The Boy Who Saw in Colours

by Lauren Robinson

  You couldn’t always get what you wanted in Nazi Germany, but if you had enough money, there was always a way.

  We walked around the corner of the cobbled street towards the car. I’d never been in one before. Sadness was tied around my neck like a rope and getting tighter, but still, I was determined to fight back the tears that were trying to elbow their way out. Then, after the last footstep and glance at my childhood home, we were gone. I thought about the footprints that would remain inside the house forever and the missed memories of the past. I will miss the twelve-year-old boy that left. He was ripped out of me like a sheet of paper and discarded like trash.

  I was like a phoenix on that street, and I knew that soon I would have to burn to become anew.

  Goodbye Josef.

  On the ride in, there wasn’t much room for conversation. Everyone’s silence fought against each other. Blue squares were trapped in my eyes, unable to float and dance around like usual. It hurt. I don’t remember much, except for Mother crying and me drawing. The light was scarce, but the moonlight glow was enough to see the page at least. Art was the only way I could run away and still stay at home. Occasionally, I would sneak a ticket out of Father’s coat pocket, and stare at the golden lettering on the front. It wasn’t really gold, but it’s how it looked to me.

  When we first arrived at our in-between home, my mouth hung with lips slightly parted, and my eyes were as wide as they could stretch. Everything was the exact opposite of our old house, and I was glad that we were only staying there for two days. The house in the city stood on a quiet street, and alongside it was a handful of other homes that were fun to look at because they looked exactly like ours, but not entirely.

  This house stood alone. A single-level, stone cottage, with a large chimney, which poked out of one side of the roof. The wooden-framed sash windows were propped open with sticks. And the brickwork, perhaps once a jaunty yellow, looked dirty with what looked like a hundred years of grime. A small rose garden was planted in front, and although it had once been carefully planned and loved, it was riddled with weeds.

  There were two small rooms, one with a tiny, wooden table and woollen mattress. It was hard. A small shed at the back served as a chicken coop, but unfortunately, there were no chickens there anymore. A neat pile of chopped wood was stacked against the house.

  “I think it was a bad idea coming here,” I said, a few hours later, when Tomas and I were helping Father clean the cottage a little. Mother said we shouldn’t unpack.

  She was “taking care of some business”, and we weren’t to disturb her.

  “It’ll just be for a few days, Josef,” father replied, as he was unpacking his toothbrush and some cologne. “Then we all go to Vienna.”

  “Papa, I think it might better to go home,” Tomas said.

  Father smiled and breathed the new air. “We don’t have the luxury of thinking, son.”

  I understood to some extent, what the phrase and Father’s smile meant.

  I was at the age where the puzzle was starting to fit together, only I couldn’t find all the correct pieces.

  Ever since the incident with the men and the shop, he always kept his head down and never looked up from the floor. I would try not to stare too long.

  Something was growing inside of me. Something so big that when it worked its way up to the outside world, it would either make me shout and scream that the whole thing was unfair, or just make me burst into tears instead. I was determined not to reveal it in front of Father because, even though he tried to hide it from us, I knew that he, too, was upset about coming here. I could see it in his eyes.

  I explored the house with Tomas, hoping that we might find a small door or cubby hole where a decent amount of playing could be done, but there wasn’t one. Just two doors facing and waving at each other.

  “This isn’t right,” I said under my breath. We only had a few belongings each; some clothes, vanity items, and a few toys for Tomas. I had outgrown toys a few years ago, but I still liked to play the odd game of toy soldiers with my brother.

  “Papa said it’s only for a few days,” Tomas said.

  Tomas was always a great believer in focusing on his blessings, not on his misfortunes. Even in a place like this, where I was sure that no one could ever be happy again. He was the kind of boy who made the stars want to climb out of the sky and perch on his shoulder.

  I threw myself on the mattress and sank into it.

  6

  Monsters and the Midnight Marathon

  *Murky-Disaster*

  Over the course of the next day – and let’s steal a phrase from Father here – “life continued like everything had happened.”

  Father spent most of his time playing with us, which was quite grand. Mother, contrarily, kept very quiet during the day and had quite a lot more of her afternoon naps. Some of which weren’t even in the afternoon, but before lunch. She became a hermit-like human, only ever coming out of her comfort for survival basics. She lived in the walls.

  Tomas peeked through the door, only to find Father prying her traumatically from the mattress. She cried as if the idea of getting out of bed physically hurt her.

  When she did manage to unstick herself, she came outside to where we were playing and, for a minute, she watched us. I found her eyes, and she looked as though she would smile, but it dissolved into her sunken face just as quickly. I was running to her, but brick by brick, her walls came tumbling. As she ran from us, her tears turned the rainy day into a whirlwind of greys and yellows. Being the inquisitive little boys we were, we followed.

  She fell to the floor, on her knees.

  The greys and yellows followed her.

  “What have I done?”

  She sobbed.

  “What have I done?”

  There were things she wanted to tell us but couldn’t because it would hurt us. So, she kept them inside and let them hurt her. Let them eat at her skin.

