The boys did not know, but the girls heard it all and giggled in front.
We didn’t see many girls in Inland, and a lot of the boys were at the age where they were starting to find them interesting enough to examine them further. I had no time for such things. There was a parade to be watched – people to heil.
Derrick Pichler managed to trick one such girl who lived in the village of Inland. The colours in that girl’s eyes changed when she saw Derrick in town. They met that evening behind an old oak tree, and I imagine their evening consisted of awkward banter and formulating a cover story. The girl’s father called her home. Derrick returned with a fake-victorious smile. I caught him ruffling his hair and roughing up his uniform on the way back.
“Did you do it?”
“Ja.” He lied. “Until that humpy old bastard called her back.”
Manfret Wünderlich kept an eye out for the people who would never show up. He cried later, telling Oskar how much his parents must hate him. Wünderlich often cried for his parents, especially in the morning. The hardest part of Inland for him was waking up. “I’m sorry.” He said, swimming in self-pity. “I miss my Mama.”
Oskar gently soothed him with his words. “Yes, I miss mine, too. But we must be brave, and we will see them soon.” Oskar was an excellent teacher because he was genuinely fond of children.
On that particular evening, after dinner, it was one of those rare occasions when Teichmann baked. She was a better baker than cook, but just barely. Tomas had three of Teichmann’s Wibele biscuits, as did I. Von managed to scoff down a total of six different desserts in the space of ten minutes. Tomas warned him that he’d pay for that later, but Von wouldn’t listen.
He would pay later. That night at midnight, to be exact.
More of that soon.
26
From Destruction to Abstractionism
Dark moderate magenta*Dandelion*Damon
In the night, I dreamed again. At first, I only saw brown-suited marching and swastikas glowing. Then, the figure of a boy outlined in stars appeared above my bed, only for a few seconds. I couldn’t be sure, but the figure appeared to be Bacchman-like. It tasted sweet. Eventually, they all led me to my brother, and I saw him lying face down in the snow.
When I woke in a panic, Oskar was there, on the edge of the bed. I attempted many times to speak, but the words wouldn’t allow themselves to leave. Oskar knew what to say. He always did. He sat up straight. “Smoke?” He smiled, his blue eyes lighting the dark.
I smiled back at him and agreed. “Smoke.”
During our smoking lesson that night, everything was going as usual. I was looking at the stars floating above me, blowing smoke into the sky and watching it disappear, and I did so until Oskar spoke or until I smoked the cigarette down to the end.
I sat in the darkness, tracing out what would be my second painting that I created in Inland – a boy sitting on the moon, cradling a fallen star in the palm of his hands. It burned, but he didn’t care. Below him, colours were dancing in the German waters, creating waves that reached the sky.
Recently, I had run into trouble with the number of emotions I was leaving behind – the amount I was revealing. Words were sometimes hard for me, but it was more than that. I had not yet figured out how to describe my paintings without the viewer feeling uncomfortable. If I could explain my art in words, I thought, what would be the point of the painting? Simply saying, “oh, I like those colours,” or “that house reminds me of my home,” forces us to miss the point of art completely. Art is a process, thoughts underlying the execution. The way another views the world can be charming, and at the very least, cause the viewer to see things they would have otherwise overlooked.
Many artists of the ’40s focused on abstract art, from destruction to abstraction. I understood the reasoning, even as a boy. In a time of war, who wants real life? However, I loved painting about life. Humans themselves are mysteries and adventures, and happiness. I tried to portray them all. The smaller stories of life that everyone forgets.
All told, I would create a total of ten paintings during my five years in Inland, but I saw my story as being made up predominately by four of them. The marching brown shirts and glowing swastikas, one painted with stolen paint, one painted for a trusted hand and the painting I didn’t finish.
I wondered that night, about the stars. I often wondered things in my head, but I was almost always too afraid to speak them. I wondered if the stars were just crumbling bits of moon that refused to fall, and instead became stars, became something better, something more than they should have been – rebelled against their fate. I decided that the stars are where the good people live.
As usual, Oskar held a photo like it was broken glass.
I bit down on my lip, but I couldn’t resist this time. Curiosity got the best of me.
“Who is that?”
Oskar broke his gaze and looked down at the ground, then back to me. “This?” He shifted the photo to my hands. “That’s my sweetheart, little man – Elsbeth.”
Elsbeth Frederick (Elsi, for short) was a thing of beauty.
Of course, that was not the thing I shifted my mind towards, despite my teenage-boyness, but her colours. The colours that made up her character.
There was something unreal and eerie about Elsi. Her face, somewhat luminous, had a pale tone to it. Eyes were a sharp shade of grey. She had black, woollen hair that framed her enchanting face and fell to her hips. Overall, she was unearthly.
Oskar and Elsi’s love story was a thing people write novels about. A love story to some and a tragedy to others. You can decide for yourself which one it is.
I liked to think of it as a bit of both.
Oskar met Elsi at a bar called Die Kneipe.
Translation: the bar.
A wonderfully creative name, I know.
