The Boy Who Saw in Colours

by Lauren Robinson

  “My name is Josef Schnieder.”

  “My name is Josef Sch…Schh.”

  People are hard to understand. The men surrounding me are far away from my comprehension. They’re puzzles missing a piece, and trying to make a beautiful picture from the pieces they have.

  11

  The Background People

  *Beaver*Bittersweet Shimmer*

  The language of Inland caught on rather quickly. I don’t mean that they spoke in tongues, or used secret codes, or anything exciting like that. I mean the profanities spoken – so impassioned and vehement.

  Every other person was referred to as ‘eine Fotze’ or ‘ein Arschloch’.’ Sometimes, Oskar got creative and yelled out, “Deine Mutter geht in der Stadt huren” to other youth leaders and older students.

  If you’re unfamiliar with these terms, and I assume most of you are, I should explain.

  Fotze, of course, refers to a woman’s genitals. But, in this case, it refers to an unpleasant or stupid person – a cunt.

  Arschloch means arsehole.

  And, lastly, Oskar’s creative masterpiece can roughly be translated to your “Mother is a whore.”

  Roughly.

  A man like that needs to be quoted at least once.

  Tomas didn’t know what a lot of it meant, and for the first few days, the other boys thought it would be funny to ask him to repeat them. Even to various youth leaders. It was always met with mocking laughter.

  My first overripe banana taste came from the mouth of a stern woman from the town of Inland, Frau Teichmann. She was in charge of everything. She called me a Miststück after I refused to get undressed for a shower the night we came. A bitch, a piece of dung.

  “Why won’t you get undressed, child?” she said. “You’re filthy!”

  Being naked in front of three people I didn’t know was enough for one day, thank you very much. They forced us to shower with a strange green substance that, apparently, would make us “cleaner.”

  Frau Teichmann was an immensely holy woman, and she led a strictly catholic based life. Despite this, she was good at complaining. After church on a Sunday, she always made a point in seeking out other women for their weekly Sunday gossip. It truly was a gift of hers. Mothering, on the other hand, not so much.

  The woman’s nose stuck out like a star, but not in a good way. It was stuck out like a pinch of clay fashioned into a beak, and her eyes were strange too; she had the kind of eyes that always looked like she was glaring at you, intense and harsh – even if she was in a pleasant mood, which wasn’t often, but it did happen. She was thin in appearance and always wore black and stockings that bunch at the knees. It was like someone had thrown a blanket over a broom.

  Despite the complaints about her job, she grew to love some of the children of Inland – myself included. She just had a rather strange way of showing it.

  As you can imagine, I showered in anxiety that night, and yes, clutching my paintbrush. Teichmann tried to take it away, but she quickly learned there would be no way in hell I’d be getting into any shower without it, or into any bed for that matter. Both of us had to bathe. My arms clutched to nothing. There was nothing but dried soap, various chattering from outside, and the deluge insults from Teichmann.

  We listened as we bathed.

  “Those bastards better pay me extra for this? I work my ass off all day, and then they make me do this.” She complained to us. I was still silent, but I was listening.

  “How do they expect me to get everything done?”

  By “everything”, she was referring to the meals she had to prepare for the students. She always had help from other cooks, but Teichmann was in charge and gave the orders.

  “You done?” she scolded.

  Tomas answered for both of us.

  After the torture ended, I backed myself into a corner and waited for what was to come next – more words from Teichmann.

  “You would want to sort out your attitude before going to school, young man. Quick answers here and quick answers only.”

  Then Oskar.

  “Would you leave him alone, you bitch?” His gentlenesss slipping in front of her words.

  “Let me handle him.”

  The tiles were shivering. Oskar came closer.

  “Lick my ass. I’ll speak to him whatever way I want.” The ground shook slightly.

  “Don’t tempt me, Teichmann” Oskar winked at her.

  “Shut up!”

