The words “galavanting” and “don’t” were used a lot by Kröger in the delivery of my brother’s thirteen Watschen.
Von and I carried the radio to the unused cabin that night. Well, it was actually morning. The orange peeked its head through the window we sat under. The starlight and air was sucked into the room.
I asked Rouvon to teach me some English words.
I almost broke my tongue off. I mispronounced words, lost words, and pronounced letters the English don’t use. I said the B at the end of lamb. The word “girl” was the funniest to me. In German, the word is Das Mädchen, which sounds cute and innocent, like a girl. But this English word was harsh.
“Guurrll.”
Von and I laughed.
The word laugh made me want to cry.
The song that morning was delightful. An English one. It let me run away with my thoughts and bathe my senses in the water of prismatic lines. Rainbow stars.
“You know how to dance, Schneider?”
I grunted a reply. “Not well.”
“Who cares? Dance with me.”
“No.”
As absurd as it sounds, we danced that night. Really slowly. Two boys in the dark. No-one around to watch, but the colours; The purples and blues, and the taste of young love. Von’s eyes danced too, and his freckles. His adolescent face was changing, as was his body.
The rhythmless rhythm of my thoughts and body. The chaotic flapping of my arms. Clumsy movements with the red and white pentagon music. I scratched my neck. I looked ridiculous dancing. I looked ridiculous not dancing, so I figured it was best to dance with Von that night.
I wish you could have seen it. I wish you could have been there.
“What. The. Hell. Is. That?”
“Dancing.”
“It looks like you’re having a stroke.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. “Can you turn the music up?”
“Yes. If you want me to be shot.”
“You won’t be shot.”
We danced on the edge of the page.
But someone was watching, and it took me some time to learn who it was. He thought we were insane, but the boy could not hear the music.
Years later, he would say, “Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course I told you, Tomas.”
40
Kaleidoscope Waves
*Kombu Green*Keppel
December 25.
Christmas Day, 1943.
Von’s letter was still lost in the post. No one had heard anything in months.
Tomas trained until his legs fell off. He was tired, but he did not stop. He put his body through so much agony that he suddenly forgot about the dreams of his youth. Somewhere along the way of growing, loving, and fighting, he lost his self-worth.
“Do you want a smoke, Tomas?”
Clouds were big and fluffy.
I painted a cobalt line so delicately that I thought it would crumble to dust had I touched it. The kicking words inside my head screamed. I emptied on that page.
Tomas coughed from breathing in too much air. “That’s bad for you, Josef.”
“But it feels good.”
“Try fucking.”
“Tomas!” Disorganised shock.
“Alright, Josef. Don’t lose your blob.”
The phrase stopped my sentence in its tracks. A raised-eyebrow smile. “Blob?”
He scrunched his nose and gave me his best smile.
He laughed, as did I.
“You’ve lost your blob, Tomas.”
I painted, and Tomas did drills with Rouvon. He ran a vertical desire; a horizontal dream. His sweat lit up his face just right, his paperback-skin colour melting, the blending freckles.
A kaleidoscope beam from Von. I waved back.
The days leading up to Christmas 1943 fell thick and heavy with snow. I made what felt like hundreds of sketches of concepts for paintings, but did very little actual painting. When I did put brush to paper, I could only think of one thing: Von. On Christmas Eve, I made a decision about Von. A final decision.
At sixteen, Von had reached a level of maturity I had not, and he and this new-found maturity had plans for me. I’m sure you’re aware of the thoughts that circle the minds of teenagers on a daily basis, but fifteen-year-old Josef didn’t fit into that category.
Von had now grown out of his uniform, and the tailor had measured him for another a few days prior. He stood in the cabin, trying it on. Under the door, there was a small circle of light, and the sunset was undressing itself. I watched. Earlier, just before dusk, he had told me that he had a present for me for Christmas.
“Where is it?”
A tired grin. “Just forget it then.”
But I knew. I had seen him like this before. Risky eyes and sticky fingers. The breath of love was all around, and I could smell it.
“You don’t really have a present, do you?”
“Nein.”
I guessed. “What is it then?”
Von laughed, head to the ground, cheeks turning pink. He continued. “Do you think I have any money, Schneider?” The snow was still falling. A few more layers, and we’d be shin-deep.
Von and I walked around the cabins; he still wouldn’t discuss this secret present. I had only felt like his one other time.
The dangerous kiss.
Puberty corrupted what was left of my innocence.
I walked faster to keep up with the long strides of Von, and he was telling me to hurry up.
The other boys and youth leaders were in the hall, stuffing their faces with pudding, not even noticing our absence.
We reached our destination – an empty cabin.
The windows and walls of the cabin wore a thick layer of grime and mud. They hadn’t been cleaned since the day and hour that I arrived.
The cabin was empty, as were many of them in ’43. Germany was losing the war, and we were desperate. Desperate humans don’t always make the best choices, and Hitler’s choice was anything but. They sent boys to the battlefront, knowing full well that it was a suicide mission. Some of those Inland cabins would remain empty forever.
