Memory of the Color Yellow

by Suzanne Jenkins

  My eyes glazed over; too much information about abstract things bored me. Words like coalition and unions…but he went on.

  “At one time, there were almost two hundred different countries. Some were so tiny they were more like towns. Everyone spoke a different language, although English was slowly taking over the world.

  “Now, there’re just three countries; The Coalition, the Eastern Union, and the Arabs. The Coalition is the weakest, unfortunately, but don’t ever repeat that.”

  “Why don’t we speak English in the house?” I asked. Most of my friend’s spoke a different language at home. School was a riot because we’d often speak a language other than English and make our friends try to guess what we were saying.

  “It’s a way to control the people, although probably not very efficient. Take the Polsky family. They might be chatting up a storm about forbidden topics but no one would know unless they understood Polish. If English is a second language, they think it’ll be more difficult to disseminate information among each other. What they didn’t count on was how smart you young people are and their plan backfired. Everyone is multi-lingual.”

  “George,” my mother yelled. “You’re going to miss your bus and we’ll have The Council Police here sure enough.”

  My dad shrugged his shoulders and held the door for me to pass through. “Remember, don’t repeat that.”

  It was beyond my comprehension anyway, that the whole world was divided three ways. “Dad, one more thing.” He paused and looked down at me. “Are we safe?” I asked.

  “If we follow the rules, I think we’ll be okay. But we have to follow the rules. That means no running off in the middle of the night to meet up with your friends.”

  “George!”

  I followed my dad in the house greeted by my mother letting off a torrent of Greek words. I tried not to laugh, but it was hopeless, and I started to laugh like a crazy person driven by nerves and exhaustion.

  “Oh Lord,” my dad moaned.

  “What?” she said, hand on her hip. “You’re going to miss your bus and this young man is about to get my wrath. You’re grounded.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, serious. She’d never used the word and I’d never done anything wrong before this.

  “It means you can’t go out to play,” she said.

  The prospect of not seeing my friends for the few short weeks remaining of summer was depressing, but what was worse, what I hadn’t even allowed myself to think of yet, was not seeing Penelope again. I hadn’t had the chance to worry about it yet, to wonder what had happened to her, why the men were there instead of Penelope. Had they discovered we were meeting and restricted her ability to come to the fence? Who protected her? We’d never discussed our families. I knew I was going to have to find a way to get back to her, at least one more time.

  “You worried me to death and now you laugh? I don’t think so! And where did you go?”

  “The boy was just having an adventure,” my dad said, coming to my defense. “Like we used to have when we were kids.”

  I sat down with my father. We ate breakfast in silence while my mother, anger boiling over, went at me again and again, reminding me how much she loved me, how easy it would be to get the whole family in trouble.

  “Can I go to my room now?” I asked, hands on the table ready to jettison myself out of there.

  My mother looked at me from the corner of her eye. “Is this why you’ve been sleeping late everyday? You’re out, doing only God knows what?”

  I looked at the floor, unwilling to lie to her, but unable to tell the truth. How could I admit what I was doing when, according to her, I’d put the entire family in jeopardy?

  “Go.” She finally said.

  I got up from the table. “Have a nice day, Dad,” said, thinking of him taking the bus into town so he could drive a bus all day. It was the first realization that the life my parents led might not be the one they dreamed about as children.

  When I got into my bedroom, I looked down at my clothes. All the boys I knew dressed the same way I did. We all wore jeans and t-shirts in the summer and jeans and sweatshirts in the winter. Girls had bare legs, all summer and were allowed to wear jeans under their dresses in the winter. We all wore layers of clothes as the temperature dropped. No one spent much time outside because our clothing was inadequate, but at the time, I didn’t understand. It didn’t occur to me until later that an entire lifestyle revolved around winter sports and that only a certain socio-economic group of people enjoyed it.

  The idea of class was as foreign to me as free will. Until Mrs. Polsky used the word Tiresias, I never felt restricted in my life. Now, everything was restrictive. I sat on my bed, looking around my room. Exhaustion set in, but I was afraid of giving into it, of falling asleep and possibly missing something monumental. What if The Council Police came to the door? I suddenly needed to be outside with my friends, grounded or not. It was still early though; my mother would get suspicious if I tried to leave the house too early. Laying back on my bed, I reached for my alarm clock and set it for nine. If I could sleep for a few hours, I’d be okay.

  Chapter 5

  The sun streamed in through the cracks of the blinds, heating the room up, no morning breeze coming through the window which was closed and locked to prevent me from escaping. My eyes felt gritty and I had a headache. I wanted to return to being an innocent twelve-year-old boy, pull the covers over my head and not worry about world problems, where my food and clothes came from, whether or not my parents were happy. But most of all, I didn’t want to worry about Penelope.

  I needed to find out what my friends were doing. I needed to confide in someone. Paul was the only person I might be able to trust in spite of the worry that he might try to take her away from me.

  I got out of bed and went into the kitchen looking for my mother, but no one was around. I could smell a familiar yeasty smell. Rows of bread pans lined up on the counter and table were filled with rising dough, all covered with squares of tattered sheeting my mother washed and rewashed daily. Listening carefully, I heard voices coming from the front porch. Tiptoeing to the door, I didn’t really want to interact, but needed the security of knowing where my family was.

