THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. Andersen's poignant tale part XXI

Sometimes the course of a stream can be changed by little things. A large rock might roll down from above and split the flow in two. All the little life forms, the crayfish and the minnows that swim down one side will live. But the other side is different. A farmer throws cans in there. They're practically empty now, but once were filled with poison. He used it to kill potato bugs. Now it will kill everything else.


Human life is like that too. When the sick little boy fled the snow sweepers, he could have turned down an alley behind pretty, little shops. Maybe he'd have burrowed in behind trash bins. A shopkeepers wife bringing out old stained wrapping paper, or broken buttons might have found him there. The good woman, if in fact she was a good woman, could have given him soup and hot tea with lemon...perhaps some bread and jam. Then she'd wrap him in a blanket (a new one, taken from their inventory) tuck him in an old, over-stuffed chair back in a little office and let him sleep. At closing time, or even before (her husband, being a kindly man would let her go) she'd summon a horse-drawn cab and with some help, carry the little fellow back to her house. Maybe a maid, some nice, young girl just in from the country, would hurry out to assist her, as they bundled him up the neat granite steps and through the front door.


He'd stay in the second bedroom, the son's room. That would be all right, since the young man was away at university and would not be home til Easter time. Perhaps by then, they'd fix him up with a room of his own. And maybe, in the best of all worlds, Napoleon would be there too, with a warm, clean stack of blankets in the storeroom by the kitchen and a nice, old piece of crockery heaped with scraps.


But this was not the best of all worlds. The little boy stumbled down another path, behind a noisy cooperage, a place where men made barrels. And he collapsed upon a small, pile of sawdust swept into a shadowy, dark, cold corner. A half dead drunk slept not far off. Heavy metal doors covered with chipped, green paint opened sporadically, so the workmen could roll out the fresh, oak barrels and stack them onto big, flat wagons, each one pulled by huge shaggy horses that snorted like dragons. Napoleon stood guard, barking at the gigantic beasts when they stepped too close. You should have seen them. They had hooves like dinner plates. But the dog was a good guardian and the match boy laid there unmolested. No one came near, or checked on him at all. He just slept and slept and slept. Napoleon carefully arranged herself across his thin, little body, a living blanket to fend off the cold. A few workmen came out to smoke cigars. They could not smoke inside the cooperage. But it was cold, so they quickly sucked up all the tobacco and stomped back in. One or two may have glanced his way, but they didn't do anything. It could be they did not want to appear 'sentimental' in front of their mates.......maybe.


Now the sun hates to stay in one place very long, so he rolled across the frigid, blue sky to another roost high atop the Saint Vitus steeple. Damp, gray shadows crept in to take his place. 


And soon the little boy began to wheeze...


Yet in his dreams he did not wheeze. In his dreams he was on that other street... in the other house... with the neat, granite steps.


But that was only an illusion.........


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THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. Andersen's poignant tale part XX

About nine hundred thousand people lived in Prague at that time. Art Nouveau salons flourished throughout the city creating masterpieces of all kinds. Political theorists grappled with all manner of problems in the great, Bohemian Diet. And wealthy dilletantes from glittering capitals the world over drifted in and out of the 'better' hotels and cafes. Stylish titled folk from Vienna and Budapest flocked to their palaces on the Vltava. But all that happened during the summertime. This was winter and things were quite different.


The little match boy drifted in and out of delirium. He saw great, warm, bowls of stew and cozy, thick quilts.  Maminka and Tatinek were there. Sweet babkas and bundt cakes occupied places of honor on the smooth, white, enameled kitchen table and he sampled it all. Moments latter an icy breeze would rouse him and he'd cry into Napoleon's fur. 


The pain in his throat was less searing now. Maybe he  could just no longer feel it. But the trembling was still there. So was the fever. Perhaps being light headed was a good thing. The boy reached into his pocket, a chunk of one of the large cookies still remained. He broke off a piece and chewed it. Swallowing was hard, but he did it. Another child, perhaps a girl, under another table cried out for help. She kept it up for fifteen minutes. And then her voice grew still. A bit later, the boy had to pee. He just wanted to lay there and do it in his pants. But a part of him was still the good, little baker's son, so he struggled to get up and slowly stumbled down to a crate by an alcove. Dizziness overwhelmed him, yet he managed to stay upright and empty his bladder. It felt good. He shivered. 


Then he turned around and made his way back to the spot under the outdoor market table.  A few loose pages of newsprint blew down the aisle, plastering themselves against his stomach. The boy mechanically gathered them up and used them to fend off the cold. But soon the pain came back. Yet even so, he slept. This time he had no dreams.