It was there where Oskar spent most of his free time before arriving in Inland, and where one of the suit men would learn of him. He loved to sit with his whisky and his thoughts and let his mind wander. Oskar drank nothing but water and alcohol. He was either hydrated or drunk. Sometimes, he’d look at the trees. I’ve never been there, but from what I have heard, Mittengwald has the most beautiful trees in Germany, especially in the autumn: greens, yellows, reds, oranges, every shade in between. Their dazzling colours glowing with the sun.
The other half was helping his mother and six younger brothers at the farm they inherited from his father. His brothers battered, annoyed, and loved him. Teaching his thirteen-year-old brother, Albert, how to fight was a training ground for his future. Albert got a little too good, and soon he was the topic of discussion at a table in Die Kneipe.
I realise I keep getting off-topic a little. This is your story; you might be saying. Why are you telling me about Oskar’s life?
From somewhere in the back row, there is probably a voice calling out, “What’s the point of all this?” Others might agree or disagree, but most will sit with hanging heads and Catholic stares. A Catholic tut made its way through the crowd.
What’s the point of this? What’s the point of life? Well, that’s precisely why we are here. To understand why.
To sum up what I think going forward, the best I can do is to say this: the purpose of life is to find a way to forget about the question, “What is the purpose of life?”
But you see, Oskar’s stories are essential, and very much a part of my own. My life story is the product of the stories of everyone I have ever met. A mixture. A blending of colours that connect like dots.
They all had their part to play.
Yes, Oskar’s story is very important, indeed.
WHO WAS OSKAR FREDERICK?
His life is not easy to explain. Before coming to Inland, it had not been the rip-roaring adventure he’d imagined for himself in his younger days. But it wasn’t totally absent of colour either. Oskar himself would tell you that he was a simple man with pure thoughts. His face would someday fade to yellow behind a glass pane, and
his name will be forgotten. But the simple things in life are often always the most important. It just takes a smart man to notice.
Oskar was a son, a brother to six younger siblings, and a lifelong friend. Above all of these things, Oskar loved Elsbeth with every ounce of his being.
He inherited a lot from his Father: as mentioned before, a farm was one such thing. His tireless eyes, for another. He also picked up his fondness for puzzles, figuring out how things worked, and – albeit to a lesser extent -– fascination with machines. Like his father, Oskar was a quiet man who worked hard for small rewards and would have done anything for his family.
But there was one quality that he inherited from his mother. A quality that he had wished for many years that he did not possess.
He always stayed.
Despite the persistent itch on his skin to leave Mittenwald behind and begin a grander life elsewhere, he would not scratch it. He was afraid that scratching would relieve the itch, but also cause one as well.
Oskar didn’t have leaving in his heart.
But oh, how I wish he did.
Yes, I wish he did indeed.
His father was to blame.
Herr Frederick always craved something more in his life. The beginnings of that adventure came in 1933, in the form of a small, charismatic man with a square moustache stapled to his lip.
In the 1930s, the mood in Germany was grim. The great depression had hit hard, and many people were out of work. It was especially tough for the small shop and farm owners like Oskar’s family.
Hitler was a powerful and spellbinding leader, who attracted the attention of a despairing Walter Frederick, who was desperate for change, and he abandoned his wife and sons to follow in the puny footsteps of his beloved Führer.
I wish I could tell you that it all ended well for Herr Frederick, I really do. But this isn’t such a story.
Oskar was seventeen years old when his father died.
He left his family behind with a single bullet through the head.
As long as Hitler was alive, people were dying in his name. Long before the death camps and public executions.
Somewhere between all of his pain and sadness, Oskar made a vow. He would never leave the people he loved as his father left them.
I imagine it.
The light on the window was grey and the colour of summer.
A woman with a battered heart on the floor, cursing the kitchen tiles.
The six father-less sons squashed together as they breathed and cried.
And a seventeen-year-old boy surrendering to his emotions.
I can almost see them leaving Oskar that day: the pain, the shock, the denial, the abandonment – leaving him like ghosts of the past, and in its place, some words.
“A man who leaves his own family can hardly call himself a real man.” He spoke the words, and no one heard them.
But he did.
They were lies.
Oskar’s face wasn’t filled with resentment, either. It was more a face of acceptance. This would be his life now.
He was worried about abandoning his family. Worried about disappointing them. Worried that if he was to trust his gut and follow his heart that he would disown the very people he owed his life to.
He would be no better than his father.
The boy was afraid. Afraid of not following his dream. The only remedy was to move forward – get on with it. Oskar was not the type of man who would have died overthinking.
Personally, that was one of the things I loved the most about Oskar Frederick.
Yes, I liked that a lot.
And then he met her.
She opened a beer with her teeth, and Oskar gave her his necklace.
They got married one year later in borrowed clothes.
And that was it.
“A hell of a woman, this one.” Oskar grinned.
He kissed the back of the photo and put it in his pocket.
Oskar got to the bottom of his cigarette, and he leaned over and stubbed it out on the pavement. “Enough for tonight.”
“Can we just have one more, Oskar.” I smiled at him. I was enjoying the stars that night and the stories.