  My mother was standing up, talking to two men dressed in formal suits, garb rarely seen in Europe Town. I stood to the side of the screen door, out of their sight.

  “Remind your boy The Council has made it a crime punishable with imprisonment to venture away from your neighborhood, especially after sunset.”

  My grandmother replied in Greek, shocking me. “What’d she say?” one of the men asked, quickly turning toward Yiayia.

  A slight hesitation by my mother confirmed that what Eleni had said was not nice. “She said the boy is innocent of wrongdoing.”

  Actually, what she’d said was, “The Council is full of skata.”

  I ran back to my bedroom, quietly shutting the door. I listened to see if I could hear them, a slight murmuring indicated the men were still there. Finally, all I could hear was the rise and fall of voices speaking Greek, then the screen door slamming. I peeked out my bedroom door and saw the family coming inside, single file, Peter bringing up the rear. He and Stephanie hadn’t said a word while the men from The Council were here.

  “The boy didn’t mean it,” Peter said. “He had no way of knowing.”

  “You’re right,” Stephanie said. “I wonder if Polsky is getting a lecture now.”

  My grandmother pulled the blinds apart and looked outside. “They’re walking down the street toward her house.”

  “I should have said something. I should have told them what she said in front the boys.”

  “Rose, be careful,” Stephanie said. “I bet they already know.”

  It was my cue to come out. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “Are we in trouble?”

  “Not yet,” my mother said, distracted. “Do you want something to eat?”

  My mothe
r answered every question with an offer of food. “No. But I want to go see Paul.”

  “Phone him, then,” she replied. “You’re not going out, especially now with those pests wondering around.”

  “Oh my God! Look,” my grandmother hissed, waving us over.

  We ran to the window and looked out over her shoulder. The men converged on Polsky’s house after they’d left our house. But my mother had just said she didn’t tell them how this had started. An ancient looking vehicle, my father later called it a station wagon; pulled up in front of the Polsky’s house and a half dozen men in green uniforms, like soldier’s fatigues, jumped out and stormed the house. I could hear Mrs. Polsky screaming. Family, including her infant carried by an older cousin, streamed out, running for cover at the next door neighbor’s house. They were followed by the suited men, one on each side of Mrs. Polsky, dragging her out. Without her hair covered, she looked younger, almost pretty. It made me feel worse.

  “Let me go!” she screamed. “My baby! Let me go!”

  “Oh, Jesus God,” my mother cried, trying to slap her hand over my eyes which I flung off, Stephanie embracing her as we watched with horror.

  The men didn’t acknowledge that there was a child needing care until Mr. Polsky returned from his job. Expecting to see the men shove Mrs. Polsky into the car, instead they pushed her down on the ground and one of the soldiers stepped forward, aiming his rifle at her face and with a blast, shot her dead in front of all of us. My grandmother’s response was to grab me and fall to the floor with me, a practiced move I would later wonder from were it originated.

  “Remember this,” one of the suited men called out, sweeping his hand in an arc, oblivious to the screaming. “Remember what happens when you break the rules.”

  They piled into the station wagon and left, Mrs. Polsky lying on the sidewalk in the sun, the contents of her cranium spread over the concrete.

  While she removed bread from the oven and set it out to cool, replacing it with more loaves to bake, Rose Manos watched the clock. At exactly six-fifty, she ran from the house, averting her eyes to avoid having to look at Jane Polsky’s body simmering on the sidewalk, to meet her husband’s bus. Other wives in the neighborhood would do the same thing, but they’d do it independently, understanding that this was not the time to bind together in solidarity. Individual survival was key at this juncture, not strength in numbers. I threw off my grandmother’s protective arm and chased after my mother.

  The bus pulled up to the stop, and the men knew immediately something terrible must have happened. Wives never came to the bus stop, it wasn’t forbidden, but it was awkward. Edward Polsky noted his wife was not among the commuters and neighbors took pity upon him, a wife and husband going to him and whispering to him, his cries of anguish ringing out.

  “Oh my God what happened after I left?” George asked, grabbing my mother’s arm. His eyes rolled to the sky. Thank you for sparing my wife, he prayed out loud.

  “George,” she choked, crying. “They came to the house after going to Paul and Candy’s.” The Antoni’s were my friend Paul’s mother and father. “Candy must have said something to someone about what Polsky said. I can’t be sure. They asked me about Steven. After they left our house, they went right to Jane’s and dragged her out of the house, and in front of the kids and everyone they shot her in the face! She’s still laying there.”

  George, arms around both our shoulders, looked over at Edward Polsky, the others trying to drag him home. Not wanting to make a scene at the corner in view of the cameras, they were having a difficult time reasoning with him. He flailed his arms around, shouting.

  “You need to see about your baby, Ed,” someone barked. “Get him home, fast, before they come for her body. You don’t want to lose your son, too, do you?”

  “Come on,” George hissed. “Is my mother okay? I mean, she didn’t try to pick a fight, did she?”

