Bryan Malessa - The Flight

‘But there’s no enemy here,’ Karl said.

‘We’re just following orders.’

‘How will the aluminium work?’ Karl asked.

‘How should I know? Maybe the engineers thought the idea up to keep themselves off the battlefield.’ The soldier noticed Karl’s knife and asked to see it. Karl slid it out of its sheath and handed it to him. After looking for a moment at the handle, he passed it to the one standing beside him. ‘Those were the days,’ he said.

The third soldier pocketed it. Karl stared at him in disbelief, then realised there was nothing he could do. He started to speak but his voice cracked and he trailed off before bursting into tears.

‘You’ve got a lot to learn if you’re going to cry about something like that,’ the soldier said, thrusting the knife, handle first, into Karl’s chest.

Karl jumped back in fright.

‘Take it and get the fuck out of here before I stab you with it. We see you picking up aluminium again, you won’t be asking any more questions about the enemy.’

When they got home, Ida asked why they looked so frightened. Peter told her they had bumped into some soldiers.

‘I want you to help me move some food from the pantry to the slaughterhouse attic,’ she said.

‘Why?’ Karl asked.

‘Don’t ask questions.’ She told Peter to run over to the Laufers and ask if they had any spare eggs, then said to the other two, ‘Come on, we’ll make a start.’

Peter left the house and took the road to the Laufers’ farm. As he passed the trail that led to the abandoned shed, he thought of the photographs. He had sneaked out to look at them alone ever since Karl brought them back from his trip. He thought again of the girl with her older brother and mother. He had come to admire her – it was as if the blankness of her face masked bravery, defiance of the camera’s intrusion. The photo Karl most often looked at was the one of the half-naked woman – perhaps partly because he knew he shouldn’t. It was the only picture that either of them had ever seen of a woman’s breasts and they knew they wouldn’t come across any others in their village.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to come to the shed during the winter, especially with soldiers about, Peter decided to risk a last visit. He pushed his way through the undergrowth, stopping every few seconds to make sure no one was around.

Inside the shed, he got out the photographs and took them out into the light. He smiled when his eyes rested on the girl, then flipped to the picture with the woman’s breasts, and turned finally to the last one of the men huddling together. Then, instead of returning the photographs to their hiding place, he looked around again to make sure no one was watching and took them into the undergrowth. He searched until he found a large, pointed rock, which he used as a shovel to dig a small hole. He had a final glance at the pictures, squeezed his eyes shut to hold the girl in his mind and let them go. They fell into the hole, the flat, thin prints fluttering on top of one another as they entered their final place of rest. He filled it in, patting the dirt firmly into place, then stood up and listened to make sure once more that he was still alone.

The trip to the shed had taken only five minutes, but he knew that now he must run as fast as he could to the Laufers’ place or his mother and brother would be wondering where he was. As he raced back to the main road he was gripped by an unexpected sadness he had never felt before when he was looking at the photographs, but instead of slowing and contemplating it and feeling sadder still, he increased his pace until the only thing he was able to concentrate on was maintaining his speed as he sprinted the rest of the way to the road, then on to the farm for the eggs his mother had requested.

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