  The echo of her swearing followed Oskar up the tiny washroom, to where I was squashed, almost halved in the corner. He rolled his eyes.

  I watched as Tomas folded sheets after Teichmann told him to be quick about it. Despite all the swearing, he agreed.

  “Don’t listen to that bitch, little man,” Oskar mocked. Swear words still bouncing off the walls in the damp air.

  Trust in children is like a murky pond: the true depths are out of sight, and even when the bubbles surface, you need to know where to look and what exactly to look for.

  Oskar Frederick knew where to look.

  He sat beside me, his back to the wall.

  “This one is for you,” he smiled, giving me chocolate he pulled from his coat.

  “You don’t have to say thank you,” he added quickly when he saw me hesitating.

  With a half-smile, I took it.

  “Danke,” I said quietly. “Thank you.” Almost so quiet that I wasn’t entirely sure Oskar heard it. But he heard it all right. The grin of his face confirmed it.

  First bubble coming into view.

  I didn’t eat the chocolate. I held it. I felt the stickiness of Oskar’s friendship on my hands, mixing in with the sweat present on my palms. I don’t think I ever did eat it either. Its new home was my pocket, and I’m sure Teichmann would have been cursing my name when she came across the stain.

  “Now that we have you talking, can I ask you something, little man?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s with the paintbrush?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. All I knew for certain was that I needed it. And:

  It represented the last time I saw my grandmother.

  It represented the last time I saw Father.

  And it represented a dream.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Do we have an artist, maybe?”

  I smiled. I’ve always hesitated to call myself an artist, but others did, and I accepted that with humble satisfaction.

  Some notable things about Oskar Frederick, twelve-year-old Josef edition.

  He was born in laughter and with the sense of knowing that the world is mad.

  He loved cigarettes. His favourite part of them was the long drags, the rolling, and the taste of tobacco on his lips as he licked the paper. The only thing he loved more than cigarettes was his beloved Elsbeth, who will make her debut very soon. She will enter from the scene in the rain.

  He was a teacher by trade and a good one at that, which was the reason he was targeted, let’s say, by the school.

  Being the oldest of six children, he had to take on the role of his father when he left years before.

  He cheated his whole life, and he would soon cheat death, too, when he was put into a war he didn’t start, and all because of a boy, pink triangles, and stubbornness.

  “Then, the Führer will love you!” Oskar laughed, his smile crooked.

  “He himself is one.”

  I knew that I wanted to know more about the staring man on the wall. All artists are interesting.

  Oskar Frederick was an odd-man-out. A non-existent person. He had wisdom beyond the years of any twenty-four-year-old I’ve ever known, and he was a good man. Somehow, though, and I’m sure you’ve met people like this before too, he was able to blend in. A background noise. A background person. Oskar was always just there. Not a person, but light and colours.

  The background people come to live, breathe, work, and die. Floating through life unnoticed, rather like slaves. Going where they n
eed to go and doing what they need to do because they are just energy.

  Fortunately, however, lights and colours were not invisible to everyone. In a line of people, I would always choose him first. His colour was the loudest to me.

  His eyes were a strange blue, too. Like that warm, wool jumper that you put on when the air gets chilled – comfortable, cosy and familiar. Mix as much white and blue paint as you wanted, but you could never duplicate it, for there could only ever be one such colour in the world. His eyes were that kind of blue. As soon as I saw those eyes, I knew he was worth an awful lot.

  Oskar stood with a patch of damp on his back.

  I was led into a cabin-type room with bunk beds of cheap, stripped pine that smelt like cologne, cigarettes, and hormones.

  Rough, canvas mattresses were jammed end to end on both sides of the draughty room. The last bunk bed, on the second row, would be mine. I was holding sheets, pillowcases, a thin duvet, and some more hand-me-downs. I had to make my bed up.

  I could still feel the Führer’s gaze. That man was everywhere. He stared from the front wall where his portrait had been crookedly hung.

