Alexander Constantine - 4
Face truth. Face reality. Face consequence. Face the true power of your choices.
Live with a steady superiority over life -don’t be afraid of misfortune, and do not yearn for happiness; it is, after all, all the same: the bitter doesn’t last forever, and the sweet never fills the cup to overflowing.
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
Of the cottages on the estate three had thatched rooves. Fortunately for me, ours didn't. My cell was the boarded section of the attic, which covered approximately a third of the roof space. The mansard roof made it fine to stand, jump and exercise. It was uninsulated above the floor level but given that it was summer, I had more discomfort in the heat of the day than the cool of the night. I had a sort of futon mattress and my sleeping bag. When my father first brought me to the attic, there was a single sheet of paper on the floor.
PRISON ROUTINE (IMMUTABLE)
06:00 Accompanied ablutions
06:20 Return to cell
08:00 Breakfast
12:00 Lunch
13:00 Outdoor access
14:00 Return to cell
19:00 Dinner
21:00 Lights out
Periodic:
Physical tests to academy standards
Academic tests to academy standards
Ongoing duties:
Maintain physical standards. Failure to pass a test adds 1 week of internment.
Self-directed study. Ensure academic curriculum is completed. Failure to pass any test adds 1 week internment.
Punishment:
Any transgression of daily schedule adds 1 week of internment.
Any escape attempt adds 1 month of internment & 1 month of pay forfeiture, at half rations.
Any detected attempt to interact with persons while you are outside of your cell adds 1 week of internment.
Reward:
A continuous week of good behaviour may be rewarded.
A three foot round window at either end of the roof, in the gables, let in adequate light in the day time but not a great deal. The attic floor boards were laid from around the central entrance outwards, but not deep into the eaves or out towards the gables, meaning that to be at the window required that I balance on the exposed joists. The windows didn't open and weren't totally transparent, being textured, partly decoratively stained, with only a few see-through panels in them.
The entrance was via a lift up staircase in between two joists, so when I was locked in my cell the staircase was stowed up in the attic, locked from below.
I had no clock or watch so the sun was my only means of estimating the time of day, and there were no curtains over windows, making me a slave to God's rhythm. I focused at first on simply taking stock of my immediate situation, which while physically familiar, was both surreal and frightening. In the space of less than a day, I had gone from being excited and buoyed to be chasing my dream of becoming a fighter pilot to being turned on by my own father, made into some kind of brute, and if not an actual criminal then certainly an offender in his eyes and maybe others. Perversely, I hadn't been punished for hurting or killing anything, only for not killing more with three more bombs. It didn't make any sense. My father had become mad in those moments in the plane and afterwards. Why everyone had gone along with it was beyond me. Grandfather couldn't have known until it was too late.
It took me a while to realise that from arriving at the farm to view the damage to being locked up, not a single sibling or friend had come anywhere near me. I'd drafted my report alone in the library then faced my father at a desk there, then addressed everyone else in the small hall. From there, I had been gripped and escorted to the car, driven home and taken straight into the attic. It was only after my father rendered his judgement in the hall that my emotions shifted properly towards feeling like a wronged victim. The shock of his judgement was what moved me to gulping, gasping tears but by then he had me tight by the arm and heading towards the door. He drove me along the central channel between the two halves of the gathering sat on the floor. By the time a voice found its way out of my throat, I was almost out of the hall.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” I blurted, twisting against father's unfamiliar, vice-like grip. “I didn't… I didn't want to do it! You made me! You made me! I was tricked!” By then, I was in the doorway. Even though I was blinded by tears I could feel every face and all eyes were on me; that's how I felt the weight of judgement for the first time. In the doorway, I physically snapped and tried to break out from father's grip, struggling and striking his arms and hands, pulling on the door frame against him to try and get free and stay in the hall. In an instant, I was lifted just enough to be swung back against the doorframe, another hand gripped my other arm and both my arms were pinned by my sides.
