David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘The Snowball’
David Weaver ©
It was his smile that saved him from the wrath others received, and the boy often grinned at the way Billy manipulated those around him with the skill of a child prodigy playing a grand piano. He was everyone’s favourite, everyone’s friend, everyone’s rock; and the boy loved his unruly mate as you would a favourite brother.
One morning after a heavy bombing raid, the teacher walked into class crying, trying not to admitted, but crying nonetheless. She cleared her throat and said very quietly, ‘Billy wont be coming back to school again, he’s gone to Jesus, he felt no pain though because the bomb was a direct hit and he and his mother went off together so he wouldn’t be lonely.’
The boy buried his face in his hands, how at that moment he hated Jesus who had no right to take Billy away from all his friends, but he refused to cry for street kids are too tough for that he did wonder though if, as the teacher said, Billy wouldn’t be alone why were there tears streaming down her sad face and why did he feel so gutted?
Three years later, after many more air raids and moving house from Aston to Mere Green, the boy left his class at Hill Boy’s School, in what was the coldest winter seen in years. Millions of birds froze to death on the telephone wires and the roads were a foot deep in solid ice causing havoc across England. There was a traffic island at Mere Green and as the boy slithered through the school gate cars crashed into each other as they came around the island spinning and turning out of control like learner skaters on the ice covered pools in Sutton Park.
It was at this time the boy became aware of changed surroundings for standing in the road chipping away at the ice with pickaxes and shovels was a group of twenty German prisoners of war. They had pinched blue faces from the cold, and talked to each other in subdued voices in a language the boy didn’t understand. There were five armed English soldiers nervously guarding them because the working party was surrounded by a group of about fifty locals none too happy it seemed. Their faces too were serious as they watched, waited and remembered the bombs, the death, and the hatred intermingled with a fair amount of fear the fear known jokingly as ‘butt twitch’ but as everyone knows who has experienced it ‘butt twitch’ isn’t funny at all.
The boy remembered too, he remembered Billy, the laughing face and his going off to Jesus with his mother. As if by instinct he bent down and picked up a large handful of snow then rolled it into a boy’s oldest winter weapon since time began a snowball. Thus armed he straightened up and picked out his nearest target a young man shivering, blowing fruitlessly on his hands to try and get some blood circulating.
But as the boy raised his hand for the throw a man stepped from the crowd onto the ice, and walked towards the boys target holding out a cigarette towards him. The armed guards quickly ordered him to step back onto the pavement, but he ignored them and continued to offer the cigarette. The gathered crowd muttered amongst themselves, but watched fascinated nonetheless, for these were the enemy who’d tried their utmost to kill everyone. The German reached out and took the unexpected gift, put it into his mouth and nodded his thanks. The man took a box of matches from his pocket struck one then cupped his hand around the naked flame and held it towards the Germans face. The prisoner, lighting the cigarette, gratefully dragged the blue smoke down into his lungs and nodded again with the word ‘Danker’ the man then stepped back onto the pavement and rejoined the crowd.
The soldiers watched not knowing what to say or do as other men and women stepped forward and also handed out cigarettes to the other prisoners. One soldier, wiser than the rest, called out for everyone to take a break he slung his rifle over his shoulder and he too lit a cigarette and they all enjoyed a smoke together, the battlefield forgotten.
After the locals finally dispersed the boy was alone, still clutching his snowball, his German target turned towards him, stared briefly at the boy’s poised hand then drew himself to attention, as rigid as a flagpole, as if waiting for the icy missile to strike home. The boy took careful aim and in his mind’s eye saw the smiling face of Billy, with his mother and Jesus looking over his shoulder, and somehow his arm went slack, fell to his side and the snowball dropped into the gutter. Momentarily the Germans gaze met his, and a half smile of understanding passed between them then the boy turned on his heels and walked away without realising his wartime healing had begun, the hatred for the Germans was somehow lessoned, and all thoughts of Billy became safely locked away in the boys memory bank only to be taken out occasionally on those nostalgic days that come with old age.
END
