III
Without raising his eyes from the chess board, Anselm rises slowly until his head was directly between the bowed heads of the two old men. He then lets loose a deafening raw animal scream. His bellow would have certainly emptied his lungs and left him gasping if he were alive. The chess player to his right scratches his bald head and toys with his bishop before replacing it. Anselm bounds onto the tabletop and plants himself in the dead center of the game. Spreading his arms wide, he announces to the park at large:
“Achtung, Froggies! Germany has re-occupied Paris! I have been appointed as your new emperor! I decree that you all must wear socks with sandals and Bavarian Polka must be played over the public address at all times! Now you must all bring your daughters before me at once so that I can start my harem!” The bald chess player checkmated his opponent through Anselm’s foot.
“Hey! Frenchies! Did you not hear? Bring me your daughters! Mach scnell! Scnell! You there! Where are you going?”
Anselm leapt down in front of a large mustachioed delivery man. Behind him the two chess players shook hands and reset the board.
“I demand that you do as I say at once! Are you paying attention?”
The delivery man wheels his dolly towards the bakers humming quietly to himself. Anselm follows, flailing his arms wildly and shouting.
“Don’t you know it’s a crime to ignore your emperor? For you insolence I condemn you to wear a really large moustache! Let’s see you try to live with that humiliation!” Anselm walks off haughtily to make faces at a small child who is nagging his mother for sweets.
“Knock it off, you lunatic Hun,” I tell him
Anselm turns to me with an air of injured innocence.
“Do you know something? I don’t think they have noticed! Maybe I need to yell louder, do you think?”
“No. Stop it. You’ve made your point. The living can’t see or hear us,” I concede with bad grace.
“I’m certain that everyone is not reacting because they are so happy and content with me in power. The French people have always loved us Germans, you know.”
“Will you cut that out? All I said was: what if she did see me?”
Anselm waves his hand in front of his face as if shooing away midges
“What if, What if!”, he grumbles irritably. “You are seeing what you wish to see. That is all. Your young lady is special. Do you know why? Because you believe this. You want her to see you and so in your mind, she does. She is really no different than anyone else, and none of the living know we are here. Not even if they stare into a crystal ball all day long. “
“It could be possible though”.
He groans with exasperation.
“Of course it could be possible! Anything in the world ‘could be possible’. It could be possible that The Fuerher never rose to power, and I lived to become a very old with a hundred fat grandchildren in Stuttgart. This is possible, but it did not happen. This is the way things are”, his tone was final but not unkind. “We are still here when most of the rest of the dead have gone on to whatever happens after life. We cannot eat drink or touch. The living can not see or hear us. I do not know why it should be so, but to pretend otherwise is a good way to make yourself crazy. There is however, one good thing about being a ghost.”
I know exactly what he is going to say. It is the same thing he always says. I ask him what it is anyway. He flashes a huge wolfish grin
“We no longer need to buy tickets to the cinema!”
With only token protest I allow him to drag me to yet another film. It’s a loud flashy American movie with subtitles about travelling to distant planets. Anselm enjoys it immensely and laughs uproariously throughout. The film provides a welcome but all too temporary distraction. I leave wondering what generations to come will think of this latest interpretation of the future. I hope not to find out.
In a dismal, dusty corner of the town museum hangs a formal photograph of my unit. The picture is dated 1915. There are thirty eight of us posed uncomfortably in front of the barracks in dress uniform. Were it not for those uniforms and rifles, we could be a town cricket team. These were my comrades, men who were barely more than boys. I remember their voices and their laughter. There was Bingo Fletchworth who wrote his sweetheart every day and always borrowed my cigarettes, Mike Jones who was teaching himself to play banjo, Chalky Stevens who would cut the strings of the banjo while Mike slept. Ace Miller with his lucky helmet that had a bullet hole straight through it, and our radioman Pete Tooley who could fix just about anything. All that remains of them is this photo, my memory, a few artifacts in a display case beneath it. Several years back a tractor unearthed my engraved pocket watch and now it gathers dust in this display case. Tourists wander solemnly by the photograph and dutifully mutter: “So young, they were so young”, before moving on to the next display. I despise it here, yet I have forced myself to stay all afternoon to avoid seeing Sabrina.
Anselm is probably right and I resent him for it. I have decided that there is no point in deluding myself any further. Aside from one incident, which I may have imagined, Sabrina has given no other indication that she is aware of my existence. I have told her my name, all the secrets of my heart and my entire story, yet she never heard any of it. No matter how pleasant the delusion, I cannot pretend any longer. She is a living, breathing young woman whose future lies ahead, while I am nothing more than a fading memory. To pretend otherwise is fruitless. Though it strains every sinew of my resolve, I know I must stay away from her. For a full week I have eschewed the places that I know she frequents. I cannot prevent myself from hoping for a forbidden glance of her face in a crowd. The small electric thrill I get from a chance sighting of dark locks or a swishing skirt and the crashing disappointment when it invariably turns out to be someone else are unavoidable, so I stay to the most isolated places I can think of.
The museum staff is turning off the lights and locking the doors now. This place is depressing enough during daylight. After closing it becomes unbearable. I slip out into the twilight unnoticed. The buds are unraveling into nascent leaves and the world once again is becoming warmer and greener. Before I realize where I am going, I am following the path to the wheat field. I consider changing direction until I realize Sabrina must have gone back to her dormitory by now and continue on. My solitude is assured, I think with melancholy satisfaction.
When I come to the break in the stone wall I am convinced that I must be dreaming, but as I draw closer I see that this cannot possibly be a trick of the shadows. Sabrina is leaning against the wall she is clutching a paper cup as if it were a talisman. Plumes of her breath mingle with the steam from the beverage. She is wearing a baggy brown sweater and blue canvas trousers. Her hair is pulled back loosely revealing her pale anxious face. There are dark circles beneath her eyes and I believe she is thinner. I have never seen Sabrina looking so fragile or tired. She is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. I cannot imagine how or why I have avoided her for so long. I want more than I have ever wanted anything to take her in my arms and comfort her. I may no longer be able to breathe but a sigh escapes me, nonetheless.
Sabrina turns towards me and all traces of worry melt from her. Her face is aglow with a pure luminous smile, the exact perfect expression she wore on the first day watching the roebuck drink. This time there is no ambiguity or doubt. I was wrong, Anselm was wrong! Sabrina’s shining dark eyes look directly into mine
“Hello Robert”, she says in a voice like brushed velvet “I’ve missed you!”
The End
C. John A. Ryan 2011
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