The Forgotten Child

It was a twelve year old slump-shouldered youth who crawled over the rusty gate to the farmhouse. By his cautious demeanor and furtive glance, one would have guessed he were a trespasser come to perhaps steal a few scrawny chickens—but he was no thief. The house was his own…or at least, he lived there.

Under the boy’s arm was a thin parcel, wrapped in old newspaper. With deliberate care, he carried it close to his chest, staring with wide eyes at the warped old building, enshrouded by the gloom of dusk. Careful as he was with his package, it seemed he inwardly hated whatever it was, for he grumbled dismally whenever his eyes stole toward it.

The sun was fast sinking behind the house. No one would see the boy when he entered…It was just as well. Nimbly, he glided up the sunken porch steps, careful to not make the wood creek. Then, he paused. He stood gauntly and drew in his breath with a shudder. The faint sound of one pacing within did little to comfort him. Instead of opening the door, he stepped softly away from it, standing on tiptoe to peer through the broken window beside it.

There, standing within the doorway to what appeared to be the dining room loomed the domineering figure of the boy’s father. He was broad-shouldered, with the powerful physique of an Olympic athlete, with square features that spoke well of his Aryan heritage. A mustache that curled up at the ends hid the scowl he bore, bloodshot eyes glaring threateningly about the shabby room. He staggered forward, leaning heavily on a chair as with a grimace, he made his way into the entry.

The little boy winced, retreating from the window to the door again. He gripped the package tighter, his arms glued to his sides.

“Otto!” A deep, threatening voice growled from the entry.

The boy started. His knees trembled, as his fingers lifted the latch on the screen door. He cringed in fear, as a loud squeak followed his opening the outer door. Hurriedly, he turned the knob to the inner one, but he was too late. He nearly fell forward, as the door flung open, and a burly hand grabbed him by the collar, forcefully drawing him into the house. Bang! The door slammed closed. The boy stood petrified, clutching the parcel in his hand as though his life depended on its preservation. For a moment, he could not remember where he was, nor what he had been doing. All he knew was that the parcel was crucial—it must be preserved. He stared wildly about himself—then he remembered. He had been sent on an errand. He was late in getting home. Cowering, he stared at the floor in submission.

“What the h—ll are you doing, boy?”

Otto flinched—but he somehow managed to keep his breathing steady. “I got the bottle like you wanted, Father,” he said, almost apologetically, at the same time, lifting the package for the first time, with trembling fingers. He held it out to his father, his heart pounding.

Snarling, the burly man grabbed at the package and ripped it out of the little boy’s hand. “What took you so long, boy!” He growled, between clenched teeth. His mustache bristled at the ends, a sure sign of coming attack. Little Otto imperceptibly edged back toward the dining room, his father, momentarily distracted by the package. Cursing under his breath, the man fumbled with the newspaper, shedding this outer shell to reveal a bottle of beer. A light came into his eyes, a strange paradox to the hard frown that protruded beneath his mustache. In another moment, his eyes shot back at the retreating little boy.

“Otto!” He thundered.

Instantly, the boy froze in his movements. Like an abused dog, he crept slowly up to his father, and stood a safe three feet away from him. The powerful man towered over the boy, dwarfing him by comparison.

For what seemed like an age, the ungrateful father glared at his small son, eyeing the whole of his scrawny frame in disgust. The soft, brown hair that fell over his forehead, the sides of his head shaven, spoke of his time spent at the Jungvolk. This, in itself, should have made the father proud, but for the thin frame and babyish features—large ears that stuck out so cutely, big, curious brown eyes (though now they seemed full of fear), a small rounded nose and thick lips…he was altogether too girly for his father to be proud of. He looked perhaps ten, though he was older. It appeared the man thought the boy’s time to be filling his shirts better and growing taller had come—but alas, he did not meet these physical requirements. The epitome of disappointment played over the father’s face to mock the boy for his shortcomings. It seemed he was a born failure.

In a moment, the face of his father changed. His brow smoothed, a smile spread over his face where the deep frown had been. He was no longer staring at his son, but over him, beyond the small boy to a picture that hung over the fireplace. It was a picture he looked at often, one of three comrades in full uniform, standing gallantly with their rifles. Whatever made the father look at this just now seemed to make his heart swell with pride. His eyes danced with the fire of his youth, his powerful fist clenched in revelry at his side. “Otto, why don’t you go call Max and Anna down to supper. Mother probably has it ready by now.” This address was given absently, almost dreamily, as the father thrust his right leg out in front of his left, hobbling toward the fireplace. Whatever had possessed him a moment ago appeared to have left him, now, in a state of tranquility.

