Optical Allusionist

I had a dream once- oh, a year or so ago, and this is how it goes. These men came to work on our lawn. It was late at night, and everyone (including Brother Maddox, me, my family, friends, these two guys, etc) was outside. We saw these tracks that formed a path through my back yard. They actually resembled the handcart tracks I'd been staring at just weeks before (for trek :D) These men had put them there. It made me so mad to see thesetracks. I loved my back yard, and they had ruined it. So I started saying "You ruined our lawn! You ruined our lawn! You ruined our lawn!" I ran to mymom and nearly in tears said "He ruined my lawn!" She just raised her eyebrows, nodded and shrugged her shoulders. I couldn't believe how apathetic she was being. It was our lawn!! Eyes brimming with tears and anger, I picked up a shovel, and ran hard at him screaming all the way "You ruined my lawn! You ruined my lawn!" I maneuvered the shovel back behind my shoulders, ready to swing and cut cleanly into his head. I could almost feel it slice through his skull and brains already. I loved it. I swung. My arms weakened along with my anger, melting into a sickening jolt of self-disgust. Though the swing had started out hard, it never did reach the man. I dropped the shovel, fell to my knees, head in my palms, bawling. So much confusion. There was so little of me that was disgusted with my near-attempted murder, so much that was disgusted that I couldn't kill this man. But I couldn't. Soon after, I saw the man hand his co-worker a knife, ready to use it on my family. Even then, I knew I'd discovered that I couldn't kill him, no matter how much I wanted it because of the sliver of me that didn't want to hurt that man. I felt nauseous with guilt. I hated myself for not being able to murder him. My eyes red and swollen, and my body shaking as I continued to cry hard into my hands, I felt encompassed with a sickening essence of failure. I was a failure. A failure. That's about all I remember of the dream.

I guess we know what the path is, and what I'm really referring to when I say "lawn", but that scares me. He made a path in my life. Talking to him put me in a position of power. It meant I could make or break him. I chose to make him, and I hope I was successful.

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Berlin

I run down these streets watching the planes fly over.
My friends laugh at them, pointing up into the sky,
But my father told me about these planes.
Bombs, he said-- to destroy the Fuehrer.
Of course, it was the first year in many
That we hadn't had to worry about food.

Why would Britain take that away from us?
I don't laugh and point with the others.

My father shakes me awake. "Wach auf!! Sie kommen! Sie kommen!"
They're coming. A great horn cuts the night,
As we scamper to the bomb shelter.
Great bombs shatter the peace of the night.

Why are they doing this?
I shake and cry with each new bang.
Closer and closer.


A tear stained pillow in the God-forsaken bunker
Welcomes the new day.
"Wo ist Vati?" Where is father?
My father, Mother says, went outside that morning.
There was no food in the bunker.
I jump to follow him, but my mother grabs me back.
No, she screams, I cannot lose you too.

But I leave soon enough anyways.
We can't stay cooped up in the bunker for forever.
The light from outside blinds us until...
I wish it would blind us again.



He went out for food? I ask mother.
There is no food. It looks like it did before Hitler.
There is no anything. This is what the Fuehrer had saved us from.
Rubble and debris clutter the streets.
Listless comrades trudge through the streets of our beloved city.
Berlin.

We search for Vati.
He must come back sometime.
For days we don't return home. There is no home now.
Only the bunker has been spared. No bed. No food.
No anything.

My mother is small.
She cowers. She does not eat enough.
But that may be only due to the fact that we don't find enough to eat.
Vati was never found.
Mutti doesn't seem to care anymore.
I can hear her chatter in her sleep.

I'm angry.
Hitler gave us food.
He gave us pride.
He gave us bravery.
He gave us self-respect.
He gave us protection.

And now they take it away.
They take it away like they did before.

I run to the enlistment office.
I will teach these British Schweinhuende.
But the men in their uniforms laugh.
We know you want to help, they say,
But come back in a few years when you're older.
Be a good German boy now.
We will teach them.

