Crowam 281 (9 page)

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said.

“Are you saying I’m an idiot?”

“Did I say that?”

“Then answer my question.”

“I don’t have to answer anything, especially after you gave me this.” I pointed to my wound. That shut him up for a few minutes until he kept jabbering on again.

“Come on, tell me,” Tom said.

“Would you shut up.”

That pissed him off. He slammed his fist against the wall and got the attention of one of the guards responsible for watching us.

“What’s this?” the guard asked.

“Ask him,” I said.

“I ah, well,” Tom stuttered.

“Come on, speak up now,” the guard said.

I should have let him just sweat it out for a few minutes, but standing there watching him mumble like a buffoon was driving me nuts. “He was swatting a fly.”

“Swatting a fly?” the guard asked, unconvinced.

“Yea, a big one on the wall there. Didn’t feel right if he just let it get away.”

“You’re joking,” the guard said.

“Afraid not, sir,” I said.

The guard caught my bullshit, but didn’t care enough to inquire further. The alcohol on his breath indicated that he wasn’t too interested in doing his job that night. “I don’t want to here anymore ruckus out of you two, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

The guard moseyed on back to his post.

“Thanks,” Tom said hesitantly.

I don’t know why I helped out this guy. I felt like punching the guy right then and there. I could of just told the guard he was trying to punch me. That would have gotten him in trouble. A little payback for my flesh wound. Tom kept asking me, almost to the point of obsession, on why I helped him. I could tell it was rattling his brain. He couldn’t understand it. Why anyone, especially me, would help him.

“Don’t kid yourself. I wasn’t helping you,” I said.

“Then why?” he asked.

“Well, because…it wasn’t a fair fight,” I said.

“Wasn’t a fair fight?” Tom looked confused.

“Yea that’s right, it wasn’t a fair fight.”

“I had him right where I wanted him.”

“He’s twice your size. Even a big guy like you would have had trouble with him.”

“I’m telling you, I had him. I didn’t need your bloody help.”

“Look, I don’t really care what you think. “

“You bastard. I should have bashed your head in that shower.”

“You might as well have. It would have been better than listening to the likes of you.” That really rattled him up. I saw him clench his fist, ready to throw a punch.

A guard leaned out of the door of Mr. Hugo’s office “Mr. Hugo is ready to see you now.” The guard motioned to me, indicating that I should follow him into the office.

The office provided a stark contrast with the rest of Crowam, which was bland and old. Mr. Hugo’s office was decorated with cherry wood furniture, bookshelves filled with books, and a mantle with two pistols still in their holster.

Mr. Hugo sat at his desk, with his hands folded on top of some files and papers. “Good evening, Mr. Hudson. Please have a seat.”

The chair’s leather was soft and ample, contouring to me like I’ve sat in that very chair for years. It was one of the most comfortable chairs I ever sat in. It was easy for me to doze off with the soft leather supplying undeniable comfort. That would have made things interesting, Mr. Hugo blathering on while I dozed off in an expensive chair. I don’t think he would have appreciated that very much.

“How are we this evening?” Mr. Hugo asked.

“Fine.”

“Jake, is it?”

“Yea.”

“Good.” He rummaged through the papers neatly stacked on his desk, analyzing each page with meticulous detail. His wire-framed glasses sat perfectly on his thin face, complimenting his slicked black hair. “You have quite a record. Six schools in three years. You don’t seem to like staying in one place for very long.”

“I guess not.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. I like new surroundings, I guess.”

“Perhaps it is because you’re not very fond of authority?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yea.”

“Mr. Hudson. You are not the first boy to come to Crowam who thinks he knows how to game the system. Your kind thinks you have all the answers. Perhaps thinking you have it all figured out. I can assure you, Mr. Hudson, that is the furthest from the truth. To be blunt, you’re simple minded and two-dimensional. You only care about one person, and that is yourself.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“As I said, Mr. Hudson, I know your type. Observing you, watching you, you don’t want to be here anymore than any of the other boys, even if that means causing enough trouble so that I have no choice but to transfer you yet again to another school before you finally are too old to stay.”

