The Boy Who Saw in Colours

by Lauren Robinson

  We ran along those winding, country roads and air filled our lungs. On the cliffs, it felt like we are standing on the shoulders of a giant.

  Stefan fell back from the pack. Herr Kröger ran alongside him, but not for encouragement. “I’m surprised at you, Pup. The rest of them only have two legs, but you have four.” The boy was not amused and kicked him as hard as he could in die Unaussprechlichen. One’s unmentionables.

  Stefan certainly made a statement, but Kröger didn’t appreciate the boy’s fearlessness, and the screams sounded like they were part of nature. Stefan reappeared later with a black cutout for an eye. Kröger stood like a pillar behind him. “If you’re not careful, you’ll get the other one to match.”

  Von was given another book, and we all sat laced together, my head on Von’s lap, Tomas leaning on his shoulder. He cleared this throat and began. He was an English language genius.

  “Once there was a prince who lived far from here. He was handsome and sincere.” His words moved in a way that made us laugh – such funny, little words.

  “Soon, his pp…arents wanted him to find a wife, but in his heart, he could find no freedom.”

  I was drawing a memory. If only there was a way to tell that you were living the good old days while you were still living them.

  “Until one day, a person entered. A stable boy with hair of embers.” I did not understand the story, but I did understand Von’s smile. Soon, he was wiping at a tear that had the nerve to fall from his eye – an uninvited guest.

  A stray memory tear. It was yellow. I recognised that tear. It was recognition, realisation; surprise, also, but that was small and sprinkled on top like crumbs. It was a ‘pieces coming together’ tear. His mother knew about her son.

  “Von?”

  “I’m alright.”

  “Lies weiter,” came from Tomas. “Keep reading.”

  In my hand, it felt like I held a blue, paper bird and written on it were the words I wanted to tell him.

  In the evening, we played with Oskar. He had other work, of course, but Oskar thought it was acceptable to occasionally drop everything and play with little kids, for they don’t keep. They spoil in the sun if they are left too long.

  We grew up slower in Inland as well as faster.

  Tonight, it was football by the farm in Inland. He had a ball. We reluctantly shared our road with the cars. I didn’t usually play, but that evening I did.

  “Can I play?”

  The boys looked to the ball, to Manfret, to Penn, to Derrick, to Oskar, and back to the ball again. The musky air stood in patches above me. The unconscious air blew.

  Penn answered in the negative.

  Oskar laughed, balancing the ball on his foot. “Be nice, Penn.”

  “It’s not your ball,” I explained to Penn, but he would take no part in it. His eyebrows twitched violently. Derrick scratched at his rash. Von gripped his shirt sleeves. “Oh, no. Here we go again. Der Teufel wird los sein.” He had to duck to avoid Penn’s fist, and before he could catch him. “The shit is going to hit the fan.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Rouvon.” A mumble. “Someday, I’m going to kill you.” We laughed, but Penn was the type of boy who kept to his word, and it would not be long before this promise was met.

  I know huffing isn’t a good thing. At least, that’s what Mother always told Tomas and me, but there are just times in a boy’s life where huffing is absolutely necessary.

  Within a few minutes, Oskar’s clemency entered the scene. “All good?”

  “Ja, Oskar. All good.”

  And then the van. The rumours appeared on the hills, spilling over the side. I wiped my mouth. “Oskar, what’s in those trucks? There’s an awful lot of them.” Oskar kept opening and closing his tobacco box, and each time it got emptier. I felt sorry for him. He would love nothing more than a smoke. “Oskar? The people say all kinds of things.”

  “Don’t let them scare you, Josef.”

  Nothing would give me more pleasure.

  “Nothing there but pigs and sheep.”

  36

  White Feathers and Radio Waves

  *Wild Blue Yonder*Willpower Orange*White Smoke

  In the morning, there was a fight. It was what homophobia tasted like.

  Good violent fun.

  I was at the farm when I heard the cheering children.

