by David Leroy
A football then landed in the snow in front of Marc as he was running. “Get the ball, Marc, get the ball!” and just then his classmate Stephen ran past him and snatched the ball from the snow. He was dressed in his game uniform, complete with pads and his leather helmet. “Marc! Marc, I am going long! Throw me a pass,” and he gave Marc the ball and ran ahead of him in the snow, way past the guards, and disappeared.
“Give me the baton, Marc, hurry! They will be here soon,” his friend Ralph said to him. He was dressed in his track clothes. “Marc, you are doing great! We’re winning the race, man,” he said, running ahead with the baton. Marc could see cheerleaders on the side of the road. Even the guards were waving to them.
Just about then, from someplace in the line behind Marc, it came up and out from the snow. The prisoners let it pass and the guards gave a nod of approval as the car approached. It was a bright red 1928 Stutz, a seven-passenger limousine. Marc’s father ordered it brand new from the factory with a custom interior. In those days, you went into a showroom and you ordered the features on the car. Each one was made for that special customer. Marc’s father wanted club seating in the rear. “You know, like a train, or a stagecoach,” he’d told the salesmen.
They had never made one that way before. The president of the company liked it so much, he delivered the car personally to Marc’s parents’ house.
“Breakfast, breakfast, Marc. Breakfast is ready,” he heard. It was his mother’s voice.
“Son, time to eat,” he heard his father call from the driver’s seat. The car pulled beside them, and his little sister, Elda, open the door and said, “Get in here, Marc, before it gets cold.”
Marc climbed into the car and sat in the back seat, and there, on the center table, were pancakes, glorious pancakes and syrup, marshmallows, toast, and orange juice.
“Marc, will you read me a story?” as she handed him the book. Elda loved to hear a story in the car and Marc never could say no. Marc remembered that she loved the car so much that they would often go into the garage and sit in it, just to read a story. “Skip to the good part, Marc. Skip to the good part, please,” she pleaded.
“Don’t do it, Marc,” his mother said, looking through the center divider window.
His father said, “Listen to her, she knows.”
“Please, please, Marc, the good part, please,” the car backfired then and shook.
“What was that?” Marc then started to look out the window.
Marc’s mother turned and said, “That is enough now, Elda. Get out and play with one of the nice guards,” and as the car backfired a few more times, Elda climbed out to run with the prisoners and guards in the snow.
“Marc, don’t let your breakfast get cold, and pay no attention to those backfires,” his father said, looking at Marc through the rearview mirror.
Three of Marc’s friends from school came into the car next and sat across from him. He had forgotten about them. Oh, he thought, how good it is to see them again.
“Marc, let’s sing a song,” and they all sang a tune from way back in grade school, and it was so happy and cheerful. They were clapping and singing, with a clap, clap, bang, bang, and the car would backfire again. It was so much fun to clap and try to match the backfire of the car. It was like the car was clapping with them. And then one said, “Roll out …”
Marc’s father turned and said, “Stop it! Stop it now. Enough of that. I do not want to hear that song again,” then Marc’s friends were not so happy and they got out of the car, as well.
The car drove on right down the center of the column of soldiers and prisoners running in the snow on the road, and Marc sat in the back of the car, with all those pancakes.
And then his mother said, “Oh, look, it’s Veronica! Over here, Veronica, get in the car and talk with Marc, will you please?” And the car rolled up alongside Veronica as she ran in the snow, holding a gun to one of the guards. “Take this rifle, you naughty guard, and I will be right back,” she said, and then climbed into the car.
“Marc, I am so sorry about leaving you the way I did.” Marc felt a little better, because when she ended things, she never said those words. “And if I’d known for a second that you were going to go to Europe and study art, I would never have left you,” she said, and Marc felt even better.
“But, Marc, honestly, I have a confession. You were so good, and you believed me when I said I didn’t want to have sex before marriage, and so, I thought maybe you might be a little funny, you know,” then Marc felt odd inside and not quite sure how to take the comment, but stared at the food in front of him.
