Transcript

SIR
I have found another remnant. This one is violent, I think. You did not like that, before. I looked for others. There were none, none that I could see. They are there, I know it. Like a cloth over furniture I feel they are there but their texture is hidden from me.
I think what remnant I find has been deliberately left.
Inside of humans, there are moving parts. Each serves its role, with no need of knowing what most other parts are doing. What does a cell moving mucus in the lungs need to know of a cell forming a scar upon a toe? Nothing.
Perhaps I am like this. A cell, within a whole. Part of something. Perhaps we both are. Perhaps everything is.
I do not know. As a function, to know is not my role. What is, then? To judge, as you imply? But to judge what? Remnants? Then why would I have need of an Apprentice who reads them so distinctly from the manner in which I read them myself?
The key, I think, is in what you are that I am not.
Right now, you are asleep.
Is that the key? That you sleep? That you will not answer me?
From your frustrations it seems I do not answer you.
Maybe this line of inquiry is a mistake in and of itself. Maybe we are two cells whose purposes are so divorced that we could not answer each other, even if we willed it. Maybe. I do not know. I am not a thing that knows.
But I have a remnant for you. I want you to read it. For a moment, as you read, it is like you are awake, or perhaps something closer to waking than sleeping. I have interrupted you before. Perhaps I should try that. Maybe then you will speak, if I cut in. Maybe then you will wake.
I do not know. I am not a thing that knows.
I wonder, now, if I am much of a thing at all.
Here. It is soft, I think. That is what you would say. A scrap of fabric. Silk. Yes, I will touch it, but it’s here. To say I have found it and brought it… I think this, too is a mistake. There was nothing between this remnant and the last. Only that moment, and now this one. The way a shovel might appear in your hand. The way we will be trapped in a tent with no entryway, and then scaling a hill of dust, with no pause, as if we have been scaling it for hours.
Never the less. It is here. The remnant. This scrap of fabric which I think you would call soft. Would you read it, Apprentice? Read it for me? I promise I will not interrupt you. Please.

[WHOOSH]

APPRENTICE
A sound outside; Hans stirs.
‘Hush,’ says his mother. ‘It’s just the ponies.’
Hans closes his eye, burrows himself deeper against his mother’s silk pyjamas. She smells of soap and cigarettes and yesterday’s perfume. She smells like home.
She runs a hand over the dome of Hans’ head, and the soft rustle of her arm against their feather pillows drifts, morphs, becomes the stream in the woods near their home.

[WHOOSH]

Hans shields his eyes against. It’s so cold his breath is like smoke. He picks up a twig and holds it to his lips like a cigarette, plays at being a big man as he tumbles across the yard to the barn.
The chickens are roosted close together on their perch, feathers puffed out against the cold. The air in the barn feels warm to Hans, now, after the freezing cold of the yard. It’s sweet with hay and musty with the smell of cows and goats and the ponies. He tosses scraps from yesterday’s dinner into the stall for the goats, throws seeds out for the chickens, then climbs the rickety ladder to the hay loft. He pulls hay off the bale in his fists, throws it down to the barn floor to gather again once he’s climbed back down.
Before he can, though, he hears an engine in the yard. He skitters across the hayloft like a rat, presses close to the wooden wall. There’s just enough space between the slats to peer through, a sluice of cold air cutting his cheek.
The engine belongs to Mr Heinrich. He lives in the big house down the road. It used to belong to Mr Loek, but he’s gone now, mother says. Mr Loek owned Hans’ house and little farm. This seems funny to Hans. Mr Loek never came to the house and never looked after the goats or the ponies or the cows or the chickens. Hans and his mother do all of that. But they paid Mr Loek to live there, mother said. Now they pay Mr Heinrich.
Mr Loek was old and walked about with a cane. He was shaped like a question mark. Mr Heinrich is not shaped like a question mark and he doesn’t have a cane. He is small but broad and wears a big coat that makes his shoulders as big as a doorframe. He comes to the house and asks mother for money and he says they can’t use the far pasture anymore for their ponies because he needs it for himself. There’s nothing in the far pasture, no ponies or horses or even any vegetables. The grass is growing long. It’s fun to run through, but you have to be careful, because Mr Heinrich has a gun.
Mr Heinrich’s car is as big as a boat, choking out smoke into the cold air. Even from the barn, it’s sharp in Hans’ nose. Mr Heinrich’s driver is still in the car, arms folded in his big overcoat and warm hat. Mr Heinrich is at Hans’ door.
When he knocks, Hans’ mother answers. She’s wrapped up in her dressing gown. Hans cannot make out her words over the rattling engine. Mr Heinrich grabs his mother’s arm. She pulls it away, disappears into the house. Mr Heinrich shouts to his driver, ‘wait!’
The door to Hans’ house slams shut behind Mr Heinrich.
Hans stays where he is, pressed against the panels. The car engine rumbles. The smoke rolls in clouds up towards the blue, blue sky.

