to leave and how hard it was for me to tell her how hard it was for me to leave. I was scared. Maybe if I said, “I’m scared,” things would have been different, and Mother would have known who I was. But I couldn’t. I buried things too deep inside me for too long, and now I couldn’t find the words, and Mother didn’t understand the language of the colours swarming around in my mind.

  I left with a hole punctured in my back. Not one big enough to see with the naked eye, but big enough for things to come leaking out of it.

  I kicked my chair, about which Mother made no fuss. If it were a normal day, I would have been given a talking-to, but this was no typical day. I knew that nothing I could have said would have made a difference. After all, grown-ups make the rules, and children just have to follow them. I knew that pleading was useless because no matter how much I begged, she would never understand what painting meant to me. It would be like trying to explain to her what colour the number two smells like. Lemon colour, for those of you who care.

  Tomas had been standing at the other side of the door, listening carefully.

  “Geht’s dir gut? You good?” Tomas asked, when I exited the room.

  “Ja,” I said back, trying to fight back the disappointment I was hiding behind my eyes.

  We made our way upstairs slowly, holding onto the banister with one hand. I wondered if the new place would have a delicate banister to slide down as this one did. Sliding down the banister was a pastime. We liked to race.

  I looked around for a moment and remembered all the happy times we shared in our house. The place where the Christmas tree stood in December, and how every year we took turns to be lifted to the top of the tree, with branches that touched the clouds, and perch the angel on top. The porch where we took off our muddy shoes when we went splashing through the puddles in the winter months.

  The hall where my paintings hung. The sports awards on the floating shelves. We were good at long-distance sports, and we often got the attention of many notable people, like the men in funny hats.

  Father’s books sighed on their shelves.

  The picture of the Führer hung gloriously on the wall above the stairs. When we got it, it caused quite the stir, but everyone soon got over it.

  It wasn’t much, but it was our home. It was ours.

  Sometimes having to say goodbye to a house you grew up in is just as hard as saying goodbye to a person you knew your whole life.

  I heard Father entering the office. There was mumbling for many sentences.

  “Why would you sell his book? It would only be worth a few Pfennigs.” Inaudible. “You know what he’s like.”

  Until Mother spoke loudly to Father.

  “We need all the Pfennigs we can get, Ben. He must learn to sacrifice for family…”

  Which caused Father to speak louder than Mother could, and that put an end to their conversation.

  “He’s twelve! The children didn’t start this! Why punish them?”

  Then the door of the lounge closed and I couldn’t hear any more. I buried my head into the banister of the staircase.

  Tomas was close to crying.

  He looked at me. I wanted nothing more than to pull him into the cardigan that grandma had knitted, but I didn’t. Instead, I placed a hand on his shoulder, and I whispered, “Everything is going to be fine.”

  But the truth is, I didn’t want everything to fine. Fine is boring. Fine may as well be awful. I was afraid of fine. I was afraid that every time life let me down, I would keep telling everyone that I was fine and fine would be my reality forever. I would live secret emotions, them peaking over walls from time to time, reminding me that I am still alive.

  “I’ll race you.” Tomas stood up, wiping the streaks on his face and propping himself up on the banister. “Stop being sad like a wussy.”

  My face managed a smile and ran to the top of the banister.

  “I bet I can beat you down.”

  “Only if you can catch me!”

  4

  Questions And Melting Ice-Cream

  *Queen Pink*Quinacridone Magenta*

  Some of the truth had already revealed itself. It came exactly one week before Christmas, and stress was stacked high on Mother and Father’s backs. They tried to hide from us, and perhaps they had successfully lied to Tomas, but I knew that things just haven’t metamorphosed for no apparent reason.

  The reason for my curiosity came that day, just a few days after my grandmother was buried. Father still wore the grief of losing his mother like a fresh coat of white paint. Lines on his face gave away the pain that he tried to conceal.

  We were walking along the rough, cobbled streets that made my feet ache.

  It was a Tuesday. The colour was indigo blue.

  We were going to buy sweets as a reward for our co-operation. Or simply so Father could get away from Mother for a few minutes, Mother told Father that he shouldn’t go, but he was persistent. She was unravelling. And fast, snapping at us for simple things like saying “hello” to father’s friends or sticking our tongues out at sad-looking boys in the marketplace, where our aunt worked.

  We walked carefully beside Father, him holding Tomas’ hand tightly like he was afraid that the wind might carry him away.

  It was a miracle I went at all. I was painting a new picture of the rabbit I had spotted on the train. I tried to use the old paintbrush, but the bristles were too hard, and trying to soften them with water wouldn’t do, so I decided to go.

