Tomas was beside me. “Don’t listen to them.” He held my shoulder, just to be safe.
“Easy to say,” I replied with a quiet laugh. “They’re not making fun of you.”
“Come on!” Penn walked backward in front.
Grins were stuck to the emotionless faces of the children around me. They seemed to mock me without saying a word.
“Shut it, Pichler.” Von’s words stood between us.
“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to your boyfriend.”
That shut Von up. Unusually quickly.
I tried to walk away. I did, but I could feel their thoughts, like poisoned darts.
Their words turned poisonous, too.
“If your Mama had kept her legs closed, we wouldn’t have to deal with filthy little Mischling like you.”
Stay calm, Josef.
It was nearing the end of the break now. The comments stood by the door, blocking my way.
I snapped. It was Pichler, back for more.
“Come on, you filthy little Mischling. Show me what you got.”
My heart accelerated.
“Shut up.”
Tomas was playing a dangerous game of holding me back, but he was losing.
“Get off!”
I don’t know what happened next, but I heard Pichler’s fist colliding with my jaw.
My tongue soaked in the taste of my blood.
It tasted good.
He began to laugh.
“Come on,” he said, showing off now. “Or are you too chicken?”
My breathing calmed. With a gentle finger, he reoriented my face so that I held the gaze I didn’t want to give him, stealing the passion from my eyes in a way that only magnified the spark. Now, there was no smile on his lips, only the white-hot intensity of his gaze that we both knew was the start of what was to come.
“Show me what you got,” he yelled.
I showed him alright.
I stood up, and as he smiled over his shoulder at some other children, I threw my first punch and kicked him as hard as I could in the vicinity of the groin.
My passion arrived unannounced and ended explosively.
Well, as you can imagine, Penn Pichler was certainly startled, and on his way down, I punched him in the ear. When he landed, I pinned him down with my knees. I slapped, scraped, and screamed his face off. I was so utterly consumed with rage.
His skin was so warm and soft. My knuckles were so frighteningly fearless and loyal, despite their brevity. “You bastard.” My voice, too, was able to punch him. “Show me how tough you are now. Go on.”
The clouds gathered to watch; big and grey.
The fight stood and made an announcement, “Come and witness the suffering for yourself,” throwing its light at the children and attracting them to the scene. Youth leaders didn’t break up the fight. They were cheering me on. They were watching me give Penn Pichler the hiding he deserved. Blood, teeth, and guts were strewn around the playground. If hatred were visible, the air would have been scarlet.
For Tomas, the playground shook.
“I’m going to kill you,” I said.
Stefan Rosenberg’s absurd gigglings were heard in the stones. Manfret’s unique “Oh, fuck.”
Relax, Relax. I did not kill him.
But I came close.
Probably the only thing that stopped me was the pathetic scratchings of Derrick Pichler. Still crowned in adrenaline, I caught sight of him clawing at his skin with such audacity that I dragged him down and began beating him up too.
“What the hell are you doing?” He wailed, and only then, only after I smashed his head and I was pulled off by Rouvon, did I stop.
On my knees, I sucked in the air and listened to the whispering. I watched the sound cloud of voices, left and right, and I made an announcement. The colours hurt so bad.
“I will be a painter.”
I could feel something sharp in my throat.
No one argued this time.
No one laughed.
You’re weak if you think violence can sway me from my passion.
There was just the sound of still silence – an unusual sound for a playground.
A whistle blew. The cry was attached to the skinny, stocking wearing legs of Simons. The skirt halved her.
Shit.
Its sound rattled through the crowd, making the clones part like, well, like children who were going to get into some serious trouble.
I was in the air, being dragged away once again – this time by Simons.
I was sure Kröger would come back with his belt. If he did, I would be ready. He didn’t. He congratulated me with a packet of sweets. Chocolate.
Cut to the end of the school day. Tomas and I walked back to our cabins together, arm in arm, which was nothing out of the ordinary. My throat was still stuck.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Tomas.” He didn’t speak. Simply listened. “I have such a stupid passion that I would do anything to anyone who speaks against it.”
This time, Tomas laughed and looked up at the pale plum purple rain. I tapped to the beat of the colours. “You’re like Mama.”
Far away, in the forgotten sunshine, there lived my highest ambitions. I may not ever be able to find the sun again, but I can listen to it when it calls to me and applaud the powdered gold flakes on the grass. It might lead me somewhere remarkable someday.
Curiously, I responded. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
Nearing the cabins in a brisk walk of thoughts, colours of misery swept over me. It locked me in – the forgotten sun, the demolition of my family, my nightmares, the humiliation of the day – and I stood, half-bent on the courtyard and wept. Uniforms passed like they were back-pedalling, but no one stopped. Perhaps a few stares, but nothing more.
Tomas stood by my side.
It began to rain nice and hard. Hailing actually. Each falling block of ice punched and punctured my skin.
The sky was eerily silent.
Silent and safe.
Oskar called out to us from the doorframe, but neither of us dared to move. I stood painfully now, among the falling chunks of hail, and my little brother stood right beside me – waiting with a book over his head for cover.
