Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

and secure a way out of East Germany for the rest of us. After no word or contact for two, long years, I was sure he’d left us for good.
My mother’s life had been hard enough during the war, raising the family without him. She had completely broken down and almost gone mad. I couldn’t bear to see her that way. So I was determined to escape East Germany, find him and bring him back. The Wall and the Spree River were too heavily guarded. People were being shot on a daily basis. I heard that a man successfully escaped the country through the Baltic Sea in the north. The man paddled on a raft all the way to Denmark.
So one day I missed school to gather some supplies and build a raft. The next day, my friend Horst drove me to the Baltic. He tried to talk me out of going. He told me that I would drown or that the police would catch me. After the news of the first escape they would surely be looking for others; for more rafts.
But the truth was, if I didn’t find my father, I wasn’t coming back either. I loved my mother, but I couldn’t live with her anymore. She was miserable. She wouldn’t cry. She was too strong for that, so she became unbearably angry. She neglected herself. She neglected all of the kids. We couldn’t do anything right and nothing would make her happy, not even for a moment. She wasn’t the mother I once knew. I wanted to remember her the way she was, not what she had become. So I took my one-man raft and plunged into the cold dark water.”
Otto took a moment to adjust ropes on his wrist. There was a small break in the story. Childish stares were pasted on Otto like a first-grade school project.
“Two hours later and almost relieved that I wasn’t going to die of hypothermia, I was staring into the blinding light of a German Democratic Republic vessel. It was the last thing I saw. I passed out.
When I woke, a man half my size sat in front of me, asking one question after another. Why was I in the Baltic? What was I doing? Where was I going? He seemed to know the answers already. He just wanted me to confess that I was trying to escape. Then I was sure he already knew, when he asked me why I wasn’t in school that day. He said my mother’s name and asked if she knew where I was going. He told me I had been seen with Horst Kaufmann earlier. He asked if Horst had helped me.
The man became frustrated when I wasn’t answering his questions. Then he said something I will never forget. ‘You are traitors. You and your father both have betrayed the GDR. For your mistake and his, you will spend the rest of your life defending the GDR. I will sign you into the Army as soon as you get out of the hospital.’
I was confused by the word, ‘hospital’. Then he pulled something from the drawer in front of him, a knife bearing the GDR symbol on the handle. He stood and walked behind me and put the knife against my neck. ‘I should kill you. You’re selfish. The GDR has given you everything, has given your family everything. And you think only of yourself. What about everyone else? What about pulling your load? What about giving back?’ Then he put the knife to my lips and slowly pulled inward. Otto pointed at the scar across both of his lips. ‘This is so you don’t forget the rest of us, the GDR. You may go now.’ He stood me up and pushed me toward the door. Herr Hubner was his name.”
Florentine brought a set of tied hands up and began rubbing his face. “It’s a horrible story Otto,” he mumbled through his fingers.
“It’s okay, Flo. I’m just saying; I know what it’s like for others to think you are being selfish. I spent a whole lifetime trying to prove that Herr Hubner was wrong about me. In 1989 the Wall fell. Communism and the GDR fell. I continued serving.
‘Good men are born under extreme circumstances. Good leaders make extreme circumstances bearable’. Reed is not selfish.” Otto glared at Angelo. “I know what is in his heart. And it’s not bringing home a bronze metal. I saw it in the beginning, and it has never been that.” Otto looked over to Reed and this time he had to raise both fists to his chest. But Reed understood.

Lazar stood and nodded, as if to thank Otto for the story he’d overheard. He sauntered over to the window by the table. Radenko kneeled down by Marcielli and began speaking Serbian with him. He was amused to learn that Florentine and Angelo spoke Serbian as well.
The sun had finally made its grand entrance into the room. Its beams, illuminating particles of dust suspended in the air around them. It was the kiss of warmth everyone needed.
The briefcase lay glowing on the table, almost shivering at the exposure. Unopened, Reed refused to set his gaze on it as though it were a ghastly leper. The others did the same. But it was inevitable. Lazar was leaning against the window pane over the table, his vision falling upon the case. He knew it was there. It was as if he were planning to get to it, but only after he slowed the mobile of decisions rotating over his head.