But I don't miss the terror in their eyes, and the creases in their brow.

I run down these streets again
The streets of a once- stunning city.
But now the only stunning thing about it is that it
Is no longer the wonder it once was.

Berlin.




This is a tank in the middle of Berlin's ruins. I'd show a picture of an incendiary bomb, but I'm not sure those were dropped on Berlin specifically. We need to remember that everyone has their own perspective, especially in tragedy. Not everyone was overjoyed that we were coming to "free" the Germans. Not many were saying "God bless America for burning my mother in the incendiary flames!" We need to remember this as we are in Iraq. One innocent Iraqi civilian dies, and it opens the way for his or her friends and family to be angry at a country that was never asked to come in. Hitler was an evil man, who did a lot of good as well as a lot of bad, no matter what his motives were. He helped a starving nation- Germany, while destroying many other nations. I wouldn't say he was a good man, but I would say he did do some good things.


This is the structure of an incendiary bomb. These were dropped into German cities (and British ones). They would drop, explode, and create fires that would reach immense temperatures and immense heights. Heat rises, and so drafts would be created from all the air rising with the air as it continued to get hotter. The drafts were so powerful that they would carry cars, animals, any debris on the street, and even human beings, right into the fires. Human beings were sucked into the flames we created-- and we knew they would be. If you weren't sucked in, you might be very likely to get hit by a rushing piece of debris, which, if it's big enough or hits in the right spot, can kill you as well. If you were in an underground bunker, the air in the bunker was likely to be sucked upwards with the rest of the air, which meant suffocation for all those hoping to survive. Very few people survived incendiary bombs. Who thought up something like this in the first place?


Who did Germany take over first? Sudentenland? Poland? Sure, whatever, but remember: Who did the Nazis take over first? Poland? No, sir. Germany. The German people were captives of their own. There was much they didn't know about Hitler's (or Goebbel's or Goerring's) orders. It wasn't until after the war that most discovered the truth of the concentration camps. People who were against the "Vaterland" were often taken away without a trace. No one knew where they went. Fear was replaced with fear. You no longer had to worry about your children starving. But you did have to worry about other things. Remember, the German people were victims just like the rest of Europe. Fear makes people do crazy things.

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This story is based on an experience of my paternal fourth-great grandfather. The entire story is as close as I could get it, through reading several journal entries, and hearing the tale recounted by my father.

