Through My Eyes. Again
Copyright© 2019 by Iskander
Chapter 5
26th December 1962 – early April 1963
The weather after Christmas continued wet, cold, and miserable. There wasn’t even a decent storm where we could watch from the cliffs as rollers crashed onto the shore and listen to the shingle roar as the retreating wave sucked the pebbles down the beach. It was dark until about eight o’clock in the morning and was dark by four o’clock in the afternoon.
Col and I spent hours reading from the same book, snuggled under blankets. Mutti Frida had somehow acquired a copy of a slim book of short stories by Heinrich Böll about a soldier’s knapsack in the first and second World Wars, but acquiring books in German was difficult, beyond what I had found in the library. Col was loving The Hobbit and I had Narnia and my otter books to follow.
In my world, the weather had changed on New Year’s Eve and we had started the coldest winter for decades.
Would it happen here?
On New Year’s Eve, it was still raining but in the afternoon the temperature started to drop and as dusk fell, the rain became snow on a driving wind. I was doubly happy: I loved snow and the weather matching my memories reassured me about this world. Mutti Frida refused to let me go home in such appalling weather, so once again I spent the night on the sofa in the lounge room after phoning home.
Come morning, the storm had blown itself out, leaving a changed world. After breakfast, Col and I rugged up and walked to my house. We retrieved the toboggan from underneath a pile of old potato sacks in the garage and took turns pulling each other to the top of the Downs. There were already toboggans racing down the hill. We piled on to ours, with me in front after Col insisted it was my toboggan and set off down the slope, feet splayed out either side. By the time we reached the bottom, we were laughing from pure joy. As we came to a stop, Col pulled me so we fell sideways into the snow. We lay there, laughing until we realised there were people hurtling down the hill at us and we needed to move. We walked back up the hill and started to work out how to get the best speed out of our wooden steed. After half a dozen trips down and back we’d had enough.
Col pointed to the beach, which was covered with what I thought was snow. It turned out to be green-tinged ice crystals, formed when spume was blown from the waves in the storm. The sea surface was also grainy, covered in ice crystals. On the breakwaters perched some confused and dejected seagulls, wondering what was happening to their world. I picked up a pebble from the beach and tossed it into the water – its splash was subdued as it splatted through the half-frozen surface. In my world, the sea had frozen, which had been truly amazing. After tossing some stones, we headed back to Col’s house for lunch.
We took it in turns to pull the toboggan up the hill. The council had gritter trucks out, putting a mix of salt and grit on the roads, but the cars we saw were still sliding around. We helped push some stuck cars and arrived back at the house warmed by our exertions.
Mutti Frida had made a beautiful beef and vegetable stew, which we ate with homemade German noodles. It was delicious and both Col and I came back for seconds, prompting another ‘growing children’ chuckle from Mutti Frida. As we were eating, the day grew steadily greyer and it started snowing again, so we decided to stay inside and play cards. I taught them ‘Hearts’. We spent a laughter-filled afternoon trying to dodge or offload the Queen of Spades, with Mutti Frida losing graciously.
It grew dark early because of the thickly falling snow. With candles ready in case of power cuts, Col and I snuggled under a blanket to continue reading.
“Do you think the public library can order books in German, Willi?” Mutti Frida asked.
I shrugged. “Perhaps. Maybe when Col starts at school in a week, they will have some.”
“Both of you must read in German – Col so he does not forget how to, and you to strengthen your language skills.” Mutti Frida seemed to consider this for a moment. “When you go to senior school, will you study German, Willi?”
It seemed a lifetime away for my ‘young brain’ but also incredibly close for my ‘old brain’. These two perspectives were bemusing.
“I don’t know. I would like to. I don’t even know if the school offers German.”
“Perhaps you should find out what you can do,” Mutti Frida said, with a smile. “You do well at most things. Do you know what you’re going to do after you leave school?”
“I want to fly,” I said without having to think – and then squeezed my eyes closed. My old brain knew it was not going to be possible because of my eyesight. But my young brain was insistent ... and I did not want to talk about it.