Two hours later the sun came up. The sky was blue. Teams of men with shovels and ice picks worked their way down the aisles and among the tables, readying them for the soon-to-arrive vendors. The few children left got up and ran away. The little boy watched them leave through half opened eyes. He did not want to go. But when he saw the men kick and beat an older boy, not so far away, he grabbed onto a table leg and pulled himself up. A few fluttering heartbeats later he shuffled 'round a corner and disappeared from sight. Napoleon went with him.


Almost all the children were gone. Only the one who cried last night was left. But she, at least, was dead.


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THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. Andersen's poignant tale part XX

About nine hundred thousand people lived in Prague at that time. Art Nouveau salons flourished throughout the city creating masterpieces of all kinds. Political theorists grappled with all manner of problems in the great, Bohemian Diet. And wealthy delitants 

THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. Andersen's poignant tale part XX

About nine hundred thousand people lived in Prague at that time. Art N

THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. Andersen's poignant tale part XIX

An icy rain came down to claim the snow covered city, sealing all under a frigid, glass-like veneer. The little boy skittered and ran all the way back to the outdoor market off Wenceslas Square. Napoleon, her shoulders hunched and nose pressed down to the ground, trotted after him. She was so cold and so wet. As soon as they claimed a spot under one of the heavy, gray tables he dried her. He took off his scarf   ( in itself a true sacrifice) and rubbed the bone numbing chill from her fur. She kissed his face. He laughed. Then he flapped the woolen scarf in the wind (fortunately, the rain couldn't reach this corner) and wound it round his throat. Other street urchins occupied similar positions, sitting in their under-the-table shelters and staring out, just like animals in a zoo. No one came to bother them, even the child-stealers. Some said the snatched ones wound up in sup-alpine salt mines. They needed children there to squeeze into the tiny, little narrow places. Others claimed they sold them east,  to spoiled Russian-Ukrainian nobles for 'domestic' work on country dachas. But the latest story was even more sinister. 'Pharmaceutical' factories were establishing themselves throughout the Hapsburg realm. Indeed, there was a new wonder drug, aspirin, on the horizon, plus other sometimes miraculous elixirs as well.  Clinical functionaries kept such unfortunate young ones locked in primitive laboratories, where they were regularly dosed with a veritable rainbow of bitter nostrums. Strong, canvas belts secured them to the beds. Movement was difficult. And the sheets were rarely changed. Death was common, almost a given. The fresh, new corpses turned profits again, as they assumed vivisectional duties upon gurneys in well respected, university medical schools. No one asked questions. They just did not want to. 


But the little boy did not know this. He had his own troubles. First there was a weak, small itching at the back of his throat, courtesy of the tram-ogre's filthy spit. It made him cough. He wedged himself deep into the corner, up against a store front. But it didn't really chase away the cold. Then his head began to feel hot...and his neck too. He loosened the scarf and pushed his cap back from his forehead. At least he had the dog. She kept him warm.  And in all probability, he returned the favor. But the itching got worse, blossoming into a growing red-hot fire. If he were a well-to-do boy, hired doctors might recommend quinine or some other pricey treatment, but he was not. So he 'made do' with an icicle snapped off from the edge of his table-roof and slowly sucked at it in an attempt to lessen the pain. He trembled. He shivered. His little head hurt and his ears hurt too. But at least he was out of the rain.


And he lay there with the dog, waiting to get better.


Another boy, from under another table, tried to snuggle in against Napoleon too. But she snapped at him and drove him away.


The wind died down at sunset. The dampness vanished too. But the air just got colder and colder.


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THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. Andersen's poignant tale part XVIII

A man stepped down from the Gypsy caravan, but whether he was truly Romani, or 'Cikan,' as they say in these parts is open to interpretation. Others have adopted the 'traveler' ways. He could be just about anything. He held a steaming chamber pot out before him. And without even looking at the boys, heaved it's sloshing contents onto the snow. A few viscous drops almost hit them. 


The man wore high leather boots and full Magyar trousers. He had a long, flowing mustache and a jaunty, little Tyrolian hat with a feather. His skin was mottled and dark from the road and he reeked from wine and tobacco. His shrewd, appraising eyes took in the scene....... Nice dog. - he said.......At least he spoke Czech. The boys simply starred and said nothing, as the man jumped down from the first wooden step and proceeded to wash his piss pot in the snow. Then he turned to his young audience and said - So... who wants to get warm?......... Still, they said nothing. Even Napoleon was quiet. The woman inside rapidly cackled something in a high pitched, grating whine.  And although he didn't respond, the man still took in what she said....... There's a little coal pot inside...a little oven. See the smoke from the pipe? It's nice in there. Come. Sit down. Have a bit of soup.... I insist. - he crooned...... The new boy looked to the little match boy. The match boy just shrugged. He was frightened. He did not know what to do.  Everyone feared the Gypsies. Babicki scared children with stories of mysterious abductions. So he held tight to the dog and looked down at the snow. But his new friend piped right up and said - Yes, sure. I'll come in. I'll have some soup!......... Splendid! - said the colorful traveler, as he stole a quick glance into the wagon. The new friend quickly whispered to the match boy - I'll go first. If it's all right, I'll get you........ The little match boy, still staring down at the crusty snow, just nodded. And an instant later the new  boy jumped up and scrambled into the tiny, movable house. The man with the flowing mustache clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. Then he muttered something toward the innocent six year old on the ground, before climbing inside and slamming the door. 


