Worlds Between

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  A procession of vehicles was traveling slowly down the boulevard from the far left of my field of vision. The first few cars were beautiful creations in glinting silver, open-topped to display a series of military personnel in their full regalia. I recognised the grey-green shade of their dress and the flashes of red on some of their collars. My boy’s mind grew suddenly angry. He clenched his fists.

  The grand vehicles came to a halt right in the centre of the road almost directly below the building we were in. The remainder of the convoy was made up of covered canvas trucks in varying shades of green that spread out into different positions, including some on the wrong side of the road. Someone in the crowded store room said something that sounded an awful lot like the word ‘Nazi’. Other people muttered their anxious replies. My boy nodded his head silently as the canvas trucks began to open one by one.

  I saw their shiny black boots first as the soldiers hit the empty pavement pair by pair. They all wore spherical helmets obscuring their heads, making them look like one never-ending line of identical toy soldiers during the disembarkation. They formed precise, tight ranks at once as their commanding officers came to appraise them; they had alighted from their more stylish transports. Where minutes before the grand boulevard had been almost empty, now at least a hundred soldiers convened on its empty roads. The grey-green mass saluted without a word, followed almost instantly by the clicking of a hundred pairs of polished black boot heels. The sound was eerie on the deadly silent street.

  Then out of nowhere bursts of colour exploded through the grey. In the middle of every neatly-ordered pack of soldiers came a flash of red fabric, revealed moments later as the standard of the leader under which they marched. The red, white and black of the Nazi flag was raised above every unit as some inhabitants from the very first car fired single shots into the air. They had arrived in this place, perhaps for the first time, and they were keen to make it known. The boy who I occupied let his strong stance deflate, his anger and fear fading off to give way to sorrow. He raised one smooth hand to his temple, rubbing the space above his ear.

  “Min elskede Oslo,” he whispered.

  Oslo! So something had gone right in my practice after all.

  “Hvem sa det?” the boy said, looking around him frantically. The rest of the crowd gave him funny looks, some shook their heads. I felt his eyes narrowing in suspicion, his ears pricking as he continued to look around. Had he heard me? I focused hard on him and what he was doing. It felt like deep concentration, like listening. He closed his eyes, turning my viewpoint black.

  Oslo, I thought again.

  He jumped, startled. His eyes flew open and once again he looked around for the source of the voice, but the females in this room were older women who were all staring out at the display on the street. My boy pushed his way through the crowd and out of the room, into a poorly lit corridor with a buzzing electric bulb. I didn’t know what to do, but I felt I owed him some kind of explanation. I thought of what my mother would do if she were addressing someone from foreign parts.

  Hello, I thought, Do you speak English?

  The boy let out an audible cry as he scanned the corridor around him. It was totally empty. So now he knew my voice had no body. I didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

  “Some English, yes,” he answered. He was more nervous now than when the Nazis had arrived. “Please miss, where are you speaking from?”

  That was a loaded question, but I decided on honesty.

  Great Britain, I replied.

  “But that is impossible,” he whispered. I liked his accent, the way he pushed his vowels out of his mouth with stress.

  Yes, but it’s true.

  “Why can the others not hear you?” he asked, his nerves abating a little once more.

  I’m afraid I have used your mind to see what’s happening in Oslo. It was true enough; he didn’t need to know it had happened accidentally.

  “You have powers,” he began uncertainly, “Synsk… I do not know the English word. But this is very, very impossible.”

  He understood it better than I thought he would, which told me he had enough sense about him not to think himself mad for hearing voices. He believed that people like me existed, however afraid he might be of the idea. I was about to speak again when that familiar cold shiver started to creep up my spine, the dark little corridor was fading in and out. I panicked, focusing hard to maintain for a few seconds more.

