Making Friends
In the morning,
Terry and I venture outside
to join the boys racing round
the orphanage schoolyard.
One bloke with wavy brown hair whips by,
trying to catch a little blond lad
who looks just like him.
The little one runs up and hides
behind me, hugging my knees.
“Hey, mate,” I say.
“Is that your brother you’re hiding from?”
He giggles and crawls through my legs.
“Alan, come here, you worm,”
says the other boy.
“Derek, you can’t catch me!” he calls.
“But I can!” I say, scooping Alan up
and flipping him upside down.
“Help! Help!” giggles Alan.
“Thanks, ah . . . ,” says Derek.
“Ken. And this is my friend
from home, Terry.
How old is this little chap?”
“Five,” says Derek.
“I’m twelve, so Mum said
I have to be the grown-up
and look after him.”
“Maw said th’ same to me,” says a boy
with a thick Scottish brogue
and a younger brother in tow.
“I’m Billy Short,
Peter’s five too.
I kin barely keep ahold o’him.”
Derek and I exchange glances.
“How old are you, Billy?” asks Derek.
“Nine,” he says.
“Nine? Well, old man, we’ll help you out,“ I say,
thinking we’ll have to look after Billy, too.
and they roll in the grass
like puppies.
They make me grin.
“You chaps are lucky,” I say.
“I always wanted a brother.”
“Careful what you wish for!”
says Derek. “Oi! There they go again!”
“Peter, come back!” yells Billy.
Shrapnel
“Oi, look at this, Alan,” says Derek,
grabbing his brother by the hand.
“Shrapnel!”
We stop and scoop up
the gray metal bits—
pieces of exploded bombs
and guns—
to add to our collections.
“I found some back home,” I say.
“Traded the biggest pieces
for marbles.”
No marbles here.
It’s just something we do—
pick up the pieces of this war,
wrap our hands round the danger,
try to contain it.
Derek finds the largest lump
and hands it to Alan.
“It’s for luck,” says Derek.
“For luck!” crows Alan.
The Shy Kid
A skinny, fair-haired boy
with curls
slumps against a wall, watching us.
I ask Terry, “Who’s that?”
“I think his name is Paul,” says Terry.
“He doesn’t talk much.”
I shout, “Hey Paul,
come help us!”
He looks startled,
but then he takes his hands
out of his pockets
and walks over slowly.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Collecting shrapnel,” I say.
“It’s pieces of the bombs!” says Alan.
“Want some?”
“You’re playing with bombs?”
“Sure,” I say. “They’re smashing good fun.”
The other boys laugh,
but Paul just stares.
“They can’t hurt you now!” says Terry.
“Here’s one.”
Paul takes the twisted piece of metal,
but when he turns it over
a small ragged edge
cuts his thumb.
“Ow!”
It falls
and a small red drop oozes
by his fingernail.
“No thanks,” he says,
as he stuffs his finger in his mouth
and walks away.
“Paul, wait!” I shout after him.
But he doesn’t turn round.
Runaways
“Alan, let’s . . . ,” says Derek.
But Alan is nowhere to be seen.
We were so distracted by Paul
and the shrapnel,
we didn’t notice
that the little boys slipped away.
Again!
“They’re round here somewhere,”
I say. “I’ll help you look.”
“Alan! Peter!” we call,
jogging across the schoolyard.
“Maybe they’re hiding. Look behind the wall.”
No one there, except Paul,
slumped on the ground, nursing his cut.
“Paul, please help us,” I say.
“Their brothers are missing.”
Paul jumps up and follows.
“Have you seen two little scamps? About five years old?”
I ask a group of girls playing hopscotch.
“No, sorry.”
“Wha’ will I tell me maw
if I cannae find Peter?” says Billy.
“They’re probably just playing
hide-and-seek with us,” says Derek.
“Alan! The game is up.
Come on out!”
“Maybe they went inside.”
We push open the orphanage door
and peek in the classrooms.
No one.
“Could they have gone across the lawn?” asks Paul.
We gaze across the grass
leading to the open gate
we entered last night on the bus.
Cars speed down the road.
I wince to think of five-year-olds
crossing it.
“We should tell the escorts,”
says Paul.
“But Maw trusted me to take care o’ Peter,”
says Billy.
And with that, he’s off toward the gate.
“Billy, wait!” shouts Derek.
Paul and I have no choice but to follow.
Sanctuary
“I heard laughing,”
he says, turning round and
gesturing to a large willow tree.
Pushing aside the leafy branches
spilling to the ground,
we peer inside.
Peter and Alan are sitting
on either side of one of the lady escorts.
They lean on her shoulders,
smiling up at her with adoring eyes.
She’s telling them a story.
“Hello, lads!” says the lady.
“Want to join us?”
“Derek! Billy!” I shout, motioning them over.
“We found them!”
We all creep under the covers
of the branches,
and listen to the story.
It’s cozy inside.
I close my eyes
as the words run together
and ripple over each other.
down,
down
into the story.
I feel safe
for the first time
in a very long time. . . .
Rude Awakening
“Ken, wake up!” says Terry,
shaking my shoulder.
“You’ve been asleep forever!”
I sit up, still groggy,
yawning.
“Where are the others?”
“They’ve just gone in for tea.”
Time to eat, yes,
then I can go back to sleep.
Too much excitement,
too many strangers,
too much unknown
trigger a surprising feeling.
I realize I’m longing for home—
with all its warts—
longing for my own bed.
Sirens cut the evening calm.
“Run, children, run,”
as they spill out of the classrooms.
“Get your gas masks!”
“Take cover!”
Terry and I tumble
inside the shelter
with the others.
I ask the escorts,
“When are we leaving?
When do we get on the boat?”
“Soon, son, soon.”
Another sleepless night jammed together—
elbow to elbow,
knee to knee.
There’s no letup,
no escape from the bombs,
no matter how we try
to get away.
Bombs in the city,
bombs on the coast.
Is nowhere safe?
Little John Snoad cries and cries.