Echoes of the War

  Susan opened the café’s door for her grandfather.

  “Hey,” her friend welcomed them in.

  “You kids go have fun,” said John.

  “Do you need help finding a chair?” said Susan.

  He chuckled. “I’m old, not blind.”

  They left him, and he spotted another old chap like him. He sat alone, sipping his coffee.

  “Might I take a seat?” said John. He was too tired to stand, so he sat before the other one nodded. The other one hailed for the waiter, “Waiter!” he gurgled like his mouth was full of spikes. This sparked John’s memory. Sure, in the war, the thunderous roar of the bombs, cries of your brothers, tanks cursing skulls like dead leaves making their last scream can even make your Sergent's orders inaudible. But one doesn’t forget a man’s voice who once held a gun to your head.

  The other one put his cup and opened his mouth to greet him. John glared at him, and he froze. The intensity with which John stared at him pierced into his soul and shook it until he remembered. His hand reached for a gun, but it wasn't there, not anymore. John lept at him like he did so many years ago, but his hand contracted. He winced and sat back in his seat.

  “John.”

  “Danial,” said John.

  Danial’s hands once crushed a bayonet in half, but now they quivered from old age. His own hands no longer held the strength to fight.

  “You survived,” said Danial.

  “No, thanks to you.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “There's my granddaughter back there. She was visiting a friend, and I was bored sitting in that house, so she let me tag along.”

  Danial leaned to the right. “They look more than friends.”

  “Yeah, you know kids these days. No shame.”

  “Yeah, like keeping a love letter in your front pocket is such a sign of modesty.”

  “Burn in hell.”

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  “It was sergeant's orders.” He sipped his coffee. “Confiscate everything. But it turns out you met her in the end, anyway.”

  “No,” John turned his face away. “She died.”

  Danial grunted. “I didn't know. I am sorry.”

  They sat in silence for a minute until John said, “Did you lose anyone?”

  Danial chuckled and pushed his wheelchair to the side. “Yeah, my leg.”

  John's heart skipped a beat for a second, and he touched his legs to check if they were still there.

  “It turns out you got the better end of the deal, eh?”

  “Being your prisoner… they were the worst days of my life.”

  He sighed. “It wasn’t a vacation for me too.”

  “You seem quite relaxed about it.”

  He took a deep breath. “You know what’s the worst thing about the war? The helplessness. I have spent countless nights with guilt stuck in my throat. I thought I could do anything. But I wasn’t the one that started the war, and I’m sure the hell, not the one that ended. I slept when they wanted me to, eat and kill what they wanted.” He leaned close and stared into John’s eyes. “Took prisoner whoever they wanted.”

  For a second, John saw himself in him. A youth killed in the war like so many. John always remembered his life in two phases: before and after the war. The war took an axe and chopped his life in half. For him, the war happened just yesterday. The feeling never left him, and as he looked into Danial’s eyes, he saw the same emotions. Fate had an odd sense of humour—of all people, he shared this feeling with Danial. He composed himself. “A nice way to rid yourself of responsibility.”

  Danial straightened himself, “It wasn’t an excuse. I just thought you would understand.”

  Susan hugged him from behind. “You ready to go?”

  He touched her hand and nodded.

  “Who was that?” said Susan as they stepped outside. “I've never seen you talk to someone so much before?”

  “He was someone I met in a bad neighbourhood. But people change. I got funnier.”