[WHOOSH]

Mr Heinrich presses a small box into Hans’ palms. ‘A gift,’ he says. Then he ruffles Hans’ hair.
Hans smiles, tears the lid off the box. Inside, there are blonde-coloured biscuits, a bar of chocolate, a shiny little badge in the shape of an eagle, and a tiny model of a plane. He hasn’t seen proper biscuits and chocolate for ages and ages, but it’s the plane that catches his eye. The propellers spin when he brushes his fingers against them.
‘It has moving parts!’ says Hans.
‘The doors open too, see?’ says Mr Heinrich.
It’s fiddly, but with some concentration, he manages to flick open the tiny door. ‘Wow.’
Mr Heinrich chuckles. He takes the eagle pin out of the box, fastens it onto Hans’ collar. ‘There you are. You look like a proper little officer now.’
‘What do you say, Hans?’ prompts his mother. She is by the window, nursing baby Leida.
‘Thank you, Mr Heinrich,’ says Hans.
Mr Heinrich smiles, ruffles Hans’ hair again. ‘Why don’t you go play with it in the barn? Leave your mother and I alone a while.’
Hans nods and runs outside. As he crosses the yard, hears his mother’s record starting to play. In the barn, Hans takes his new plane flying over the empty goat pen, climbs up onto the wooden boards dividing the ponies’ stalls from the cows’. It’s fun for a bit, but he gets bored eventually and climbs up into the hayloft. He has comic books he keeps up there. They used to be in his bedroom but Hans’ mother said they’d make Mr Heinrich angry if he saw them, because they’re American comics. Hans thinks it’s funny that the bad guys in the comics all dress like Mr Heinrich. Some of them wear pins like the one fastened onto Hans’ lapel.
Hans looks at the pin, at the eagle and the funny symbol on it. He knows that the Germans coming was bad, but Mr Heinrich is so nice. He brings them lots of bread, even though in town they only let you take a little bit. He brings wine for Hans’ mother, and boxes of sugary sweets for Hans. He’s big and scary looking, but he’s nice. Nothing like the baddies in Hans’ comics.
Hans has almost read all three of his comics again when he hears the engine of Mr Heinrich’s car starting up again. He climbs down the ladder, crosses the yard, slips back into the house. The music has finished, but the record player is still on, making a soft, dusty sound.
‘Turn that off, would you?’ says Hans’ mother.
Hans does as he’s told, flipping the switch on the record player so the record stops spinning. He carefully lifts the delicate arm up, sets it lightly on its small, specially designed rest. It’s much better than their old record player, which mother has pushed under one of the armchairs by the fire. Mr Heinrich got this new one for them.
‘Come here,’ says Hans’ mother.
He finds her in the kitchen, baby Leida asleep in her basket on the table, next to her. His mother is writing something, but she folds up the page before Hans can see what it is. His mother is wearing her dressing gown, even though she had on her nice blue dress before Hans went outside.
‘Closer,’ she tells him.
Hans comes close. His mother smiles, brushes her finger over the pin on Hans’ lapel before she takes it off.
‘But—’
‘Mr Heinrich is kind to us, Hans. We should be very grateful. But I don’t want you to wear this unless he’s visiting. You understand? Keep it somewhere safe. If you hear his car on the driveway, you run and get it. Alright?’
This will not be difficult; the only sound he might confuse for the car are the plans which careen overhead. Hardly anybody drives their cars now, except Mr Heinrich. There’s not enough fuel, that’s what the grownups say when Hans goes into town with his mother. Mr Heinrich seems to have plenty of fuel.
‘Yes, mama,’ says Hans.
‘Good boy,’ says his mother. ‘Now. Help me chop these vegetables so we can make soup for dinner.’

[WHOOSH]

