The Boat Runner by Devin Murphy

Author:Devin Murphy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-07-03T04:00:00+00:00

13

It was becoming common for the air raid siren north of town to go off all hours of the night. The loud, high wail rose in pitch as it washed over Delfzijl, sending people out of bed, through their homes, down stairs into their basements and cellars. People who lived in one-story brownstones ran across their streets to hide beneath their neighbors’ homes.

After Uncle Martin and I docked the boat from a supply transfer, the sirens started. We had been bombed twice in the last several months, with each attempt knocking out the harbor, which then had to be rebuilt by the German soldiers.

“I’m afraid the RAF will think we’re a major port now with all this traffic,” Uncle Martin said.

We had already docked the Lighthouse Lady, and didn’t have enough time to cast her off again. We ran from the port to the center of town and into the school’s front doors. We went down into the basement, which had become a community air raid shelter despite the Germans setting up headquarters on the first floor. We were the last to descend the stairs. About ten families huddled in the dark. Some were wrapped in bedsheets. Their forms shifted back and forth or paced in the large open room. Despite the dark, many of the shapes were familiar. Mort Stroud was the father of one of my classmates. Mr. Johansson worked at the butcher shop. Then I saw Mrs. Von Schuler, my homeroom teacher. The word Yeladim rang out in my head and recalled the shame I felt from throwing rocks at rats years before. She sat in the corner with a small boy sleeping in her lap.

For a long time no one in the basement spoke. We took our place sitting along the walls. Eventually Mrs. Von Schuler reached out a hand and patted my knee.

“You’re getting so tall. It’s hard to believe.” Her voice was the same as it always was, a sweet vocalization of affection.

I put my hands on top of hers. I’m not sure why. Because I felt she was scared. Because I wanted to apologize to her.

“Did you know your father used to bring me loaves of bread?”

I tried to make out her features in the dark.

“No.”

“Yes. He’d just show up with them from time to time.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It was a nice thing for him to do.”

As my eyes adjusted I could see how worried she was. How scared everyone was. If my father were there, he’d tell some story to help the children forget about being away from home. He could quiet their fears. He had been gone for so long, without giving us a word or sign. My mother kept doing her rounds visiting every household in town. She stopped asking if anyone had seen him. She’d knock on the door and simply look into their faces. Her trips became silent, penitent. Every part of me hoped my father was safe, but at certain moments I was furious with him. For leaving us, having crawled off on his belly like a coward.

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