Prisoner of Warren

by Andreas Oertel

  What a mess!

  Chapter 7

  “Thank goodness you two showed up when you did,” Gwyneth said when we reached the top of the gully.

  Martin lowered Celia, and Celia lowered her puppy onto the ground. She tugged on Martin’s arm, encouraging him to sit on the grass. Once he was settled, Celia placed Tinker on his lap so he could pet the puppy.

  Gwyneth and I walked around Martin and Celia, stopping when we were out of earshot.

  “I suppose,” I mumbled.

  Gwyneth gave me a kiss. “You’re my hero now, Warren. You were so brave back there.” Just kidding. She didn’t kiss me or say that. But she did say, “Don’t be so modest, Warren. It’s true. If Rake had come back before you, and…. Hey, is Martin his real name?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, then Tinker would be dead,” Gwyneth said.

  “We didn’t want any trouble. I just wanted to go for a swim, without getting caught with…” I looked over at Martin.

  Gwyneth laughed. “Everyone in town knows you guys have a P.O.W. on the farm. It’s no big secret.”

  “Really?” I knew people talked and gossiped, but I sure didn’t think word would spread that fast.

  “The Stevensons have one too,” she said, reminding me that my dad wasn’t the only insane person in the area. “I saw him collecting bales just this morning.”

  In other words, there would soon be two farms with dead families—the Webbs’ and the Stevensons’.

  I didn’t know what to say. “Really?”

  “I guess I was just surprised that your prisoner looks like…like him,” Gwyneth said.

  “Me too,” I admitted.

  “And I didn’t expect you guys to be swimming.”

  I hadn’t figured on that either. “Me too,” I said again. As you can tell, I was still dumbfounded.

  “My dad doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with the prisoners working in the area, but some people aren’t too happy.”

  “People like Rake?” I said.

  She nodded. “I wouldn’t go swimming here for a while if I was you.”

  “Hmm.” (That was me.)

  I wasn’t being very talkative, or acting very social, so Gwyneth continued. “By the way,” she said, “that was good acting back there. Making them think you didn’t like Martin.”

  “I’m glad you knew I was only pretending,” I said, slowly snapping out of my Gloomy Gus mood. What would she say if she knew I’d already tried to kill him—twice? Would she understand I was protecting my family when I finally whacked him? Would she appreciate the kill-or-be-killed situation I was in? Would she nod at me in church and whisper, “Thanks for taking care of the enemy”?

  Gwyneth gave me a big smile. “Your wink looked more like a facial spasm, but I knew you were trying to send me a signal.”

  The girls thanked Martin again and then headed for home on another trail. We watched them disappear around a bend and then we set off on our own. I took us on a shortcut west across one of the pastures, then stopped when we got to a long steel cattle trough.

  “Let’s wash up here,” I said.

  I didn’t want Dad (or Mom) to see how filthy we still were, because then I’d have a lot of explaining to do. I was pretty sure Rake and his goons would keep quiet about what had happened, but I wasn’t taking any chances. If we looked like we’d gone for a swim, then my dad would believe we’d gone for a swim.

  I took off my shirt and began pumping water up from the well. With each stroke of the handle the pump screeched in protest. Dad really should oil this thing. Finally, after twenty cranks, water began to flow from the spout.

  “Go ahead,” I said to Martin. “You can clean up.”

  “Why do I not pump?” he said, taking the pump handle. “Your hands are raw. I will fill the trough.” Now he was filling the reservoir with water.

  I looked at the steel trough full of water and froze. It took me a few seconds, but I’d figured it out. He was going to drown me. For sure! I’d lean over the trough to wash my face, and he’d hold my head under until the bubbles stopped. Then, he’d sneak back to the farm and take care of Mom and—

  “Go ahead,” Martin said. “Wash your face and hands.”

  He smiled and nodded for me to proceed. But there was no way in hell I was proceeding with anything. Not a chance.

  I snatched the pump handle back and said, “You better go first. You are…you are my guest.” I cranked the lever and indicated with my head that he should wash himself.