Afraid for his family, William Butler wiped the milk off his mouth and stood to leave. Ellen glanced over the pot of oatmeal, as she cleaned the remains of breakfast off of the table.
"Listen, Ellen, I don't feel good about leaving you and the girls here."
"Have you heard how Sister Tracy's been doing with her oldest girl working for Sister Maines?"
"I'm serious." William had guarded the door the previous night and was still tired and aching, but more than his aching body was his aching fear. "If that man comes back again, I just—"
"Ruthie, come get the rolls." Ellen turned back to her husband as soon as she could hear their five year old child trudging distractedly towards the kitchen.
"Ellen."
"Look, William, I don't have a lot of time for this. If he comes again, I'll just give him the eggs he wanted."
Beginning to raise his voice, William emphasized, "This isn't about eggs, Ellen. This is about –" Her glare cut him off. Without another word, he left the house, still worried about what would happen with him absent. All the same, he was quite angry with Ellen, and they hadn't been getting along with each other lately anyways. Heck, if he comes back, it sure is her own fault that I'm not here.
Speaking of the visitor… William's thoughts drifted back to yesterday. He must have been a French Canadian; his accent sure sounded like it was probable. Since he was a foreigner, he was probably working on the railroad with the rest of the riffraff. First it was the eggs. Then he wanted in. Wanted… more. Ellen was strong-willed, but even she was afraid and couldn't do much more than stall for time. William had just ended with his day's worth of harvesting, and had ridden up to a frightening scene: a man about his size holding his wife by the wrist, shoving her up against the door of the cabin. The cabin William had just finished that summer.
Two rows. Will glanced at the sun. It couldn't be very far in the day. About time for lunch. He had been working hard, and the work helped him to channel his fear and frustration. This summer- the summer of 1869- would be one of their most successful harvests yet.
A coward, the Frenchman had flown. Yesterday William had jumped off his horse and begun to run but was no match for the foreigner's fleetness of foot. He might have caught him if---
"William! William!!!" William's friend Henry Tracy was galloping at full speed towards him. "William! William, you have to go home now!" Henry was finally close enough for William to see the anguished visage of his friend.
"Henry. Henry, I've only got two rows out. I need another three at the least in order to get a good healthy crop out of what I plan—"
"Will, they're dead. Will, your wife and girls- they're dead."
"But… but I still have three more rows to get outta here."
"NO, you don't understand. Will, grab your horse now, and follow me." William's eyes went wide with a rush of understanding. Ellen. Ruthie and Ellie. He tripped over himself rushing to his horse where he had tied it to the shade tree.
The ride was painfully long, and Henry did what he could to fill in William with the basic details. His wife's head was split open, and she had multiple bruises. His oldest daughter, Ellen, also had deep wounds, but had miraculously made it to the Tracy's home to find help. Ruthie, his five year old, did not seem like she would make it.
"Truth be told," Henry admitted, "Probably none of them will." William was quiet, staring ahead, anxiously dashing for the cabin. He had to hope. He had to. God would save them.
Their cabin was a-shambles, chairs knocked over, the curtains torn, a pool of water spilling from an open kettle. The Tracy's youngest daughter, Rose, was huddled in a corner, her eyes blank. Her shaking finger pointed to the bedroom. There, William and Henry found a gut-wrenching spectacle. Blood-soaked sheets lay rumpled at the foot of the bed. Sister Tracy, tending to a figure on the bed, turned around, a wild look in her eye.
"William!" She grabbed his hand, and pulled him to the bedside. He tried desperately to keep his eyes off her head. Blue and purple bruises covered her arms, and her eyes were shut tight, and… Oh, dear God, no. Bandages wrapped around her head, but a dark mahogany polish stained them. Blood. She was dead. Or, he realized once he glanced the rise and fall of her chest, she will be soon. He fell back a pace.
"Ellen... Ellen." Sister Tracy paused her tending to look back at him.
"Ellie's over there, Will."
"Ruthie. Did she get the rolls?" No, that's not quite what I meant. What am I talking about- rolls. "I-I mean, where is she?" Sister Tracy glanced in a panic at her husband before repeating herself.
"Ellie's over there, William." By the look in her eyes, William knew.
"She- Ruthie- but she- Ruthie was going to show me her spelling tonight. She still has to be able to spell 'plow' to win… p-l-o-w. Plow." He burst into a sudden sob. All this trauma. And the crops not even in yet. Three more rows. Henry took him by the arm, and led him to Ellie's bedside. Not as bad as her mother, but most likely it was to be just as fatal.
His eyes a cold blue, his voice a cold steel, William asked, "How did this happen? Where is he?"
