Chapter Twenty One - Boredom
War is slow.
Katka had heard this said before. In Prague probably, an idle comment passed without thought. But now she knew. Now she understood. Long periods of nothing intersected by moments of extreme stress. She would never have believed this was what it was really like, not when she was very young, when she was a child with a childish imagination of what war would be like.
When she was little she had thought war was all victory and defeat, great battles, honour, medals, remembering the dead with coloured flags once a year. It was what they had been taught in school, it was what she understood by the memorials in the park, the statues of fighters past, the neat rows of headstones in the cemetery. But it wasn’t like that at all. And now Katka was bored.
The soldiers had searched every house, but Katka and Paul hadn’t been found.
‘Hide!’ Paul had hissed, suddenly alert, suddenly realising they were about to be discovered. But Katka hadn’t the time, she hadn’t been able to move. Almost at once a dog had appeared in the kitchen doorway. Gnashing and snarling and trying to get inside, it had strained on its leash, on the other end the white knuckles of a soldier who was struggling to pull it back. ‘Platz! Platz!’’ he was shouting. But the dog would not listen, it had seen Katka and Paul and wanted to get at them.
It must have been so obvious that they were inside. But the soldier hadn’t cared. He must have seen the broken glass, the stone on the kitchen floor. If he had even looked inside he would have seen Katka too, cowering on the floor, pale faced and wide eyed. Instead the soldier just dragged the dog away. Then he shouted to the other soldiers, shouted something about there being, ‘nichts hier!’ and then they had gone.
‘It’s because they don't care, it’s because they want the war to be over and they want to go home.’ Paul had explained.
But that’s not true, Katka thought, ‘They are tired of killing, that’s all.’ she said, ‘They don’t want to do it anymore.’
And nor did Katka. She did not want any of this anymore. She was bored. More than bored. Her state of mind had moved beyond boredom and now her world, this world, it meant nothing at all.
‘Are you depressed?’ Paul asked her, bitterly, a little unkind, which was unfair because he was no better. He had looked at her as he asked this, looked with an almost mocking eye and within it Katka had read the macho lie that gave it fuel. He was pretending not to care, he was pretending that he wasn’t affected by what had happened.
‘You don’t have to do this.’ Katka said, ‘You don’t have to pretend that none of this is troubling you. It’s alright, it’s alright to say that you’re affected.’
He wouldn't though. He went on, pretending as if everything was alright, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Only Katka saw it, she could see it in the creases either side of his eyes, in the way he muttering to himself when he thought he was alone. She heard him cry out in the night sometimes, and he kept his bedroom door wedged open because he was afraid of the dark, because he had become afraid of being alone.
War hurts, Katka thought.
And the thought made her laugh. War is murder legalised and we commit the most evil of crimes and we tell ourselves it’s alright because the good guys always win in the end, they have to because it’s the winners who tell about the war afterwards, and they lie and they justify what they’ve done.
But Paul did not agree, he claimed he didn’t see it like this, ‘It’s the Nazis that are the criminals.’ he said to Katka, ‘It is Hitler and everyone who supports him that should be remembered as the villains of this piece.’
‘And what about the Americans?’ Katka asked, ‘The British too when they killed all those poor people in Dresden?’
‘That’s different.’ Paul said, and he glanced awkwardly at the radio on the mantelpiece. They had listened to it almost every night, had listened as each German city had systematically been destroy, night after night.
‘No, it exactly the same.’ Katka told him.
They could not talk about it any further. They could not agree. But Katka could not justify the war in any way, not like Paul could, not like he tried to. But over time he began to see the fragility of his argument. Over time he began to agree.
‘It’s the young who suffer most.’ he said one day, out of the blue, unexpected.
‘Those soldiers who were chasing us,’ Katka said, ‘How old were they?’
Paul said he didn’t know.
‘Think about it, when that soldier was standing in the kitchen door, how old did he look?’ Katka asked and in her mind she pictured his face, etched as if with an engraver’s tool into the soft fabric of her mind. His smooth chin, his round glittering eyes. ‘Eighteen?’ Katka asked.
Paul shook his head, ‘What does it matter?’ he asked.
‘Fifteen.’ Katka said, he was younger than me.’
‘Leave it.’ Paul told her.
But Katka could not leave it. She could not let it go. Then after a while, after a silence long enough to say a hundred words, Paul nodded, then he said, ‘Younger. The others too.’
‘And how old are we?’ Katka asked, ‘How old are all the soldiers fighting for Europe right now?’
They had been listening to the radio, they had picked up a signal from London that somehow was being broadcast all the way across Europe. The fighting was inside Germany now, it was over in the east, in Italy. British and American soldiers, Soviets were pushing the German army back within its borders. Only Czechoslovakia was left.
‘The older ones are all dead.’ Paul said.
‘This war is being fought by children.’ Katka told him.
Paul nodded his head. And then stupidly he said, ‘We’ll fight the last battle. When we go home, back to Prague, the last fighting will be there.’