  What I saw: Von Bacchman on the ground + Penn Pichler on top + a knife.

  Stop it! I tried to push through the bodies, but they held me back.

  “No,” said Derrick. “He’ll kill you.”

  Von could not move, and he could not breathe. Penn held his arms with his knees.

  The knife was pulled.

  “No!”

  The knife found Von’s crotch. Penn didn’t have the guts to go further and risk expulsion.

  “Oh, you do have a penis in there after all. Act like it!”

  When it ended, Penn let him go, and they both stood. Von staggered towards me.

  The sheer force of the grief caused him to collapse around me.

  The rest watched. Penn crumbled.

  “I’m sorry, Von. I didn’t mean to.”

  Two crumbling bits of boys on the pavement.

  I was not sure what Von had done to stir him like that, but I didn’t matter.

  When it had ended, apologies were made, and I sat with Von under a blanket of the setting evening.

  “Are you okay?” Stars were in my eyes.

  “I am now.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I’m not.”

  There was nothing like a good shower conversation between boys when the adults were gone. It was a play. We spoke like men in those showers: politics, girls, and nakedness.

  There was a stage, an audience, and applause. Colours and questions were making our minds just murky enough, and boys who were previously silent were beginning to speak.

  Here’s a snippet of ours.

  Me: “What about the Jews?”

  Derrick: “They’re in the camps. It seems mean, but they are happy there.”

  Penn: “You have seen the films.”

  Me: “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  Derrick: “Sure, I do. It’s what we’re taught. You don’t suppose the adults have been lying to us, do you?”

  Manfret: “I’ve heard rumours.”

  Penn: “Grow up! You know enough not to listen to rumours.”

  Manfret: “The adults could be wrong.”

  Penn: “They could be wrong, and that mountain could fall down tonight and kill us all. You’re supposing.”

  Rouvon: “My mama says it too, Penn. She is a teacher. You can’t argue with a teacher.”

  Penn: “I think it’s possible that some teachers are just plain stupid.”

  Rouvon: “Take that back, you dickhead.”

  Penn: “Josef is trying to confuse everyone. Get us all mixed up.”

  Me: “I’m not. It was just a quick thought. I won’t speak again if that’s how yo—”

  Ensemble: “No, don’t be silly, Josef.”

  The Q&A turned to the next day’s work. Neither boy wanted to go to the Schultz’s house, and for some peace and quiet, I decided that I would go.

  “I’ll go to the Schultz’s.” It silenced the arguments from my peers for a few seconds.

  I made my way there alone that day. I was afraid, so I walked afraid. My grandmother’s paintbrush followed along like a good friend. It spurred me on to knock the door. I knocked – an answer.

  “Come in,” a grey face said from the door. Tomas’ friend was sniffing at my boots. Frau Schultz was searching for her purse.

  “Where did I put the damn thing?”

  In the hallway, I was shocked by the quantity and quality of the paintings. Gerda Wegener, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Otto Dix. The collection of colours continued for miles. I had always looked at such works with a respectful kind of envy. I eyed the portrait of Herr Schultz.

  “Does my husband scare
you, too?” came a crouched-over voice.

  “No. Not one person can scare me.”

  I spotted the Führer.

  Frau Schultz smiled.

  “Don’t let him scare you. He’s a bully, and you know what they say about bullies? They are weakest in the group.”

  “He doesn’t scare me either.” I pushed away the fear in my mind. “Did you know that the Führer gives to the poor?”

  She thought. “Does he?”

  I nodded. I tried to fill the room with conversation – colour all of the gaps.

  “My brother likes your dog.”

  “Does he?” She searched her catalog of faces and colours. “Tomas?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Sweet boy.” She looked down. “His name is Ralph. You can tell him for me.”

  Frau Schultz was like me. “Quiet” could be a word to sum her up: quiet voice, quiet posture, quiet hair, quiet mind.