Von entered. His first instinct was to hit the light switch, but the electricity had been cut off.
“Are there candles?” He whispered while holding the door open for me. “Are you coming or not?”
Nervousness made me feel nauseous, almost like I had two hearts frantically beating inside my chest instead of one. I still don’t know why, but I could not enter that cabin.
“Nein. I’ll wait outside.” I did not want to know his reasoning for being there.
Von looked down in a single, sorrow-filled motion and rubbed his nose.”But Josef.” He tried again. “Josef.” I shook my head. He would have to think of another gift for me.”Wait for me then.”
“If you’re not long, I’ll wait for you forever.”
I watched the door shut with both relief and disappointment. I waited with the Weihnachten air. On the edge of the grass, there was ice like broken glass.
The light was disappearing fast. All of Inland was beginning to close up for Christmas, and then, after a nervous silence, Von reappeared and held out the light of a candle for me to see. The light was like a pillar, shining onto his refined uniform. It lit up his battered shoes and dirty shirt beneath his jumper.
“Merry Christmas, Josef.” He said. His eyes were red. In his dirty hands, he held three Pfennig frogs. I could tell it was a cover-gift, but I did not dare speak.
I continued my examination. I moved around him and shrugged.
“That’s it?” I grinned.
“That’s it? You know what I had to do for that bastard to give me these?”
“You probably talked shit to him. Got him charmed. The one thing that lets you down is your face.”
Von placed the candle on the snow and came towards me in mock anger. That same nervousness as before gripped me. When I watched him fall and slip on the ice, it was with a sense of both relief and disap
pointment.
On the ground, Von laughed.
Then he closed his eyes, clenching them hard.
I rushed over, almost slipped myself. I crouched over him. I was laughing now, too. I helped him to his feet.
I helped him tie the red scarf I knitted for him. Once, twice, and on the third time, I tied it properly, overlapping it twice to be certain it would stay. Our faces were close. I could taste the sweetness of his breath when he laughed that big-bellowing laugh of his, the sound of it making me laugh, perhaps awkwardly, but laughing nonetheless. It was the kind of evening that should never have been possible for me, but this evening it was: Von, the scarf, the laugh – all of it.
“Are you alight, Von? Rouvon?”
“I’m going to the SS,” He said sideways. “They sent me my acceptance letter three days ago.”
At first, I couldn’t say anything. If I spoke, I knew I would cry. Or worse, I’d ask him to stay.
“Frohe Weihnachten, Arschloch.” I replied. I straightened his scarf and smiled. “Merry Christmas, arsehole.”
Cleaning the paintbrush was the most satisfying thing I did that day. The warm running water against my palms as I moved it back and forth until all the paint rinsed from the brush.
A conversation about Herr Amling.
“See that man Amling and his friend are up to no good.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Do you see the way he walks? He couldn’t be anything more.”
I knelt over the sink and wept. The potato skins and paintbrushes were looking up at me. Teichmann noticed a few seconds later.
The kitchen hands were dismissed. They lit up a cigarette, leaving behind its fumes like an old friend. The woman in black placed her hand on my shoulder, and her wrinkles looked at me. “What’s wrong, Josef?”
“I can’t tell you.” The door was closed tight.
This time, Teichmann made sure my eyes were on hers. “Josef, I have been the mother of a teenager long enough. You can tell me.”
I rubbed snot on my jumper, breath getting stuck in my throat. “It – it’s Von.” I was unable to finish, but I didn’t have to.
“Oh.” Teichmann had her suspicions before, but now she knew for certain. “Oh, dear. Dear. Dear. Dear.” Her hand still on my back. Pat. Pat. Pat. Her gentle pats soothed me more than she knew.
“Sometimes, life sneaks up on you, doesn’t it? You don’t realise how you feel until the goodbye is staring you in the face.”
“I’m a mess. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“We’re all a mess, Josef.”
For the first time ever, Teichmann’s face was grave. She lay dormant with the kitchen. Highly unusual. If it continued any longer, it would have begun to frighten me, but to my relief, it lasted only a few seconds. “My boy is going, too.”
She planted her hands on the sink, and it overflowed with colours. Her apron was sinking around her waist.
“Being a parent is hard. You do your best to raise them. Then they turn eighteen, and you think they will be alright. But they still need help.”
Then the moment came.
Von Bacchman had his ticket, his suitcase, his leaving smile. I pulled at his hand. I would not let go.
“I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I’m happy you’re leaving, because I’m not. Not even close. But I want you to be happy, and I hope that you will be. I hope I will be.” I said it all without breathing.
He was the greatest story I ever painted.
“You make me happy,” Von wiped at his nose.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
The sun burned my eyes. We stood on the main courtyard, balancing on a razor blade. I would not look at him. Could he feel it, too? The silence of my loud, oh so loud heart?
“Look at me,” Von said. “Why are you crying?”
“Because you’re leaving and I’m going to miss you.” My breath tightened on the last few words.
“You don’t have to cry about it,” he grimaced, no movement on the cheeks.” Come here, you hopeless, boy.”
