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

The lumbering old derelict stomped toward them, as the little match boy frantically tried to budge the frozen door. Buh slitovani, Buh slitovani, Buh slitovani - he whispered over and over again. But his new friend, although 'concerned' did not seem quite so terrified, for he ever so slowly inched a thin, razor sharp stiletto out from the lining of his coat...... You want to see God's mercy? Here's His mercy - he whispered back...... The match boy stared at the shiny blade and grew quiet.


Thud, thud, thud.....Either the flea-bitten monster had a wooden leg or a rigid knee, a pirate (though unfortunately minus his patch) sent to confront the two lost boys. Four more steps and he'd be there. No other sound, but the soft whimpering of Napoleon penetrated the dead, cold air. 


The disfigured, ancient pirate spewed curses in his own mysterious tongue. The boy with the stiletto mouthed the word 'sileny.' But the match boy did not care if he was crazy or not. He just wanted  to live.


Then it happened. The crazy, filthy, 'pirate' was upon them. He raised the blade. The little match boy thought- Maminka, tatinek, not like this. Help me. Help me. Help me.......... Well, maybe they did, for the dried up, soulless killer stopped. His rheumy eyes focused on their  meager stash of belongings. And he clucked and chuckled as he hunched over to look through their things. 


The new boy flinched. He made a move. He meant to run (where? who knows?). But the demon calmly flicked his blade through the air and the boy jumped back, his hand pressed to a bleeding cut upon his cheek. So they crouched there, still as graveyard statues, as the ghoulish thief touched their belongings. He stuffed things in his pockets - the matches, the cookies, most of the multicolored gloves. The match boy stole a glance at the horribly scarred face. What fire burned shut that hellish eye? What battles killed his soul? The other boy concentrated on more practical things. He looked. And he watched. And he waited. 


The little match boy couldn't help himself. It was reflexive. It just spilled out of him. He began to drone - Buh slitovani, buh slitovani, buh slitovani, out into the dim, shadowy interior of a side-tracked tram car on a dark, gray winter day. The ghoul cruelly mocked him - 'Buh slitovani, buh slitovani........ And then he hauled back and spit right in the match boy's upturned face. The little one did nothing, as silent tears ran down his dirtied cheeks.


But it seems that God did hear and He did favor him with a mercy of sorts. For far back, just to the other side of the glass, a fat, disoriented pigeon went smack, right up against the grimy pane. Napoleon heard. She saw. Her instincts kicked in and she began to bark and bark and bark. 


Their tormentor turned to quiet her. He yelled a garbled threat in his own language. And in that one distracted instant, the new kid, the glove merchant, lunged up with his stiletto and plunged it deep into the old man's withered groin.


A silent scream caught in his throat. He crumpled down upon them and curled up like a babe in the womb, as he choked and drooled and cried. The two boys scrambled up and climbed passed him (although the little knife-wielder stopped to deliver a few fast, hard kicks), as they hurried down the aisle to see about the dog.


But she was all right. Bruised maybe, but all right. So the little killer went back up front to retrieve their things from the dead man's bulging pockets, as the little match boy hugged the dog and cried.


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

It was quiet in the tram car. The air was still. Tiny pellets of sleet peppered the roof. The new boy ran to the back and struggled to force down the open window. Napoleon raced around sniffing the seats. The little match boy dumped their stuff on a stiff, leather bench and sat down. 

Not that it was warm in there (it wasn't), but at least they wouldn't freeze. The new boy managed to force down the window. Then he came up to the front and collapsed. 

You want a piece a cookie? - said the little match boy. He still had almost two of the big ones left........ Nah - said the other kid. Maybe later. Let me sleep first..... So the match boy just nodded and stared out the window. But after say about eighty eight heart beats, his eyes started to close. And he was almost asleep when Napoleon began to growl..... Not loud..... but you could tell she really meant it. 

The tired little match boy sighed. He slid off the seat and went back to see. There was another leather covered bench toward the rear. The spaniel just stood there pointing. Remember, they are hunting dogs, after all. The match boy stroked her back to calm her. He could feel the low vibrations eminating out from her lungs. But then he heard it too. There was a tiny, small sound coming out from under the seat. He held his breath and listened. A thin, raspy, whistle, like a tea kettle boiling away in a distant flat. 

