The Boy Shelter in the Snow (a Xmas Tale)
Jan Hamminga
Winter came early that year. Temperatures dropped sharply and great snow storms blocked the roads. Out on the plains, where Auntie Angela ran her boy shelter, the situation seemed hopeless. Soon they would be running out of coal and Uncle Vlad the coal merchant would not be coming before Christmas. If he could make it, that is. Angela feared he might not get past the giant heaps of snow in the landscape.
Together with her boys she would sit in the kitchen, the only room in the house they could afford to heat up with an ancient cast-iron monster they also used to cook their potato and coal soup on. The boys, young renegades who had left their families behind to seek fame and fortune in the world and who had ended up on these godforsaken plains, were constantly quibbling and fighting. Big François, a fattish bully of a kid, would take it out at Mariano, a shy lad who preferred to go unnoticed. Matteo, a recent entry to the shelter, sometimes came to Mariano's rescue, but never so often as to see François' ire directed at his self. In the end, all the boys were mostly interested in gaining Auntie's special attention. She could be very strict, Auntie Angela, and with the harsh austerity she had imposed to see out the difficult times, each of them aspired to come into her favour and find an extra piece of potato in their daily bowl of soup. Angela would smile that tight lutheran smile of hers whenever she put the special bowl in front of that day's lucky boy. Invariably, they were the other protestants who would find themselves sanctified. The catholic boys had long ago accepted their plight to be just that bit harder. She didn't trust catholics, old Auntie, and they had to live with that.
December came and the cold merely intensified. The boys sat tightly packed around the old kitchen table, hands in pockets of winter coats, woollen hats tucked over their eyes. The heater would not be turned on before darkness, to save as much as they could from their shrinking supply.
Damn you, Vladimir Vladimirowitsj, scolded Auntie Angela. You know all too well how difficult life is for us out here. You could have come as soon as winter set in. Instead, you let us all freeze to death.
Shouldn't we be looking for another supplier, suggested young David, a well-bred boy who in his childhood years used to enjoy the comforts of his rich father's house and who was especially vulnerable to the unpleasantries of poverty.
And where would you find one? sneered Angela. You know there's only Vlad to help us and if he won't we're all doomed. So we'd better pray the cold will retreat on time.
I'm scared, cried little Mark, who like David came from a relatively well-off family and who in his young life had never known real hardship. Will we be dead before Uncle Vlad arrives?
Don't speak such nonsense, grumbled Auntie. You were all proud enough to run away from home and now you will have to show your strength. I still see some fat around your tummy, so we can ration further if we must.
Big François, who had been with Auntie Angela the longest, put his arm around David's shoulder and whispered in his ear: she's secretly in love with Vlad, our Auntie. She trusts he will show up and so must we.
Young David was not convinced. That night, when all were asleep, he crawled from under his blankets, put on a double set of clothes and went out into the dry frozen night, with only the stars and the moon to light his path. Next morning he returned to the shelter, where great consternation ruled. David was not alone. Behind him came a towering figure, a handsome, dark faced man with a radiant smile and a bright sparkle in his eyes.
And who is he, Auntie Angela asked with suspicion. She didn't like strangers much, though she had to admit she was taken by his striking beauty.
His name is Barack Hussein, young David explained, I met him out on the plain and he is willing to help us.
Hussein? cried Angela. He's not a muslim, is he?
The stranger smiled. That's just my name, he said in a pleasant voice. I come from a country across the ocean and I have brought you some presents. He put the bag he was carrying on the kitchen table and started handing out little carton boxes.
I smell meat, noticed Auntie incredulous.
That's right, beamed Barack. Real hamburgers. Do you boys like hamburgers?
Most of them didn't know what he was talking about, but once they opened their boxes and tasted from the food, not particularly good but unmeasurably better than Auntie's dull and watery soup, they cried with joy. Angela herself declined at first. If I want meat, I'll have a good old Bratwurst, she mumbled, but seeing her children being all smiles, tears filled her angry eyes and she took a careful bite.
Nicht schlecht.
There's more where this is coming from, offered Hussein, and all I ask in return is that you give me a chance to help you. I can make life easier, you know?
Our life is desperately hard, admitted Auntie Angela, her eyes fixed at that distinctly dangerous stare of his. Vlad Vladimirovitsj is late with his coal and we fear to be running out soon.
That's where I believe we can help you dig up your own funky dirt, grinned Hussein. Fracking is the name of the game.
Auntie Angela and the boys listened silently. Auntie had heard of the practice and she instinctively felt this Barack guy was bad news, but she didn't dare say. They needed the meat. So she let him in and gave him a room of his own which she would warm, even if it meant still fewer hours of comfort in the kitchen.
Next morning, with Barack Hussein spurring them on from his bedroom window, the boys took a pick and started digging a hole in the field behind the shelter. It was terribly hard work with the frozen soil solid as rock, but handing over rapidly they managed to get a meter deep. We'll continue tomorrow, praised Hussein their efforts, producing more of those tasty hamburgers. Next day they did another meter, and then another one, and just when they reached the point where the earth was no longer so tight, they had their first accident. A scrawny lad from the north fell into the pit and broke his arm.
These things tend to happen, sympathised Barack, giving the poor fella a swig from his flask, but in the end you'll find it all worthwhile.
The boys were under his spell, whether they liked it or not. Barack was the one creating the game and they were just trying to stay close in line, competing like dogs.
When they simply couldn't dig any further, they started a new hole and then a third and a fourth, celebrating christmas with yet more hamburgers and a bottle of cola, a funny brown lemonade full of bubbles which made your stomach belch every time you took a sip. The boys had lots of fun and even Auntie Angela, though not a great fan of indecent behaviour, had to laugh.
Early January was surprisingly mild and when the first car to appear out of the mist was Vlad Vladimirovitsj's, they had to tell him, Vlad Vla, we don't need your load anymore, we're now in the business ourselves, see? And poor old Vladimir, after a mean glance at the tall figure that had taken centre stage in the shelter's household, had to turn back with his coal. Some of you boys were crying for him.
Now don't you get all sentimental, protested Auntie Angela, holding back a lonely tear, we've got Barack to take care of us.
The very next day, Barack Hussein announced he was leaving.
So soon? investigated Angela.
I have other business to attend, other shelters to keep warm.
He kissed her on the cheeks. Thanks for the wonderful stay.
Thank you for being with us. She wanted to put her face on his chest but decided against it. Do come back soon.
Hussein turned to the crew of somewhat hardened shelter inmates.
You boys keep digging more holes and when I'm back with equipment we can start drilling. It's just a matter of time before huge capacity will come available from my home country's obsolete mines.
They waved him away and felt very lonely.
What if he doesn't come back, big François voiced everybody's feelings. Will we be on our own once again when the cold returns?
Auntie went to hit him for saying such dangerous words, but had second thoughts. She sent two of her boys to chase Vladimir Vladimirovitsj and offer him their sincerest apologies. He may still come back and sell his load, they'd find something to do with it once their newly gotten gains would have lifted them out of their miserable poverty. Vlad gladly accepted.
He had just sold his charge in the winter sales, but he would send for more and be back soon. He dropped the boys off and waved, and that was the last they saw of him.
As it so happened, Barack Hussein didn't show up either.
To be continued…