“But, Marc, now that I saw you went to France and got a girlfriend even worse than me, I know you are swell, and I missed out on a good deal.” Marc stuffed another pancake into his mouth. “I am so sorry, Marc, if what I said to my friends ever got back to you,” and Marc felt vindicated. Finally, she saw him. Finally, she wanted him again. Finally, he could drink some orange juice.
“And, Marc, now that you have been arrested, charged, and are in prison, you are really hot. I mean, Marc, you are a real catch,” she said. He had finally proven himself to her. She saw him now. He spread jam on a piece of toast. The car backfired again, and Marc looked up from his food.
“Pay no attention to that, Marc,” his mother said.
“Look, I need to go and shoot one of the naughty guards, but when you get home, call me. Please. Call me. I mean it,” she said as she left.
“Thanks, Veronica. Have fun, and don’t get pregnant, honey,” his father said in between backfires of the car.
“Oh look, honey, more friends from France. Stop and let them in,” his mother pleaded with his father.
It was Allen, David, and Dora from the Normandie. How odd, Marc thought, I don’t remember introducing them before.
“Marc, I got home by plane, the Pan Am Clipper all across the ocean. Only got sick a little bit,” Dora said to Marc in her seductive tone.
David said, “Marc, it is so good to see you. Thanks so much for the francs. I got home by the Manhattan,” as he then turned to Allen.
Allen sat in the middle, a calm smile on his face. A large white angora rabbit sat on his lap. Allen was not on the Normandie but the Lancastria, Marc remembered. “See, I am dead,” he said. “They cannot hurt me anymore. It is all just a show.” He then grabbed another pancake and put into his pocket for later.
Allen said, “Marc, I’m sorry if I frightened you that day in the hospital. I just wanted to encourage you to make it, my friend.” Marc’s mother looked back with concern at Allen, her eyes showing she was cross.
“Thank you for sitting with me on the beach that night,” Allen said. Suddenly a jolt ran through Marc and the car backfired violently.
“That is enough. If you cannot talk nice, you cannot talk at all,” and the car let out several backfires, and his friends turned into white doves cooing on the seats. The car shook and backfired even more, and all three turned into large ravens. Marc started to look out the window at the other prisoners.
“Marc, don’t look out there,” his father said.
“What was that?” Marc asked, searching the snow.
“Marc, pay attention now, eyes forward,” his mother said.
The ravens were ranting and raving, back and forth, back and forth, their heads bobbing up and down. “Craw, and rall, crawa, and rall EEE,” back and forth, and all fear had washed away from Marc. He ate another sausage and drank down a large glass of orange juice. Both of his pockets now overflowed with pancakes.
I have enough for Jean and Georges now, he thought to himself. “I am not afraid of you, ravens. You do not scare me anymore,” he said out loud to them.
“Crash rally, crash rally, crash rally,” like dogs sounding an alarm they called out. “Guard, guard!” his mother called over to the car. The doors opened and the guards shot two of the ravens and they disappeared instantly in a puff of smoke.
“Thank you,” his father said politely.
“Why is the car backfiring so much, Mom?” Marc asked as he looked out the side window.
“You missed one,” Lynette, his mother, then said. But the guards left the car. She turned to the large raven and stared into its eyes. It was silent, with its beak sticking through the center divider window, wearing a large top hat and red-buttoned vest.
“Don’t you dare shit on those seats,” she said.
Then the raven turned to Marc, and he laughed. Shit on the seats, shit on the seats, how funny. Here we are, in the middle of Germany, with a raven in the back of the Stutz, and my mom makes a joke of it. I so miss her. She could make anything funny. Oh, how good it is to laugh, Marc thought as he laughed hysterically at the scene before him. The car chugged a bit and backfired twice. Marc tried to stuff another piece of toast into his shirt pocket, and grabbed another sausage from the plate. He then started to look out the window again, and the raven lifted up its wing and blocked Marc’s view.