Hans is sitting on the fence in the old pony field watching the planes, when he notices something is different about them. The sun’s too bright for him to tell what kind of planes they are., but they’re flying lower than usual. The long grass between Mr Heinrich’s cars and tanks dips and flattens as they pass overhead.
A moment later, and he hears it, distinct. Pop, pop, pop. The sound of guns.
Hans jumps from the fence, runs out through the grasses, weaving between the cars and the tanks, running back home.
Leida is sitting on the rug in the living room. Hans scoops her up and she squawks at him. ‘Sorry, Leida, we have to go! Mama!’
Hans’ mother hurries down the stairs. She has her coat on, is holding a suitcase. ‘Come on. Down to the cellar.’
‘The cellar?! But Mr Heinrich said—’
‘I know what Mr Heinrich said, Hans, but we have to go down to the cellar right now!’
They run outside, open the cellar doors. Down the short wooden staircase, most of the coal has been swept up against the wall. There are stacks of tins lined up next to it.
Mama sets her suitcase down. She shoves all the clothes into one side of it. ‘Set Leida in there and come here,’ she says, reaching out her arms.
Hans places Leida, still squawking, into the suitcase. He steps towards his mother.
‘I know Mr Heinrich told us to go to his house if we heard guns, but we can’t. You have to stay here. I have to go into town, but I will come back for you.’
‘But mama—’
‘Nobody knows you’re here. Not you, not Leida. You stay in here and you stay quiet. There’s plenty of food. That barrel at the back of the cellar has water in it and a tin cup. There’s a bottle for Leida buried in the clothes. I’ll be okay, I promise you. Just stay here.’
‘Why aren’t we going to Mr Heinrich’s house like he said?!’
‘I promise I will explain this to you, Hans, but I need to go now. Do not go to Mr Heinrich’s house! Are you listening to me, Hans?!’
‘Yes, mama.’
‘Do not leave this cellar, Hans. I will come back for you when it’s safe. There’s something I have to do first, and you can’t come with me. You have to stay here, and stay quiet. Do you hear me?’
‘Okay.’
His mother kisses his forehead. ‘I’ll be back soon. I love you. Be brave.’

[WHOOSH]