  Without the beds, the cabin would have seemed quite cavernous. With its stone floor and corniced ceiling, it might even seem quite grand. Like this, though, it was reminiscent of the economy section of some clapped-out train carriage. Light shone dimly through the mullioned window, onto the moss green bedding and dusty floor.

  Boys were playing marbles. Two of them were drinking from a brown bottle. It seemed important.

  “Save some of the burning juice for me, Manfret,” a boy named Penn called out. Some were smoking cigarettes. The smoke stung my eyes. The boys and the smoke all stared at me as I made my grand entrance.

  The walls were alive and decorated with posters – some of war heroes like Otto Skorzeny, and legendary fighter pilots and U-boat commanders like Günther Prien. Oskar kept a poster of a popular blonde-haired actress, Winnie Markus, (who Oskar thought was gorgeous) by his bed. At night, when he thought everyone was asleep, I caught him staring at it between the sheets and hard breaths.

  Outside, to the horizon, you could see only where the grey sky blended into the grey pavement. If there were a colour to sum up life in Inland, grey would be it – an anthem for life here. Wearing grey clothes, eating grey food, to the grey drone of pointless chatter.

  Tomas and I were separated. Another wet departure.

  I’d be sleeping in the same cabin as Oskar, the familiar, cozy jumper, and five other boys. That night, I was cannonaded by questions.

  It was an interrogation of colours.

  The part of Stefan Rosenberger was played by pansy purple and fatty bacon.

  Penn played by burnt orange.

  They all fell on my face, landing somewhere near my nose and further exaggerating the pungent smell.

  Stefan: “What’s your name?”

  Me: “Josef.”

  Penn: “How old are you?”

  Me: “Twelve.”

  Stefan: “Twelve? How could you be twelve? You’re so short.”

  This was true and a constant disappointment for not only myself, but Mother, too. I was a boy incapable of ageing.

  Penn: “So, you must only be eight then.”

  He was persistent.

  Me: “No, I’m not! I’m twelve!”

  I protested, fleeing the scene – dodging the colours.

  From across the room, the warmth of the blue fell.

  “Leave him alone, boys,” Oskar shouted, ending their interrogation, but that didn’t stop them mocking me.

  “Josef’s not twelve; he’s only eight. He’s a baby,” Stefan spoke in a sing-song voice that only intensified the colours.

  An older boy, whose freckled face was covered with occasional areas of skin, introduced himself. He jumped from the top bunk.

  “Rouvon Bacchman. Nice to meet you, Josef.”

  We shook hands and exchanged a look that made me certain that we would be friends.

  It took everyone else a little longer to warm to their new roommate.

  The teasing continued for several weeks.

  “Did you see Josef’s eyes?” the line of boys announced.

  Questions.

  “He’s defiantly one of them.”

  Cruel answers.

  “He can’t be. Don’t be stupid. Jews aren’t allowed here.”

  Jew.

  Whispering. Questions. That word.

  The word itself didn’t mean much to me. My only link to it being my father, and he didn’t have much to do with it. But when I arrived in Inland, I started wondering what it really meant. Was it a bad word? Was my father a bad person? Everywhere I went, there was that word. It stood on top of closets, crouched in the darkness. It followed me around, tapped me on the shoulder, tripped me up the stairs.

  Jew.

  Jew.

  Jew.

  But not to worry. That word would soon be replaced with another; the gay F-word and I was seemingly the only boy in Inland who didn’t know its meaning.

  I am laughing now. I really should stop spoiling the story for you. Not to worry, I will work on that.

  I’ll try.

  Continuing.

  12

  Sweaty Pyjamas and Swastika Soup

  *Sand Dollar*Safety Orange*Selective Yellow*

  After a few days of being in Inland, a tailor from the small town delivered our new uniforms. We had been measured upon our arrival.