“What about you Col, when you leave school?” I asked, to deflect the conversation.
“I have no idea. I’ll have to wait and see ... and where we are, I suppose.”
My young brain assumed the way things were today was the way they would be, yet my old brain knew change was the only constant in life. The idea Col might not be here, I might lose my friend sent a shiver down my spine. He was the best thing to have happened to me, as his namesake had been in my previous life. But that Col had slipped away during our teens as we both moved around the country and I had never been able to find him again. I made a silent promise to myself to take more care with this Col, in this life.
“ ... Willi? Willi?” Col tapped me on the bicep.
I turned to face him.
“Oh, so there is someone in there. Where did you go?” he said, smiling.
“Sorry – I was thinking.”
“Your turn to read out loud.” We settled back into The Hobbit, chuckling at Bilbo rushing out without even a pocket-handkerchief. When Mutti Frida pushed me to go home I left with my usual reluctance. In truth, my real family was here with Col and Mutti Frida.
The following days before we started at school were similar. One day, we walked through the snow along the cliff top as a storm built in the Channel. The wind whipped around us, growing stronger once we turned for home. It was clear the ice was thickening as the waves at the foot of the cliffs surged but did not break, due to the layer of ice crystals on top. We also saw great billows of grey-green ice crystals filling the beaches below the sea wall, piled up there by the wind and waves. By the time we arrived back at Col’s house, it was snowing hard: another blizzard. I hoped Mutti Frida would let me stay the night rather than have me walk home in such bad weather – and she did.
Mutti Frida decided it was time we cooked her a meal. She sat on the sofa and gave cooking instructions through the open door. Fortunately, it was a simple meal of toasted ham, cheese and Gürkchen, pickled baby cucumbers, on slices of the thick rye bread Mutti Frida loved. She had been delighted to find it a Polish bakery in town.
After we finished eating, we again played Hearts and I lost. I spent the night sleeping on the sofa as before, swaddled in blankets. During the night the sea froze up to a mile out from the shore according to the news – and there were worries the ice could damage the pier.
The holidays ended and it was back to school. After school on the first day, I hurried back to Col’s house eager to find out how he was doing.
Col was there in his school uniform, gloom apparent in his stance.
“How was school?”
“I hate it.” His face screwed up with emotion. “Apparently, I am a Nazi, a hun, a kraut and various other bad names used by you English during the war.” He paused, eyes rolling. “Some of them are calling me Adolf. I hate England. I hate you English.” Hurt filled his eyes. “There is a Polish girl who insists on calling me Szkop, which is probably something rude in Polish.”
“Col, I’m so sorry. Have you told them you are not a Nazi – your mother was in a concentration camp?”
“I can’t tell them. I can’t tell them anything because we need to stay hidden.” Col shouted, then turned and ran into his bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him.
I had never seen Col so hurt and angry. I stood there, wanting to help but not knowing how to comfort my friend. I also realised I had never been inside Col’s bedroom and entering now felt strangely like a violation of his space, but I still knocked.
“Col? Col? Can I come in?”
Through the door, I heard faint sobs and stood there trying to decide what to do. Col was hurting, and I needed to comfort him. I opened the door. Col was lying face down, his head buried under a pillow. I tiptoed towards the bed and reached out, touching his shoulder.
“Col?”
There was no reaction. I sat down beside him on his bed. “Col, I’m sorry about what was said to you. Please don’t hate the English – at least not all of us.”
Col stirred and he tugged the pillow from his head, before gusting out a stuttering sigh. “Willi, no. I don’t hate you.” His eyes were a bit red but hinting a smile. “Even if you are English.”
He got up and we went into the kitchen. I stood there watching as he filled a glass with water and sipped it.
Could my old brain help?
“Col, part of my problem was being bullied at school. I’ve discovered ignoring it seems to be the best way. It doesn’t stop but it does fade over time. I’m hoping this term it will disappear.”
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