No escape
19th June 1939
Unlike her previous visit to the frescreet village, Florence wasn't rewarded with a few hours alone in the forest. Not that she really wanted it anyway, the last time had ended quite disappointingly. She didn't fancy being teased with a fake sense of escape again.
This time when she entered the village, the blue eyed onlooker was all the way on the other side of the clearing. Each time Florence had visited, she had been further and further away, as if something was pushing her back again.
*
As you may have guessed,
that something was of course none other than our dear Rafael.
Gargoyle.
*
Squinting into the far bushes, Florence could just make out the river of strawberry hair and the lakes of blue where her eyes were.
Of course Rafael noticed her too. No matter how Grace hid from him, he could always smell rebel a mile away. He trusted his nose, it had never failed him before and so he took action. He posted sentries around the clearing's edge, clad in camouflage. It was their little secret, the sentries and Rafael. No one was to know, not even Elin and her scouts. It was far too risky. Rafael hated risks.
In the shade of the leaves, the moonlight would miss them. The sentries could become invisible. Many frescreets would look right into their eyes without seeing them. They used the shadows as their shield and the dark as their sword. They were invisible warriors of the night, invincible.
So, in short, there was no escape.
None.
Zero.
Zilch.
*
"Flory! Flory! That girl said I was stupid little twit! She's so mean!" A little girl with curly golden pigtails skipped up to her, an unconvincing look of hurt on her little face.
"Well you'd better avoid that girl. If she's saying things like that then she's not a good person to be around." The girl nodded, not understanding but not caring either, and ran away, calling after the mean girl.
Although the adults still kept secrets from her, the children worshipped her. Never had they hesitated in confiding in her. Florence knew all their names as though they were her own offspring. Watching them play amused her, they were just like humans. Of course, they looked different, with their tiny bodies, glassy eyes and porcelain-like skin. But what do looks matter?
Not at all?
You wish.
Aside from their strange appearances, they were no different to the kids playing in your parks.
They bickered. They chased. They teased. They cried. They giggled. They shrieked. They fought for attention.
*
It amazed Florence that two cultures so different,
were identical in so many ways.
It seemed that no matter where she escaped from,
reality could never escape her.
It was like trying to run away from your own smells.
No matter how fast you run or where you go,
they would always follow you.
Even if you lost it for a second,
more would always come.
Period.
You just can't escape reality.
It's impossible.
*
Someplace familiarly new
22nd June 1939
"Alright Herr Salzwedel, I'm off."
"Ja and get the heck out of here. You’re already leaving filth on my carpets. You had better work your keep tomorrow, boy. Now hurry up, piss off and get out of my wretched sight."
"Danke." Ben marched down the steps and onto the road with one thousand mirages wavering in the distance. Nothing amused him more than Herr Salzwedel's delightful manners.
The road was hot underfoot, warming the soles of his thin plimsoles. The summer holidays had begun that afternoon for Florence. She had the next two or so months ahead of her before beginning work.
Ben had the next two or so months ahead of him to enjoy Herr Salzwedel's fine company.
No amount of sun could soften his employer enough to give up a few weeks of a clean house. Not that Ben minded, though. His few hours with Florence and Lisette felt extra special when they were finite.
In fact, that was where he was headed now, to Lisette's home. She and Florence would be sitting there waiting for him. Lisette would be listening to Florence read Jill the Reckless, the book would be open with its spine flexed and strained.
*
Books are just like humans.
If you take the time to get to know it,
you will understand who it is.
You can judge it by its appearance,
easily.
Not that that initial judgement will always prove true,
of course.
It's full of secrets and stories to unveil.
They can be friendly and open,
or closed and private.
They each have their own style and personality.
They can be rude,
or light hearted.
Uninformed or deep and intelligent.
Books and humans are so similar it's a wonder people don't go around calling you by a suitable book title.
Maybe they should,
maybe then there would be less judging of covers.
Hardly likely.
*
The flimsy door frame jiggled beneath Ben's knuckles. Édith opened the door and nodded in the direction of Lisette's bedroom.
Stooping his head to get in, Ben walked over and sat on the end of the bed. The thin mattress sagged beneath him.
"Ready?" As usual, Lisette's wheelchair was loaded up and they left her house, out the front door and down the road. The dirt was rough, littered with stones threatening to wobble the rickety wheels off the chair. Dreiheimne was overlooked that day, it was high time for some change.
The wheels turned faster and faster, carrying the girl more and more quickly. The wind in Lisette's hair felt so familiar, it was almost as if she was simply going to school again. The mountain had never seemed so steep, or the descent so fast. Ben and Florence struggled to hold onto the wheelchair handles the whole way down, puffing and panting.
