The Dark Night Children
WHEN I was nine, Papa and I took frequent trips through town. Bakers, cobblers,
and businessmen greeted Papa with hearty hellos and handshakes. Often, bulky,
sweaty men ruffled my hair and rouged ladies pinched my cheeks like ripened fruit.
Last week, Papa and a cigar-smelling brown overcoat were talking in hushed tones
about Mr. Tailor’s vacation. Voices became loud and erratic. A vein on father’s temple
bulged. That was the last time we went walking. I never saw the smelly brown
overcoat again.
The uniforms had been in town for what seemed years, and with them came
the absence of normal. Newspapers were verboten, food rationed. Yellow stars scarred
store doors, contents haphazardly piled and burned in the middle of town square. Mr.
Tailor’s front door had been pried open, dangled crookedly like the mouth of a dead
person. Parents chose ignorance, believing their children’s thoughts filled with play
and sweet dreams.
Uniforms skulked everywhere but that didn’t stop us from running tag. One
public flogging did persuade us to race by the docks. Uniforms lurked there too but
marching and shiny brass buttons were more a concern. Still, it did not pay to draw
attention; running was a guilty banner.
The handcar tracks began at the docks. Decades of salt air dotted the steel with
rust. Four men pumped the hand bar pulling a cart usually filled with a fresh catch. A
gradual rise took the tracks around the edge of the forest, gracefully circled around,
and back down the other side ending at the shipping yard. The roundabout
encompassed a raggedy shack used to track fishing activities, now a home to the dogs
and polished brass buttons.
Hidden along the tree line boys would dare each other to steal out and nab
stray fish. Only the bravest would answer the call. It was a feast or a beating. Others
not fishing for rot raced alongside the hill-bound handcars.
“Come on, Ian, run faster,” I yelled. Wednesday was race day. Kvinde Baker
threw out week-old goods that day. The loser of the race had to filch from her
garbage bins. Sometimes the racers would trade bread with the fishers. I had yet to
sully my older brother’s jumper with yesterday’s trash and my family had bread and
fish every Wednesday.
I ran past rusty carts, toes kicking up small clouds of dust. I preferred to run
barefoot: faster speeds and stealth. Winning was good and avoiding a public flogging
was better.
Head down, legs churned uphill, stars danced before my eyes when I hit a brick
wall smothered in a woolen coat.
“Stupid kid. Why aren’t you at home? Speak!”
My toes dangled against the ground. Arms like a rag doll’s.
“Get home before I take you in,” said the uniform.
I brushed the dirt from my pants, knees torn and bloody. Edvin stood
watching from the shadows.
Edvin arrived a few months ago from Copenhagen. The scar over his perfect
blue eyes zigzagged and complimented the sharpness of his cheekbones. Without
words or actions, he was the biggest bully in school. He forever twiddled a ridiculous
gold coin between his fingers. A boy at school tried to take it; for his efforts, Edvin
smacked him hard enough to blacken his eye for two weeks. Now he had seen me
throttled. Rounding the corner, eyes rolled, mouth tight with disgust, he was gone.
Shaken but not discouraged, I backtracked and found my friends at the edge of
the forest. Ian, my best mate, held a hunk of bread. Kvinde Baker’s treats. I had
forgotten all about race day.
“But I lost,” I said. “It should have been me.”
“One bloody knee is enough for today. She was outside batting her eyes with a
uniform. It was easy,” said Ian.
Ian was slow to anger and tough with his fist. Wherever he was, I was sure to
be.
“Come on,” Ian said. “The guys are waiting.”
To find a clearing in the forest, we had to go deep through underbrush and
clogged branches until the sights and smells of town disappeared. Here, the town was
lost to the imagination of young boys at play. Skins, per usual, refereed; Ian and I
captained. Play commenced. I dashed left, Ian dodged right, everyone ran into a
huffing and puffing dogpile across the goal line. Play after play we ran and too soon
sweaty brows demanded a cool dip in the nearby bay.
We splashed. Ian looked across the water, absentmindedly flicked decayed
leaves with a tree branch. Layered in the muck, something grimy and yellow flew up
and landed with a soft crunch. It had five perfect points. His head tilted slightly, eyes
blinked disbelief, mouth opened and silently closed. He covered the piece with his
foot, pretended to tie his shoe, palmed the yellow star, and shoved it deep into his
pocket. He knew what burned against his thigh was a death sentence to anyone found
without it. Thumbs curled around belt loops, feet rocked with the motion of the tide;
he gave his friends time to rejoin the game.
“Hey, Ian, come on. We’re up by two,” a mate yelled.
“Coming,” he said and dropped the whipping stick.
Ian was quick to tag me.
“Call the game,” Ian mouthed to me.
I used my knee to beg off the game; the boys called time and waved good-byes
until next Wednesday.
“What gives,” I said.
“I found something by the shore,” said Ian.
The perfectly cut corners were delicate, simple. Frayed bits of thread reflected
the wearer’s hasty discard. I had never touched one of their stars before.
“Is it real?” I asked.
“Of course it’s real. You want to wear it for fun?” Ian said.
“Who do you think left it? Where are they now? You don’t think they
drowned,” I said.
“No, we’d have heard about it,” said Ian.