  She didn’t mention the forbidden letter. Not even to Father. I thought it best not to bring it up.

  The sobs punched her, ripping through her muscles, bones and guts. She pressed her forehead against her bony hands and let her heart tear in and out of her chest.

  She was hollow.

  Then Tomas was there, patting her head and rubbing her back. He reached into her hollowness.

  As much as I wanted to look away, my body refused to let me. Even as my lips trembled and my shoulders heaved with emotion, I was unwilling to back down. I joined the two on the floor, but I was reluctant.

  “Apparently, when the Gestapo comes into your home and asks to take your children away, you’re supposed to say yes.”

  Silence.

  “What are you talking about, Mama?”

  No answer.

  The night the monsters came for us, the sky was nothing at all. It was like a child began to draw on it with a pencil and then erased it all in a way that smudged and spread the grey.

  Father burst into the room where we were all settling down for the evening. We were asleep at either end of the mattress.

  “They’re here. Lissette. They’re here.”

  His face looked like he was being injected with darkness.

  The monsters weren’t the kind with three heads and tentacles coming out of their hands. They had faces like mine; they wore clean, crisp suits and uniforms, carried guns, and wore medals on their jackets. The kind of monster that you wouldn’t be able to spot until it was too late. Until you were being dragged under the bed by your foot.

  As was always the case, I kept my grandmother’s paintbrush close.

  Mother and Father fought and argued about what they were going to do next. The situation was unappetising, to say the least. In the end, it was decided that we would flee from the back door in the hopes that we’d make it to the next town and find refuge there. Through the woods. That was the safest option.

  First bad decision.

  We were going to run.

  A few small steps to fr
eedom.

  I don’t have to tell you we didn’t make it.

  The dusky, grey peaks gave the bottom of the sky a jagged edge, and the clouds above soothed it with charcoal swirls. The rain streaked, invisible until it hit the sodden ground.

  I had one eye open, one still in a dream. A full dream would have been better, of course, but there was no time for such luxuries.

  We had to go.

  We had to go quickly.

  Mother tried to wake me up. I could see her floating figure above me in the darkness. “Komm schon, Liebling. Komm schon.” Her voice sounded like a butterfly’s wings. But I would not wake up. “Come on, darling. Come on.”

  No time.

  They were coming.

  She lifted me sideways.

  Second bad decision.

  Her feet dragged out of the house and limped through the snow. Father was in front, Tomas in his arms. His breath was heavy that night if I remember it correctly.

  I held the paintbrush’s hand.

  Mother struggled, almost dropping me on several occasions.

  We were at the starting line.

  The marathon had begun.

  The pistol was fired.

  Mother hobbled and stopped.

  I was getting heavy.

  I had no idea where we were running.

  All I could feel was the cold biting at my skin. I stared at the house in the distance, faded from sleep. I could smell Mother’s perfume on the side of her neck.

  In the far distance, black figures with guns were forming. There must have been about four of them – only Tomas saw them at first. He was starting to regain consciousness, and from the bottom of his throat, he formed a cold, two-syllable note. “Monsters!” He pointed at the darkness, colours in his breath.

  Mother and Father had to pick up their pace now. Their legs were sinking deeper into the snow. The faster they ran, the slower they became. The heavier we became.

  The world was getting heavy now, too, due to all that snow.

  Mother tried to be careful and wrapped her arms tightly around me. She did not see the object buried in the snow. How could she have?

  She tripped.

  She buckled.

  She dropped me.

  For a moment, it must have felt like she was hanging suspended, free of everything, or perhaps losing control. Then gravity took over, and she came plunging towards the snow. Instinctively, she pulled my arms and legs towards her chest, but I fell out of her grasp.

  In my unconsciousness, I knew I was falling. I could feel the sensation of cold and darkness everywhere. I was so scared I could have screamed. Only when I opened my mouth, nothing happened.

  She saw my feet, legs, and body slap the snow. A scream forced its way out of her mouth, jolting me awake and alerting the monsters. I could hear their echoes, or perhaps that was from Father, who was now running back for us. He left Tomas in the snow. My heart was heavy. She picked me up again, slung me over her shoulder and carried on.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry.” She kept a calm, steady voice, despite the tears.

  The monsters arrived about ten seconds later.

  Quickly.

  A gunshot.

  A scream. “Papa!”

  One of the black-masked monsters ordered Mother to give me to them.

  Mother howled. She wouldn’t let go of me. She couldn’t.

  I wouldn’t let go of her.

  I could feel the leather hands grabbing at my waist.

  The goodbye was chaotic. It was soaking, with my face buried into the worn, woollen shallows of Mother’s dressing gown: my body collapsed in the snow. I clung to her legs. There was kicking. I was dejected, swollen with realisations of my fate. There was more dragging.

  A veil was over my skin, grey and cold.

  I fell asleep in a dream, and I woke up in a nightmare.

  I watched the petals and the twigs swaying on the trees. There was a creeping sorrow. It sat like rain on my skin, enough to chill what was once warm – the grief had all condensed right above my head into a cloud big enough to block the watery white-silver glow of the moon.