  The buildings were tight together and loomed over us, like a forest of stone. When I looked up, the roofs were so close that I could only make out a sliver of the blue sky that was mirrored by the tiny stream of light – the alleyway, where the shop was, twisted and turned back on itself. Whether I’d look in front or behind, I saw nothing but stone – and people.

  Then came the staring.

  Every lethal stare felt painful and piercing as if their glare was tearing me apart with a blinding, teal light.

  I couldn’t breathe. It felt like the air was choking me. A terrified, but composed look from over Tomas’ shoulder confirmed that he could feel it too. Father kept walking, keeping his eyes focused on the stacked-together buildings.

  I looked at my hands to make sure that I was still human. The peoples’ eyes stared with such hatred that the colours were force-fed – every cold stare after another.

  Staring at father, this time with more momentum. He couldn’t hear my fear. The man that stared back was not my father at all. He had that same dead look in his eyes that he did on the train.

  He looked pale. Defeated.

  My mind once again drifted to the colours – for comfort.

  Tomas’ coat.

  Blue.

  Like
a midwinter night an hour before pitch dark. That colour you see as velvet no matter what texture it is. Yet, even under my chilled fingertips, the fabric was far from soft.

  Father wore a sandy-coloured duffel coat with sable toggles and straps. On his neck, he wore a pendant with the star of David. He had only just started wearing it.

  People were coming from everywhere.

  I had never been claustrophobic before, but in that powerful swell of humanity, I felt the panic rise in my chest. When Father and Tomas moved, I had to move with them, quickly, and if my feet failed to keep up, I risked being trampled.

  People were gaunt and serious. There was hardly a single utterance, save for a few frightened yelps from other children. There was nothing for it, but to move with the crowd. I could smell them too, the people, I mean, an unholy agglomeration of perfumes, body odour, and over-applied cologne. A siren came from behind the buildings, startling the seething mass.

  When we arrived, I could spot two figures. They looked like two miniature army men. But when I squeezed my eyes together really tightly, those toys turned into people. As you might expect, they were Nazis in uniforms. One was short. The other very tall. I realised that I knew these men. They were friends of our mother and had been in our home on several occasions.

  “Look, Papa – Niklas and Hans!” Tomas’ eyes widened.

  My breathing calmed. When we would meet the soldiers in the company of Mother, we would all beam at each other. We slapped each other’s backs and shook hands, chatted over glasses of pale tea. Sometimes they would offer us chocolate, which was very exciting because we rarely got any.

  It was odd, though, because I’d never seen those men standing there before, and we had made many trips to the shop over my twelve years.

  I don’t like odd things. They never seem to mean anything good.

  “Ben,” Niklas called. His voice was indignant. The small man always spoke first, even though he wasn’t in charge. “We don’t want any trouble here.” He pointed to a sign on the door,

  “Juden Werden Heir Nicht Bedient – No Jews served here.”

  I was startled by the harshness of his voice. I knew that whatever would come next wouldn’t be good. The way he stood, the way he stared at us, even his breath smelt like trouble.

  “I’m not here for trouble.” Father’s eyes were shivering, and he wore his shame on his shirt like a tie. “I am here to get my son’s sweets.” His arm stretched out to the tall man. “Come on. You know me. I’m Lissette’s husband.”

  The tall man, Hans, sighed. His sigh was intense, but not subdued. It was frustrated but not yet sad. “You know the rules, Ben.”

  Father remained. “I’ve come here many times without any problems,” he finally spoke.

  He looked as if his brain had shut down. He was clammy, and there was the glisten of cold sweat.

  He pulled us behind him. “Please. I promised my boys.”

  “Can’t you read?”

  “It’s illegal to serve a Jew in this establishment.”

  “I’m sorry… I’m no...” Father tried to form a sentence.

  “I’m an accountant. I pay my taxes. I’m entitled to everything inside that shop.”

  “An accountant?” The small, fat guard laughed.

  “Ja. I’m a graduate of the University of Milan. You know this.”

  The duo shared a patronising look and laughed in my father’s face. Then the smaller man spoke. “An educated Jew? That’s as rare as hen’s teeth.”

  Then it happened.

  Quickly.

  The small man’s hand travelled towards me before another hand hastily elbowed it away.

  “Don’t touch my son.”

  The hand that held firmly onto me and my brother let go.

  An arm was swatted.

  I watched Father as he was forced to kneel.

  “I have a gift for you,” Hans said.

  “Josef… Tomas. Look at the snow, darlings. Look …” Father said.

  Tomas diverted his eyes to the snow strewn along the road.

  Father realised, however, that I was determined to keep my eyes on him, and perhaps it was something that I should have seen.

  Tomas stood with me in the cold, winter air. We did not speak.

  “Schweinehund!” A swing of a fist. “You filthy pig!”