  He shrugged his Nazi shoulders, took off his ugly prisoner shirt, and leaned over the trough.

  Now I had the advantage, and a third opportunity to get rid of him before he got rid of me. All I had to do was jump on his back and force his head under….

  Dear Warren, WAIT! Do not attack him!

  It was rare for Pete to offer an opinion before I even asked for one, but I appreciated his early warning.

  Dear Pete, You’re right. Gosh, he’s massive.

  I had been so busy visualizing Martin’s murder in my mind, I never stopped to properly assess the enemy. But now that Pete had pulled me back to reality, I have to say, I was shocked. I’d never seen anyone so…so strong. The muscles on Martin’s back rippled beneath the skin like a sack full of snakes. I didn’t want to stare, but couldn’t help myself. His body looked like the cover of a drug store muscle magazine.

  Pete was right. No way could I hold his head under water to kill him. He’d flip me off like an annoying bug. And then kill me like an annoying kid.

  Were all Germans this big?

  “Are you not going to vash, Varren?”

  Water was spilling over the trough, and I was still gawking like a fool at Martin’s physique. Embarrassed, I circled around him to the far side of the feeder, keeping as much space as I could between us. I quickly dunked my head in the cool water. Then, I rubbed the dirt around on my face and arms, and dipped my head in again. Good enough and fast enough to prevent a drowning—my drowning. We picked up our shirts and continued toward home. By the time I saw our big barn across the field, the hot wind and sun had dried my back, so I put my shirt on again. Martin did the same.

  I wondered if I should tell Martin not to say anything about what had happened at the swimming hole. But I had the feeling he wasn’t a snitch. Sure, he was a killer, but I doubted he was a rat. Anyway, I didn’t bother telling my Nazi to keep it zipped.

  “I’ll wager you both feel a lot better now,” Dad said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “much better.” I gently touched my palms, where the fall had scraped them.

  Dad had been working on the tractor hitch and climbed out from under the back when he heard us approach. Small droplets of hydraulic oil peppered his face. He grinned at us and wiped his greasy hands on a rag that looked even greasier. I’m not sure what the army did with them, but even rags were supposed to be recycled to help with the war. Everything had to do with the war effort nowadays.

  “Since you’re back already, why don’t you see if you can dig down another foot before supper.” Dad pulled a wrench from his toolbox. “And then you can take the rest of the day off.” He laughed and crawled back under the tractor.

  Martin and I returned to the hole, picked up our shovels, and resumed digging. My hands had already started to blister from the shovelling I’d done yesterday. But now, with scraped palms, the digging was becoming uncomfortable. Well, to be honest, my hands actually hurt.

  Martin saw my awkward grip on the spade handle. “I will dig, Varren,” he said. “The injury will vorsen if you continue.”

  I was ready to tell him to mind his own business, but decided to save my breath. And anyway, he was right. If I kept shovelling, my hands wouldn’t have any skin left on them at all. I grunted and sat on the edge of the hole. Thank goodness Dad was around the corner and out of sight. He w
ouldn’t be pleased seeing me loafing while Martin worked.

  Martin’s spade continued to move the heavy clay from the hole. I sat watching him and imagined his muscles efficiently working beneath his shirt. Every few minutes his spade would strike a rock, which he would pry loose and lob from the hole like it was nothing more than a pebble. He was going to be tough to kill, that’s for sure. I mean, if I could even think of a way to do it.

  I decided to talk to him, to see if he might give away a weakness. “Are all Germans as strong as you?” I asked.

  Martin laughed and nearly dropped a boulder on his foot. “No, Varren,” he said. “I am an athlete.”

  Hmm…no wonder he kept up with me so easily on the trail. “What kind of athlete?” I asked, curious to learn more about the enemy. “What sports did you play?”

  Martin rested his back against the excavation wall. “I have practiced all sports,” he said. “But Kurzstreckenlauf is what I was the best at.”

  “Kurz…” I tried to repeat the word. “What?”

  “In English it is called sprinting.”