“SIIIIILENCE!” Father boomed a voice from deep in the Earth that was like a hurricane and tsunami at once. “DO NOT LIE TO ANYONE HERE OR TO YOURSELF! NO ONE TRICKED YOU. YOU CHOSE TO SWEAR AN OATH. YOU MADE A CHOICE TO BE BOUND BY YOUR OATH. YOU CHOSE TO BREAK THAT OATH! FACE TRUTH! FACE REALITY! FACE CONSEQUENCE! FACE THE TRUE POWER OF YOUR CHOICES!”
He was not screaming. It was a voice so loud and deep and penetrating that I imagine it was what Gandalf must have sounded like when facing the Balrog. Except there was no light and no escape with a fellowship for me. The wall of sound was so physically overwhelming it made me limp and unable to oppose the words and their actual meaning. In that instant, I felt tiny and beaten as though I was a cloud of shame wrapped around a ball of anger. I saw tears from his eyes but he didn't look or sound like he was in pain.
Feeling wronged, humiliated, shamed, tricked and deeply angry was in itself highly debilitating. For what remained of that day and much of the night, I was imprisoned in a maze of my own memories of what had happened. Emotions boiled and burst up like gas through a pool of lava. Fantasies about alternate pathways in time wove themselves in and out of thought. As the light faded, I began to disassociate with my immediate surroundings and entered a twilight world where memory and fantasy met; there I existed in an alternate reality where I had not been punished but instead celebrated for being wise, having refused to be drawn into a verbal contract in the first place. When I awoke at sunrise, the universe made plain the truth of my existence. My heart and mind felt heavy as concrete. Whatever dreams had been about me sublimated into the deepest sensation of sadness I had ever felt.
In the building light, before my emotions had fully dawned, there was time for rational thought. The dawn lit a small flame in me somewhere and in its heat some sense of survival began to smoulder.
Only a month. Shelter, food, security all fine. Rules to follow are structure. Exams and tests mean progress. That means a future. Exams are… when I get out.
The logic calmed me and held the burning ball of anger down below the horizon. I realised that whatever had happened was within the academy and our family, meaning that the damage of a criminal charge was absent. Framed like that, the scale of the problem and the surreal circumstances seemed to retreat. It did not detract from the seriousness of the events, the hurtfulness of their treatment or the lingering shock but I had made a little room in which to re-establish what I later recognised as control.
It was May. In June, we were due to sit our General Certificate of Secondary Education exams two years early. Normally, children took them at 16 then went to sixth form college for two years of Advanced Level study, then on to University at 18. We were way ahead of that schedule. If jail got in the way of my GCSEs, relative to the masses I could still be ahead. I could resit in September, or retake them next year. I'd only be behind the few of us at our academy. I could handle that if push came to shove.
Fuck you, bastards.
That was the first time I thought those words and felt that way about anyone or anything on the estate. My first week as a prisoner of my own family was the most isolated I'd ever been. Zeus was nowhere to be seen or heard. I could hear my family's voices but they were downstairs most of the time, obviously contained and when upstairs, they were quite quiet and refused to respond to my efforts to communicate.
The first morning, my father commanded me to keep back from the stairs. They were lowered and he commanded me to come down, head straight to the bathroom for ablutions, to change into the black clothing provided and leave yesterday's clothes behind. When I descended, all the upstairs doors were closed, the house was quiet and father wasn't there either. I followed his instructions and waited out the remaining time sat on the toilet, looking about our bathroom and thinking about what normality used to be: noisier, happier and together.
“Return!” he said from beyond the door. I came out and went into the attic. Shortly after, I heard movement below and the stairs were locked back up. My prison uniform was underwear, a black t-shirt and a two piece black Adidas tracksuit. No socks. Being 06:20, I would've been outdoors doing something had I been free. The flame told me to spite those below and so I began to do whatever static exercises came to mind. I could hang off a truss and the floor was stable enough to jog on the spot, do burpees and star jumps. My early vengeance took the form of a lot of rhythmic, annoying banging. I soon realised that I was best off training in just underwear to avoid sullying my clothes. My mind was fixated on spiteful thoughts directed at father, but as time progressed other faces crept in and my venom spread to my family and friends in equal measure. My exercise had immediately become a proxy for punishing them for their treatment of me. After maybe over an hour, I sat and recorded my exercises, noted father's words and set about drafting a schedule of exercises for the week.