  He was cracked hard across his face, catching his ear, collapsing him to the ground. On his back, he was hit again. Each time, he would try to get up and look for us.

  He should have stayed down.

  I looked. I swallowed hard as Father was beaten.

  Tomas screamed.

  Civilians came to witness the humiliation. Among them were humans who hung their heads in shame. Some tried to pry our gaze away. Some watched, glowing German pride. We got lost in the crowd.

  I wished for someone, anyone, to step in and stop it. Catch my father in his arms and stop the madness.

  But no one did.

  Father was hit with the soldier’s fist six times before he collapsed to the ground, and this time, he did not get up. His face was burning five lines of fire. His knees were aching on the pavement.

  The Star of David necklace kindled under his shirt, and father made several attempts to put it out. But it was no use.

  Father coughed.

  I felt sick.

  When it finally did end, I managed to fight my way through the crowd to help Father up. I entered from the back. There were many voices, words, and sunlight. Tomas leaned forward. The skinnier of the men reached down and ran his gloved fingers through my brother’s hair.

  “Such beautiful children too. Shame.” His eyes were genuinely filled with sorrow.

  I dragged father towards the back of the block of shops – for fresh air.

  Tomas followed in disarray.

  No one came to our aid.

  A few younger men called Father a ‘Kike’ from the crowd.

  He didn’t do as I expected. He didn’t tell the soldiers that there had been some mistake. He didn’t scream or yell at them. He didn’t even try to make a joke to comfort us.

  Nothing.

  He collapsed down the side of the wall.

  “Papa, are you all right?” I asked him.

  He couldn’t answer.

  All he could do was pull Tomas and me towards him, wrapping his arms around us tightly. He was decorated with hopeless fear, clutching his Star of David pendant.

  All three of us just sat on the ground, unable to say what needed to be said. Tomas’ eyes were wet. I clung to myself.

  We were kneeling in the shadow. In an hour, it would all dissolve into the blackness of the coming night. Breath collapsed. It slipped down over Father’s throat. He managed to speak. “I’m sorry, boys.” He said it to my forehead.

  More slabs of breath.

  “We’ll get sweets another time, okay? We’ll have Mama take you.”

  Then there was an image, fast and hot.

  A large glob of bright orange.

  Niklas stood over us with a hollow smile.

  Father dragged himself behind us, holding the men’s gift in his hands. Blood soaked his coat.

  The same, sorrow-eyed man that had beaten Father approached us, two ice creams in hand. We stood before him, expecting another handful of derision, but we watched as he bent down, and he offered them to us. We took them.

  Tomas thanked him. I didn’t.

  The man left.

  Father watched.

  I didn’t even eat the ice cream. I simply held it until it started to melt and watched it run down my arm.

  Later that night, when we went to bed, we debated the events of the evening.

  “Why were Mama’s friends so horrible to Papa?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe they’re unfulfilled.”

  I laughed.

  We often heard grown-ups talking to our mother and father about this topic, when they thought we weren’t listening.

  In the end, we fell asleep. We talked our way to
unconsciousness.

  I could feel the ice-cream running down my arm, and I counted blue stars in my head.

  5

  Secret Suitcases

  *Sapphire*Stricken Blue*Starry-shoulder blonde

  Then came January 1, 1940 – when it all went wrong.

  The night that destroyed my family forever.

  Mother left a forbidden letter, and we took the secret suitcases. We hid them under the sink until it came time to go. I would never know the contents of the letter, and Father would never learn about its existence. When Mother wrote the words, her pen was heavy. She had to keep putting it down. Then in a final guilt-stricken motion, she slid the envelope under the dresser for someone to find.

  I suppose she thought it would take longer for it to be discovered, and by then, we’d be in Vienna. I wish I knew how lonely she was at that moment. But alas, not a day after we left, there would be two German visitors. They knew we had gone the moment they walked in, and it was not long until someone spoke.

  You don’t realise till you’re packing everything up forever just how many memories you have made in a place. But by then, it’s too late. The memories are gone, and we are left with a feeling of nostalgia in our bones. You can live your life exactly the way you wanted, and you would still have that regret, at the end, when you’re packing it all away.

  A man I didn’t know stood at the doorway of our house, and we were rushed out. I recognised his voice from the secret conversation. Man two, obviously.

  “It feels cruel. To give you hope like this. Just cruel.”

  “It’s all we have.”

  The man passed an envelope to Father. That envelope was our escape, and our only hope of us all staying together.

  The contents: four train tickets to Vienna, departing in two days from a village in the countryside.

  We would wait there until it was time.

  It was a risk, but a risk my parents were willing to take.

  The man then gave Father every last Pfennig he had to make the trip, shook his hand and he was gone.

  His last words: “Be careful.”