Flopped in the chair, Lisette clenched her teeth till her temples hurt, she had no way of hanging on. Though that didn't mean she enjoyed it any less. She closed her eyes and gave into gravity. She let the wind fluff her hair and pin her body back. She let the wheels roll her away and she gave into the possibility of crashing. The feeling calmed her, such familiarity.
The town centre was quiet, calming down for the evening. The curtains were being drawn, just like the night that drew closer. The 'geöffnet' signs on the doors now read 'geschlossen', nearly each shop was empty.
The coming moon filtered out onto the messy road, casting blueish-black shadows down the street. Lisette breathed in the scent of over used air and watched as the last few people scuttled back into their homes.
'So much has changed, but then again, I suppose it hasn't changed at all.' Lisette thought to herself. The town had changed on top. There were flags of different colours, posters holding foreign political faces. The flower boxes had been given less attention, their petals wilting. The pavements were dirtier, attentions diverted elsewhere. The town was deteriorating slowly, its walls crumbling down, but its foundations had been lain strong. No matter what, that small town in Switzerland would always be Lisette's home.
The struggle back up the mountainside made Ben's lungs feel like a punching bag after a workout with the football team, but he barely noticed. The expression on Lisette's face was enough to make him forget everything.
Utter joy.
The welcome familiarity of normality, something that Lisette was reforming.
The cinders of burning thieves
1st July 1939
*
The sun had stolen the water from the earth.
The trees were dry and the grass was brown.
The flowers were wilted and the weeds were gasping for water.
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The sun seems to make a habit of that,
stealing things.
In the winter,
it steals the warmth from everyone and moves out,
away to somewhere better.
In the summer,
it burns all.
It's like an oven turning on and off.
But of course,
there is always that one person.
The one who see what others can steal,
and wants to steal more.
The Führer stole.
He stole happiness.
He stole peace.
He stole life.
He even attempted to steal the thieving sun.
But his hands got burnt.
Thieves never win.
*
The Führer's hands were burnt and scorched from all the stealing. With each thing he stole, one more scorch mark was etched onto his skin. His hands were scathed and the war hadn't even yet begun. The immortal fires of his enemies that he would try to extinguish, would live on, inside of him, burning his inside and turning his heart to ash. The Führer would burn inside out and everyone would know. The Führer's own fires would rip across the world, his followers joining the flame. The land would be barren.
Empty of spark but never empty of hope.
There will always be hope, even in the deadliest of flames.
Of course, when nothing can possibly get worse, things can only get better. And they did. The Führer's flame backfired, courtesy of his own people, the people whose flames he'd kindled. His heart was burnt and was just a crusty pile of ash.
The world had never been hotter during those six years. So many flames burned together and yet only one small, moustached and power hungry heart burnt to a cinder.
The assignment
8th July 1939
"Where are you going Flory?"
"Oh, nowhere Ollie, just stay here. I'll be back soon." Florence quickly left her brother and stepped out the back door. Oliver's face was covered with disappointment. Despite sharing a room with her every night, he had never felt more alone.
Trying to forget the image of her brother's face, Florence jogged through the forest, small beads of sweat trickled down her forehead and arms.
"Hello my dear Florence."
"Guten morgen Herr Rafael." Florence returned the frescreet greeting, now with ease, and followed Rafael through the village.
"Look here Florence." he said, pointing at a building to their left. "Inside those walls, there are twenty frescreets sitting beside a fire in a room full of smoke. All just so that we have bread for the day. And look here." They moved on towards the row of market stalls. The usual stall holders waved at them. "Each frescreet here is going out of business. No one is trading supplies with them anymore because they have no new supplies to offer." Rafael and Florence strolled through the village, Rafael pointing out all its flaws. His expression darkened as they wandered around, a shadow creeping across his wrinkled features. He was deeply troubled, for his village was in deep trouble.
"Herr, sorry to interrupt, but why are you showing me this?"
"Florence, I have a task for you. As you have seen, our village is running down. We can't keep up with ourselves. We are running ourselves into the ground and, as the strange and startling creatures we are, we can't do anything about it. As purine, the protector of this frescreet clan, it is your duty to protect my people. It is your duty to answer when we call, and right now, we are calling at the top of our voices. What I am asking of you Florence, is for you to collect some supplies for us. I want you to bring us things back from your world, things that will keep us alive and thriving like we have for years before. Do you think that you can do that, Florence Mele?" Rafael raised his eyebrows, Florence nodded. How could she say no?
"I will try my best, Herr Rafael."
"Good, we are counting on you Florence, I know you won't let me down."
Florence nodded in return. What on earth could she do? Fail the tribe and watch them run themselves into the dirt, or steal from her town and risk getting caught?
It was obvious, there was just no other way.
She would have to risk her name, and take small things here and there. Things no one wanted or that had been thrown out. Florence was determined not to steal. Her own fire was kindling nicely, but she didn't want to feed it with theft and have her insides burn too.