“Stand back,” commanded my father. The stairs dropped. His hand slid a tray of breakfast onto the floor. There was noise of shifting and the top of his head was visible at the bottom of the stairs. When the stairs were lifted and locked, they carried cargo.
“Books are there for your study as you see fit. Remember your duties and commitments per your internment schedule. There is a fresh journal for you; it shall remain private as always. There are your current workbooks and notebooks for your study. Whether you remain captive or have served your sentence, you will sit your exams as originally intended.” There was only silence. I did not hear him move away. I waited, hoping he'd leave. After enough time, I gave in and moved to inspect the delivery. Just as I'd knelt by the steps to reach for the books, that voice tore up from the Earth.
“REMEMBER! YOU ARE IMPRISONED BECAUSE OF YOUR CHOICES. WHETHER YOU REMAIN CAPTIVE, HOW LONG YOU ARE PUNISHED, IS YOUR CHOICE!”
I snapped back, recoiling in fear the moment he began to boom. I couldn't ignore the sound or stop it from filling the attic. I heard him immediately move from under the attic entrance and head downstairs, out and away.
For the next five days, I simply accepted and adapted to my circumstances. There was little other choice. I took solace in the routine and study kept me engaged in matters that were beyond my immediate circumstances and loneliness. Between bouts of work I was overcome with fits of glum sadness. I worried about Zeus and who cared for him. He'd have no idea where I was and I hadn't heard him in the cottage. I suspected he'd be with grandfather before anyone else. My hour or outdoor time was always spent with Master Jacobs in our empty garden, drilling whatever he cared for, at higher than usual volumes. There was a degree of contempt in his treatment I'd not noticed before that gave greater feeling to my sense of punishment and exclusion. I soon settled into a rhythm threat saw me ready for sleep at sunset.
On the fifth night, from the edge of sleep, a feeling of proximate dread kept me from slumber. A sound like lumber dragging across the ground floated in that inbetween space of drowsiness. A sense of the sway of a hangman's victim, Christ's torturous Procession to Calvary, and a pungee pit in a forest spiked my mind with a moment’s panic and kept me from oblivion. All sense moved to my ears; I lay perfectly still, eyes closed, in the darkness of my cell. Another slight scrape sounded from beyond my feet, towards the West side of the house. Moments later, there was a feint, unrhythmed tapping. I opened my eyes and felt the buzzing paralysis of rest escape my frame as blood refreshed my senses and faculties.
The tapping sounded from out below the Western window, close by, maybe in the gardens. I curled then rolled onto the balls of my feet, waiting for my vision to adjust. On tiptoes and hands I prowled along the boards, weighing close onto the joist lines, towards the window; my best attempt to avoid creeks and cracks giving away my movements.
A few more vague taps and scrapes sounded. Then, the near certain noise of some sort of momentary sniff. I crept forwards, approaching the edge of the boards. The low light from the window suggested a cloudy night but it was enough to make out a route along the joists to the window. Then there was a light scrape at the window, on the glass. Some similar noises, then some concerted tapping of intentional work. I froze and simply observed. Through the patterned glass there was the momentary motion of a shadow or a shape but the light was so low and even that I had no idea what to make of it. After perhaps half a minute, the noises stopped and a small pane of glass was simply plucked out of the window from the outside. It was too dark to see anything beyond and the angle wasn't right to see through the hole. More sounds of careful work commenced. The sneak's motives were unknown but intent was clear. I began to calculate options.
Rushing the window was useless because it would not open and I'd have to smash it. Sneaking to it and surprising the sneak was an option. We were thirty feet up, so their fall was my weapon. Within my cell were only books and a pencil. A straight fight in there would come down to skill and mass, although I could stab them with the pencil at some advantageous moment, most likely as they made their way in, meaning I needed to sneak back to my things and ready the attack.