He kissed my forehead. I can still taste it.
And he left. I never saw Von Bacchman again.
I thought that I would always have the memories, but as I got older, I realised that time would take those from me too. Time was always taking things that didn’t belong to it.
41
Synesthesia
*Starry purple *Smokey Topaz*Spanish Viridian
A typical Teichmann conversation.
“You know your man?”
“Who?”
“Your man that comes here.”
“What man?”
Later: “I knew you had to have a little fag in you to paint like that.”
“That has nothing to do with it. You know the greats weren’t gay, Teichmann.”
“That’s what they say.”
Teichmann’s stories gave me inspiration. I would breathe them all in and exhale them in the form of paint on the paper.
A man with three twigs for hair delivered the milk. He was deaf and mute, but Teichmann wasn’t falling for it. This day, eggs were also needed.
“Eier auch.” The man’s scalp was moulting. “Eggs too.” I knew this man had stories to tell. Tuscan sun hexagons danced on his lips like a curious child, but his listless eyes simply stared.
I jumped in. “Teichmann, he’s deaf. He can’t hear you.”
“I’ll give him deaf.”
In the end, Teichmann had to jump around, mimicking a chicken to get her eggs. I covered my mouth and held in the blurred-green laugh.
The kitchen was big, but somehow Teichmann’s voice was large enough to dominate it. She owned that kitchen. There was nothing but the sound of chopping food and pots. I often thought of Von Bacchman and hoped that he’d be safe. He started writing me letters that would die out by ’45, but the first one was a treasure.
“Dear Josef,
They tried to make me get a tattoo, but I refused. It looked ridiculous, and I simply wouldn’t.”
In the end, Von’s refusal would be the only thing to save his life.
He had just the right amount of recklessness. Sometimes I rolled my eyes out loud.
Colours were in my head – too many.
“What’s wrong?”
She walked like a broom.
“Well, sometimes, I see colours.”
She looked down her nose. “Everyone sees colours, Josef.” The statement sounded like a question.
I gave a short, nervous laugh.
“But not everyone sees the colours. I see them everywhere, and even in my memories.”
A candle was lit. I could almost see it. “You might have synesthesia.”
In hindsight, it was pretty presumptuous of her to think that a little boy growing up in the ’40s would know what synesthesia was. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know exactly. But you have it.”
Potatoes were thrown at me. They were everywhere. “Take them out to the hall.”
I was given instructions.
“And use two hands.”
“God help you if I find you’ve dropped them.”
In the evening, I watched the bunk above me, seeing the colours of Von Bacchman flying overhead just for a second and disappearing into the dark. I often had the urge to go to Tomas’ cabin to play dominoes. A distraction, if nothing more. But not even my brother could protect my teenage heart from missing Von Bacchman. I held his letters to my chest, the words leaving a permanent scar. He was the only boy whose absence made the world feel ordinary.
I never stopped missing that boy.
Derrick Pichler had a date, and he was preparing.
A collision of colours, tastes and smells.
Oskar: “You’re not going to go with those whiskers, are you?”
Derrick touched his face and realised he had grown some hair. He hadn’t noticed, nor had he shaved before.
“I don’t have a razor.”
Oskar produced a small box, and inside it held a blade. He gave him instructions on his bed.
Stefan: “Derrick, make sure to tell me all about the night when you come back. But don’t go falling in love and leaving us like Von.”
Manfret: “Shut up. Josef is here.”
Me: “I’m alright”
Penn: “Derrick, if you get a stiffy, just tuck ’er into those shorts.”
The room laughed.
Oskar: “When did you get so wise, Penn?”
Penn: “I’ve always been wise, Oskar. You were just too busy seeing what was wrong with me.”
A few minutes later, Oskar noticed Derrick wasn’t making any progress with shaving.
Oskar: “Derrick, you’re not trying to tickle those hairs.”
Derrick: “I don’t want to cut myself.”
Oskar: “You won’t. It’s a blade. Here, let me do it!”
The bed screamed, and I’m sure the windows had cracked open.
Derrick: “Oskar cut my face off!”
Oskar: “I did not cut your face off.”
Stefan Rosenberger gave his best, side-splitting laugh.
Hysteria in the cabin.
Herr and Frau Schultz hung my painting in their hallway. Beside the loudspeaker man and the red flower wallpaper. I stood in that hallway forever, just trying to get one more look at it, memorising the colours and the words.
“You notice things in art that other’s don’t. Those eyes are special.”
I couldn’t disagree.
The sun dripped on my face.
“People want beauty, Josef. People need it. They don’t realise how needed art is. Please keep painting, my boy.” I couldn’t disagree for I knew that she was right. Both times.
It was my last visit to the Schultzes. Two days later, they’d be hanging in Munich city centre, paper stuck to their lips. I heard it in the newspaper sky. You do not have secret meetings with your merry men.
I should have cried, but I didn’t. Instead, in a moment of hopelessness, I would later regret, I sold some of my paint for two cigarettes.
The Boy Who Saw in Colours Page 25