Marc got up close to the raven and stared at its eyes. He thought, Beak to beak, raven to raven in the back of my parents’ Stutz.
“I am the raven,” Marc chuckled, and, just then, the raven turned into the Gestapo agent. Marc fell back with surprise against the seats of the car.
“You are lying. You are not the raven. You are very smart, Marc. I believed you. I so believed you, because when you said you were not the weasel, it was true, and I heard it in your voice. But I was confused then, and when you said you were R, the raven, I believed that, too. You tricked me, Marc. You lied. You are not the raven after all. I have had to study this case very hard. You are a tough one, Marc, a real tough trickster,” the agent said.
“You got that right,” his mother said.
“Glad someone else sees it,” his father said.
“Marc, I have new charges,” the agent said, and then the secretary came into the car with her the papers.
“New charges, oh good, honey, new charges. This should be good. Real good,” his mother said.
“In French or English?” his father asked politely. The car backfired loudly and Marc looked again out the window, concerned.
“Marc, pay attention to me,” the Gestapo agent said to him.
“What was that? It sounded like a gunshot,” Marc asked.
“Absurd. Look at me, and listen,” the agent said.
“English, please,” his mother asked the agent.
“French sounds so much better to me,” his father complained.
“How about Dutch?” the agent offered.
“No, English, and can you make it with a southern accent because Marc is into guilt, Southern Baptist English, please,” she asked real nice-like with a smile.
The agent then started to talk really fast and the woman said in a long, drawn-out southern drawl, “Marc Tolberrtt, y’all here are charged with carousing around with the wrong kind of women, and looking at ’em naked in drawing class, an’ skinny-dippin’ without a license in French waters with citizens of the British crown before they have had a proper tea and, most of all, sex before marriage in a foreign country, and a whole bunch of other things that good Catholics frown upon and, most of all, what any good Southern Baptist would give their right arm in a heartbeat for a chance at doinn’ without getting caught and, worst of all, repeating the same mistake twice with a woman, thinkin’ you know what the hell you are doin’. How do you plead upon this copy of the book of French phrases for Mormons?”
Marc’s fears dropped, and he could not believe how absurd it all sounded and, most of all, how true it was.
“Book ‘im. Guilty as charged and thank God, too,” his mother said through the center divider window.
Then the secretary said, “So recorded now in the great records of Germany, under the command of the Great Virgin Mother, Eleanor Roosevelt.”
Marc smiled as he stuffed his face with another piece of toast wrapped about a piece of golden brown sausage dipped in maple syrup.
“Oh look, speaking of the wrong kind of women, Marie, Marie, will you come over here and have a little visit with Marc?” The car chugged and backfired.
“Don’t talk with her, Marc, it will only make things worse for you,” the Gestapo agent said as he left the car.
“I be seein’ you in church real soon now,” the secretary said as she waved her hanky to him while leaving to follow the agent into the snowy woods. Marc assumed they were going to watch the circus. Marie climbed into the car, fully clothed, no less.
“You really do your best work naked,” his father said.
“You are something else, Marie,” Marc’s mother mused to herself.
Marie turned to Marc, but he closed down. He knew what she wanted, and he was determined not to give it to her. All of these pancakes and sausages were his. He grabbed the extra toast from the plate, and the jar of jam. I don’t care if it was chicken that night, all these pigeons are mine, he thought as he guarded the food in his pockets.
“Marc, I am so very sorry. This is entirely my fault and I never wanted this to happen and …” Marc focused on every single word that came from her, holding back everything inside of himself. He knew she wanted the food; he could see it in her hungry eyes. He knew she came for the marshmallows.
“But …” Yeah, but what? he thought. “But can I have some jam? Can I have a sausage?”
“But, Marc, you have to understand something. You had a role in this, too, and I could not have done what I did if you had not let me do it. So, you see, Marc, you are here because you allowed me to do it.”