“Maybe I like it here.”

“Do you?”

“It has its own charm, I guess.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“Yea, why not.”

He examined the files again. “Your father was a pilot, yes?”

All of a sudden, I got uneasy. Even though the chair was comfortable, I didn’t want to sit in it. While I didn’t mind trading bullshit with Mr. Hugo, I didn’t expect him to bring up my parents. “Yes?”

“Flew ten bomber missions over Europe. Was shot down in Germany after ten missions.”

“That’s right.”

“It says here the plane crashed in Duisburg. There wasn’t much left of the wreckage. The bodies burned before they could even recover them. Tragic.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. I thought you already knew.”

“I don’t need the details.”

“Everything is in the details, but I apologize if I’m upsetting you. I’ve always believed when one dies, that it is important to view the body. It brings closure and peace of mind. Seeing the stillness of the corpse before it is buried. Some people are disturbed by this, but I find a sense of beauty in it. Perhaps you saw your mother this way when she died.”

“Go to hell!” I yelled.

The guard entered urgently entered the room. My throat hurt from yelling. Mr. Hugo knew how to push my buttons. I felt like leaping out of the chair and strangling him. He sat in his chair motionless, only nodding at the guard, reassuring him I was no trouble, his smirk staying intact.

“Touchy subject I see. I’m sorry if I upset you. My curiosity does get the best of me.” His attempt at sincerity was pathetic. He enjoyed my anger, almost getting a rise from it, thriving off of my pain. “My parents, too, went their separate ways when I was a boy. My father was a businessman. He liked to drink. There were many times he would come home and take it out on us when the alcohol got the best of him. I would be in my bedroom and hear my parents argue. Sometimes the screams would put me to sleep. My mother left him when I was a teenager.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

“I suppose it was because I admired my father’s flaws. I thought I could perhaps help him, reform him. But I suppose some people can’t change. My mother, she eventually left to be with another man, leaving me alone. But as you see, Mr. Hudson, we are not that much different.” He got up and went to the mantel, taking out both pistols from their holsters. He brushed the metal of the pistols with his hands, caressing the cold metal, “I forgot to mention, I was in the war myself. It seemed so long ago. Yet the memories are so vivid, so fresh, like they were yesterday. Are you familiar with firearms?”

“Not really.”

“This is a Luger PO8. This was given to me from a German soldier captured in Buchenwald prison shortly after it was liberated.” He grabbed the other pistol, holding both in his hands. “This is a Nagant M1895. This was also given to me by an officer, from the Soviet Army, as a gift for his liberation from Buchenwald. You see this pistol is unique because it has a gas steal system. The cylinder moves forward when you cock the gun, increasing velocity. Very unusual for a pistol of this type. The Luger is a semi-automatic. It’s sufficient, but the Nagant can be silent, deadly, precise.”

I sat uneasy as I watched Mr. Hugo give a lesson on weaponry.

He handled the pistols with care and diligence, making sure the chambers were clean and ready to use, even cocking the Nagant. “I remember the stories the officers told me about Buchenwald and the gulags. The methods that were used. The way violence was used to bring about order, to bring fear among the prisoners so they fall in line. There’s something about violence that is pure, so clean. I’m not talking about savage violence with no means to an end, but organized violence. Violence with a purpose. To bring order, to reform. Precise violence, Mr. Hudson. It’s in man’s nature to be violent. Why, the war was a perfect example. All the lives lost, the carnage. I saw such carnage in Buchenwald. The bodies of the prisoners stacked in pits in the ground. The smell of rotten flesh. That’s what I remember most vividly.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Mr. Hugo said with a slight grin.

“Would you like to hold it?” Mr. Hugo handed the Nagant handle first to me.

“What?”

“Hold it. Don’t worry, I want you to.”

I grabbed the pistol from Mr. Hugo’s firm grip. The handle was still warm.

“How does it feel?”

“Heavy.”