Scavenger
9th July 1939
Bits and pieces tumbled downwards and scattered across the ground.
"Verdammt." Florence sucked the blood off her freshly cut finger. The impressive pile of rubbish she stood on was a minefield of sharp objects. Kicking away the unidentifiable bits, she scanned the heap for anything of value. Anything at all.
The food scraps had begun to ferment beneath the warming sun, giving Florence a headache. Even after just an hour of searching, all she had been able to scavenge was a half empty box of snapped matches and a few pieces of cloth in a tolerable condition. The measly bundle was tucked under her aching arms.
The idea of giving up had crossed her mind several hundreds of times, yet she never left that sweltering pile of rubbish.
The bundle in her arm was feeling especially small when her foot kicked something different. A satisfying metallic sound hung in the air as Florence unearthed an old stove top. It was heavy in her hands and one of the plates was half missing. It left greasy dirt all over her fingers and bits of rust flaked away at the touch. It looked like gold to Florence.
The growing bundle of items was set down at the edge of the rubbish pile and Florence continued searching with renewed enthusiasm.
Before the sun began to set she had uncovered several other objects. A set of kitchen knives, a slightly rusty but otherwise perfect fountain pen, some borderline-repairable secateurs and a fire poker.
Eventually, with great difficulty, Florence made it back home and hid the items in her garden, undetected. Walking inside, Florence put her head down and ran up the stairs, leaving Gabriel behind with one raised eyebrow. It wasn't often that Florence came in late at night soaked in sweat and smelling like a pile of fermenting scraps. He decided not to question it.
Sitting in the small tub of cold water, Florence scrubbed herself till she felt she had no skin left. The stench wouldn't wash off and her cuts wouldn't clean. Even so, Florence knew she wasn't done. Not yet. Despite the impressive pile of supplies for the frescreets, there was still so much to collect. So much that she could do. Her mountainside home still offered so much to her that she couldn't refuse. She wanted to give the frescreets all she had. She wanted to give away the guilt she held for having things to spare when all the frescreets had was danger.
*
The pile of items dropped ungraciously to the ground beside the, once again, sweaty Florence. Rafael hurried forward with greedy eyes and began examining each of the objects. Not a single thanks was given to Florence who stood to the side, arms crossed with angry thoughts on her mind.
"Ahem?"
"Yes, Florence? Oh, yes, you have done well, is there any chance of some flour? Or some seeds?" Rafael asked, still not looking away from the pile.
"Sure, whatever." Florence resisted the urge to curse, instead spinning around and storming back out of the village.
La Fête Nationale
15th July 1939
*
The street was pounded with the boots of soldiers.
The fanfare blared down the street.
The crowd cheered,
packed tighter than threads in a carpet.
The whole street was a wriggling sea of heads and shoulders and the Arc de Triomphe saw it all.
Oh yes.
I do put on a good show.
*
Florence studied the photo in the newspaper. Having never seen the famous Parisian parade on La Fête Nationale in person, the photographs never ceased to stun her.
The previous afternoon, the Meles had gathered. Bringing bundles of f
ood, scraped together with what little they had, the family settled down in a shaded clearing for lunch. Despite having left their country behind, the Meles could never give up their traditions. That would be like leaving behind their past as well as their homeland.
While the adults toasted with the few drops of champagne they had, the children performed their own parade, Florence pushing Lisette in the lead. Ribbons of faded blue, red and white were tied on their wrists and in their hair. The sun brushed their faces softly, trickling in through the leaves and the gently swaying grass. Their best shirts and dresses were worn and their faces were scrubbed clean. For a few hours their poverty was forgotten. Ollie played with the baby Gaël, talking as paternally as he could and feeling like an adult. Lisette and Florence laughed nearby, giggling about something or other. The parents forgot their bills and politics and even the oncoming war. For a few blissful hours they shared memories, happy and sad, about their life before.
Before Switzerland. Before their children.
At times, one could almost see the young people they used to be, free of stress and their money doubts. The Meles shone like dew in the sun.
*
The Champs-Élysées was pounded and slapped by thousands of feet,
the usual annual reward.
The last pounding for the five years to come.
But of course,
how could it know that?
It was just a road,
after all.
*
A few years
23rd July 1939
It was a wonder that the frescreets weren't discovered that day, the noise from their village was deafening. The pile of supplies from Florence had slowly grown, leaving them with three large heaps of odds and ends.
The hammers pounded the wood and nails that Florence brought, the string was strung to bows of flexed sticks. In the kitchens, the bent and blunt knives sliced the meat, somewhat scraggily and the matches lit the stove top for it. The new, second hand thread and needles were weaving smoothly in and out of the pieces of cloth, tying together blankets and jumpers.
The whole village was a buzz of new instruments at work.