When Ollie finally crossed the line, he came in near the back of the pack, impressively muddy. The look of utter heartbreak and disappointment nearly made Florence's heart melt. Sometimes she missed those unique priorities that came with childhood.
The last of the children had crossed the line, walking and holding their arm, a cover up story for their loss.
The older childrens’ races were called and Florence watched Ben walk up to the start line. Florence didn't go, competition had never been her forte.
Ben flashed a grin at her as he leant forwards, knees bent and arms braced. The gun sounded and he waved to Florence on the way past. Like Ollie, he would never win. He came in around the middle of the crowd, sweating and panting. It had been a boy a year younger than Ben that took the win. His well-trained legs weren't tired at all.
Florence piggy backed Oliver home. He claimed that his legs were 'useless from all the amazing effort'. His mouth must have been useless too by the time they got home, for he hadn't stopped talking the whole way.
"...and then Flory, and then he just passed me and he was so schnell. I nearly tripped over him but of course I didn't. Oh ja, and I was pretty schnell too, I was right near the front for a while..." Florence had tuned out by the end, simply nodding a grunting in response. Ben traipsed up the hill beside her, holding the hand of his little sister. Like Florence, he nodded uncomprehendingly to her unstoppable chatter. Ollie jumped down from Florence's back and ran ahead with Ben's sister, leaving them with some well awaited peace.
"Glückwünsche Ben, well done."
"Danke, Flory. I suppose I should get off my arsch more and actually train a bit."
"I think you did a fantastisch job Ben."
"Danke. Besides, I say that I'll train, but I never will. I'm too lazy." His forever empty stomach chose that moment to rumble.
"You may never get to the Olympics for running, but you certainly could for eating." Florence said.
"Ja and I would win too. You know Flory, as soon as I can, I'll leave. I'm going to go and open my own restaurant. Or maybe a chocolate factory. Then I won't ever have to feel sorry for me or my stomach again."
"Sounds like a plan. Can I come and visit?"
"Of course. Then we can feast together, Flory. We will never be hungry again."
"Then we can grow old and fat and die happy on full bellies."
"That's right, and if anyone says we eat too much, we can just eat them too."
"I'm looking forward to it."
With a smile on their lips and with imaginarily full bellies, the rest of the walk home passed quickly. They could almost smell the melting chocolate, rich and creamy, nutty and fruity, light and dark all in their stomachs and on their tongues. If only.
Swastika black
23rd August 1939
Pens licked the paper and the world was stunned.
Poland quivered as the Nazis and the Soviets signed the pact, the paper turning black, banishing all yellow. The Führer signed for himself, a strategic flick of the pen for his own country, the Soviets did the same. It was a cold alliance. Cold and unfriendly. Simply strategical. Unwanted, but necessary.
Though the whole world panicked, none so much as Poland. Their invasion was nearing, only a few days away. God help them.
The Führer prepared his invasion and Britain prepared their own papers. Poland and Britain signed pacts too. Although this time the ink was yellow, blue, green and every other colour you can think of. Every colour except swastika black. No colour goes well with that black.
*
Don't get me wrong,
Every side had their colours.
The main ideas.
Some selfish,
all strategical.
Even if I were forced to choose a side,
I wouldn't.
There wasn't much of an option.
Manipulators or manipulators?
No thanks.
I work alone.
*
Allies or Axis. The world was split and it seemed there was no repairing it.
But that's not what the Führer wanted. He wanted to repair the world. To stitch it back together. But with black thread, swastika black.
The Führer wanted his country to be pure German. The world to be pure German.
*
Before the Führer had tried sewing the world up,
I think he needed to learn how to sew,
because he sure did a terrible job of it.
*
As the tear in the earth's seam ripped more and more each day, the fear grew. The fear was larger than the tear itself. Terror gripped the people as they fled from their homes. Running away to hide. They can't stop running, they can't hide. The Führer's coming up behind.
The world held its breath, not wanting to breathe in the terrifying air that was to come next. Every stomach ached, the usual butterflies morphing into monsters.
The terror grew and the papery signatures increased. The countries joined, one side against the other. The material either side of the world's tear tightened, the tension growing. The seam split further, pressure pulling it apart.
What did everyone do? Grab a needle and thread. Join black and yellow and every other coloured thread to sew up the seam in peace? Fix the tear?
No.
They grabbed out their guns and shot the tear right in the heart. They watched it bleed and shot it again and again, calling in more guns. For six years they shot the tear, watching it swallow up their friends but shooting at it all the same. Only when the earth was nearly swallowed up by the torn seam and the country fists were pounding out into space did the guns ceasefire. The few people left behind, all driven mad, held on for dear life to the remaining shreds of earth. Some let go, falling into the tear. Most held on.
They tore out their own hair and stitched up the earth. Patiently, with all their heart and hopes. When all their hair was in the ground, they waited for more to grow. Patiently, with all their heart and hopes.
Many years later, when they were dead and gone but their memory lived on, the earth was repaired. It had been torn to shreds beneath their feet and they had sewn it up with themselves. The countries interlocked their fingers below their feet, finding peace momentarily, losing their grip sometimes.