  Your name, I demanded, Please, I have to go, but give me your name. I can find you again with your name. I clung desperately to Oslo, hoping what I’d just said was true. And then I realised that perhaps he wouldn’t want me to find him again. I started to sink away despite my efforts; almost everything in the corridor was gone when one last sound reached my ears.

  “Henri.”

  I was too exhausted from the length of the visit to focus on finding Henri again right away. I went to bed that night hoping my mind might take me there anyway, but had no such luck, and the next day there was no peace to be found at all at Ty Gwyn. Mam was intent on mending the impenetrable rift that had built up between Blod and I during my eight months thus far in North Wales; she thought a nice trip to the cinema was the solution. Blod only agreed because my wheelchair meant that she would most likely get a seat right at the front of the picture house.

  Unfortunately Mam also made the insane decision to break a piece of bad news to Blod on the way to the cinema, namely that she couldn’t have the dress she wanted for her 21st birthday. Blod hit the roof shamelessly as we went down the uneven streets of Bryn Eira Bach, but for all her complaints there simply wasn’t enough money in the family to give her what she wanted. Fabric was in short supply and necessary for the war effort, so the few new dresses that remained in Evans the Tailor’s window had more than tripled in price since the start of the year. By the time we reached the ticket booth Blod had a face that could summon stormclouds and though we did get our seat at the front of the tiny screening room, she slumped back into her chair, crossed her arms and stared at the screen determinedly even before the reel started to run.

  The first thing that popped into life on the screen was a news reel detailing the current state of the war. At first there were some flickering images of our boys in ranks, saluting and waving their sweethearts goodbye. People in the picture house cheered all around me. But the atmosphere dropped into a sombre one as the great black and white screen was overtaken by the Nazi swastika flying high. The narrator of the bulletin erupted into a deeper, darker tone.

  “But out in Greater Europe our allies are falling to the great German threat.”

  Still photographs appeared of people being flung out of their houses by German troops, children crying in the streets and properties smashed and destroyed. Until one image flickered into focus, an image that made me gasp aloud. Oslo. The boulevard that I had been looking down on with its leafy green trees and the lines of soldiers in their big black boots next to the open canvas trucks. Except that now those soldiers were dragging people away, and part of the street in the forefront of the image was smeared with something dark. Blood.

  “The occupation of Norway began this week seeing hundreds of innocent residents in the capital city of Oslo taken away. These propaganda photographs released to the European newspapers claim that the Nazis are hounding out traitors and resistors to their cause. The Norwegian government has been overthrown and replaced by…”

  I couldn’t bear it anymore. I closed my eyes and my mind to the cinema screen. Henri was there in that awful place. He’d have seen the blood on the streets; he might even have been taken away. I had met with him for less than half an hour, but I knew he was a good young man. I considered my state carefully, deciding that I was no longer as tired as I had been in the morning. Perhaps I had rested enough to reach him. Blod was still sulking to my left and Mam was in the chair on the other side of her, engrossed in the newsreel still. I sank back into my wheelchair slowly, putting my head out of their fiel
d of vision.

  My arms and hands took their usual position as I nervously began to shut out the sounds and sights of the screening. Perhaps if they saw me, they would just think I had a headache, or even that I’d nodded off to sleep. With a nervous, thumping pulse building behind my ears, I took my two deep breaths, thinking hard on the scenes I had just witnessed, the young smooth hands of the boy in the store room. His voice and his name. Henri.

  When I opened my eyes I was at a table sewing on a button. Or more precisely Henri was. I recognised the trickle of the nerves down his spine as he tried to concentrate, the sight of his hands filled me with glee. If I had had the physical strength to leap for joy this would have been the moment to do it. I had the found the right mind at the right time for once. I watched him for a few seconds as he continued to attach the button to a man’s brown suit, but I couldn’t resist the urge to make contact for long.

  Hello Henri, I thought.

  The young man stabbed himself with the needle as he jumped half out of his skin. He looked up into the same store room he had been in when I saw him last. There were a few other stations for tailoring among the swathes of cloth, but he was alone.