He loved me just as much in pieces as he did whole.
“No one will be messing with you anymore.” Tomas searched for the humour, his small hand gathering it all together and patting it on my shoulder. But still, I did nothing. I said nothing.
When I had finally finished and stood straight, he gave me an awkward hand-pat hug, and we walked on. There were no words said, no teasing, nothing like that.
Some steps later.
“I will make sure never to call you Max Beckmann,” he said.
There’s that light again.
It radiated outwards through my body and came out in high waves of hilarity.
I dried my nose.
When the hail ceased, and the clouds had sewn themselves back up, we continued under the guarded sky.
A few words from your older self:
My dear Josef,
People’s words will hurt. So much so that you might feel like you’ll bleed from the smallest ones. And I am not the type to try and save you from you. I think, perhaps, it’s words you need to hear. But, you have two choices:
To believe them.
To show them they are wrong.
There is nothing more soul boosting than proving the cynics wrong even if it’s not today.
25
The Pink Swastika
*Papaya Whip*Persimmon*Perinto
When I think of life’s most defining moments, I’m always taken back to childhood. For some, it’s a Robin Hood incident. For some, it’s a moment of midnight vomiting hysteria.
It was mid-December and in the height of Winter. The snow was late that year.
Earlier, there had been a parade. A minor calamity occurred in the morning before school. It involved a radio.
>
To ensure that even the poorer homes of Munich could afford a radio to listen to Hitler’s infamous speeches, Goebbels arranged for the production of two cheap types of radios priced at 35 and 72 Marks. They were known as the Volksempfänger, or people’s radios.
We had one such radio in the cabin. Hitler was due to make a speech, so we gathered as Stefan tried to find the channel.
And eureka!
The man from the radio: “Winston Churchill has announced…”
The die hasn’t been cast (yet).
Derrick knelt at his brother’s knees, and Penn cut his hair – the classic Hitler youth undercut. Penn’s eyebrows spoke. “That’s not the Führer.”
“Munich has been a betrayal of principle in the face of threats….”
Manfret cut in. “That’s not even German.”
Oskar was running to Stefan now. “What the hell are you doing, Pup?”
“I don’t know. It went to this.”
“Let me see!”
Stefan protested, but Oskar had a seriousness to his tone. “I’m not going to jail because of you!”
I looked up from my sketchpad to Von. “What’s wrong?”
“Radio of the enemy. No good.”
Eventually, we found the Führer hiding between stations two and three, and we listened as we dressed. From his voice, I imagined a man with eyes of utter rage. Instead of imagining myself there, I imagined a giant radio in the middle of a booming crowd, gathering the information and reporting back to us. I sketched that thought.
“I would like to develop a couple of ideas for you on the question of homosexuality. There are those homosexuals who take the view: what I do is my business, a purely private matter…”
I stared at the eagle and the swastika. The boys’ voices babbled happily like a mountain river.
“If we continue to have this burden on Germany…”
I buttoned my shirt and got ready for the school day.
THE PARADE
We had half the day off to prepare for it, and everyone did their share. There would be music, singing memorised songs, dancing, and a fire.
Boys on bicycles had publicity signs. “Are you a German boy?” said the sign in childish penmanship. “Come and join our Jungvolk.” I wanted to have the chance to do that, mostly to ride the bicycle, but I never did. I was not diligent enough.
“Bist du ein deutscher Junge? Komm zu unserem Jungvolk.”
Like always, we walked the streets, looking for war materials. Only this time, it wasn’t for the soldiers on the main front, but for the fire itself. We collected posters, old books, and any found propaganda of the enemy to burn in the Führer’s glory. I walked with Manfret, and on the way past, I pointed up at the Schultz house. “Fuck that,” Manfret said. “That man scares me. And that big old house.”
Such events in Inland were anticipated. Not only for the half-day, but because some parents would travel from all over Germany to see their sons marching in the sky like the clouds.
Manfret Wünderlich was especially excited. His mother, father, and sister would be coming from Frankfurt.
He had a puddle of excitement in his stomach.
That day, I watched as he was extra careful to tie his laces just right for his mother.
Stefan Rosenberger had the honour of pinning the swastika banner on the window of our cabin. He stood, hidden behind it, waiting for his moment.
“Can I do it yet?” he asked for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.
Oskar sighed at the small boy. “Yes, Pup. You can do it now.” He smiled over his shoulder. “Now, will you shut up for two seconds?”
“Schwein!” The voice from the flag replied. “Pig!”
I examined the pair, examining my handiwork. I broke the silence. “Do you like it?”
Oskar’s posture tensed. Stefan’s brow furrowed. “It’s pink,” Pup replied.
“Do you like it?”
“No, I do not like it, Josef,” Oskar said with a shaking head delivery. “You changed the colours.”
“I like those colours.”
It would have to do, he thought. Oskar helped Stefan throw it over the ledge of the window, like washing being dried. It was different and raised eyebrows, but still, it was there.