The swastika was stitched up below the surface too, buried deep and never to be recovered.
The colours reigned. People wore them as badges of honour. In their homes, in their hair, in their skin. White, brown, cream, yellow, blue, green, orange, purple, pink, red, black.
The earth was painted with colours. But never again would the world see that kind of black again.
Swastika black.
It doesn't exist.
Not anymore.
*
But we're not up to that yet.
We're right back at the start.
The world doesn't know anything yet.
No peace.
Just terror and swastika black.
*
The fearful hush
24th August 1939
Gabriel placed the newspaper down on the table slowly, his brow furrowed.
"What is it Papa?" Gabriel passed the paper over to Florence, who read the headline and looked away.
"It's coming soon, isn't it?" Gabriel nodded to his daughter. He already knew that she meant the war.
"Ja Flory, I think it will be coming very soon." Gabriel looked away too, feeling his hands begin to tremble. "Why don't you go and find Ben, or do whatever you always do?"
"Alright." Florence was too shaken to read the rest of the article, so she just left, leaving her Papa in the kitchen staring at the wall.
Florence stepped out onto the road and ran. She ran down the mountainside, her feet numb and stinging. She ran into the town, ignoring the startled glances. She ran into the grocery shop and silently slipped on her apron. Busying herself rearranging stacks of oranges and apples, she didn't look at Willi. He didn't need an explanation. He had read the pap
er too.
Willi felt much the same, he was just better at covering it up than Florence was.
His yellow star heart, his Jewish heart, had faltered when he had read the headline. Already he had lost several customers, scared off by Germany's incessant preaching against him. Even in his country that was supposedly neutral, people were taking sides. Whether that be in the private of their homes or out on the streets. Even Switzerland helped to split the earth's seam.
Until sundown, Florence did not leave the grocery shop. She didn't want to see Ben. She didn't want to see Lisette. All she wanted to see were piles of fruit and vegetables, neat and tidy.
Her neck was sore after a day of looking down, only looking up once or twice. Her hands stung where the oranges had irritated her cuts. Her feet were still raw from the abusive run that morning. Florence was battered up, but she barely noticed. All she could think of was that morning's newspaper, the headline burned into the back of her eyes. Up until then it hadn't seemed real. The stories and rumours had been piling up, but nothing had happened. Nothing like this. Florence had been scared. But the fear she felt now compared to nothing. She knew nothing of what was to come and she was too afraid to ask. In fact, it seemed everyone felt the same. There was an eerie hushed fear over the land, no one breaking it with questions. The adults were too afraid to speak. The older children too afraid to find out. The youngest children too afraid of the silence to break it.
It was the surprise that invited the hushed fear in and the uncertainty that opened the latch to the worldwide terror.
*
They think it was surprise.
But it was me.
I brought on the surprise.
I created the fear,
the terror.
*
Preparation
27th August 1939
The news had stirred up the village, setting everyone on edge. The frescreets no longer roamed about the clearing all day, their high spirits faltering. There were no more markets. Even the religious meetings ceased. Shopping was done with haste and cooking was done with trembling hands. Their doors were rarely left open and any wandering children were called back inside straight away.
Rafael had ordered Florence to be even more careful, these were dangerous times and it wouldn't do well to be discovered right at that moment, or any moment for that matter.
Florence had delivered the news two days late. She brought news not only of the Nazi-Soviet pact, but also of the newest pact. Britain and Poland's pact. Rafael's glassy eyes had widened as she told him each detail she knew. The village had been summoned and Rafael stood before them, feeding them all with the terrifying news. Curfews had been announced and new rules made.
No communication above a hushed speaking voice.
No fires except between two and three in the morning.
No music.
Rafael went on and on. He took no risks. It was just too dangerous.
Just like in Florence's world, a silenced fear fell over the village. Silence reigned for most of the day.
It scared Florence to see them like that. So used to the lively hustle, everything felt dead, frozen in ice. Her visits were full of tension and stress. She was no longer greeted with the red cheeked faces of the children and their grubby hands grasping the hem of her dress. Instead, there was only the strawberry haired girl and Rafael with an increasing number of stressed wrinkles on his face. He would ask for any news and send her on her way. Florence would rearrange the bushes and branches each time she passed through, caution was everything.
Even though everyone in Florence's world was too busy with themselves and their growing worries to notice anything, that wasn't the case with the frescreets. The newly acquired fear got them moving, renewing their escape plans, storing supplies underground.
"Florence," Rafael asked that same day, turning towards her expectantly, "would you be as kind as to find us some more supplies. Like you did before. That would be most agreeable."
"No. I'm sorry Herr, but I think that you will manage fine by yourself. I would do anything for your people, but not this. Not now." Florence nodded politely, not believing Rafael's selfishness. 'The nerve of him.' she thought. 'As if I'm not preparing for a war either.'
Smoke
29th August 1939
Dreiheimne. Once more.
Florence and Ben lifted Lisette down to the water’s edge, laying her on her back and resting her feet in the water. They sat down beside her. Their toes splashed in the water, flicking little droplets at each other.