  “Hello?” he said aloud, sucking on his now-sore finger.

  I’m so sorry, I answered, I didn’t mean to startle you.

  “No harm done,” he answered with his finger still at his lips, “I had begun to think you were something in my imagination.”

  I had to rest my mind before I could come back, I explained, but they’re reporting on the occupation here, I wanted to make sure you were all right.

  “You did?”

  Henri felt sort of warm suddenly. I was grateful that he wasn’t able to see the blush that might have crept into my cheeks at his words.

  I don’t know how long we have to speak, I thought, avoiding his question.

  “Then tell me your name,” Henri prodded, setting down his tailor’s tools.

  Kit, Kit Cavendish.

  “Kit,” he repeated in his rich voice.

  How old are you? I asked.

  “Seventeen,” he answered, “And you?”

  An awkward moment settled on me. Well, I’ll be sixteen in June.

  “So you’re fifteen,” he corrected with a laugh hitched in his throat. I could feel his merriment rising slowly.

  Where are you? Are you a tailor?

  “Something like that,” Henri replied. He looked up around the room again to make sure no-one had come in. “I was an apprentice, but all the older men fled north to escape before the invasion, so now I am the only boy left. This is Mr Hoffman’s building, the clothing shop is downstairs.” He paused a moment, scratching his chin. “Can you see everything I see?”

  Yes, I answered, whatever you look at, I can see it too.

  Everything suddenly went black.

  “What can you see now?” Henri asked. I could feel a smile growing on his face.

  You’ve closed your eyes, haven’t you? I answered.

  He laughed, opening them again. Then he held up his hand in front of his face, still chuckling.

  “How many fingers?” he demanded.

  Five, four, none, two. I followed his movements and answered as quickly as he made them.

  “This is amazing,” he remarked, shaking his head. He looked down at himself, revealing a brown waistcoat over a black shirt. “So what am I wearing?” he tested again.

  I was about to answer when a sharp banging sound alerted us both. Henri snapped his gaze to the door where we both saw the horrific sight of big black boots kicking it open and marching into the room. A tall man with curly black hair stepped in wearing the German uniform. He had a thick moustache that emphasized his sneering lip as he approached Henri in the centre of the room. A half dozen more soldiers in their circular helmets followed him inside, gathering around the great dark man like a pack of wolves. Henri got to his feet as the German approached; all his merriment from a moment since was gone.

  “You speak English, boy?” demanded the German. He was carrying some kind of officer’s hat under his arm.

  “Yes sir,” Henri answered, his usually deep voice quivering a little, “I have a teacher. I am a student of Mr Bavistock.”

  The sneer turned into a horrid yellow grin under that huge ugly moustache. “Ah yes. He is an Englishman, no?” the German asked. Henri didn’t reply; I could feel his muscles tensing. “We are… talking with him, at the moment.”

  I had a pretty good idea of what he meant having seen the awful newsreel. That poor teacher would be one of the people dragged out of their lives by the grey-green uniformed mass of invaders. Henri stood firm, his face reactionless. The German’s dark eyes scanned the empty room.

  “Who were you talking to just now?” he demanded.

  “Nobody sir,” Henri stammered, his stoicism starting to fail, “I was practising my English. I always practice out loud when I am alone. It is good for pronunciation.” All the words came tumbling out in a nervous mess; I could feel his heart starting to thump in his ears, his blood rushing in anxious circuits to flush into his face. He felt hot suddenly, his breath was sharp.

  The officer barked something in German at his men, who then descended on the room, overturning huge piles of fabric, clothes, patterns, even machinery. They hurricaned through the large, empty room in pairs, uprooting everything in sight. Henri spun on the spot as he watched them until his focus came back to their superior. It was then that I noticed the officer’s great hairy hands folded in front of him and the clipped cigar perched in his pocket ready to be lit. I recognised them all too well, horrified to look into the ugly, dark face and realise I had been inside the mind attached to it.

