Toy Soldiers

Toy Soldiers(Brianna Tuohy) I had recognised the unmistakable light of passion within him the very first time I saw him; a bawling bundle of flailing limbs. Over the years I never tired of it- the vivacious imagination that could transform a banal door into a supernatural portal, or the insatiable curiosity that once provoked him to investigate the truth behind an old wives tale concerning the number of lives of a certain local cat. Mischief such as this garnered him a fond reputation as the neighbourhood larrikin with the electric blonde hair.

Now, on the eve of Ahren’s birthday, I find myself a fugitive in the picnic basket, I am urged by a stern and seven-year old not to move, in fear of his mother seeing me as evidence of his lack of ‘big boy’ independence. I didn’t care. I would happily remain forever unseen, knowing that I was the only one of Ahren’s toys that held the exclusive privilege of accompanying him on his many adventures. We stop suddenly and I hear a sharp succinct drumming, perfectly in time with a steady march, march, marching of heavy boots on the rocky earth, accented by an occasional sharp military cry of “left, left” or “attention”. There’s an unrestrained shrieking and the drumming hastens to no more than a low rumble. A loud and crackly mechanical whine precedes the deep growl of a man clearing his throat through a speaker. “Children, do you want to serve your country?” A cacophony of distant childrens’ squeals and yells states the affirmative.

Through spaces in the wicker, I can see an impressively ordered line of young men, each around double Ahren’s age and looking like a flawless clone of the next, with slightly tanned European skin, glorious golden locks to match Ahren, and bright eyes of azure. The youthful image was offset with the austere black of their military uniforms, boldly emblazoned with the symbol of an equilateral cross with bent edges. They seemed, to every eye in the audience, fearsome and invincible.

“Do you see them, Ahren?” his mother urged excitedly. Ahren nodded, his eyes glazed over with ardent adoration, as the memory of his soldier father’s glorified departure played like an ancient film reel in his mind. They had told him, a sea of nameless faces- “Your father is a brave man Ahren. Any boy would dream of growing up like him someday.” His classmates didn’t believe that he could, spurred on by jealousy of Ahren’s academic success, a product of endless hours reading in the fortress with me, they mocked him, and called him “Lazy, useless nerd.” I could see the seed of the military planting itself in his easily-influenced mind- he could be accepted by his peers, become just like his father.

The dizzying notion regresses me back to the painfully lonesome few weeks I’d spent in a second-hand toy shop, before being bought by Ahren’s young & besotted parents-to-be. A joyful old man had boasted about his grandson’s membership in the ‘Hitlerjugend’, his wrinkled features pulling together like an old rug as he beckoned the shopkeeper forward. “Don’t tell anyone” he urged. “But this Hitler fellow isn’t at all after creating ‘the political leaders of the future’ like he says, they’re more like... advanced boy scouts with weapons. They’re going to be brutal killers.”

***

“Happy Birthday, darling,” Ahren’s mother gleamed as she handed Ahren his birthday present the next morning. Ahren’s feverish hands tore at the red cellophane, inquiring impatiently, “What is it?” before ripping it open.

“It’s a toy gun. Like the one your daddy uses Ahren. I know he misses you and this way you can pretend you’re there with him, the both of you together, fighting bravely, father and son.” I could see the seed planting itself in Ahren’s mind, penetrating his entire worldview, as he threw me across the bed to make new room to play with his new toy.
I lay neglected on Ahren’s bed for weeks, moved only through the subconscious tumbles of his nightmares. He was still utterly enthralled with his new toy, energised by the new friends it had provided him at school. He ran about the house, exclaiming “Pow Pow!” with hyperactive zest.

Acquiescing to Ahren’s desperate pleas for attention, his mother inquired, “What are you doing my darling?”

“Wilmer’s brother is a real-life soldier, and he told me all about what he does. He says he points the gun like this and shoots the bad guys down just like this.” Ahren furrowed his brow, and aimed, arms out stiffly in front of him, and he fired with an unsettling intensity. It was becoming much more than a game to him now.

***

Blackness. A darkened black box swimming with discarded old toys was the next place I found myself. Voices, fragments of conversation – an older boy’s voice, admonishing, insistent, “silly teddy with the stupid button nose...can’t play soldiers with us if you can’t grow up”, and Ahren’s timid and reluctant reply, “I guess...Kid’s stuff...need to be a soldier.” And then there was utter despondence and forgotten emptiness, nothing but emptiness stretching on forever.

***

Unfamiliar arms reached into the box- gangly, teenage- but then as I am pressed to the breast pocket of a starch black military uniform, I recognize the sweet familiar scent of Ahren, like a beacon calling me home. Only there’s someone else here as well, and as a reflex action of his childhood, again I am hidden.

“Hey boy,” the distinct gruff voice of his father began, “Make a difference to your country today?” He stumbled around, a lethargic mess of gin and tonic, a gross disillusionment to the man both Ahren and I had known. The war had chewed him up and spat him out.

“No more than you have, father.” Ahren’s nails dug deep into my fur, in an attempt to disguise the passionate fury that lay beneath the surface, crackling like red cellophane as the cold, soulless eyes of his father bore into his.

“I don’t blame you son, I’m a hard act to follow,” he slurred, before sauntering drunkenly off, yelling loudly for his missus.

“I can’t believe I wanted to be like him.” Ahren ripped off the Nazi patch on his uniform, as waves of anger at his childish naivety, to be accepted, to become a military replica of his father, came off in waves. Through the renewal of our profound connection, I became privy to Ahren’s own experiences, disgust as a member of the esteemed HitlerJugend. I felt his utter disillusionment of the “glory of war” as he witnessed the dejected howls of mothers, sisters, brothers and fathers who had lost their loved ones, and the gut-wrenching sound of gunfire, leaving unidentifiable masses of blood. I felt Ahren’s recollection, with utter writhing hatred, of that afternoon, when a group of his ‘friends’ had circled mercilessly around a young Jewish girl, kicking her with their steel-capped boots, as their melodic sing-song voices, taunting “bloodsucking, money-grubbing pig”, were a thin veil to their sinister meaning. Ahren’s father, a product of his uniform, had walked by, his cold deadening eyes assessing the situation with utter indifference before moving on, as Ahren remained helpless.

As Ahren rubbed a purplish bruise that was beginning to ripen on his cheek, a realisation began to dawn on me, like the snow setting on the pine trees outside. He had defended her; the Jewish girl - he had stood up against his friends, a rebellion to his father, for what he believed in. Despite the seductive promise of belonging to the “fairest race”, a heartless uniform showered with glory, he hadn’t grown up to be a clone of anybody- most adamantly, not his father.