For a couple of hours, they escaped the blanket of fear. They laughed as loudly as they could, everything was suddenly the funniest thing they had ever heard. They shouted the first things that came into their heads.
"HERR SALZWEDEL IS A DUMMKOPF!"
"FRAU WALBURGA IS A LAZY POTATO SACK!"
"I REALLY WANT A PIECE OF CHOCOLATE RIGHT NOW!" Their bellies ached from all the shouting but they ignored it. Times like these had been few and far between and that wasn't about to change either, so they treasured the moment and pushed away all thoughts of worrying news, wars and their rumbling stomachs.
"There's one over there."
"Got it." Ben slid the flower in and moved away to admire their work. They had filled Lisette's braids with the surrounding wild flowers, her hair a halo of yellow and pink.
"Lovely." Florence concluded. They lifted Lisette back into her wheelchair, now covered in weaved grasses and leaves, and pushed her out of the clearing. They followed the trickling river down through the forest for a while, away from the frescreet village of course. The wind peered around the tree trunks and whispered in their ears. Fresh scents of pine needles and fermenting leaves hung around on the air. The sun couldn't reach them through the foliage, their backs were chilled where the summer sweat had begun to cool. It seemed that they had re-entered the blanket of fear, for there was no more unrestrained laughter. The jokes died in their throats, no longer seeming funny. Usually the fear blanket felt quite lonely, claustrophobic and miserable. It would be tightly wrapped around their faces, blinding them and binding them, steeling the air from their lungs. But instead, it felt peaceful, calm. Dampened songs of the forest played in each of their heads, all listening to the same bitter tune. The music filled their brains with a fuzzy sort of warmth, comforting them and silencing their worries. It was heaven for them, a feeling that would be rare from then on.
"Can you guys smell that?" Ben asked, cocking his head this way and that to get a stronger whiff.
"Ja. It smells like smoke." Lisette said.
"Surely it's too hot for a fireplace, isn't it? I guess that it's a wildfire." Ben's eyes widened as he said this. "It doesn't smell right, though."
"Can we go and have a look?" Lisette craned her neck as much as she could to see, the yellow flowers flopping onto her face.
"No." Florence cut off her cousin. "I mean, it might be too dangerous." Florence knew exactly what the smoky smell was. There was no mistaking the smell of a frescreet fire. 'What are they doing burning things at this time of day?' Florence wondered, panicking as discreetly as possible. "I think we should go back. Édith will be wondering where we are." Florence turned around and began walking back the way they came, heart pounding. Yet again, her two worlds were setting up for collision. They were attracted like magnets, attracted to disaster. No matter how Florence pulled them apart, those two worlds would always come back.
Lisette and Ben glanced at each other, suspicious. They weren't stupid. Anyone could see that Florence was hiding something from them. Of course, Ben was completely used to it. This was a common feeling for him. But he no longer questioned her. No more subtle interrogations. No more secretive investigations. Long ago he had given up the chase and realised it was best to just wait it out. Secrets can never last forever, he would find out eventually. Besides, he wanted to hear it from Florence herself. She would tell him when she was ready, not before. It was up to Ben to respect that.
With L
isette bumping around in front, Ben jogged to catch up to Florence. The normal fear blanket was back upon them, pinning them down, ready for their country's fist, ready for the bees in war stripes.
Oranges, apples and frightened Jews
31st August 1939
Sprawled out across her bed with her old pen in hand, Florence filled the last page in her diary. The blue ink covered the page with her slanted scrawl. She wrote of everything. But mostly the war. London had been evacuated, unlike the fear wedged tightly inside everyone. That couldn't pack up and move to the country. It was there to stay, to be fought with.
Her page was nearly full and she hadn't even half finished. Mid-sentence, she ran out of room.
"Verdammt." She put the notebook and pen away, shoving it back into her drawer. She passed Oliver on the stairs before leaving the front door. Summer would be over in one day and the weather was already turning. The sky was grey and overcast, threatening rain. Droplets fell on her hair as she walked down the mountain, she barely noticed. The fear blanket over the town had thickened, even more suffocating. As if a rug had been added on top of it. Each time Florence came to the village, it even was more solemn and tense than the time before. No one smiled and no one said hello. Family and friends would pass right by one another, not even noticing. All were deep in their own thoughts. It was like everyone had built a brick wall around themselves, attempting to barricade the war.
Florence walked into the grocery shop, Willi was the only one in there. He was slowly rearranging the many piles of fruit, stacking mounds of oranges in his arms, placing them back one by one. He looked up when Florence came in, a strained smile on his face, without the usual happy red glow in his cheeks.
"Ah, me most favourite customer o' all. What can I do for yeh Flory?"
"Nothing much, Willi. I actually came to ask you the same question. What can I do for you?" Florence looked over her employer. Dark shadows were nestled beneath his eyes, the result of barely any sleep. His clothes were covered in brown dirt patches and hung off him with a yellowish tinge. He obviously hadn't changed them for several days. He no longer brought his children into work with him, instead leaving them with his wife, keeping them from the misery of the town.