“Where’d you find it?” I asked.
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
Three of us headed to the shoreline. Fishing boats were bobbing home and this
spot held a perfect vantage point of the harbor. We searched the ground until silver
faintly dotted the dusky sky. Three more stars were buried beneath a layer of forest
carpet. Ian tucked each deep into his shoe.
“Be home by curfew,” he tossed over his shoulder and ran for home.
The surface of the water was perfect for skipping stones.
One, two, three, four…nice.
A cold frail hand slid quietly into mine. Skins, my little brother, stood quiet. His
eyes reflected swelling waves. One quick squeeze, a wink, and we made our escape
toward home. The way was easy when it had been run hundreds of times in the dark.
The squeak of the front door scared the silence in the living space. I hung my
coat on the wooden peg and wiped down my shoes. The brown waxy shades of the
lamps glowed with the setting sun. The smell of cooked cabbage and Mama’s cleaning
oils mixed awkwardly with the sea air billowing from my clothes. Father squatted on a
threadbare arm, poked a smoldering fire in a room already too warm. Even with the
sun and fire, the penetrating stare from Mama’s eyes to Papa’s back chilled the air
around her. Without looking up Papa said, “Go to your room. I’ll call you for dinner.”
No squalling over lateness, just go.
Cabbage soup had a way of making week old bread taste new. At dinner, Mama
sat silent, while Papa told the family about a letter from Michael in Copenhagen. He
found work at a newspaper and met a very nice young girl.
“Where’s the letter?” Skins asked.
“I burned it along with a few other papers we don’t need cluttering up the
house,” Papa said.
“Burned it? Why didn’t you let us read it?” I asked. My stomach suddenly
missed Michael and couldn’t take more soup.
“Letters and papers, such clutter. He’s our boy and what he does is our
business,” Papa replied.
“Still, I would have liked to have read a letter done in his hand. What is he
doing at the newspaper?” Skins asked.
“Local news. A small weekly piece,” said Papa. “Enough talk. Finish up.”
By bedtime the moon was full in the window. The crack under the door was
dark but muffled sounds pinged into the room. I padded to the window, eased onto
the ledge and braced against an open window. On the sofa, two adults huddled close.
Mama’s hands often dabbed at her nose, twisted in her lap, and once lashed at Papa’s
knee. Their voices too quiet to overhear. Nothing to learn tonight.
Easing under the covers, I remembered the first day the uniforms marched
through town. With each step, the procession scattered the essence of my people.
Now eyes were often downcast and shifty, color gone from the town. Business
windows no longer displayed advertisements but became a sea of red with black
insignias. Town holidays came and went without mention and even little children
squelched their laughter. My little village unexpectedly, silently, changed overnight.
Late, when stars float in heaven, a hollow ting…ting pulled me out of cold
sweaty dreams. The night air felt cool on my brow. The harbor, blanketed by the wail
of tugboats, shown clear in the moonlight, and two bodies blended into the
downstairs shadows. Thwack.
“Ouch. Who did that?” I asked.
“Come down, we need to talk,” Ian whispered.
“You crazy running around at night? Who’s with you?” I asked.
“Never mind. Come around back,” Ian said.
Two shadows rounded the corner.
“They came and took my dad again,” Ian said.
The other boy twirled a coin and leaned casually against the porch.
“The uniforms?” I asked.
“Yeah. He came back with a swollen lip and black eye,” Ian said.
“What do you think they wanted?” I asked.
“Not sure. All I could make out was boats,” Ian said.
Silence blanketed the passing of time. The clunk of hard-heeled boots and
wisps of outlawed cigarette smoke brought us back.
“Why did you come?” I asked Edvin.
“Another shop closed today. Jeuden slopped on the door,” said Edvin. He stood
eye to eye with me, “I know about your brother.”
Tears surprised and infuriated me. How dare he mention my brother so
callously as if they were friends?
“Know what? He works for a newspaper. What do you care?” I spat.
“Yeah? Your Papa tell you what the paper fronts? I didn’t think so,” said
Edvin.
“Who you going to tell?” I asked.
“No one, idiot,” said Edvin.
“Why should I believe you? You always laughing and sneering at us. Why trust
you?” I asked.
“Because I do,” Papa said quietly. One finger to his lips kept my voice silent,
my skin unnerved, shivered. I expected scolding but instead he spoke.
“You must be quiet. The air has ears,” said Papa.
“Whole families disappear,” Edvin continued. “Nobody says anything, nobody
does anything. I’m sick of being a nobody.”
“Did you find what I left?” Ian asked.
“Yes, all four are gone. My heart thanks you. Carelessness will cost us and our
freight is precious,” answered Papa.
“Freight?” I asked.
“We must protect our friends and families. We cannot call them by what they
truly are,” Papa replied.
“How long have you been…?” I started to ask.
“Few weeks,” Ian interrupted, “After the uniforms took father the first time.”
“What have you to do with this?” I asked.
“Michael asked me to come,” Edvin replied.
In one breath my heart ached and soared with pride, resolute commitment
pushed away any lingering fear. I could think clearly. I could see clearly.
“Boys must do the job of men. Come. Inside is private,” said Papa.
“Son, join us,” said Papa.
“Yes,” I said.