He quietly sneaked back to wake his friend. It didn't take much. Street kids are light sleepers. Just a soft, little tap on the cheek. The new boy opened his eyes. Shhhh, went the match boy. He pointed toward the spot where Napoleon stood guard. They silently crept down the central aisle. The match boy just listened. His friend did too. Then the new kid saw something. He leaned over, whispering in his ear - I think it's a lid. I think they keep things in there......... Like what?- mouthed the little match boy........ Like tram car stuff - whispered his friend........... Heartbeats went by. Finally the new kid slowly reached out. He put his fingers under the edge of the bench. It was heavy..... Help me - he said......... The little match boy lifted  too. The dog kept right on growling. The hinge connecting the leather covered board to the wall went 'pop' and the seat flew up. A gnarled old man looked up at them through one good eye, the other sealed shut by hard, shiny, scar tissue. The boys stood frozen to the spot. Napoleon started barking. And the wild-haired ogre sprang to life, frantically searching through his pockets. Then he found it. He found the knife. He held it, a big country dagger like hill folk use to skin rabbits. The boys screamed. They raced up front to the door, desperate to force it open, but the frozen metal track wouldn't budge. Napoleon lunged at the nightmare figure. She bit down on his dirty, sour wrist. But he just picked her up and threw her against the back of the car, where she whimpered and crawled under a seat. The old man liked that. He grinned an evil grin. Then he turned around and limped up the aisle, all the while muttering curses in a language all his own.

And the helpless children crouched down on the floor and waited.....

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

Men with huge brooms came out to sweep the snow, but it did no good, for five minutes later it was back. People looked out through the frosty windows fronting the vast square, secure in their steamy warmth.  Those less fortunate huddled wherever the could. The little boy and his new friend cleared a spot under a heavy, municipal bench by a tram stop. The city was quite proud of its modern electric transit  system. A new century, the twentieth, was but seven years away. Yet on this night, scientific breakthroughs did not matter. And even the twinkling lights decorating Prague's own replica of Paris' Eiffel Tower surrendered to the snow. 


Each boy ate one of the thick, chocolaty cookies. They talked about going into the U Fleku rathskeller. You could buy fat, hot sausages in there. In summer, there was even a beer garden outside. But neither one wanted to chance it. The Anti-Semitic League met there, not on a regular basis, but every once in a while. And tonight was one of those nights. They could hear the loud singing. They could hear heavy, glass tankards pounding down on long, oak tables. Neither one of the boys was Zidovsky (Jewish), but the scene frightened them just the same. So they crouched there under the bench by the tram stop. Every few minutes they brushed away the snow, lest it seal them in. Few trams came by that night.


A few hours later a watery, cold sun slid up into the sky behind a gray-white, cloudy veil. But it only made things look worse. The tiny yellow lights behind frosty windows were gone. At least they seemed to look warm. Come, I'll take you to that place. - said the new boy. So they brushed themselves off, dabbed at their cheeks with a bit of snow, ate a little more, gathered up their things and set off. It was hard stepping through the thigh-high drifts. The men with the brooms could only do so much. Three streets down a 'wild' dog started to chase them. But the little boy broke off a piece from one of his last two cookies and threw it at the snarling beast, which was in reality a twenty five pound spaniel, and nine heartbeats later they had a new-found, furry friend. He made them laugh. And his kisses tickled. Two minutes later, they stopped behind a closed up shop for a good pee. Napoleon (the spaniel) peed too. And although he turned out to be a Josephine, they still called her Napoleon.


But most of the stores were locked up tight. What lunatic would venture out on a day like this? A little red and white, tin thermometer quivering in the wind against the facade of an apothecary read minus fifteen degrees centigrade (5F). It was very cold. They'd have to replenish their stocks tomorrow, or perhaps even the day after that. 


The new boy said he knew where they could warm up. There was a depot, more like a little storage yard where they'd keep maybe three or four out of service tram cars. The watchman wouldn't be out on a day like this. And he knew a way to jimmy open one of the side windows, so they ran off. Their feet were starting to get wet. They had to run.


When they got there, a back window on the last tram was already slightly open. That was good. The last car was up against a brick wall. It'll be warmer in there. The new boy looked around. He was street-wise. He knew what to do. Some snow covered wine crates littered an alley behind a shuttered bistro. He managed to drag a few over. The little boy helped. Napoleon wanted to help too, but all she could do was yelp and bark. Soon they had a rickety ladder, two crates high. From there, they could squirm through the window. And if they fell, so what? Everything was covered with  forty five centimeters of snow. It was like a mattress.  The new boy went first. Then the little match boy stretched up as far as he could and handed in their 'supplies.' For a few heartbeats he was scared. What if the other boy decided to rob him? What if he slammed down the window and left him out in the freezing cold? He turned and looked toward Napoleon.  She met his gaze and panted hopefully. Apparently she wasn't worried. A few moments later he heard  an icy metallic shriek, as the tram door scrapped open (the new boy obviously knew how to 'jimmy' lots of things). So they quickly scrambled in and pulled it shut.


But then the dog began to growl. Not loud, but she meant it, for someone else had found the tram car first....