  The room had a quietness of air around it until the loudspeaker man entered. In the flesh. He stepped out of the painting and into the room, leaving behind some colours on the wall. His face was still not dried and dripped mustard amber. He looked at my uniform. “What’s he doing here?” The wire-like moustache spoke with him.

  Frau Schultz stepped between us. “He is our guest, and we must treat him as such.”

  “He is one of them.”

  “He’s is just a boy.”

  This back and forth continued for some time. I was somewhat afraid. You do not want to be in the middle of a husband and wife quarrel.

  In the end, the money was delivered. My hand was shaking slightly, and I dropped it. We watched it float down to the carpet, and I bent just before Ralph got it. In doing so, I didn’t notice my paintbrush had fallen. Frau Schultz picked it up. She inspected it, but her eyes could not be drawn away from the F.

  “Is this yours?” Her eyes had a blue F reflection.

  “It was my Oma’s. She died, so she gave it to me.”

  “I see.” The green carpet eyed us.

  Herr and Frau Shultz were helpers. The paintbrush whispered the fact into my ear. Did they also have secret meetings with their merry men? The loudspeaker voice suddenly made sense. I said nothing. We all knew, but we would be silent.

  The walls had ears, and he who argues disappears.

  Heil Germany indeed.

  The realisation fell back into Frau Schultz’s face. “Are you an artist?”

  “Kind of.” I was being humble again. “At school, I get in trouble for drawing in the margins.”

  “I see. Could you paint me something?”

  I stepped back with shock. “Nothing like those. I’m not – ” I pointed at the wall. “I’m not Gerda Wegener.

  “Thank God. We already have her.”

  An awkward giggle. “And I don’t have the materials.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Ahh… more paint and brushes.”

  “Then take the money and get it.”

  I considered it. “I couldn’t.” I held the money. “They’d find out, and I’d be dead.”

  “What money?” She winked. “If they ask, I will tell them I gave you no money. Hitler has ruined our economy.”

  More awkwardness invited itself into the room. Who asked you?

  She walked me to the door, and at first, I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Then came a voice. Realising how rude I was being, I wasted no time. I hurriedly turned. Clumsy words. “Have a good thank you.” I was too embarrassed to correct myself.

  “Yes,” She tried to tuck the smile back into her lips. “You too.”

  I ran home to explain to Von, but there would be no Von waiting for me. Instead, I got a boy holding a box of feathers, and he was sobbing. Not Von at all.

  It was unknown where the feathers came from, but it was suspected to be from the farmer. They symbolised cowardice. A big, giant box of white goose feathers delivered outside of the cabin and addressed to Von. It took a long time for Oskar to calm him down.

  “You’re not a coward, Von.” Stefan said. “You’re the bravest one of us all.”

  Everyone agreed.

  Von only saw me. He got lost somewhere in the mud puddles of my eyes, and I stole glances for as long as I dared.

  One question: “Kannst du mich umarmen, Josef?” He was a lonely boy with a desperate heart. “Can you hug me, Josef?”

  “Of course.” A few moments later, I whispered, “Haoowever.” That brought a little Von Bacchman colour back to his face.

  Making someone laugh after they have just been crying is one of the most beautifully painful things to ever exist.

  Von Bacchman didn’t fear his attraction to the same sex at all, and the other boys just accepted it for what it was. Of course, he didn’t say it aloud or make it obvious to the adults in Inland. I didn’t want to think of what might have happened to him if he was discovered. The children couldn’t care less.

  Adults are always complicating things. There are so many unneeded rules about living.

  “Well, the Bible says right here…”

  Yes, we know. We get it.

  I think it best to decide on what is right by what’s right and not what is written. What was so wrong with our friendship? Are you going to sit there and tell me that this beautiful and limitless thing that we all love has rules? And a proper way to do it?

  We should not be forced to live by the rules other people put in place for us.

  In the night, I speculated about Von Bacchman and the way he touched me, wondering how many other people he touched like that. I was lying with my hormones and colours, hoping that Tomas was alright. But my thoughts suddenly turned to the boys in the showers. Von, if I was honest with myself.