Nine heartbeats later, someone up front (the match boy could not see) cracked a whip and the magic cottage was off, racing over the icy streets on slick, long, curving runners. And it was only after they rounded the corner and passed from sight that the match boy realized his things were inside. All he had was in the canvas sack. And the canvas sack was gone. So he huddled against the dog and ate a bit of snow. 


They stayed like that for hours. Two homeless young ones beneath a leaden sky. 


And then, sometime in the afternoon, a gendarme approached. So they both got up and quickly ran away.


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THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. Andersen's poignant tale part XVII

Napoleon smelled the blood. She squirmed free of the sobbing match boy and made her way down the aisle. At first she just stood there, watching the new boy retrieve their things from the ogre's pockets. He carefully put them down on a seat, checking and re-checking to make sure nothing was missing. Then he rummaged through the tram's storage box (where the crusty, old beast was sleeping) looking for some type of bag. There was a folded, canvas sack at the bottom,  meant for mail, but the Czech Postal Service still used horse carts, so he pulled out the pristine heavy fabric and quickly filled it with their belongings. Napoleon wanted to lap up the blood pooling about the old man's groin, but he stopped her. She nudged him away and nosed back, eager to taste the derelicts salty fluid. The new boy yelled and cracked her across the muzzle. Not too hard. He knew how to handle dogs. And she recognized this, so she backed off. 


After the bag was all packed, the new boy went back to the storage box to get some rope. He took out a medium weight, five meter coil and used it to fashion a crude harness and leash for the spaniel. There's a way to do it. Country people know how. You weave the rope through the animal's front legs and around it's rib cage, leaving two equal lengths going back from the shoulders, rather like a bridle.  Napoleon basically cooperated. Apparently she wasn't homeless for long. 


Then he pried open the door with a bit of metal tracking salvaged from the same box. It made his hand bleed, but that was all right. It didn't bleed much. A bright orange knit glove (taken from his meager inventory) covered it fine. He dragged the still curious dog away from the ugly corpse and took her outside into the bitter, knife-like air, where he tied her up to a shuttered kiosk before going back in. 


The little match boy hadn't moved. He still lay curled on his side at the back of the car. Tear tracks staining his cheeks......... Get up! Get up! - yelled the new boy. He shook him hard to rouse him.......... Come on. We have to get out of here. Do you want the police to find us!? You know what they do with orphaned criminals, don't you?....... W-what? - hiccuped the match boy............. They sell 'em to the Zid in Josefov. I know. My uncle told me. You want that to happen? You want it!? You want it!?........... N-no - sobbed the little match boy, though he had no idea what it would be like to live with the Jews in the ghetto at all. So he stumbled to his feet, wiped his nose with a bit of old handkerchief and fell in behind his 'friend.'


When they got outside, Napoleon started to bark. And you know how much barking echos on  cold, dark winter days. Even though the icy streets were empty, they shut her up with tiny crumbs of left over cookies. No telling who else might be creeping about out there. The old man was enough. The street-wise glove merchant washed his face and hands with crusty snow. He made the match boy do the same. They had to appear as presentable as possible, just in case they did run into a gendarme. Pass for kids out larking about in the cold. So they picked up the canvas sack (actually, the glove merchant did that) and trudged off through the snow-bound city. Heavy, bronze church bells pierced the frigid air, as a watery daylight disappeared behind thickening clouds.


Ten minutes later, resting against the back of a half buried bench in a little park, they heard a noise. Jing, jing, jing, jing, jing, jing, jing. Soon a little Cikan (gypsy) caravan came round the bend, all colorful and bright against the wintry streetscape. The owners had it fitted out as a sleigh. It was pulled by a trim, little, high stepping Gypsy cob, a fine, showy pinto, complete with a flowing ivory mane, streaming tail and fine, thickly feathered hooves. The boys held their breath (steamy vapor would be a give-away) and froze, trying to become invisible. But Napoleon started barking. She just couldn't help it. The high pitched wail echoed 'round the little urban copse. And the multicolored domicile skidded to a smooth, jingly stop.


They could hear grown-ups yelling inside. And then ten heartbeats later, the back door slowly opened. 


The dog shut up and pressed in close.


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