Katka tutted. ‘You idiot.’ she said, or did she keep these words in her head?
‘We have to go back.’ Paul said, ‘We have to fight.
Katka said nothing.
For days then, neither said anything more, about the war or Prague or leaving the cottage and going home.
Weeks past. Winter died its slow death as the fragile warmth of spring took its place. Still grey above the treetops, the sky clouded and wet. It spilled its moisture on the ground like slops from a bucket and every morning it seemed to feel colder than the last, cold enough that they could see their breath floating in little clouds in the air in front of their faces. But every afternoon the sun shone and flowers - blue, yellow, white - began peppering the forest floor with colour and then finally the birds began to sing.
It takes time to forget.
But time is all you need and even the worst things can eventually disappear and when Paul said again one day, ‘We have to go back.’ Katka looked at him.
‘When the fighting starts in Prague we have to be there.’
Katka said nothing, only she saw the hope in Paul’s eyes, the longing. She looked at him for a long moment and then she said, ‘When the fighting’s done, when it’s over we can go home again.’
Paul smiled and shook his head. He had other ideas and he began making plans. In the garage of one of the houses he found a car and in another garage he found jerry cans filled with petrol.
‘There’s enough fuel to get us all the way to Prague.’ He said with a smile, pleased with himself at his hard work, his organisation, because he had found a map too and he plotted out a journey that would take them along a series of little roads, through little villages where there should be less traffic, less chance of bumping into military vehicles on the road.
‘But it’s not over yet.’ Katka said
‘We have to go.’ Paul said again. And so they took what they needed from the house, water, clothes, some money they found beneath one of the beds. They even found two old machine pistols in the garage of the house where they had stayed. Whoever had lived here had been prepared to protect themselves. they had been rich too, the wardrobe was filled with expensive clothes, the car Paul had found was a Mercedes and it roared a shameless roar as he steered it away from the houses towards the road.
The sound made Katka smile. Such a rich and powerful sound, like nothing she had heard in years. But after they had driven for only a few minutes, as soon as they pulled onto the main road that would take them part of the route to Prague, Katka saw them.
There were hundreds.
Convoy after convoy of army trucks, each filled with soldiers, pale faces and nervous, their youthful frames too small for the battle gear they had been dressed in.
‘Like lambs to the slaughter.’ Paul said, watching as they went by.
‘I’m afraid.’ Katka said.
And it seemed as if everyone was because in the opposite direction the road was clogged with civilian traffic too, families with all their possessions, cars, carts, people on foot all fleeing from the front line.
Katka had heard this said before. In Prague probably, an idle comment passed without thought. But now she knew. Now she understood. Long periods of nothing intersected by moments of extreme stress. She would never have believed this was what it was really like, not when she was very young, when she was a child with a childish imagination of what war would be like.
When she was little she had thought war was all victory and defeat, great battles, honour, medals, remembering the dead with coloured flags once a year. It was what they had been taught in school, it was what she understood by the memorials in the park, the statues of fighters past, the neat rows of headstones in the cemetery. But it wasn’t like that at all. And now Katka was bored.
The soldiers had searched every house, but Katka and Paul hadn’t been found.
‘Hide!’ Paul had hissed, suddenly alert, suddenly realising they were about to be discovered. But Katka hadn’t the time, she hadn’t been able to move. Almost at once a dog had appeared in the kitchen doorway. Gnashing and snarling and trying to get inside, it had strained on its leash, on the other end the white knuckles of a soldier who was struggling to pull it back. ‘Platz! Platz!’’ he was shouting. But the dog would not listen, it had seen Katka and Paul and wanted to get at them.
It must have been so obvious that they were inside. But the soldier hadn’t cared. He must have seen the broken glass, the stone on the kitchen floor. If he had even looked inside he would have seen Katka too, cowering on the floor, pale faced and wide eyed. Instead the soldier just dragged the dog away. Then he shouted to the other soldiers, shouted something about there being, ‘nichts hier!’ and then they had gone.
‘It’s because they don't care, it’s because they want the war to be over and they want to go home.’ Paul had explained.
But that’s not true, Katka thought, ‘They are tired of killing, that’s all.’ she said, ‘They don’t want to do it anymore.’
And nor did Katka. She did not want any of this anymore. She was bored. More than bored. Her state of mind had moved beyond boredom and now her world, this world, it meant nothing at all.
‘Are you depressed?’ Paul asked her, bitterly, a little unkind, which was unfair because he was no better. He had looked at her as he asked this, looked with an almost mocking eye and within it Katka had read the macho lie that gave it fuel. He was pretending not to care, he was pretending that he wasn’t affected by what had happened.
‘You don’t have to do this.’ Katka said, ‘You don’t have to pretend that none of this is troubling you. It’s alright, it’s alright to say that you’re affected.’
He wouldn't though. He went on, pretending as if everything was alright, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Only Katka saw it, she could see it in the creases either side of his eyes, in the way he muttering to himself when he thought he was alone. She heard him cry out in the night sometimes, and he kept his bedroom door wedged open because he was afraid of the dark, because he had become afraid of being alone.