As I was creeping back, another pane was audibly pulled from the window’s crude mosaic. I looked round to see a lightness at the edge of the hole.
“Pssst!” came a small noise. I froze. “Pssst!” A light breath, almost a sigh of frustration. Then I was bathed in the rather bright glare of a flashlight pointed in through the hole. Blinded, I turned my head but before I could move I'd been spotted.
“Hey! Oi! It's Smudge! I've got a butty for ya!” whispered my friend.
In an instant, a ton of tension evaporated from inside me. A warm vision of a stout little fellow with slightly chubby hands, puppydog dark eyes and endless energy appeared over the swirls of colour that was torchlight through my eyelids.
“Come on! I'll have to push it through.” No sooner had my eyes begun to adjust than the light went off, leaving me blind again.
“Hold on! I can't bloody see!” I hissed back. I turned towards the window and gingerly felt my way to the edge of the boards, by which time some vision had returned. As I stepped onto the joist, something was making its way, wriggling or wiggling, in through the hole in the window. Before I got there, what seemed to be a sizeable baguette or bread roll wrapped in cling film had landed in the dusty gap between the joists. I was close enough to see movement through the hole. The flashlight blazed through again, like a tunnel to a very narrow door to freedom.
“Turn it off! I'm here!” I hissed, less blinded this time. At the window, through the two pane gap, some context began to materialise. About a quarter of a face, centred around an eye, filled the gap.
“Have you got it? Ham, cheese - the best one, of course - pickle, bit o’ onion on one half. Egg and cress on the other. Made it meself!” I could tell Smudge was smiling from the narrowed shape of his eye and the pitch of his whisper. As I reached the window, his face drew back and a little dirty hand on the end of a dark, woolly sleeve poked into the cell and reached out for me. The back of Smudge's hand was blackened, but his palm was clean. I took his warm little hand in mine, momentarily wondering if I should hang on to him given he was high up in the air.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?!” I said, smiling.
“I'm Escape Committee leader. This is mission number four! Currently to plan. I’ve got a few minutes. What's what?”
Smudge, a seven year old boy, was at the top of a thirty foot ladder, with whatever he needed to unpick a leaded window. His face was as black as his hand, but I could still hear his spirit was as light as always.
“You ruddy good blighter! They've had me in here all week. One hour a day outside in the garden with Master Jacobs for drills. I've been training and reading in between. Nothing else to do!” Smudge clutched my hand, squeezing and wiggling to show solidarity or support or comradeship. It felt like my world had been reborn and suddenly overtaken the bizarre present of internment and solitude. “Careful now! How in blazes did you get up here?”
“That's what mission one, two and three were for. Don't worry, I'll tell you later. Millie, Lump and Bill are here. It’s been a hell of a time.”
Smudge began to paint a picture of events since I'd been frog marched to the attic. Grandfather had told everyone that there had been no choice but to enforce the contract I'd made with father. If I'd been good to my word, I would've been free but all choices have consequences, whatever they might have been. For sure, there'd been chaos and fright from the moment the bombs started to explode in our home. Most of my friends never saw the damage, instead relying on accounts from Leo and Eddie, who'd had nothing good to say about clearing wounded animals they'd helped rear.
“It's a bit like blummin' Colditz,” Smudge whispered. “The masters made 15 of us some kind of… bunch… or summing… sort of keepin’ an eye on… well stuff, but I don't really know what. The Discipline Committee. The rest of us are just… normal. I don't like it, so here I am. Escape Committee! Make sure you eat that butty. Put yer hand out.” Smudge passed me two bundles of cloth. “Tools for the window. Line for hauling - we can’t keep stealing ladders - and some other bits. And… hold on.”
He poked the handle of the flashlight through and I stuffed it into my waistband. Then, he wiggled a small oil lamp in that was just the right size for the gap.
“Don't burn all the oil, it’s for the hinge,” he said.
“What hinge?”