Henry gazed undecidedly at his friend. William hadn't shown the strongest of will in the past several minutes. Would telling him only push him into a realm of danger? But William deserved to know. She was his wife, and they were his children.
"It was the Frenchman, wasn't it." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes. He came back. My wife and the girls got here at the end… and he ran."
"What did he do?" Henry gulped. There could be no dodging this question. His wife had heard a brief explanation before Ellen had passed out from loss of blood.
"He tried to force her again." Sister Tracy looked away at that. It wasn't proper in any other situation to speak of it. But in such circumstances, well… Henry continued, "She wouldn't let him so he grabbed a hatchet."
Sister Tracy interrupted. After all, it had been her who Ellen had told her story to. "She thought he was trying to steal it. He… Well, when she reminded him that the hatchet was hers he said, and this she told me exactly, he said 'Yes, damn you, I'll kill you with it too.' After that… well, you can imagine."
William was stunned. What kind of a man would have so little humanity? Sister Tracy continued. "The children tried to help… once he started… hurting her, I mean."
"Oh." What else was there to say? Nothing he could say could change it… Nothing he could say. Nothing he could say, but, by golly, he could very well do something!
"Where is he? Where did he leave to?"
"He ran to the willows."
Bolting out the door, William yelled to Henry, "Go get John Hudson!" He would find this man, and he would beat him to the ground. Dodging the willows, he ran towards the Tracy's home. Expecting to run past, he stopped suddenly. The same man from yesterday. He was walking through the shadows, hoping to be ignored by those traveling the same road.
"You! Butcher!" The Frenchman continued walking, keeping his eyes low, and his walk fast but inconspicuous. William repeated, "Butcher! I'm talking to you." He caught up to the immigrant and swung him around, grabbing his shoulder. Blood covered the man's front of his shirt. His hands too.
William paused before looking him in the eye and asking, "'You a butcher?"
Laughing nervously, the man answered, "Oh, you mean the blood? No," he chuckled through a thick French accent, "that's the blood of some chickens I was killing. But I don't do butchering for a living." He paused and asked warily, "Do I know you?"
"You know my wife. In fact, I believe that's her blood. Blood of my children too."
The muscles in the man's face went slack. A small sneer crossed his eyes. "Why? Is your wife a chicken?" William, filled with all the fury of a husband, let the man's nose feel the wrath of his fist. While the man had been an expert sprinter, he was no where near a champion fighter. William just had to make sure he didn't get away, and he would win. They wrassled in the dirt, throwing blind punches, grinding faces into the street, and doing whatever else they could to make sure the other lost. Will finally found the right hold, being in a position to hold the railroad worker down with one hand, and lay it on him with the other.
Hearing Henry hollering down the way, William continued to exert justice as Henry and his wife ran up to the two wrestlers. Sister Tracy, it seemed, was two steps ahead of Henry, determined to help him get all the more into the action.
"Kill him, Butler!" she rang out, just before Henry grabbed her by the shoulder and led her away. She dropped a club she'd been carrying, as her husband urged her off. All the while in the background, he could hear her hollering, "Kill him, Butler, kill him!" With a jolt of a glance to his left, William grabbed at a large stone, swung it above his head, and brought it down to the head of his family's offender.
Crack!
William stood back. No movement, but how could one be sure. If he left, the man could sprint away, and then William would never catch up with him. No movement. He had to leave. Had to check on his wife. No sooner, though, that he was three houses away, the body of the rogue stirred, and began to galumph where he had first been intending to go. Praying that Sister Tracy had made it back to tend his wife, William cautiously began to follow the Frenchman. Past the river. Through the willows. Following the rail road tracks.
William stood discreetly behind a heavy willow, watching the man, waiting for the right time to spring. If he jumped now, then he might grab for his gun, and as disoriented as he was, he just might hit me, what with how guns were these days. He might as well give up because the Canadian was fixing away from the Butler farm, and William couldn't be led farther away. Yes, he might as well turn back.
"Are you the French-Canadian that defiled and attacked the Butler woman?" A voice came from William's right. The voice, belonging to his friend John Hudson, sounded confident enough to kill. A shot rang out, and a shriek shook the willows. William found the courage to poke his head out far enough to see that the immigrant's hand was bleeding thickly.