  “SPRINTING!?” Sprinting was what I did. I wanted nothing more than to be the best sprinter in Canada—maybe the world.

  “Yes, Varren,” Martin continued his explanation. “Sprinting is running the shorter races, one-hundred metres, two-hundred metres, und four-hundred metres—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what sprinting is,” I cut him off rudely. “I’m not stupid. I’m a sprinter too.”

  In fact, in two weeks Dad was going to take me to run in the New Brunswick Summer Games, in Moncton. I could hardly wait.

  Martin’s face lit up like it was his birthday. “You also are a sprinter?” He lowered his voice and leaned forward, like someone about to share a huge secret. “Tell me, Varren, what is your best time for one-hundred metres?”

  Coach Roberts had timed me at just over twelve seconds when school ended in June.

  I told Martin and he whistled softly. “Ya, that is fast. Very fast. You must show me how you sprint. Perhaps I can help you run even faster.”

  Now what was he talking about? Sprinting was sprinting. You waited for the gun and ran like heck. As if he could help make me faster! The nerve of the guy.

  “Well, how fast can you run?” I asked defensively. Maybe I was even faster than Martin. Sure, he was a giant, but that didn’t mean he could sprint.

  “Before the army took me, I could run the one-hundred in ten point five seconds. And in the two-hundred and four-hundred, I had the fastest time in all Bayern—Bavaria.”

  “Ten point five, huh? That is pretty fast,” I admitted.

  If he wasn’t lying to me—and maybe he was—then he really was a lightning-fast sprinter. That was an Olympic time. I knew from the record books that only a few other people had ever run the hundred in less than ten point five seconds.

  Martin’s eyes saddened. “Yes, I know,” he said. “I had trained since boyhood for the Helsinki Olympics. I was only eighteen then, but I was very fast.”

  “Then Hitler started a war,” I reminded him, “and they cancelled it.”

  Martin nodded gloomily. “And now the war continues, and they have cancelled this year’s Olympics in London as well.”

  I realized why he was suddenly so sad. “Maybe you can race in the next one—in four years.” I tried to sound optimistic for his sake. Don’t ask me why.

  “Perhaps,” Martin said. “But in four years I will be much older and many times slower. And maybe the war still continues in 1948.”

  I wanted to remind him that the war was Germany’s fault, but held my tongue. I also wanted to point out that his boss (Hitler) was to blame for him missing the Olympics, but I didn’t say that either. Was I starting to feel sorry for Martin? I guess I knew that it was unlikely he would ever run in any Olympics. His dream was the same as mine, and I suppose I could imagine what it would be like to have my dream yanked from under me.

  We looked at each other in silence for a minute and then I changed the subject. “Why is your English so good?” I asked.

  Martin saw through my trick, and smiled weakly. “I have studied English for many years,” he said. “Before the war started, I was writing examinations so that I could become an English teacher at an Oberschule—a junior high school. But now….” Martin shrugged and looked down at his P.O.W. clothes. “Now the war has changed everything.”

  I nodded.

  Like I said before, the stupid war really had changed everything. It changed what we could buy, what we could sell, and even what we ate—everything was somehow war-related. The most common things were either rationed or hard to buy. Heck, Mom said she couldn’t even find hairpins in Gagetown anymore. What on earth did hairpins have to do with fighting a war!? And if the Webb family tried to buy more food than their ration book allowed, they would be fined. Imagine: we could actually get a ticket for buying more than eight ounces of sugar in one week. I asked Dad why the army couldn’t do without sugar in their tea. He explained sugar was critical to the war effort not as a sweetener, but because they needed it for making bombs. Strange, huh?

  Anyway, Martin picked up his shovel and continued digging, and then our discussion ended because Mom came outside again.

  “Okay,” she said. “You boys go and get cleaned up. Supper’s in fifteen minutes.”

  That night, as I listened to Martin snoring, I did a lot of thinking. Usually, I did my best thinking when I was running, but this couldn’t wait. I had way too much stuff swirling around in my head to save for a run home from Tom’s house, or school, or wherever.