Oskar had fallen into my trap. “Oh, alright,” he laughed. “One more and then bed for you.” His laughter intensified. “I’ve created a monster.” He rolled two more cigarettes.
“Thank you, Oskar.”
He patted my hair.
Occasionally, I’d be smoking and painting at the back of Inland with Tomas. Oskar halved his tobacco with me.
Tomas was arched on the ground, legs crossed, and nose buried into a book he was assigned to read about the importance of physical fitness.
Colours in my head, smoke in my lungs, and paint on the paper. My words, too, were in the paint.
Inhale. Exhale.
Tomas would cough hard from all that smoke. He hated the smell and taste.
“You stink,” he’d jokingly tell me. “Like cigarettes.”
That was usually my cue to take a bath.
Sitting in the bathwater, I imagined the colour of the smell of it lingering on my clothes. The scent reminded me of my happiest moments, which would otherwise be forgotten: my father, my grandfather, and Oskar. See, sometimes we capture a moment in our hearts, but sometimes things change, things fall apart, and memories are forgotten. Smells are not so easily forgotten, and it lingered in my mind.
I would sit in the cooling water and watch the grey tones dance on the water.
I smiled.
At a quarter past twelve and mid-smoke of a cigarette, we heard the most horrid sound coming from the cabin. It caused my senses to blur. Suddenly, I was tasting the colour green. It tasted bitter and sweet at the same time. It was a mouthful of taste. Oskar immediately put out his cigarette on the wall and ran back inside. I followed apprehensively behind him, throwing my cigarette on the grass.
We scanned the room for the perpetrator, but all that could be seen was a room of curled up sheets. All boys still surprisingly asleep. But somewhere in the semi-darkness, sat Vons crouched over form, stars outlining his figure, his muscles contracting, expelling his guts over his bed and onto the floor.
The bulk of the vomit was already cold on the sheets – too many cakes for dessert that night, just as Tomas warned.
Von sank further into the bed, resisting the urge to touch his face with his fouled hands. As he leaned forward, the last of it dribbled from his lips.
At first, he tried convincing himself that nothing had happened, but when Oskar came closer and held him, he cried and admitted the fact into his ear. His tears were a mixture of pain and humiliation. But I didn’t care. I ran to fetch him some water.
Teichmann shouted sleepy words at my head. I ducked and dodged them.
As I turned off the tap and looked back at the door, there was a masterpiece of imagination.
Father stood like a ghost, except not. More like a shadow of the past.
“Josef…” he said.
I dropped the glass and it shattered on the floor, and as soon as he was there, he was gone.
The feeling was one that could not be related to the other five senses.
“I’m going mad,” I thought.
Teichmann woke up fully and made me clean it up with a brush and mop.
Oskar lifted Von gently from his bed and carried him down to the washroom, where he cleaned him up and returned to the cabin a few minutes later.
“Josef,” Oskar whispered to me upon returning.“Can you take off the sheets for me? I’ll go get a washbasin.”
When Oskar left the cabin, as Von helped me with the sheet, something that had been wedged between the mattress and bedframe loosened. A red book with yellow and white lettering came running towards me and landed on the floor between my feet, with one sock hanging off.
I looked down at it.
On the front cover of the book, there was a photo of a koala with a blonde little girl.
I looked up at Von, who shru
gged his shoulders.
Fear dripped down his face.
I tried to read the title of the book with high concentration and a lot of stammering:
“Easy to learn…”
“Easy to learn English,” Von interrupted.
A patch of silence stood among us – Von, the book, me, and the colours. I picked the book up and spoke as soft as cotton.
A conversation between two boys at 1 am.
“Is this yours?”
After a short silence.
“Ja, Josef.”
I looked at the book and then to Von with ample confusion.
“It’s to learn English.”
“Why do you want to do that for?”
“Mama gave it to me.”
I laid the book beside him, climbed on to the bed, and sat opposite. His pale blue eyes stared into mine for a brief moment.
Silence.
I could feel the pointy, jagged fibres of grandmother’s paintbrush digging into my hips as if it was trying to spur me on. I took it from my pyjamas, stared at it, and smiled.
I offered it to Von. “It belonged to my Oma.”
He smiled and studied it.
Surprisingly, he didn’t tease me.
Then he spoke again.
“She was a teacher.” Stammering. “Mama. Before I came here, she was teaching me and my sisters English. She said it’d be important to know for the future.”
“But German is the most important language.”
“It’s not if you want to travel the world.”
“You want to travel the world?”
Nodding. “I think so.”
Gentle words fell from the bed, landing on the floor like powder.
“And I know French, too.” He continued. “You can’t tell anyone I have this, okay? They’ll take it away from me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. It’s just not allowed.”
His eyes looked as though an ocean had been encased inside small glass marbles.
“Please don’t tell.”
I thought he was going to cry, so I sputtered, “I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”
He slid closer to me. Hand gliding down my arm, folding over my hand. His fingers laced with mine, palms kissing. I could feel the fast thud of his heart through that single touch.
The Boy Who Saw in Colours Page 17