  The town itself was relatively poor, despite the apparent rise in the economy since Hitler took power. Many of the townspeople got work from the school, including Teichmann. She lived on buttons to support herself and her adult son, who will make a cameo shortly. Shit, I did it again. Despite what I thought back then, Teichmann did not live in that kitchen, but I was close. She lived under it, in the basement with her son.

  Our uniforms consisted of a black shirt, black corduroy shorts, a belt, and a glowing red armband with a swastika embroidered onto the white stripe. There was some difficulty securing the neck scarf. Oskar helped. On my upper sleeve, Inland was embroidered onto black triangles, with a yellow border and lettering, acorns intertwined on branches.

  I examined my new uniform. It was too clean.

  The tailor, who was an older woman and had the longest plait in her hair I’ve ever seen, noted approvingly,

  “These two are going to be such good looking young soldiers. Some competition for you, Oskar.”

  I wasn’t too sure whether or not I wanted to be a soldier, but the choice was not freely given.

  Again, adults and their rules.

  “No one could compete with this face,” Oskar joked.

  Oskar wore the face of a teenage boy. What made up for it was his height. He was over six feet tall.

  I could see Tomas’ lips stretch wider into a gaping grin, and his eyebrows arched to the sky as he looked in the mirror and gloried in his new-found status. What he coveted the most was the dagger that came with the uniforms, an eagle perched proudly on the leather with a Swastika on its chest.

  Swastikas were all the rage back then.

  A fashion piece.

  I peed next to swastikas.

  I wrote on desks with swastikas etched on them.

  I ate fucking swastika soup.

  You understand.

  Very popular.

  Engraved on the knife, “Blut und Ehre.”

  Tomas studied and traced the letters.

  “Blood and Honour.”

  Oskar didn’t say much about it. The most he did to acknowledge my uniform was make a thumbs-up sign and pat my shoulder, which was all I needed.

  Afterward, we walked back to our cabins and listened to the sound our feet made on the cobbled ground, and Oskar had a cigarette – or two – or three.

  The first few months in Inland were no doubt the hardest.

  A nightmare a night.

  I can’t quite recall all the details, but this I know for sure.

  T
here was a van.

  A rope.

  A boy.

  And one word.

  “Run!”

  The bed on the other side of the room, which belonged to Manfret Wünderlich, drove through the darkness. To a noose.

  “Run.” A voice in the distance.

  A boy reached out his hand for someone to take hold of it.

  Then slowly, more rooted in the nightmare, he sank, presumably to the floor – the bed and boy. I tried to run to him, but I was too slow. When I finally reached him, the rope was tied tight around his neck. I could see only blue eyes staring, just like Grandmother’s had been.

  The boy was my brother, and it usually took a long time for the screaming to stop.

  I would drown in my sweat, while my brother was on the other side of the room, drifting and dying.

  I couldn’t help him.

  Cue the screaming.

  The nightmare seemed so real and was good competition for the equally terrifying reality.

  The six other boys would sleep with hands over their ears. Sometimes, they swore. “Zur Hölle mit Josef.”

  “To hell with Josef.”

  They cried to Oskar.

  What did those boys dream about? Sliding down banisters? Playing soldiers with their best friend? Pretending to be Robin Hood? In their dreams, they’d be the heroes, and there would most definitely be a happy ending. In a way, I felt bad for waking them from their beautiful, innocent, and childlike dreamland. But I was a boy incapable of dreaming.

  The dreams would return, of course, and when they did, I would hold onto them and breathe them in like the air. When that little voice started to become louder in my heart, that’s when the real fun would begin.

  At first, Oskar looked upon me with pity. He soon realised that his gentle touch was not enough.

  Nightly, he sat sleepy-eyed, waiting for the ruction to begin. He sat in a ball of sadness as a stranger at the bottom of my bed. After a few nights, he sang his mother’s words. Quietly.

  “Aber heidschi bumbeidschi, schlaf lange,

  es is ja dein Muatter ausganga;