Mr. Sand Man

Story by Isabelle Li

| SPRING 2021 ISSUE | PROSE

Part I: idiosyncrasies

White, pure, the crust a shade of golden brown. It even smells like the bakery back in Warsaw. Sweet and musky. It’s simply bread that lies in your hands, but it’s also something much more. It’s your last ration. Your last shot at survival. Your only sliver of hope in this war camp. Yet your hands reach out, not to yourself, but to me. You offer me the meal that could very well be your last. You don’t know what you’re doing. Nevertheless, raw hunger drives me to reach out for the slice until your next words cause my fingers to halt in midair. “Mama, here. Eat.” You look at me with those pure topaz orbs. The color is enough to stun me. Mama. You think I’m your mama. 

Part II: cicatrix

Three weeks have passed, or perhaps more. I don’t know. But somehow, you’ve decided to stay with me. You’re rather annoying, like a leech on my side, yet I don’t have the heart to pluck you off. I try not to crack in front of you, but at night I cannot hold it in anymore. There are screams and screeches. No, that’s not it. There are feral howls and moans. The sounds coming from the chambers are not human. But you always know what to do. Your tiny fingers struggle to wrap around my hand; I want to point out that my palm is twice the size of yours, but your words stop me. “Ssshh. Mama, it’s okay to be scared. Whenever I’m scared, I ask Mr. Sand Man to grant me a dream. He’s always there to whisk me away to Dream World. I always feel happy when Mr. Sand Man comes. Isn’t that right, Mama?” Your voice takes on a slight lilt as you say those words. You look too peaceful. Too calm. I want to tell you that Mr. Sand Man doesn’t exist, but I can’t when you lay your head in the crook of my arm. My fingers automatically come up to thread through your hair, untangling the knots one by one. I scoff at the ridiculousness of such a notion. As if a simple dream could erase the pain and damage of an entire war. You press a peck to my cheek. I tell myself I feel nothing. I can’t afford to feel anything.

Part III: opprobrium

The Germans beat you today. Said you didn’t carry your bundle fast enough. You didn’t utter a sound as they kicked you; you simply smiled at them. I feel a strange pain in my chest as I dress your wounds. It’s queer since you are the one injured. Why do I feel hurt? It doesn’t make sense.

“Mama? Mama?” Your voice snaps me out of my daze. You cup my face and say the Germans are not to blame, that you should work faster next time. You tell me not to worry, and that not all people in this world are wicked. That one day everything will be alright. You say we should forgive them. “Isn’t that right Momma?”

“Yes,” I reply. It’s more of a sigh than an answer. 

My words are the exact opposite of my thoughts. No, I want to scream at you. I’m not your mama. I want to tell you that your real mama is dead, killed by those monsters and never to return. I want to see your innocent eyes finally corrupt and look haunted, the way a child’s eyes should look. I want to wipe the persistent smile off your face and tell you that hope doesn’t exist. I want you to see the atrocities man can commit against man. I want to pull you out of your fantasy, drag you by your hair through the dirt, and make you face the living hell that is called reality. But my words never betray my thoughts. That’s how you survive in a death camp, after all.

I want to tell you that hope doesn’t exist. I want to pull you out of your fantasy, drag you by your hair through the dirt, and make you face the living hell that is called reality.

Part IV: quietus

They line us up one by one across the trench, a crude ditch dug into the cracked earth. We both know there isn’t much time left; there’s only one reason why we’re here. I should be telling you to leave, but I guess I’ll let you stay for a little while longer. “You trust me, right?” You nod without hesitation. The gunshots are expected, but the fleeing is not. I pull your tiny hand in mine as we race towards the edge of the forest. Your hand feels rather clammy in mine, and I silently pray that you’ll never let go. My heartbeat stutters as a bullet whizzes past my face, but it’s too fast for my mind to process… the forest… the forest… the trees… almost there… almost. The people in front of me are dropping like flies, killed in the pursuit of freedom. But I cannot afford to slow down. I reach the forest, chest heaving, out of breath, hands strangely empty. It’s only then that I realize I’ve lost you.

Part V: chimera

It’s easy to find you among the bodies; your coat gives it away. It takes quite the effort to climb over the black corpses to the small mound you lie on. The blood forms swirls on your coat. Scarlet on scarlet. Invisible. Unnoticeable. Any other onlooker would’ve thought you were sleeping. But I notice the small hole in your chest, the traces of vermillion smudged on your face and fingertips, the small dribble of crimson from your lips. Only then do I register the wetness on my cheeks. What is it that I’m feeling? Is it what others call a mother’s grief? I’ll never know. I thread my fingers through your curls, riotous and rebellious as always. Bouncing back no matter how hard I pull them. Your eyes still hold the innocence from when I first met you, only they’re a little glassy now. Your lips are pulled slightly at the corners. I still wonder how you managed to smile through everything. You look beautiful lying in the snow, almost like a princess. Royal. Angelic. Perhaps you truly are an angel, sent here to be the child I could never have. To make me the mother I could never be. But alas, you were too pure to see what you saw. To witness the black sin that is called war. Maybe that’s why God took you back, to Heaven where you truly belong. I take the bread from my coat pocket, carefully unwrapping it. It’s worn with mildew and ashes now, no longer the pure white it used to be. The edges are blackened, the crust completely gone. I doubt it’s even edible anymore. I place it in your fingers. I know I don’t have flowers to give you. No marigolds the color of your burning amber eyes. No roses to rival the rich red of your coat. But I give you all I have, and I hope that my offering is enough. I shift myself to lay next to you; my hand reaches up to brush the snowflakes off your cheek. “Pretty, isn’t it?” But you never reply. My mind barely registers the muted mourning of those around me. I know I don’t have much time left. The Germans will be back at sunrise. I’ll have to flee again or maybe find a bunker. I’ll have to drag myself back to reality again, where war is rampant. I’ll have to convince myself to keep running, that I’ll never stop running. But for now, I close my eyes and ask Mr. Sand Man to grant me a dream.