Reed watched the Italians as they conversed with the Serb soldier. Their disposition gradually intensified. Reed got Florentine’s attention, who appeared to be the least interested in what was being said.
“What are they talking about Flo?”
“Let me introduce you first.” Florentine shifted his body toward Reed. “The Private here is not a Serb. He’s from Montenegro. His name is Radenko. The Corporal by the window is Serbian and his name is Lazar. So far I think we’ve found out that they were ordered to capture us and hold us. That’s all.”
Reed interrupted, “Why does he seem upset with Marcielli?”
“I’m not sure you really want to know Reed, but I’ll translate what he’s saying:
‘What you’re doing is horrible. Those people out there have no place to go. You’ve run them from their homes and now you’ve come to rub their faces in the dirt they sleep in. Why, because they don’t share the same beliefs as you? Their ethnicity is different? How do you live with yourselves? They’re your neighbors and they’re dying out there; old men, women and children are dying; children damn you!” Florentine’s translation was suddenly interrupted.
“That’s enough Marcielli. You’re saying too much!” warned Angelo.
“The children are innocent!” exclaimed Marcielli.
“I’m sorry Reed.” Marcielli switched to English. “I just don’t see the point in trying to hide the reason we’re here. The operation orders are on the table. They’re going to find out anyway. I know we’re here for the right reasons Reed, like you said. It’s time we own up to the responsibility. You’re not in this alone anymore. I didn’t come this far just to stand behind you and look over your shoulder. I am right next to you Reed and I want to see what we can do for these refugees. It’s the kind of man I want to be. It’s the kind of father I want to be. I can’t turn my back on those children.”
Reed felt he’d just escaped prison, shackled to his favorite cell-mate. He only hoped the heavy clouds of passion would transform into a clear, blue sky.
Radenko stood over Marcielli, contemplating. Being from Montenegro, he happened to agree. The killing was tragic and senseless.
However, for the first time, Lazar felt he needed to defend his identity. He was clearly not in line with Milosevic, the “Sun of Serbia”, who high-jacked the country during the night and rose in the morning to cheer up the downtrodden. But he couldn’t abandon his nationality. He just wanted to help turn the tide. He wanted to restore Serbia to the state it was in under Tito.
Lazar had done things he wasn’t proud of. But he had gone to hell and back to right his wrongs; to feel human again. He too, was disgusted with all the suffering the war brought. But he couldn’t stand by and listen to an outsider verbally disembowel the country he loved. Lazar hoped the war would be over soon and hoped hate would die with the last bullet fired. He was born in Serbia, it was home to his family and he would raise his own children there. He would always love it, always defend it. Lazar would always be . . . . . . Serbian.
Lazar moved closer to Marcielli, but his eyes met everyone’s individually. He spoke English to them,
“One man can’t destroy the heart of a nation two thousand years old. I am a Serb and Serbia is a good country.”
Lazar began to pace back and forth in front of them. Finally he sat down, leaning against the wall; his rifle creating a bridge from knee cap to knee cap. He thought of his father, who died fifteen years ago in Macedonia, fighting this same war. Lazar never really knew him; never knew what he was fighting for. Up until recently, he wasn’t sure what he was fighting for. Now, Lazar was certain. He was fighting for a girl that he loved and adored, a girl that lit up the stage as he marveled in darkness. He was fighting for a girl he couldn’t live without and nearly went mad trying. He was fighting to see Radenko and his father together again. He was fighting to see his mother happy, for once. He was fighting for a chance to cheer his sister on to graduation. He was fighting to get back to ‘The Time Machine’ to embrace an old friend, to make another watch and win a chess match. Lazar was fighting a thunderstorm of controversy in his mind. Finally, he was fighting for normalcy, for his life back, his country back. The uniform he was wearing was simply a remedy for the cold air.
Lazar remembered a promise he made himself. He was 10 years old when he saw her for the first time, the Romanian Gypsy. She would sit across from ‘The Time Machine’, begging for money. She sat there with her crutches next to her and her leg bent outward. She would shake even though it wasn’t cold outside. She had a cup in front of her for donations and a picture of Mary. He felt awful as he passed her. Sometimes she even had little kids next to her, crying.