  And then, he was in my bed.

  Verdammter Mist! Damn it!

  An outstretched hand with a radio underarm. The colours around. “Come.”

  He took me to an unused cabin. He had stolen candles and a sweet smile.

  At first, it was the Führer. “Fuck.”

  He turned it down. Too loud.

  As hostilities broke between Germany and the Allies, listening to enemy radio stations was punishable by a sentence served in a concentration camp. All radios came with a chilling warning attached to the tuning knob, “Listening to foreign broadcasts is a crime.” A Führer order punishable by prison. Later, the Gestapo was ordered to execute anyone who was found doing so. But many Germans took the risk. How could music ever be wrong?

  A song played. We listened. I felt, tasted, saw, and smelled.

  “This is illegal, but it’s fine.” Von came in.

  “You’re going to get us shot, Bacchman.”

  Juvenile laughter.

  I stretched out my hand, feeling the music.

  “I remember memories that I had through songs,” Von explained.

  I had never spoken of the thing I had inside of my mind to anyone. Only because there weren’t the words to describe it, but I wanted to share it with him. “I do through smells and colours.”

  Von was a little surprised by this but, it being a product from my mouth, he smiled. “Well, what smell do you smell right now? And what colour?”

  “It smells like…” I smiled. “It smells like books, and the colour is… like a rose.”

  Von’s smile was understandingly sweet – but much more than that, too. It was one of those rare smiles that you come across maybe once or twice in your whole life.

  “Then I will remember that forever. This moment we spent together smelt like books and was coloured like a rose.”

  “And the song that got us shot.” Our laughs sounded like chaos.

  I can’t even remember what we talked about. I just listened to the sound of his voice and his laugh and listened to the sound of him listening to me.

  Then it came. The countdown to goodbye. It started.

  “I’m going to take the test to join the SS.”

  “What?” I can’t say that I was completely shocked. It w
as just a shock that I refused to prepare for in full: the worst kind of shock.

  “They need people, and I think they are interested in me.”

  “I don’t think you should bother.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d miss you.”

  “Josef, Mama and Papa need me to be brave. I have to be for them.”

  “What about you? You said you wanted to travel. It was your dream.”

  “My dream is to help my family. Keep them safe.

  His hand found mine; fingers walking across the floor boards and twisted. He explored my painted hands with a curious heart.

  “Josef, just because my dreams look a little different than yours, it doesn’t make them less important.”

  I wore broken eyes. We had so much to say and no ways to say it. Von found a way through.

  “You know, I was thinking. When we win the war, we could move out to the countryside together. You could sell some of your paintings for extra money.”

  “What about Tomas?”

  “Tomas is a big boy!”

  “And you think it would be a good idea? With how people think around here?”

  “Then we will move somewhere no one knows us. As far as anyone’s concerned, we are good friends.” He brought his knees to his chest. “I can’t wait to get out of here, Josef. Munich feels so lonely.”

  “You’re crazy,” I said.

  “Forget it then!”

  “No. Don’t be like that. I like it, but you’re crazy.”

  Perhaps this was Von’s way of telling me, “Ich hab’ dich lieb.”

  After I hit puberty, it was like a switch inside me flipped, and instead of becoming a testosterone-driven sex monster like most of my peers, I failed to find anyone I wanted in my life in that way.

  Von could have told me he loved me a billion times, and it wouldn’t have meant a thing to me. I didn’t want to know if he could love me. I needed to know that he could understand me.

  Rouvon sat the test at a sweaty, wooden desk. The pencil was getting hotter from the kerosene lamp. When the test was finished and sent away, Von’s childhood was no more. The colours were around him. All together, the sound was beautiful, harmonising with the light from the lamp.

  Two days later, a reply came. The concrete was so tall around him, and the rain fell in place. It was well known to the German ground. Tones trembled down his spine. He could not open it himself. He let Kröger break the news to him.