The Two Rings

A story about an old man and a boy. A relationship that blossoms out of prejudices towards Old Man Sankt.

  The ball slowed down until it finally came to a stop. They stood, staring. Kevin turned around to find that his friends had already backed away and were waiting for him to retrieve it. He sighed, turning back towards the garden without protest. He tried fighting the urge to let his eyes wander up to the house, but it didn’t work. The windows were black as if the house had been deprived of light for years; the rose bushes were dead and the plant pot one of them stood in was still broken from the time the older brother of his friend, Erik, had thrown a rock at the window and missed - almost five years ago now. He made his way towards the tennis ball, treading very carefully and slowly, keeping his eyes on the ground. His breathing was heavy; his mouth, dry. A twig snapped. Kevin froze. To the left of him, he watched a pair of boots walk towards the ball. His legs were shaking, incapable of movement. The boots walked towards him and stopped only a few yards from where he was. He lifted his head.

   “Is this your ball, young man?” 

   It was Old Man Sankt. He held out the ball, willing him to take it. Kevin tried to reach for it but his arms were too tense. They ached. “A bit lost for words are we, boy?” Kevin was suddenly very aware of his tongue, it felt heavy and abnormally large.

   “Tha- thank-you.” 

   “Are you alright? You’ve gone green..” Kevin could feel himself loosening up slightly; his tongue left the roof of his mouth, his jaw relaxed.

   “I’m fine. Thank-you. Sir.”

   “Sir? Well that’s a surprise! Certainly not what people around here usually call me, is it, lad? Old Man Sankt, isn’t it?” He laughed, a genuine chuckle. He sounded jolly. Kevin was confused. “Well m’boy, from now on maybe y’all could call me Old Man Packer?” Now he was really confused.

   “Packer?” 

   “James Packer.”

   “But, I thought your name was-”

   “So do a lot of people, young man.” Old Man Sankt’s head looked to the right, his dark, heavy eyes seemed lost. Kevin followed his eye-line to the beautiful Oak tree that stood at the end of the garden. He focused on the two rings that encircled the trunk. Both rings formed by carvings. Carvings of different letters of the alphabet. Kevin thought about the first time he had ever heard about the rings. The first time he had heard about Christoph Sankt.

***

   Powerful rays of sunshine pounded into the earth showing neither pity, nor mercy. Diana Oswell’s eyes were stinging from the beads of sweat trickling slowly through her furrowed brows. With a mucky, blistered hand, she wiped them away. Running the other hand up the back of her neck in an attempt to relieve the tension and strain, she allowed her fingers to continue into the curls of her hair. From the corner of her eye she caught the sunlight playing on the glass of water, taunting her. She grabbed it, taking a gulp. With the rest, she rose the glass above her head and tipped it slightly, allowing a cool, smooth stream of water to caress her scalp, work it’s way down her face and into her shirt that clung to her chest like a corset. Slowly, and trembling slightly, she rose from her knees and wandered into the house. She felt the shade dance over her head and a chill run down her spine.  Diana made her way into the living room where she found her grandson perched on a chest beneath the bay window. His blonde hair twitched slightly from the stream of air coming from the fan that stood in the corner of their living room. He was humming sweetly, racing his blue wind-up car along the window sill. He turned, and asked a question that made Diana’s teeth clench.

   “Why does Mr. Sankt never come out of his house, grandma?” 

   “He has no reason to.”
   “I’ve seen him before though.”

   “When? Wait, Kevin you must not play near his house, we’ve told you countless times.”

   “But-”
   “No, no buts.”
   “But why not? Erik does.” Diana adjusted the fan to a faster speed, the heat was unbearable.
   “Well Erik shouldn’t. He knows that as well as you and every other child on this street.”

   “Please tell me why. I think I’d like to know now.” Diana chuckled at his innocence that shone through his attempt to sound mature. Kevin had wanted to know the story for years but she didn’t think he would understand. She turned around and found him at her feet, his arms crossed crookedly. She smiled again.

   “Alright, little one. I’ll tell you.” Kevin’s eyes lit up. They sat on the sofa and Diana began, telling the story of her earliest memory of Old Man Sankt.

   A ten year-old girl sat at her window, reading. She wasn’t really paying any attention to the book, it was just something to pass the time. She looked out of the window at the house beside hers. The light was on in Stefanie Hertz’s bedroom where she, too, sat reading. The same could be said for the other houses on the street. Even inside the houses that were already sleeping, you could guarantee somebody was sitting there in the darkness, focussing on the same door as everyone else. It was never definite that you would see anything, but every night the people of Rangsdorf would stay up deep into the early hours, with the hope that they wouldn’t.

   “Diana, I can hear you moving around in there. Go to bed.”

   The clock on her bed-side table read 01:46; she would give up in fourteen minutes. She decided not to reply to her mother and looked across at Stefanie’s house, attempting to get her attention. She tried not to make too many abrupt movements, she didn’t want to draw any attention. One house - home to the Adlers - feared that Sankt had seen their little boy, Joseph, watching him from the kitchen window one night. The next day, their house was hit. Diana tried to get Stefanie to notice her for a good six minutes. She stopped. She watched Stefanie sit forwards slowly and press her face up against the window pane, she watched the book fall from her lap to the floor. She watched Stefanie’s expression alter, her green eyes widening. This was it. Diana, too, turned to watch.