Otto stood a moment, staring after his father mutely. He had seen it all too often. One moment, the man was in a fit of rage—the next, it appeared nothing could affect him. He was happy to stare at the picture of years past, of brighter days, it seemed, from how fondly he looked at it. Why could those days not be in the present? Why did it seem his father could never be pleased with him?

In another moment, the little boy had turned, and was slowly mounting the crooked staircase. Creak, creak, creak went the steps, one by one, as the boy plodded up them. At the top of the staircase, he paused, and stood reflectively on the landing, listening. There was the sound of hushed, whispered words in the third little room down the narrow hallway. He could hear them. The flow of them was sweet to him. Often, he would stop and listen to them, but little know what was being said—he little cared—only know that someone cared enough to say them every night before supper, before bedtime, in the morning, before he went to school—someone cared to take the time to speak…whether anyone were listening, he could not know. Still, it pleased him.

Down the hallway, he tiptoed with negated steps, hoping to not disturb the steady flow of whispers that touched his ears. Stealthily, he padded across the floor before the open doorway to the room. Hush! He stopped, and listened once more. He could hear the sweet, angelic voice of someone: “Watch over him tonight, and keep him safe. Protect him, Lord, and keep his thoughts on You. Help him to see, one day, that You are over all things, and there can be no happiness in life without You to guide him. Keep him in Your care, and show him the way…” Soft words—gentle words—words that brought peace, and joy, and love into his heart. At the same time, they were words that made him uncomfortable, that made him feel somehow he was not being a good boy, and he should say he was sorry. Still, he hated to be the one to stop those words from being said. He gave a little sigh, straightening. Gently, he knocked on the wall beside the open door, and waited. The words ceased. The gentle voice could no longer be heard. “Mother,” the little boy said quietly. He ventured to poke his head in at the door.

Kneeling, with her head turned to face the curtained window, her thin arms folded before her, was the prettiest woman Otto had ever seen. She was his mother, of course, but that wouldn’t have made a difference to him…Cleopatra would be a hag in comparison. Beautiful golden hair was swept up behind her ears in a braided bun, her hands were still soft, despite the many dishes she scoured for the family. As she turned to meet her son’s expectant gaze, her gentle eyes twinkled like starlight. Her ruby lips smiled, revealing a string of pearly white teeth. She didn’t look older than twenty, then, though she was really nearing thirty. With a nod, she rose from her knees, and dusted off her skirt, smiling down at her warmed son. “I have supper made, Otto. I’ll go heat the pot again.” She laid a loving hand on Otto’s shoulder, as she passed him, her eyes reading him like a book. In the brief exchange, the little boy felt his heart grow lighter, and momentarily forgot the confusion his father brought him. His mother understood because she took the time to understand. Why could his father not? Whatever the reason, it didn’t seem to matter to him anymore, for a smile was creeping about his own face now, as he sauntered off to call his siblings.

“Max! Anna!” He yelled, clambering into the next room. His reverence for tranquility was thrown aside, when addressing his siblings. He could stomp or shout or harry them all he wanted without feeling obligated to apologize for any inconvenience on their behalf. They couldn’t fight back. They were younger than him, and he was the oldest. With sophisticated dominance, he kicked over a small fortress of blocks his brother had been building, sending the tower crashing to the floor in a heap.

A dejected face turned up to scowl at Otto’s impudence. Young Max, who Otto had three years on, sat with flaming eyes afire, his thin lips puckered. With one tiny hand, he brushed his disheveled blonde hair away from his pouting face, as with the other, he took up one of the fallen blocks and pelted it at Otto’s ankle. “You did that on purpose!” He cried, starting to his feet, another missile in hand. “I’ll tell Father on you!”

“No you won’t!” Otto jumped at the word, distractedly rubbing his ankle at the same time. Real fear took over him, now, though he tried to appear unaffected. “Father wouldn’t do anything anyway,” he added quickly. “He told me to come tell you supper’s ready.”

Max only glared at his older brother. His eyes were petulant indeed, but he had a bold demeanor, despite this childish expression. In reality, he was a sturdy boy, one with a stocky build and promising figure. He would probably be tall and broad-shouldered, one day, big and powerful like his father. This was enough to make Otto jealous of him, for he could never hope to attain such a physique, nor have such manly features. “Shrimp” had become his nickname in the Jungvolk. He was the skinny boy everyone pranked and kicked around. Just looking at this competition, his little brother, Max, made him cringe with vexation, his fists writhing at his sides. In those wrathful eyes that stared back at him, he saw a replacement. He pictured his father standing there, patting the boy’s firm shoulder and saying, “Ah, this is a little man!” In his gruff, deep voice—only it didn’t sound threatening and exasperated. It was the tone of approval and acceptance. Try though he would, Otto never heard this tone of voice directed at himself. It was always used toward Max—the favored child. It seemed he could never be anything else but a nuisance.