Squabble

When a woman who lost it all is accosted in the streets of Berlin during World War Two, she never expected the horror that would befall her.

Squabble

The riots were becoming too much �" crying, shouting, fighting �" all because of a measly sack of oats. Well, it would have been measly if that was not the only sack of oats that the mob was likely to see in the next few weeks. The recent ‘squabble between them and us’ had drained her village of everything she had known �" she couldn’t remember the last time she ate, or was satisfied with eating and she didn’t even want to think of those she would never see again. If she sat down and thought, she would never get up again. 

She rummaged in her makeshift pockets for a few coins…and took out a piece of spare thread. She sighed, that sack of oats were not going to her house tonight, then. She didn’t really care now, it was just a fact that she would not be eating �" it wasn’t like anyone was depending on her anymore, the sack of oats would go to another house that really needed it. That house would have three squalling children, a father demoralised or dead, and a mother trying to work or feed her children, that house would kill for a sack of oats, ironically.

She thought back to a story her mother used to tell her when she was young. It was never true, but it applied to thousands of families during the first ‘squabble’. She couldn’t remember all the details but she remembered that a man had come back to his home after surviving ‘it’ and found it gone. No-one was there, nothing was there. The whole house had been picked apart �" the already scarce furniture gone, even the bricks were gone. All that was left was a photo of him, his wife and their little girl. The little girl could not have been older than six, at a push maybe seven, but in that photo the brave man saw his whole life flash before him, and the life he was yet to live. 

He saw himself watching his beautiful wife’s face clenching in pain as his daughter was brought into the world, he saw himself watching that little girl’s face clench in pain as she gave birth to his granddaughter �" he saw a world full of happiness and wonder and purpose. Suddenly he didn’t feel sad that his home was gone, he didn’t feel sad that his family was gone �" because he knew that the future would be bright for those that come after him…everything seemed worth the fight.

Although it was just a story, she couldn’t help but feel hopeful that one day, years from now, a family would sit around and just feel happy �" no hunger, no riots and no insatiable hate for those that put them in that position. 

But she knew it could never happen, she knew that the world will always be run by those who can’t experience the consequences and she was nothing special. In the future there will be a woman who has lost her whole family, wandering through chaos trying to find some sort of stability. She knew the future would always revert back to the past �" but she couldn’t care right now, she wanted to hope.

And that was what she was thinking about when she was suddenly grabbed from behind. Swirled around and pushed against a wall, she forced herself not to scream �" no help would come now �" and willed herself to look at her attacker. She opened her eyes, for they had scrunched up during her ordeal and what she saw was a few wisps of greasy hair. Directing her gaze downwards she saw a young boy, probably about as old as her teenage son had been when he left. He looked vague, a face that would get lost in a crowd and forgotten as soon as seen, but he permeated a sense of despair �" a poverty that was not economical, but in the mind. 

When he opened his mouth, his teeth were perfectly intact �" even if the rest of his face was…not.

‘Please?’

‘Please what? You’re…you’re not making any sense, let go,’ her eyes were erratic as she searched for sanctuary, an escape from this madness. Her eyes caught a poor excuse for a letter in the boy’s hand, creased and barely legible.

‘Send it! Please, I can’t, not again!’ Hurriedly, the boy shoved the envelope in her coat pocket and ran back into the chaos.

***

The streets got quieter as she walked towards the address on the envelope. She hadn’t calmed down from her attack and kept looking over her shoulder, anticipating a second wave. However, every time she looked around, no-one was around…absolutely no-one.

But she heard footsteps? She had gone through too much to not recognise when she was being followed and so she sped up, willing the house to come closer, quicker. Her feet sped up but so did her head, whipping round to check behind her �" and then she saw him.

The boy. The boy. That boy. His perfect teeth, his imperfect face, starving body in too big clothes, everything was that boy. She couldn’t do this, it was wrong �" something was wrong. Resurging herself �" she knew this city more than the boy, riots or no �" she slowed herself down and held her head up high. She turned the first corner on the right, it brought her back to the centre of town amid the scramble for oats again. 

Finally halting, looking up at the sign �" Polizei �" she didn’t waste any more time.

***

Finally back at her house, she locked the doors and closed the blinds �" a necessity in today’s world. She grabbed her book and laid back on her rocking chair. It was one of the few things that stayed throughout her hard life. From birth to this moment, the chair bore a heavy burden every night when the sun set and the darkness took over. 

Trying to focus on the words in her hands, her mind wandered. What was in that envelope? Why did she have to take it? What happened to the boy? 

Shrugging her heavy shoulders, she tucked herself into bed and blew out the bedside candle �" those were questions for her dreams.

***

‘The Butcher’s Kitchen’

The next day’s front page was the same as always - different headline, same crime. But the front page picture was the envelope, seated next to a candle, with a Polizist behind it, looking as stern as ever.

The envelope was open, but there was only ten words visible throughout the whole page.

‘This is the last one I am sending you today.’