War hurts, Katka thought.
And the thought made her laugh. War is murder legalised and we commit the most evil of crimes and we tell ourselves it’s alright because the good guys always win in the end, they have to because it’s the winners who tell about the war afterwards, and they lie and they justify what they’ve done.
But Paul did not agree, he claimed he didn’t see it like this, ‘It’s the Nazis that are the criminals.’ he said to Katka, ‘It is Hitler and everyone who supports him that should be remembered as the villains of this piece.’
‘And what about the Americans?’ Katka asked, ‘The British too when they killed all those poor people in Dresden?’
‘That’s different.’ Paul said, and he glanced awkwardly at the radio on the mantelpiece. They had listened to it almost every night, had listened as each German city had systematically been destroy, night after night.
‘No, it exactly the same.’ Katka told him.
They could not talk about it any further. They could not agree. But Katka could not justify the war in any way, not like Paul could, not like he tried to. But over time he began to see the fragility of his argument. Over time he began to agree.
‘It’s the young who suffer most.’ he said one day, out of the blue, unexpected.
‘Those soldiers who were chasing us,’ Katka said, ‘How old were they?’
Paul said he didn’t know.
‘Think about it, when that soldier was standing in the kitchen door, how old did he look?’ Katka asked and in her mind she pictured his face, etched as if with an engraver’s tool into the soft fabric of her mind. His smooth chin, his round glittering eyes. ‘Eighteen?’ Katka asked.
Paul shook his head, ‘What does it matter?’ he asked.
‘Fifteen.’ Katka said, he was younger than me.’
‘Leave it.’ Paul told her.
But Katka could not leave it. She could not let it go. Then after a while, after a silence long enough to say a hundred words, Paul nodded, then he said, ‘Younger. The others too.’
‘And how old are we?’ Katka asked, ‘How old are all the soldiers fighting for Europe right now?’
They had been listening to the radio, they had picked up a signal from London that somehow was being broadcast all the way across Europe. The fighting was inside Germany now, it was over in the east, in Italy. British and American soldiers, Soviets were pushing the German army back within its borders. Only Czechoslovakia was left.
‘The older ones are all dead.’ Paul said.
‘This war is being fought by children.’ Katka told him.
Paul nodded his head. And then stupidly he said, ‘We’ll fight the last battle. When we go home, back to Prague, the last fighting will be there.’
Katka tutted. ‘You idiot.’ she said, or did she keep these words in her head?
‘We have to go back.’ Paul said, ‘We have to fight.
Katka said nothing.
For days then, neither said anything more, about the war or Prague or leaving the cottage and going home.
Weeks past. Winter died its slow death as the fragile warmth of spring took its place. Still grey above the treetops, the sky clouded and wet. It spilled its moisture on the ground like slops from a bucket and every morning it seemed to feel colder than the last, cold enough that they could see their breath floating in little clouds in the air in front of their faces. But every afternoon the sun shone and flowers - blue, yellow, white - began peppering the forest floor with colour and then finally the birds began to sing.
It takes time to forget.
But time is all you need and even the worst things can eventually disappear and when Paul said again one day, ‘We have to go back.’ Katka looked at him.
‘When the fighting starts in Prague we have to be there.’
Katka said nothing, only she saw the hope in Paul’s eyes, the longing. She looked at him for a long moment and then she said, ‘When the fighting’s done, when it’s over we can go home again.’
Paul smiled and shook his head. He had other ideas and he began making plans. In the garage of one of the houses he found a car and in another garage he found jerry cans filled with petrol.
‘There’s enough fuel to get us all the way to Prague.’ He said with a smile, pleased with himself at his hard work, his organisation, because he had found a map too and he plotted out a journey that would take them along a series of little roads, through little villages where there should be less traffic, less chance of bumping into military vehicles on the road.
‘But it’s not over yet.’ Katka said
‘We have to go.’ Paul said again. And so they took what they needed from the house, water, clothes, some money they found beneath one of the beds. They even found two old machine pistols in the garage of the house where they had stayed. Whoever had lived here had been prepared to protect themselves. they had been rich too, the wardrobe was filled with expensive clothes, the car Paul had found was a Mercedes and it roared a shameless roar as he steered it away from the houses towards the road.
The sound made Katka smile. Such a rich and powerful sound, like nothing she had heard in years. But after they had driven for only a few minutes, as soon as they pulled onto the main road that would take them part of the route to Prague, Katka saw them.
There were hundreds.
Convoy after convoy of army trucks, each filled with soldiers, pale faces and nervous, their youthful frames too small for the battle gear they had been dressed in.
‘Like lambs to the slaughter.’ Paul said, watching as they went by.
‘I’m afraid.’ Katka said.
And it seemed as if everyone was because in the opposite direction the road was clogged with civilian traffic too, families with all their possessions, cars, carts, people on foot all fleeing from the front line.