"What're you doing? I didn't do anything to you!" Fear and anger mingled in the eyes of the Frenchman. Doing what would be most beneficial for him, the miscreant turned tail and ran for the railroad bridge.
"Damn you, stop!" John's frustration rang through the forest.
William stepped out, careful not to spook John's horse, and exclaimed, "If he crosses the Ogden, we'll lose him!"
William Butler ran as fast as he possibly could after the Canadian. And finally, when the immigrant had jumped off the opposite side of the bridge, he caught him- because of the moment of shock and the pause for air. Grabbing for a long stick on the side of the bank, he began to beat the sense into the man once again.
A whimpering noise cut through the blows. "Oh, please. Please, please let me die in peace." With one last blow, William stood off. John's horse arrived, finally making it through the underbrush of the willows. Turning to his friend, William said, "Let him die. I'm going to go get help from Doctor Morris." John followed him along solemnly, no sound made but the crunching of leaves under the horse's hooves.
They led Doctor Morris back to the bridge, but only to find the Frenchman's coat. The grooves in the mud indicated that he had slipped himself back into the river, ready to not be followed this time. Realizing what had occurred, William shouted an order to Doctor Morris before gesturing to John to have him follow him.
"Doc, go down to my house- help my wife and Ellie as much as you can. Do what you can." John and he ran through the willows.
John yelled over his shoulder, "Where are we going? Do you know where he is? How is this even gonna work?"
"I don't know. I've gotta gut feeling to go through Town Square."
"Let's go by Farr's Mill race. He wouldn't go through the most populated part of town today."
"Maybe he wouldn't know it's the most populated. But that's where we're going."
John and William were about a half mile away from the Town Square, and were keeping their eyes open for the man, when, just as William began to lead around to the gate of the Square, he spotted him.
"Butcher!" William furiously picked up another stick and hocked it at him. "Coward! Butcher!" A shot rang through the air, and William ducked in a panic next to John. His friend prepared his rifle. The man got up and ran. Even with the knowledge of such a danger, William stood and ran after him. He couldn't let him get away. Not after so much trouble. Exhausted from the chase, William did what he could to keep the man in sight. Taking a little-known shortcut, William cut off the man, slamming his club into the foreigner's nose, beating his skull into atoms. John Hudson caught up to him, catching the last remnants of a prayer.
"Lord, have mercy on my soul." John knowingly handed his friend a pistol, reminding him of the shots he'd already taken.
"Make a sure shot- there is only one bullet in it." William ignored the groan of the Frenchman, and shot, watching the blood ooze from the man's mouth and bullet holes. Last of all he proclaimed a loud judgment.
"Go to Hell across lots!"
John and William stood for a moment, contemplating the reason for the murder. By this time William knew his wife would be dead. His Ellie too.
"I have to go."
"I know."
"No," clarified William. "I have to go."
"Home. I know." John was agitated from the stress and tension of what had just occurred, and was in no mood for games.
"No. They're probably dead anyway. No, I have to go to the sheriff. I have to turn myself in. Murder's murder."
"I'll go with you." John hastened to join his comrade.
"No. I have to do this by myself. I have to go." And with that, he turned and walked numbly out of the forest. When he had reached the station, he knocked twice on the door, and entered. The sheriff's black moustache twitched as he looked William Butler up and down again.
"What do you need?"
"I'm turning myself in for the murder of a French-Canadian." He continued to calmly explain the circumstances of the murder to the sheriff.
There was no immediate answer. Fat fingers massaged the chin of the law-enforcer.
"Go home. Go home and take care of your wife." William could hardly believe it.
"Sir. He's dead. Sir, she's dead."
"We'll come clean it up."
"Sir, I killed him."
"I know. I heard about it already." William's eyebrows shot up. This had not been expected, although who could blame them? The attack had been so close to Town Square. Someone was bound to know what was going on, and report it.
The sheriff sighed and repeated, "Go home. We'll take care of it."
Unsure what to do, William backed out of the cabin. He stepped down the street, only trying to put one foot in front of the other, until he had arrived at home. Sister Tracy was eager to hear of the Frenchman, and agreeable with the sheriff.
"You did only what was right."
"Lord, have mercy on my soul," he repeated to himself.
He watched over his wife. She was miraculously alive, but he would see how far that would take him. It had been made clear that he would not face consequences for the actions against the stranger. But he would be here, watching over his wife, tending to his child, praying, hoping they would be alive the next morning.

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