“The blummin’ hatch hinge! Can't escape if it makes a racket. I heard it day before yesterday when I came to play. I was here for dinner with Millie. She said to…” his little hand let go of the windowframe then a curled up envelope poked through the hole, “give you that for spirits. Right. Errr… oh yeah. What else do you need?”
I struggled to think. They were far ahead of my thinking.
“Erm… socks? Pumps? I'm barefoot here.”
“Those bleeders! That's no way to live!” His little harumph was proof there was a civilisation still out there. “Anything else?”
“More sandwiches. Food's alright but I'll take more. When are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow. Chin up, old bean. Escape Committee is with you.” He looked downwards and hissed at his fellow rebels. “Right, gotta hop on. See you tomorrow.” He thrust his little hand back in to clutch whatever part of me he could find. His squeeze was like that of a General, imbuing strength and reassurance that was way beyond his true stature. The limited view of him afforded by the darkness and the window’s small gap, along with thought of him thirty feet up in the air served to grow him in my mind's eye.
“Thanks, Smudge. You're the best Committee I could ask for.” I shook his little hand. “Hey, I didn't mean to do that damage. He bloody made me, I swear. I didn't want to. Dad said he'd lock me up and take all my life's pay if I didn't!” I felt tears building and a sort of guilt and sadness welling in the back of my throat that made my tongue stiffen and my voice waver.
“I know. They got you. That's oaths for you. Now we bloody know! Just a bit more chicken on the menu this week. You missed all me goats and kids, so that's summing! Chin up. See you tomorrow!”
He drew back his hand and I watched through the gap. He pushed a piece of glass back in place then tapped around the lead to hold it, then the same with the last piece.
“Take them out from your side before next visit!” Smudge said. “That's what tools are for! Chin up!”
“Be careful!” I hissed loudly, as a kind of blessing. I heard the light tap of his shoes on the rungs of the ladder and, listening closely, I could hear his small hands padding grip to grip, soft breaths and the occasional sniff, as he made his way down into the darkness. Through a clear pane, I watched as they quietly lifted the ladder away from the wall, tipped it back and there was Millie and Lump, their faces smeared with probably ashes, to grab its top end. They both waved towards me, although they probably couldn't see me, and then they led off tucked against the hedge. Smudge and Bill followed carrying the bottom rungs of the ladder and waved too, without looking.
All thought of sleep had vanished, replaced by the desire to kick my way through the ceiling and confront my captors. Cross-legged on my futon, I took stock of my bounty: an army torch, in L-shape with a Morse button; an old, simple oil lamp that was nothing more than a can the size of a tobacco tin with a wick sticking out of the top; a small bundle of tools comprising a jeweller's hammer, a flat head and Phillips head screwdriver, a triangular, multi use file, a hacksaw blade, a Stanley knife, a roll of garden twine with a plumb line weight on one end, a suction cup with a hook on it and a small adjustable wrench; a Zippo lighter; a pencil and sharpener; the envelope. Quite a haul.
Good old Smudger!
For the first time since my jailing I felt myself smiling. I gathered up all my new belongings and stowed them under the end of the boards in the joist space then tucked my sleeping bag around me and unwrapped the sandwich. I savoured each mouthful of the sizeable, softening baguette that I knew must have come off the breakfast spread. Smudge had picked a perfect combo of fillings and his favourite cheese. He was a gentleman of good taste and a skilled sneak. I was in good hands.