   Christoph Sankt crept from his home and slithered across the grass towards his tree, moving quickly and smoothly. Diana watched him draw a pen knife from his pocket and place one grubby hand on the trunk. He wedged the blade into it; adding another letter. She gulped; they would expect another raid by the time morning had broken. The only question was: who’s house would it be this time?

***

   “My grandma told me about you.” Kevin felt like he hadn’t said anything in ages, he wondered how long they’d been standing there. He wondered if his friends were still watching. 

   “Ah, I bet she did. I bet many people on this street have told stories about me. Do you believe them?” He raised an eyebrow.

   “Of course I do. Why would they lie?”

   “Ah, why indeed,” said Old Man Sankt, in what seemed like agreement. Kevin was still puzzled. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this confused. Old Man Sankt had a very odd German accent. 

   “I..” He stopped.

   “Go on, boy, what is it?” 

   “You’re a Nazi.” Kevin’s mumbled words came out faster than he had anticipated, he panicked at how blunt his response had been. “Well, were. No, still are. Are you? I mean.. Grandma said you were a Colonel. You raided homes for Jews.” For the first time, Old Man Sankt didn’t look happy.

   “Do you know what that tree is for, boy?” Kevin looked at it, then back at the old man, who was now frowning angrily with his white bushy eyebrows.

   “No, nobody does. Grandma told me they’d watch you. They’d watch you carve letters onto the tree sometimes and then Nazis would raid their homes. They say you signaled them.”
   “So tell me, how does carving a letter onto a tree, signal somebody, young man?”
   “She said a.. um.. Nazi-car must have driven past and checked, when nobody was around.” Kevin knew “Nazi-car” wasn’t the word she had used, but he was having trouble concentrating. He fiddled with his fingers. He was still terrified.

   “Diana, am I right? Your grandmother, her name’s Diana Oswell, yes?” Kevin couldn’t reply. “Come with me.”
   “I should go home.” He fought for some feeling to return to his legs again. He tried moving but he couldn’t. What was he doing? He would be in so much trouble. He wanted to leave, to run, to scream. Tears slid down his face.

   “What’s the matter? Kevin, isn’t it? I am not who you think I am. Let me explain.” Kevin saw something in his imploring eyes, he could swear it flashed like a light. It lit up for a second, at best. He searched them for it again: he couldn’t find it. “I wasn’t taking you far, just to that tree.” He pointed towards it, his hand trembling slightly. Kevin couldn’t speak, so he just nodded and slowly followed Old Man Sankt. 

   They stood silently, looking at the trunk. Kevin, a small, lively boy, stared inquisitively at the trunk, trying to figure out what the letters meant or what they symbolized.

   “They aren’t words.”
   “No, boy, they aren’t.. They’re initials.” The old man let out a sigh.

   “Initials? Like, names?” The old man nodded and looked down. He took a deep breath and looked at Kevin earnestly.

   “I was never an enemy to the Jews, Kevin... I helped them. I hid them in my home; in the basement and in the attic.” Kevin couldn’t think of anything to say. “You see these initials here?” He pointed to an E and an F. “Ester Fleis. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the names of a lot of them anymore. It was over seventy years ago now. There are only a few that stick. I wish I remembered them all.”

   “Was she the first lady you helped?”
   “Oh, she wasn’t a lady. She was a new-born baby. A little girl. Her mother, Isabel, gave birth to her right here - in my house! While she was going through labour, her son, Jonah, told me a story. That’s where the carvings started.”

***

   He winced at every scream. The shrill screeches echoed along the walls. It had been so long. Hours? Days? He didn’t know. Another painful cry for help came from the basement. He saw Jonah, sat with his head between his knees, blocking out the sounds. He wished his father would come up from below to comfort him. James felt useless, awkward. He had never spoken to the young boy. He couldn’t tell whether it was comfort he sought or to be left, alone. Jonah lifted his head and caught his gaze. His eyes pleading for silence. 

   The first time James had spoken to Isabel was the only time she spoke about why they had left. It was Kristallnacht. The suburb they lived in remained unscathed, for the time being, but word had spread that the Nazis were moving closer and, so, they decided to run before it was too late. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were tired and drained. Her face was pale and gaunt and she wore no shoes. None of them did. They were the price they had to pay for food; for survival. She told him that, before they left, she lay the table for dinner. Put out the china plates, the cutlery and filled up three glasses of water. When he asked her why, she smiled and whispered, “Because when we go home, it will be like nothing has changed.”  Her smile faded and her eyes trailed away from his, to the little boy that lay asleep in her lap; her frail hands caressing his hair.

   “What was your home like?” James felt he had to ask something to take the boys mind off the screaming.

   “It was small but the garden wasn’t. It had a pond and trees and lots of good places to hide for games.”
   “It sounds beautiful.”