I took the time to polish the glass on the Führer’s portrait vigorously. Mostly with spit and the bottom my jumper. Tomas and some boys from his cabin decorated new photos of the Führer with some flowers they found in the grass. The Führer with school children. The Führer petting a fawn. The Führer kissing an unsuspecting child. You couldn’t make it up. Unbeknownst to the children, however, they were adorning their beloved Führer with weeds.
Some boys from Inland were selected to participate in the later parade. Tomas, Von, and I were not amongst those boys. We didn’t mind. It was nice to watch.
I took the opportunity to paint on my gifted sketch pad. It was one of my happier sketches, showing the Führer on his podium, and the children jostling around to get just one good look at him. My brushstrokes were more controlled and petite as I dipped my brush into the poppy-pink and painted the tiny walking uniforms. The rest of the painting was a mess of colours.
The brown-shirted extremist members of the NSDAP (otherwise known as the Nazi party) marched down the main road of Inland. Their banners worn proudly, their faces held high. Voices were full of song, culminating in a roaring rendition of “Deutschland über Alles. Germany above everything.”
My hands burned from applause.
I stood at the side of the road with Tomas, Von, and Oskar – three of us had faces like lanterns. Oskar stood with the curtains pulled.
When the boys from Inland passed us, identified by their mossy green armbands, they were spurred on as they walked to who knows where. Von called out to Penn, and he replied with a middle finger.
People on the road stood and watched, some with straight-armed salutes, some with smaller ones on shoulders. Some kept faces that were contorted by pride in the rally, like the red-haired shop owner. And then there were the scatterings of shadow men, like Oskar Frederick, who stood like a human block of wood, clapping slow and dutiful. And beautiful.
A man with a beard for a face stood beside me. “Look at them all. Proud as anything.” I looked up. That was Penn and Derrick’s father. Unmistakably. Their mother was taped to his side, heating her gloved hands. She made several attempts to wave to her sons, but only Derrick would wave back. Penn’s eyebrows remained straight and marched in the wind, not daring to improvise the script slightly.
Oskar’s hat looked down; its shadow looking up. Herr Pichler’s words seemed to sting him.
“They look like dickheads! My father followed Hitler into war, and that ended with him being blown up.” His voice was stretching out his sentences more than usual, his movements were clumsy, and he had a whisky breath.
“Don’t be so negative,” Herr Pichler said. His wife nodding in agreement. It was evident where the twins got their smugness.
“You call yourself a member of the party, with thoughts like that? You should be proud of your father. You owe him that.”
“I don’t owe that man anything. My mother raised me and did a damn good job of it. And Hitler is doing all of this for attention. For followers.”
“Attention?” He looked at other faces that took his side.
“That is the most fantastic story I have ever heard. Shame on you. He is doing all this to make this country better. For those children and your own – and what is he reading?”
That was directed at Von Bacchman and his book, kneeling on the ground.
“He should be reading Mein Kampf.”
Von stood and closed the book.
“I did, Sir. Three times already.” I had never seen a red book move so quickly. And above it was the moss green shade of Herr Pichler. His breath more diluted.
Frau Pichler was appalled at Oskar just enough to speak.
“How can you say you love your county if…?”
>
“I love my country. It’s the war I hate.”
Oskar was not a member of the Nazi party, despite working in a Nazi school, which he only agreed to due to bribery. Appearances can be deceptive.
If I squint hard enough, I can just make out the two figures sitting in Die Kneipe, bonding over cheap whisky, and an offer was made. Oskar kept a close eye on his brother, Alfred, who was drinking lemonade at the bar. The man in the hat offered Oskar a cigarette, which he declined.
“You would be a great asset to our school, Oskar.”
“I’d rather hang from the rafters than work with those snobby parents and bratty children.”
The man knew about Oskar’s husband-less mother and young brothers. Knew that money was a hard thing to come by, and going to Inland earned the families a small government salary.
The hat rolled a cigarette and talked to the entire bar. “Then maybe your brother. I’m sure if I called the lad over and explained, he would love to join. Support his mother.”
Now he had his attention. “You don’t want him. He’s fifteen. Just a little kid.”
“No, we want you, Oskar, but we will take what we can get.”
Hat-man leaned back on his chair, laughing, thinking he had trapped Oskar Frederick. Oskar drank the last drop from his glass and smiled a whisky smile. “If I agree, you won’t take any of my brothers?”
“No.”
“I’d like that in writing. And signed. Bitte.” He leaned back on his chair and laughed. “Please.”
Increasingly impressed with Oskar, the man knew he had met his match. “You want a cigarette, Oskar?”
“Yes.”
The parade continued. Behind the Inland children, boys and girls from other divisions walked proudly. The girls skipped with braided hair.
The sweaty boys walked behind the girls like smiling fools and dared each other to talk to them after the parade.
Pat. Pat. Point. Pat.
“Look, it’s a real-life girl.”
“Shut up. I can see that.”
Some mumbling was exchanged.
“I’m afraid to talk to them. They look bigger.”
“Even if we are afraid, we should go talk to them.”
The Boy Who Saw in Colours Page 16
