The Minefield of Memories

Suddenly, a roar of noise rose up from the soldiers, followed quickly by a second wave from the spectators. “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” sounded the cry. The noise subsided as quickly as it has risen. I shook with fear and my eyes were smarting from the unfamiliar smells that continued to swarm up around me. A drone of talking drifted out over the crowd from the balcony beyond, carried by a speaker too small and distant to reach everyone’s ears.

As the speeches continued, my legs grew tired, and thirst from the long morning in the dusty field became unbearable. “Opa, when will this be over? I have to pee.” I grimaced, pulling on Opa’s shirt. I knew Uncle Fritz’s tavern was just a couple blocks away. Perhaps, I could be back before anyone noticed... Opa shook his head quickly and clutched my hand more tightly.

“It will be over soon, Alfie.” The look in his eyes told me the matter was settled; I must wait.

A murmur began to ripple through the crowd. “The Fuhrer! Look, up there! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” The noise rose to a crescendo as everyone took up the refrain, their arms quickly rising in a stiff salute.

Opa nudged me in the back, yelling,  “You better put your hand up too, Alfie, or we’ll be in trouble. No, the other one, the other one! Look, Alfie, like mine.” He winked at my startled face and raised his arm also. It trembled slightly, already tired from the day’s exertions.

I tore my eyes from Opa’s face and glanced back at the central balcony, my arm already aching in the unnatural position. Flanked by the officers stood a small man, dressed in a belted black leather coat with a hat obscuring his eyes. “The Fuhrer, the Fuhrer! It is Adolf Hitler!” hummed voices all around me.

My arm began to burn, as the blood flowed slowly away from my raised fingertips. I longed to flop it to my side and give it a good shake. Finally, its heaviness became overwhelming and I lowered it, raising my left arm, instead. I sighed, the feeling returning to my fingers. At once, a tall man dressed in a black uniform materialized in front of me, his hand on his belt. He barked something unrecognizable at me, showering me with angry spit from his twisted mouth. Opa grabbed my right arm and returned it to the painful position from which I had rescued it. He urged, “Come, Alfie, leave it up. It will all be over soon.”

My whole body trembled, a mixture of anger, fear, and humiliation being only part of it; I still needed to go to the bathroom. The uniformed man had melted back into the crowd; it had engulfing him like a wave obscuring a grain of sand on the beach. But, I suddenly noticed how many of the uniforms surrounded us, and this only served to double the weight of my arm, causing tears to well in my eyes. Through these tears, which I tried desperately to blink away, I looked back again to the man on the balcony, only now noticing a razor blade mustache above his thin lip, which spread into a cruel line as he bellowed to the crowd, his fist waving angrily in the hazy air above him.