The first night in the coal cellar, Hans hears lots of planes. Some gun fire. The big, stomach-dropping booms of distant bombs. Leida cries, and he holds her to his chest, wills her to be quiet. He feeds her water from the barrel at the back of the cellar, mixed in with some condensed milk from one of the tins. She’s quiet whilst she eats, but then she gets louder, kicking and fussing. It’s too dark to see properly, the only light coming from the gaps in the door and the tiny opening above the barrel where the water drips in.
On the third night, Hans runs out of condensed milk. He gives Leida water and the juice from a tin of tomatoes, which he eats cold with his hands. He cuts his finger on the edge of the tin, cries, wishes someone was there to kiss it better, but there’s nobody but him and Leida. Hans sucks his finger, then tears a strip of cloth from one of the spare shirts his mother left him. He hopes she won’t be too angry. He winds the scrap around his finger.
On the fifth night, Hans uses the last of the cloth diapers folded into the suitcase. Leida cries whenever she’s awake. Hans tries to distract her by waving his hands, but it doesn’t help. She just cries and cries as the planes screech overhead and the guns pop and the bombs boom in the distance. The dirty diapers are balled up at the bottom of the steps. Hans’ been doing wees into the coal, and it didn’t smell bad at first, but the last one he did, he saw dribbles coming out of the coal pile. They leave black streaks on the grubby floor.
On the seventh night, Hans hears voices. They are not speaking German or Dutch, but English. His mother told him not to leave the cellar, but there are no more tomatoes and Leida has not cried once all day. She’s just lies there, sleeping. When she’s awake she’s too tired to do anything but stare. Hans is tired too. He climbs the wooden stairs, peers through the narrow gap between the cellar doors.
There are two men, both of them with guns. They’re smoking, talking too each other. Hans knows some English from his mother’s records and from his comics. He knows he’s not supposed to leave the cellar, but in his comics, the Americans are the good guys. So he shouts ‘peace.’
The men freeze, raise their weapons. Smoke trails from the cigarettes still hanging from their mouths. They shout something, but Hans only knows some of the words. ‘Peace,’ he says again.
The soldiers come closer, flip the doors open wide. ‘It’s a kid,’ says one of the men. The other one answers, but Hans doesn’t what he says.
‘Baby Leida,’ says Hans. ‘I need to get milk for baby Leida.’
‘A baby? You’ve got a baby down there?’ says the first soldier, or this is what Hans can make out of what he says.
‘Yes. My baby sister. My mother told me to hide down there with her when the planes started coming, but she hasn’t come back from town in a whole week, I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘Slow down kid, I don’t speak Dutch,’ says the soldier.
‘Milk,’ says Hans. He points at the barn.
The soldiers glance at each other, then nod. They follow Hans to the barn. Inside, the cows have eaten most of their hay. Hans grabs the metal bucket from by the door, sets about milking one of the cows. Her udder is so engorged the milk bursts out of her as soon as he touches her.
The soldiers wander around the barn, making comments Hans doesn’t catch. He hears their hands adjusting on their guns, their boots crunching on the hay. He just keeps milking the cow, his heart in his throat.
Then, Hans hears a rumbling engine. He thinks for a moment it’s a plane, but it’s not. It’s Mr Heinrich’s car. Americans hate men who dress like Mr Heinrich. Hans’ hand flies to his lapel. The pin Mr Heinrich gave him is in his bedroom, tucked under his pillow still, where it’s been ever since his mother told him to keep it somewhere safe.
The American soldiers raise their guns as the lights on Mr Heinrich’s car flash through the slatted walls of the barn.
Hans is frozen, his hands still gripping the cow’s teats, milk streaming into the bucket.
‘Roos!’ Mr Heinrich calls. That’s Hans’ mother’s name. ‘Roos!’
The soldiers crouch, moving towards the goat pen, their guns aimed towards the barn doors. He isn’t coming to the barn, though. Hans hears him hammering on the door to the house, shouting his mother’s name over and over.
Then, Hans hears a small, muffled cry. Leida. All day she had not cried, but she’s crying now. Screaming so loud it’s as though she’s right there in the barn with Hans and the cows and the American soldiers.
The headlights flicker as Mr Heinrich walks past them.
Hans lets go of the cow’s teats and rushes across the barn.
‘Kid!’ one of the soldiers hisses.
Mr Heinrich has stopped dead in his tracks. Hans’ face is pressed up against the barn wall. The car’s engine is still rumbling, and Leida is still screaming, screaming.
‘Hans?’ says Mr Heinrich.
Hans heart clenches. He shakes his head.
‘Hans, are you there?’ Mr Heinrich turns his back on the open doors to the coal cellar. ‘Is your mother in there with you, Hans? Are you helping her get milk for baby Leida?’
Hans is glued to the barn wall as Mr Heinrich takes two steps towards it. He’s looking almost right at where Hans is standing. His hair is a mess. Hans has never seen Mr Heinrich with anything but neatly slicked back hair. His shirt is half-unbuttoned under his huge, grey coat. The badges and pins flash on it in the headlights as he reaches inside it, and then the light catches on the muzzle of a small, shiny gun. Mr Heinrich clutches it to his chest.
‘Roos isn’t here with you, is she? She’s been very naughty, your mother. Very naughty indeed. She left you to look after Leida and went to town, yes? But it’s okay, Hans. You have to help me find her, Hans, so we can keep her safe. So nobody finds out what she’s done.’
Hans is shaking agains the barn wall. There are tears running from his eyes, snot oozing out of his nose. The American soldiers are still behind him, holding their guns. Mr Heinrich turns away from Hans, strides slowly and deliberately across the yard, towards the barn doors. Hans looks back; the American soldiers are following his movement with the tips of their guns.
Mr Heinrich shoves open the barn door. The guns fire; bright flashes of light make the whole barn glow like the sun is trapped inside of it for less than a second. Mr Heinrich staggers back; his hand raising. There’s a third bang as he squeezes the trigger. Then, a bright, metal ping.
It feels like someone has shoved Hans in the side. He stumbles forwards as Mr Heinrich falls back.
The Americans rush towards Mr Heinrich, crowding over his body.
Baby Leida is still crying. Hans should go to her, take her the milk. He turns to grab the bucket, but instead of stepping towards it, he falls to his knees. He looks down. His shirt, grubby from a week in the coal cellar, is turning red on his stomach. The red patch is growing and growing the longer Hans looks at it. Funny that it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t hurt at all. He unbuttons his shirt, looks at the hole in his middle, blood gushing and gushing, like the milk had gushed out of the cow.
One of the soldiers kneels beside Hans. He puts his hands over the hole, pushes hard, and suddenly it hurts, like fire spreading all the way through him. He cries out, but it’s short. The American is speaking to him, but it’s in English, and Hans is suddenly very tired, too tired to translate in his head, so it just sounds like noises. The car is still rumbling. Baby Leida is still crying in the coal cellar.
Hans closes his eyes. His mother lifts baby Leida from her basket on the table, tucks her against her silky pyjamas. ‘It’s alright,’ she says. ‘You’re okay.’
Hans nestles his face against her chest. The silk is soft. She smells like home.

[WHOOSH]

SIR
You do not wake?! You do not even stir, not for this boy who died for nothing, without even a shadow of ill intent for someone to make sense of his death? The Apprentice I know would be incensed!
The Apprentice I know…
What do I know of you, really? I do not know at all. A handful of scattered memories, so many of them lost.
And you, whoever you are. The thing that listens out there. Statue, moths, dust on the wind. Why not bring those pieces to me, the pieces of him, of who he is, of what we were, instead of leaving me these trails of other people? What use it to me if they will not wake him? What use to him, if he cannot speak?
What are you trying to show me?
Is there any sense in this at all?!
Is this how you felt, Apprentice? Are you what I have become?

[THE APPRENTICE TAKES A DEEP BREATH]

[END]

An Episode of Remnants.

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