Then the words came from within Marc. “Marie, fuck off.” The car shook with a backfire, and the sky outside grew dark.
“That is enough,” his mother said.
“Time to go, Marie. Nice having you,” his father said.
“And, Marie, if you are ever in New York, be sure to go to the Empire State Building,” his mother said.
“Oh, yes, good idea, and you can see all of New York, Marie,” his father said.
“And it is so much taller than the Eiffel Tower,” his mother added with a smile, “and you can JUMP. People do it all the time, all the way to the ground,” she said, bristling with a wide grin.
“Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Tolbert, that is a great idea. I might need to get out of France after the war, and it could be good for me to get away,” Marie said.
“Oh, you’re not just pretty, naked, but a smart girl, too,” Marc’s father said.
Marc checked his pockets to make sure she had not stolen any of his food.
“Game time,” Marc’s mother said as the car rolled passed a group of German guards. They ran slower now, and an officer broke away and stepped into the car. Officer Sean now sat across from Marc.
“Marc Tolbert, you are the worst cribbage player the New England Catholic Church has ever produced. I was so hoping that when Joan pulled you from the sea that day, you would be someone I could finally play cribbage with, while wasting my time in Saint-Nazaire,” he said, and then dealt the cards, just like he had done all those months back at the port, after a day of Marc digging in the church yard.
“I used to think I was lucky, but I was wrong,” Officer Sean said with a smile. “The bad cards just seem to go to you each time I deal them.” Marc picked up his hand, which was crummy as usual.
“So, I have an idea,” the officer said, grinning. “We will trade hands. I will give you my cards and you will give me yours,” and then he took Marc’s cards and started to laugh. The car then shook and backfired again. Marc looked out the window, worried.
“That sounds like, like, someone was shot,” Marc said, covering his pockets of food.
“Marc, eyes forward. Pay attention and no more looking out the windows,” his father said, looking at his eyes through the mirror.
“Marc, this is great. I have never had such a bad hand before. You really do just have a shitty hand of cards,” the officer joked, “but, Marc, I’ve got good news. These cards are not that bad.” The car chugged and sputtered. His m
other looked back at the hand, and his father looked through the rearview mirror at him.
“Marc, my plan did not work out so well for me. You are alive but I am dead,” Officer Sean said as he glowed with a golden light.
In a flash, Marc was then staring at himself. He was a little boy sitting across from himself in the car, wearing his schoolboy knickers. Outside, it was the golden hour, that timeless period of the day. The light had a warm, blue tint to it. His mother and father sat in the front seat and they drove through the hills of Maine, going off to the cabin. Marc, the boy, held a children’s book on his lap, and he did not look at Marc, the prisoner. The car did not backfire at all. Marc, the prisoner, could smell that it was brand new, shiny and fresh inside the car and outside; he could smell and taste the woods as the wind passed through the open windows.
Then Marc, the boy, looked up at Marc, the prisoner, and said very softly, “We are here.”
“Halt. You have run twenty-one kilometers,” the guard said, exhausted.
The prisoners started to collapse in the snow all around Marc. Jean and Georges swayed back and forth, struggling to remain standing.
“Don’t lie down, don’t fall asleep,” Georges said to Jean.
“Fall in, by fifty, five per row,” the call went out. Men stumbled over the bodies of those who collapsed into the snow. The train waited on the tracks with the doors open.
They packed them one hundred per car. Men wailed and cried through the next three days as the train moved slowly westward, deep into Germany.
Jean started to cry, and then became very quiet. “We can stop for lunch here, Jacques,” he said, gazing into a far-off distance as he spoke to his old blind friend from Paris.
Georges shook him over and over again. “Jean, Jean, wake up,” but nothing worked.
“Yes, I have the food,” Jean said in a whisper.
Marc remembered then the food. He searched his pockets but found nothing. Where did the pancakes go? And the toast? It was all gone. He was numb with pain, and he dared not sleep because he could see death come upon those who fell in the car.