Clement “Smudge” Scott-Baptiste was a character among characters. On the small side for his age, he was chubby with puppy fat but stout, fast and durable. He had a seemingly split personality: quiet, contemplative and analytical, capable of observing closely and betraying nothing; lively, chipper, boisterous and cheeky at other times. He was the perfect match for the goats he'd taken upon himself to rear. They were as energetic as their leader and had yet to tire him out. They would follow him in a flock when they were out of the pen, perhaps because of oats he stuffed in his pockets, perhaps not. In the pen he was usually jumping about just like the kids who would endlessly try to jump on him, given half the chance. To watch him from distance was to see a deep tenderness and will to foster bonds with his flock. Although he had names for them all, he didn't call out much. He made little distinct noises instead that would get the attention of one or just a few of the goats, then somehow the right one would come forth. When he began to learn to ride, this skill of bonding came through with the ponies and horses and his husbandry in general went from strength to strength. He had a roundish face and big, dark eyes that betrayed his mother's Asian heritage and could somehow charm you without a word being said. His light brown hair had begun to darken, but remained in a semi bowlhead style that reflected his lack of interest in appearances and preference for practical substance. We'd been friends from his arrival, ever since he'd made a fart noise when I'd bent down to put my shoes on. There was only he and I there, so his joke was just for us, not at my expense. Smudge was a skilled mimic, able to copy accents and impersonate people with a little practise. Additionally, he seemed able to make a huge range of convincing or amusing noises, which would often punctuate a lesson or a moment's quiet and could occasionally result in a scolding. He was from Cheshire and so partial to its crumbly white, piquant cheese. He earned his nickname for two reasons. First, his notebooks were always written with soft pencil and every page was smudged. He was left-handed and blamed dragging his arm across the page, so it was tolerated. It was years after he began school that I found out he was ambidextrous, making this entire state of affairs wholly unnecessary. Second, he was prone to wiping his runny nose on his sleeve, leaving smudges of his own on his arm. It was hard to know whether the goats and kids taught him how to be or if he was already like them: bright, inquisitive, a clamberer, noisy, cheeky, fun and seemingly fearless. On the other hand, he had terrible handwriting, took longer to turn in his written work but could speak about it till the cows came home. That his hand was often the first up and followed by correct answers seemed at odds with his copy book. Musically, he was as good a drummer as his peers, could screech out tunes on the violin just enough, but couldn't stand learning from sheet music. It came as no surprise that it was Smudge at the top of a ladder, helping a two-sided baguette to break in to my parents’ attic.
I lay awake in the dark of that night, remembering things about the four strong Escape Committee, then later imagining life with them beyond the attic as if it was a lived reality. When I woke at dawn I mused about the evening’s events, considered hiding my gear better and then remembered the envelope. I immediately slid across the boards to get it from the stash. Brown, A5, weighty, with the flap tucked in, not glued shut. By its thickness, there were several sheets inside. I tipped out the contents and looked to make sure it was empty. First in the pile was a postcard sized picture of the F-14 Tomcat that I'd clipped from a promotional Frosties cereal box and pinned on the games room board. I flipped it over and on the reverse was a message in neat cursive that read “Best of the best! Chin up! E.C.” Next I unfolded a completely blank sheet of paper, which I assumed was for me to write on. Then came a folded sheet of heavy tissue paper, impregnated with little coloured spots of thicker paper. I recognised it as a kind of wrapping paper. When unfolded, it was an art work. On it was drawn my own face surrounded by the portraits of six of my friends: Smudge, Millie, Lump, Bill, and my brothers Arthur and Stephen. A little title in the lower portion read “MANNINGHAM ESCAPE COMMITTEE ‘86 - Chin up!” Beneath which were near perfectly printed thumb prints in a row that suggested they'd taken great care not to oversaturate the fine paper. The faces were charcoal line art, so perfect yet minimal that I was struck wondering who had such skill. Gazing at it I realised that the faces had been traced from photos that hung in one of the minor gallery halls beside the common room. In the bottom corner was the artist’s mark: MCS 1986. When I got out I pressed out the masterpiece's creases by keeping the picture in a thick compendium of flora for a month, then mounted and framed it. I've kept Millie's work all my life and it hangs in our home today. After that there were letters from each of them that when read one after the other gave an account of the week since my capture, coming Escape Committee plans and a handdrawn map of the ground between the cottage and the house, with an optimum route marked out that followed the best cover between the two locations. I was amazed and touched by the industry shown and care taken. Although true escape was seemingly pointless given that I had nowhere to go and the penalty was steep, acts of defiance, rebellion and temporary escape were still on the cards.
The best revenge is a life well lived!