  Papa tried to elbow through, but he was held back.

  Monsters shouting. “Run!”

  Tomas called out for Mother. The monster’s arms held him as he winced.

  I was silent.

  All I could hear was a haunting ringing in my ears. I tried to block out the emotions that blocked my vision, but they escaped.

  I don’t remember how we got there, but we were thrown into the back of a small van. There was a boy there too, and he looked at us like he wasn’t expecting our company either.

  Driving away, I desperately searched for my escape. Looking out of the back window, I caught sight of Mother falling to her knees. She was reaching awfully for the van, and when it drove too far away and she couldn’t anymore, she hammered her fists into the pavement. For a moment, her squeals ceased and words came out, but they were too far away. I couldn’t hear. I liked to imagine what she said.

  My imaginary recollection of Mother’s words: “Don’t forget who you are.”

  I’m sorry, Mama.

  I forgot.

  I’m sorry.

  It’s sad to lose a mother at a young age, but it’s tragic when a child is taken from a mother.

  It’s harassed my memory, and sometimes I thought that it would have been better if I never looked out at all. But then the regret would have been not looking.

  Life is funny.

  You look, you lose.

  You don’t look, you lose.

  The monsters didn’t just steal us that night. They stole our mother and father’s lives, too. Without us, they were not Mama and Papa; they were just Ben and Lissette.

  Tomas wore a face of misery. I looked at him, so he didn’t feel so alone. He didn’t understand what had happened to us, nor did I.

  But we knew it was awful.

  An explosion of words poured out of my brother’s mouth at intervals. He choked on them. “Open the door! Open it now! OPEN!” He was hysterical.

  “Will you shut up?” Monster One said.

  “It’s all right. It’s all right. Calm down,” Monster Two said.

  But he did not calm down.

  I inched closer to my little brother and calmed him softly. We cried into each other’s shoulders.

  The other boy sat in the corner of the van; he could’ve been a much skinnier reflection of Tomas, with hair darker than mine. His lips almost moved, but his eyes darted back to the frayed laces of his boots.

  He had a quiet cry.

  We fought ourselves to the point of exhaustion, and we fell asleep, rocked ever so gently by the van drifting through the night.

  I thought back to the darkness, to our old home in the city.

  It all began to make sense. Dots connected. But it wasn’t until later I thought of a noteworthy point.

  We were runners. Star athletes. If they just let us run, then maybe we could have made it.

  7

  Darkness and Match-Stick Soldiers

  *Dutch White*Dust Storm*Duke Blue

  Yes, darkness.

  A shadow version of Tomas sat before me, light outlining his silhouette, colours dancing in the margins. I had been in the process of drawing a new concept for a painting, the grey of the pencil further illuminating all that white still left. It was one of my simpler sketches; Tomas and Mother sitting together, reading by the fireplace. I didn’t usually draw people, but I did like moments. I liked how they tasted.

  Darkness, Tomas, and four voices downstairs.

  Another one of our mother and father’s secret meetings I suspected.

  I wondered how they managed to keep it a secret with all that shouting.

  Somewhere, in all the darkness, we sat playing with our makeshift match-stick soldiers. It was all we had since our toys were gone. Mother and Father thought we were asleep long ago, and surely they would have scolded us for playing with fire, yet there we we
re. We were engaging in a childhood pastime on the floor.

  Tomas emptied the contents of the matchbox onto the carpet. Some were burned out.

  We could just make out the voices: a deeper voice, a softer voice, Father’s voice, and Mother’s voice.

  Their voices kneaded methodically at the door as we played with our pretend men.

  Blankets were set up to look like rolling hills, rolled up socks were used as obstacles, and broken pencils were used as guns. But soon, the centre of our attention was focused solely on the matches and the lighting of them. All children did this at least once in childhood. Why are we so obsessed with destruction and fire? Perhaps I was just a strange child.

  I was setting it up carefully, making sure to get it just right. More beautiful. The destruction would have been much more satisfying that way. We would light each match, one by one. Watch as it fuelled the next. Smile a kindling smile, and throw it into the candle to hide the evidence.

  The smell would be harder to disguise, but we hadn’t planned that far ahead.

  “Can we light them now?” Tomas asked.

  “Nein,” I said. “Not yet.”

  “Please.” He said after a slight pause.

  “Nein, Tomas. I’m not done yet.” I smiled. “Soon.”

  A battle would take place.

  I struck the match.

  The voices were attacking each other now. One heaping itself upon the other to be heard. A fight of colours. I imagined them colliding like dust clouds.

  “Nein,” Mother’s voice said. It was repeated. “Nein.” Then more. “Tomas and Josef aren’t fit for a place like that.”

  Mother would not back down. “They would hate it there.”

  The colour of darkness flashed in my eyes, and I had no choice but to listen to the argument from the softer voice.

  “Those boys are top of their class. They are already interested in them.”

  Who are they?

  Tomas struck another match. The sweet smell of carbon and fire lit up the room and my brother’s face. The fire danced behind the glass of the candle holder as our match-stick soldiers burned.