   “We had this tree,” James didn’t think Jonah had heard his reply, which he was happy about. He’d rather the little boy told a story that could take his mind off the noise, “every time a baby was born we would add their initials into the trunk. My dad would help me carve them. We had the whole family there; aunts, cousins, uncles. We found it really funny because it was a real family tree. It was a nice tree. It had lots of birds nests. Blue Birds mainly. Sometimes Finches.” James watched Jonah’s eyes search for more of the memory, but they couldn’t. They were exhausted, dull, bored. It was painful to see. He was so young.

***

   “So, Jonah started it?”

   “Well, in a way. But he couldn’t carve them himself; they weren’t allowed outside. I didn’t want anyone to know they were here. I carved them for him.” 

   “There are so many names. How did you have room?” 

   “It’s a pretty big house for one man don’t you think?” The old man chuckled.  Kevin was just about to agree when he remembered something.

   “Wait, so why did people think you were a Nazi? I don’t understand..”
   “I was a Nazi.” His upper lip stiffened. “I was a Colonel. Colonel Christoph Sankt.” Kevin’s felt like he could explode at any second. He has so many questions racing through his brain and not one of them seemed like the right one to ask first. “We’ve been talking for a good hour now, son, at any point did you anticipate that my accent was a little odd for a German?”

   “I..”

   “My boy, I am not German.”

   “What?” Kevin managed to say.

   “I’m American, Kevin. Like you and your family. I was eighteen when I was recruited. 1941.” He paused, as if re-living these moments. “There were twenty of us. Recruited and trained. We were taught to speak the German language fluently within a year. By 1942 we had all been transferred to different regions in Germany. We were given everything; a name, a house and, most importantly, a history. Each of us were given a background that, believe me, was not easy to learn but imperative that we did. By 1943 all of us were well established in the Gestapo and each of us were already hiding Jewish families in our homes.” A subdued smiled appeared on his withered face. “Infiltrating the Gestapo allowed us to quickly find the Jews they knew about and hide them before they were sent away. Before it was too late.” His eyelids slid shut, his head drooped. “Sometimes, we were too late.” After a few moments, he opened them. 

   “It was a truly genius idea, don’t you think? Nobody would ever think to raid a Nazi’s home for Jews.” He winked at Kevin and nudged him softly with his elbow. His eyes moved away from the initials towards the nest in the tree. “Blue birds,” the old man chuckled, “Jonah would make me feed them everyday. Bits of bread.. seeds..

   “I planned to leave after the war, go home. Then, months before the end, I met Yvonne - my fiancé. She didn’t want to leave Germany. She was very ill.. Died almost thirty years ago, now. By then I was close to turning sixty; too tired, too weary to move back to America. Part of me didn’t want to leave yet, either. I didn’t want to leave this place, or these people, with the memory of who they thought I was, and what they thought I had done, implanted in their minds. So, I’ve been biding my time, I guess. After a while, I gave up. I’ve only ever wanted to tell someone. Nobody would listen, and son,” he looked at Kevin, “I don’t blame them.” Kevin lifted his arm to the old man’s shoulder. He held it firmly, comforting him. Their eyes met and Kevin saw it again: the flash of light lit up his eyes, only, this time, it lingered.

***

   Just over a year later, at the age of ninety, Old Man Packer passed away in his sleep. The whole neighbourhood attended his funeral. Over his last twelve months, he told his story to so many people that he began to make friendships with those who had once despised him. His house continued to grow brighter and Erik’s brother not only re-planted the rose bushes, but watered them everyday. The day after Packer died was Kevin’s fourteenth birthday. Later in the week, when Kevin went over to his house to help pack away his belongings, he found a little box in his bed-side drawer. It was addressed to him. He clicked open the purple felt case and grinned. 

   The Oak tree stood tall, looking the most beautiful he had ever seen it. The leaves were a magnificent green and the birds chirped harmoniously. The sun was setting and the moon was already visible in the sky. He stepped forwards, placed one hand on the trunk and, with the other, reached into his pocket. He brought out his birthday present. The sunlight danced on the blade, reflecting into his eyes. It’s ivory handle glistened. 

   When he was finished, it was dark. He stood back from the tree, admiring his first carving: OMP. 

Reviews

[Wolfwind]

A wonderful tale of heart and time's passage. I love how this tale really takes us deep into the characters in such a short time. The old man and the boy both were firmly in my mind at the end and the ending scene was perfect.

Excellent Ink!
Aaron - Wolfwind

[ashley emma]

I'm glad that you found the characters stories appropriately deep in the few pages they were developed in - I was worried about that! Lovely comment, thank you very much!

[London's Lily]

This is a fantastic story. You are very good at being descriptive, paying mind to detail, and placing your reader in the story with all five senses. I found this story inspiring, and both uplifting and sad at the same time. And the gift at the end was lovely. A treat to read. :)

[ashley emma]

Thank you so much, that was a lovely comment! Really encouraging!

[London's Lily]

You're very welcome! I think you're a great writer :)