  I began by thinking about my brother, Pete. And I know it’s stupid and selfish, but I decided to blame him for my troubles. If he hadn’t gotten sick with polio and died, none of this would have happened. Pete was smart and strong and funny, and he looked out for me. It was unfair of him to die and leave me alone in this pickle of a situation. Together, as a team, we could have easily taken care of the Rake problem, and the Martin problem. I told you I was being selfish…and stupid.

  And on the subject of Martin, what the heck was I supposed to do with him? An hour after he mumbled good night, I still worried he was going to attack me. But would he—would he really try and kill me? Was that his plan, or was I just imagining it?

  And more importantly, should I still try and murder him? Yesterday, I wanted him dead and gone (well, at least gone) but now I wasn’t so sure. The incident at the swimming hole kind of messed up my arguments for whacking him.

  Sure, Martin was the enemy, but I’d also made three new enemies at the creek. I only suspected the guy across the room wanted me dead, but I knew Rake and his friends wanted me dead. He had actually said so. Martin showed that he was brave and strong, so maybe it made more sense to not kill him…for now. I didn’t really trust him, but if I had to face Rake and his boys again, it might be nice to have Martin at my side.

  Dear Pete, I’ve been thinking about all this stuff for hours and I’ve come to two conclusions. Firstly, I’m kind of sore at you for getting polio and being dead. You were my best friend and I could have used your help down here. Secondly, I’ve decided to not kill Martin until I feel sure that Rake’s not going to kill me. Does that make sense?

  P. S. What’s a rabbit punch anyway?

  Dear Warren, I’m glad I’m dead and not you. Not because I’m scared of your Nazi, but because I love you and want you to stay alive. Your war plan sounds good. Don’t kill Martin…yet.

  P. S. If you get yourself killed, and I see you up here before you’re ninety, you’ll find out what a rabbit punch is. Ha ha…

  CRUNCH.

  A noise outside suddenly woke me. I must have been asleep. Now I was wide awake. I listened hard. Was Martin lurking around outside? Did he go for a pee? I listened some more.

  Crunch…crunch.

  Feet on gravel? Probably. But was it Martin?
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  I sat up and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I looked at Martin’s bed. He was sitting on the edge of it staring at me. Gosh, he really was a light sleeper. But if he was in the bedroom, who was outside?

  I couldn’t see Martin clearly, but I sensed he was tense too. Listening. Alert.

  Crunch.

  I reached for the light on the desk.

  Martin saw what I was doing and knocked my hand away. “No,” he whispered. “We will be seen.”

  “But…but maybe it’s an animal,” I whispered back. “The skunks and raccoons come out at night.” I didn’t really think it was an animal, but I wanted to know what he thought was out there.

  “That is no skunk,” he said quickly. “Someone is outside.”

  Rake.

  Martin slowly opened the curtain and peered out into the yard. “I see nothing,” he announced. He held the three-inch gap in the curtains and waited for me to look.

  I looked and listened, but didn’t see anything sinister. “Maybe they left,” I said.

  Martin slipped on his clothes. “I will make certain.”

  “I should come too,” I said. “In case…in case there’s trouble.”

  “No. You stay inside. If there is trouble, you must wake your parents.”

  “Oh. Okay,” I said.

  “Does your father have a firearm in the house—a rifle?”

  “Huh?” Of course we had guns. Every farm had guns. But I wasn’t about to tell him where they were. That would be nuts! What if there was just a stupid deer in the yard? What if Martin knew that and was trying to trick me into revealing where Dad kept the rifles? He’d snatch the guns and shoot us all. Right?

  “A rifle?” he said again. “Can your father defend you and your mother?”

  “Yes,” I said, keeping my answer simple.

  He slipped outside and I waited anxiously for his return. I got dressed too, just in case there was…trouble. Pacing the bedroom I worried and worried. Was Martin rendezvousing with that other prisoner of war, plotting to kill everyone in the county? Or was Martin going to get jumped and be killed by Rake? Would I be next?