  “She’s fine, she’s a rock,” Rose answered; the only bright spot in that day was her mother-in-law, her strength, her positivity.

  “How’s my boy?” he asked looking at me.

  “He’s shaken. He takes it personally, like you. I’m scared for him, because he’s asking questions now.”

  My dad recalled the conversation he had with me that morning. The idea was percolating in my mind that my generation would make the difference. We would ask questions and wouldn’t accept the answers.

  “What are we going to do about school?” my father asked.

  “Nothing! We have to send him. When he’s old enough he can decide things for himself. But now we must follow the rules, all of us, or succumb like Jane Polsky did.”

  Bowing her head, Rose started to cry again. “Pull it together before we get home,” George said.

  He looked around, at his neighbors rushing toward home just like they were, a crowd propelling Edward Polsky, holding him up. Then, in full view, the body laying on the sidewalk, blood congealed and dried, flies buzzing loudly enough in the heat that we could hear it from our house.

  “Jesus,” George moaned. “Couldn’t they cover her up?”

  “No one dared go near,” she answered. “He’ll just have to deal with it. We saw it happen.”

  They watched Edward Polsky lunge toward his wife’s body, but the others were strong enough to hold him back. The wife of the family who lived next door where the baby was staying rushed out to grab Edward, whispering in desperation. The man and woman pulled him inside the house, the shades drawn, the children sequestered in the basement.

  “Come here, Son,” George said, grabbing me to hug again, the urgency in his voice transferred to Rose, who was on the verge of panic.

  There was nothing we could do about it, no place to run or hide. This was it, this was our life. “He saw the whole thing.”

  That evening, after witnessing the first of the public assassinations, countless households in the neighborhood dealt with the question asked by their children when the warnings to follow rules were restated. What exactly are the rules? In the past, parents had counted on the school answering all the necessary questions. But perhaps waiting until that magical age of thirteen was too late.

  There hadn’t been any rebellion yet among the people; it was too soon after the revolution. The new world was early in its infancy, only twenty years old. Up until that day, the day of Jane Polsky’s murder, most people still believed what was being done for them, or to them was for the good of humanity and took whatever was tossed their way as truth. But the revolution had taken place more than twenty years ago and it seemed like twenty years was just long enough to raise doubts. Doubts were unconsciously transferred to the children and the children would start the new rebellion. It would be slow at first, just a few unwieldy children with the guts to climb out of bedroom windows.

  The first night after Mrs. Polsky was murdered in front of us, I had a horrible nightmare. The dream was nonsensical, but one thing stood out; if I listened to directions, it would lead to my death. In the dream, my parents and grandparents, including a man I didn’t know but who my father referred to as your papou, kept telling me to go into the woods. “Do as I tell you,” the strange man said. “All the answers are there, among the trees.”

  “You can trust your papou,” George said in the dream. “He wouldn’t tell you to do anything that would harm you.”

  The only person who disagreed with them was my mother. “Don’t tell the child to go,” she kept saying, smiling at me, smoothing my face with her flour covered hands.

  Waking with a start, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I grabbed my clock and saw that it was just one. I had to see Penelope.

  Quickly dressing, I even brushed my teeth in case I should be lucky enough to get near her again, although I doubted I’d be up for any tree climbing. I looked around my bedroom for something that might aid me in my escape now that I didn’t have the ladder, but there was nothing. Then I thought of rope. Why hadn’t that crossed my mind bef
ore? I had a length of rope in my closet, not too long, but long enough to get me within jumping distance from the ground. Where to tie the other end of the rope? Nothing seemed strong enough, the bed would move if I tied it to the frame, the door knob on my closet was rickety and I didn’t see it holding my weight. I’d have to forgo the rope for now, but I’d take it in case it could get me over the fence.

  Closing my blinds, the open screen wouldn’t be so obvious if my mother should come in. I looked at the bed. The extra blanket folded under the sheet made a nice padded body, and a basketball on the pillow with the sheet over it wouldn’t fool anyone who might come inside, but from the door, the bed appeared occupied.

  Deciding to unlock the front door, it would get me inside the house again. I could think of no other way to get back to my room. Sneaking down the hall, I turned the lock slowly, hoping I was unlocking it, not wanting to check it. I went back to my room.

  Confident I’d covered everything, I climbed out the window, dropping my backpack to the ground and following after it with a thump. The blinds made a little noise. I waited before I snuck out to the front of the house, but it didn’t appear that anyone heard it.

  Repeating the routine of the previous week, I ran west, careful to hide my face when I crossed the street as far from the corner as I could get. Since Mrs. Polsky’s murder, I thought something would be different; there’d be more police presence, or something to signify the breech of rules. But nothing had changed as far as I could tell.

  Arriving at the fence shortly after two, I hoped she would be there, or even the men from the night before would be waiting, but there was nothing. Silence.

  Taking my backpack off and placing it at the base of the tree, I approached the fence and walked north, the path the men had taken. Hissing into the woods; “Penelope!” I hoped she would hear me. But instead of an answer, a blow to the back of my head brought me to my knees. It wasn’t hard enough to knock me out, but it did incapacitate me momentarily, giving the perpetrator the upper hand.