That was the first thing I wrote down on the blank sheet. It seemed a fitting way to set the tone of the coming weeks. As the sun rose, I re-read the letters and emotions started to form. Leo and Eddie had said that the terrible damage had been done for some kind of prestige or reward, and the body count must have mattered otherwise there'd have been no need for father and I to take stock. That had upset quite a few of them, and confused others. None of us were known for cruelty, we embodied the total opposite especially when it came to animals. As a mixed band, we all kept each other in check against high standards that we lived everyday. Even the way we approached obstacles and exercise grew around the speed of the slowest or smallest of us and thereby focused on increasing the overall team speed through efficiency. The elder or bigger children never just led the pack; they interspersed themselves through it and aided each other, propelling, guiding and sometimes “motivating” the littler or doubty of us to overcome whatever might hold them back. I was no different in this regard. I felt pangs of resentment at the thought that my friends were led to believe something about me without hearing my side of the story. My mind turned to Leo and Eddie, who should have known better of me. According to Lump they'd stepped up to leadership positions on the Discipline Committee, acting like head boys who presided over nothing. Under them, the rest of the DC had decided to observe stricter discipline and had grown snarky towards the other children, even though there was no actual authority vested among them and no real specific jobs given to them.
… it's like they are acting better than us and even some of themselves. Nonsense really. They mutter that standards can't ever get that low again. They mean your monkey business, though they don't speak plainly. There's more of them as well. They've tried to set dining order yesterday. Them first. I said “bog off” to Leo and might have to thump him if this keeps on. We’re working on a plan just in case…
So wrote Lump. It felt like the bombs had done more than just the damage I saw. My heart and mind sank again as the sadness of that first day in the cell came back. We'd long ago read Lord of the Flies and the DC wasn't a feral pack with no authority figures, structure or leadership, quite the opposite. Would I, as some sort of outcast, give someone an excuse to turn our world on its head and force some arbitrary, spontaneous enforcement of “discipline” on everyone? How on Earth could grandfather possibly tolerate or even sponsor such nonsense? The only way to deal with my creeping anger and doubt was to exercise while quietly fostering the conscious fantasy that I was preparing for some kind of battle.
When father delivered breakfast, there were a new selection of books for study. Two thick tomes had nothing to do with the curriculum.
Der Proceß, Franz Kafka
Gulag Archipelago, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
They were sizeable. Gulag was volume 1 of some. Der Proceß was in English, otherwise I'd have not been up to the task with my level of German. Given my normal workload, I'd struggle to get through both books but in jail there was the potential to provided I could stay up to speed with school work.
A standard breakfast was plain omelette, brown toast, jam and porridge, with a mug of tea. That morning, my plain-looking, rolled omelette was filled with cheddar, chives and a little pepper. The delight in its flavour came as a surprising reminder of how I'd normalised to deprivation - minor though it was - so quickly. Could it have been a reward for good behaviour? The week had not ended. Perhaps the chefs were on the EC? Stephan and Arthur may well have had a hand in the cooking, doing their bit for the rebellion and my tastebuds. Time would tell.
That night, I lowered the envelope with a densely written note that explained what happened in the plane, why I'd given in and why I'd failed to set off all the bombs. I wanted my truth known to some. I wrote a copy of my routine for reference and planning purposes and wrote personal notes to each of my friends to thank them for their kindness and resolve. I asked them to give me a watch and a catapult next time. I told them my concerns about the change that the DC presented and why it seemed strange that any of the adults would tolerate or encourage it. Perhaps, I said, there were two things they could do: try to get into the DC or turn one of the kids in it; spy on the adults somehow to find out what was really going on. Maybe Stephan and Arthur could take advantage of our family connections to achieve the latter. Escape, I said, seemed counterproductive but I was considering how I might be able to sneak out without going through the window, which seemed impractical given all the leading and small panes. The roof seemed the obvious choice but I'd still have to get down and back up safely.
And that's how our real life version of Escape from Colditz began.
Unlimited power in the hands of limited people always leads to cruelty.
- Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
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