“That’s normal. I assume it’s your first time handling a firearm.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you feel like a cowboy?”

“Cowboy?”

“Yes, you Americans are fond of cowboys, aren’t you? The Wild West, is that you prefer to call it?” He stood holding the luger, pointing it in my direction.

I felt helpless, uncertain of Mr. Hugo’s intentions. I didn’t even know if the gun was loaded. He grinned wider now than when he spoke about violence and the horrors of Buchenwald, gulags, and the war. For the first time in my life, I was scared. I was intimidated by a man who seemed to have no soul or sense of morality; authority, order and violence occupied his soul. Seconds seemed like an eternity. I urgently handed him the Nagant. “I have to go. Pots and pans duty.”

“
I
say when it is you are ready to leave, Mr. Hudson!” His yell was loud, stern, and brief. He took the pistol out of my hand. My hand trembled. His grin faded away. “You may go.”

I quickly got up from my chair.

“I hope our meeting was an educational one,” he said.

“Sure,” I said as I exited the office.

Thomas waited for me in the kitchen, getting a head start on the pots and pans. I immediately grabbed the pots and pans, submerging my hands in the soapy, dirty water.

“How was your meeting with, Mr. Hugo?” Thomas asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

“It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“How the hell would you know? Were you there?’

“Why are you so upset, Jake? I didn’t mean to pry.”

I splashed some of that dirty soap water on his face. I didn’t care about the sour meat and grime that floated in the water. “We’re in trouble, Thomas.”

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

“This guy, Mr. Hugo. He’s no ordinary cat.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“He’s different. He’s not like these other headmasters I’ve come across.”

“What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. You’re scared out of your wits and you won’t even talk about it.”

“Just forget it. I just want to finish the pots and pans and go to bed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yea, I’m sure.” I couldn’t find any words to describe my meeting with Mr. Hugo, especially words that Thomas would understand. Maybe my vocabulary was lacking. I knew one thing for sure. Our stay at Crowam no. 281 would be an unpleasant one.

It was a God forsaken hour. I decided to read some more Dickens, starting where I left off. I read a few more chapters. I got out of my bed to wake up Thomas, who was sound asleep. “Hey, wake up.” I tapped his shoulder. He slept like a rock. I shoved him this time. “Hey Thomas.” He must have been in a coma. I shoved him some more. “Come on, wake up!” I yelled.

The kid nearly fell off his bed, he was so startled. His eyes were squinty and crusty from sleep. “What in the world?”

“You awake?”

“Of course I’m awake, you bloody fool. You woke me up!”

“I have a question.”

“A question? Now? Do you even know what time it is?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s probably very late or very early. Whatever the case, most human beings are sleeping at this hour.”

“Yea, yea. I get it, sorry. Look, can you answer my question or not?”

“I will do my best.”

“Atta boy. What’s the deal with Dr. Mannette?

“Dr. Mannette?”

“Yea, what’s his deal with making them shoes?”

“Oh, I see you’re reading some Dickens. Splendid!”

“Yea, whoo me, anyway, what’s his deal?”

“His deal?”

“Yea, Lucy found him making shoes like a mad man.”

“Well, you answered the question within your own question?’

“Huh?”

“Dr. Mannette was driven to make shoes out of sheer madness while staying at Bastille prison in France.”

“No kidding.”

“Yes, if it serves me correctly, he did it as a distraction from the horrors he witnessed at Bastille.”

“What happens to him?”

“You’ll have to keep reading. I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Trust me, it gets better.”

“Can I ask you another question?”

“I could really use some sleep, Jake.”

“Just one more question, promise.”

“Very well.”

“My meeting with Mr. Hugo. One of the things he talked about...”

Thomas eagerly leaned on the side of bed, curious at what I had to say. “Well, what is it Jake”

“Have you ever heard of Buchenwald prison?”

For a moment I thought I was looking at a ghost. His face flushed and then turned white. He laid back on his bed, his eyes filled with sorrow. “Yes, I’ve heard of Buchenwald.”