  “Just a little inspection,” the officer explained with a horrible smile, “it is within the law.”

  “Whose law?” Henri asked. He seemed shocked with himself for even asking it.

  “Your law, by next week,” the officer answered, “things are about to change around here, Herr…?”

  “Haugen,” Henri answered, “Henri Haugen.”

  The officer approached with definite strides of his huge boots. He was at least half a foot taller than Henri, his dark eyes boring down on him. He took Henri’s chin in his hairy hand roughly; I felt the force as though he’d grabbed me too. The German’s yellow teeth were bared in another wicked grin.

  “We could use some boys like you who know their English well,” he mused cruelly.

  Henri was shaking, but the fire of his anger and injustice had returned. He took the German’s hand away from his face by force, stepping out of his reach and back behind his table.

  “I will not help the Nazi swine,” he spat.

  “You insolent little cur!” The German was instantly enraged, his hairy hands balling into fists as though he might swing for Henri any moment. I feared him, though Henri was now more angry than frightened, but a thought occurred to me as I recalled my previous encounter with the pig-headed officer. He was afraid of someone too.

  Quick Henri, say what I say exactly.

  “Officer,” Henri began as I fed him the words, “I hope you will not consider doing anything outside of your orders here today. I’m sure you weren’t ordered to harm civilians. The Generalfeldmarschall might hear of it if you do.”

  The dark German stopped in his tracks, a flicker of hesitation crossing his furious dark eyes. I knew the man’s fear of his general, I had felt his heart thump in his chest just like Henri’s and mine did right now.

  “Watch your tongue in future, Herr Haugen.”

  The officer barked at his soldiers again and they stopped their rampage of the store room, leaving everything in a mess as they followed their commander swiftly from the scene. Henri waited several long moments as we listened to them descending the stairs. He went to the window, watching until the little troop of jackboots had marched off into the street, then let out a huge relieved sigh.

  “You saved me there,” he told me in the empty, wrecked room, “Sometimes I d
o not think before I speak.”

  What you said was very brave, I replied. I felt the heat of pride building in Henri’s chest. But he might have given you a beating for it.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “I’ll have to learn how to manage with these dogs in command.” Henri walked to the smallest of the piles of upturned fabric and began to right them. “I expect Mr Hoffman will be up in a moment to inspect the damage.”

  I’ll go then, I began, feeling the store room start to blur even as I said it.

  “But you’ll come back?” Henri asked. His voice was level, but there was something much more hopeful in the way he hitched his breath, awaiting my answer.

  Of course, I replied. He let out the air he was holding in.

  “Good,” he answered, smiling, “I might need you to save me again.”

  I expect you will. The room started to flicker in and out of view. I could feel myself smiling too.

  “I’m alone at this time almost every day,” Henri offered.

  The cold shiver in my back caught my attention and I focused hard for one last moment to feel that smile on his face.

  We’ll speak soon then, I promised. And suddenly Norway was gone.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Blod demanded in a whisper as my hands dropped away from my face. She nudged me hard in my shoulder until my eyes refocused and I remembered where I was and what I was supposed to be doing.

  “Oh, I had a headache,” I answered all too loudly. Someone behind shushed me.

  “Oh shut your face,” Blod snapped at the disgruntled person before turning back to me, “You’ve missed half the film. Look don’t let Mam see you feeling ill. I’m enjoying this film and I don’t want to have to go home ‘cause of you.”

  “Right, sorry,” I answered quietly.

  Blod went back to looking at the screen, placated. I too turned my attention to it for the first time. It was a war film, something about heroes and romance. A handsome blonde-haired chap in a pilot’s uniform was wrapping some girl up in his arms, promising her that he’d return someday. The girl had dark ringlets blowing in the wind. She looked up at him with a loving smile and answered: “Til we meet again”.