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

He stayed there til the first light of false dawn. The children were careful to scramble away before the  vendors arrived. But this day was different, for now he was a vendor too. No sooner did he venture back into the square than a gruff coachman stomped over...... Give me a pack, boy. How much? - he said....... The little fellow could read numbers and simple words. He knew it said two pfennig on each box, so that was it. The huge man in the black greatcoat tossed him the coins. He managed to grab one. The other he picked up from the cobbles and he was off..... Matches! Matches! who will buy my matches? - he called. And approximately every three of four hundred heartbeats he'd sell a pack. That day, he had a good lunch, a big steaming mug of thick, hot goulash ladled out by a friendly fat woman from a stall by the booksellers. She even gave him a nice roll.  When he gave her the ten pfennig, she tossed one back and laughed - A discount for my little friend!....... He smiled. It was the first he'd done so in ages.


The rest of the day was, by the reckoning of a Prague gutter snipe, uneventful. He traded a few words with a girl selling straight pins and nodded to a boy selling rags. But, for the most part, the miniature businessmen of the quarter tended to avoid each other. Younger vendors sometimes hid in corners watching the battles of older children desperate to protect their turf. So they learned to spread out and stay away from trouble. It was better that way. It was easier. Whenever he saw strange kids approaching, he ran away. Sometimes a box would bounce out. He felt bad about that. But a bloody nose would be worse. Seven hours into the business day almost sixty five little boxes were gone. One crown, twenty pfennig, a quarter of a crown. That's what he had. Soon he'll have to think about replenishing his stock.


But sometime after three, it started to snow, not soft and dry. That type of snow was fine. Only this was different. Damp, heavy flakes blew in from the north, clotting 'round the windows and smearing up the streets. Soon it turned to glass. He saw an old man take a hard fall. His hat flew off and he cracked his head on the icy cobbles. Two men slid over to help. They managed to get him up on his feet. He held a handkerchief against his stinging wound and thanked them. It was too late about the hat. That blew away. Some street girl got that. At least he was all right. But after slowly shuffling over toward the sidewalk, he reached into his pocket and then he knew. His purse was gone. The little boy could tell. He felt such things now. Maybe in a few weeks events like that wouldn't touch him...provided he survived that long. Yet right now they still did. So he went over to the man and tugged his sleeve........ Do you want some monies, Mister Grandpop? - inquired the pint sized benefactor........ The old man looked down, patted the boy's shoulder and wept..... He said - No, my little man. Keep your money for yourself..... Then he sniffed back a tear, turned up his collar and hobbled off round the corner.


The boy noticed another juvenile businessman watching. He went over. The other young fellow eyed him suspiciously. But he was a little guy too, so they talked. This one sold gloves, not leather, just knit ones. A man with a little factory gave him a few of the leftovers (odd sizes, strange colors) in return for sweeping up, emptying the slops. And his hands did not freeze when he held the wooden tray. A thick purple one covered his right hand and a similar pumpkin hued one covered his left. So they struck a deal, fifteen pfennig and three boxes of matches.  Not so bad. One gray glove. One bottle green. So now the little match boy had warm hands too. His new friend told him where to get 'stock.' A general merchandise wholesaler sold goods from a storefront not too far off. Tomorrow he'd take him there. They huddled together under the arcade fronting the coffee house by The National Theatre.  And a heavy snow continued tumbling down. It would be much colder under the stout wood tables tonight...... Much colder indeed........


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

It was quiet on that little side street. A few cats wandered through leaving paw prints in the light, dry, snowy powder. The rats weren't around. Too cold for them. Steamy sewers are better. A doxie strolled through with an imperial guardsman.  But she saw the children sleeping there and considerately decided on another site.


The little boy carefully folded the cookie bag  and put it down inside his coat. If he slipped each hand into the opposite sleeve like a mandarin that would be all right. Then they'd be warm. He still had the sweater, a cap and two scarves. He knew about using newspapers for insulation. All street people knew that. A folded-up cardboard box made a pillow. He'd survive...for that night anyway. So he slept. Visions of  buttered bread danced in his head.


The little girl, under the table across from him slept too. And the other children, encamped nearby did the same. Peace descended on the place. Every quarter hour the church bells chimed. The world stood still and rested. 


But sometime during the night, between the waning of the moon and the first pale weeping light, an old woman walked through the place. She saw the little girl and quickly motioned with her hand. Two big men silently padded up. She pointed down at the sleeping child and stepped aside. One of the men silently got down and scooped her up. She never even opened her eyes. The old crone stroked her smooth, white cheek. Then she nodded her head and scratched out a rough dry chuckle.  Fifteen heartbeats later they were gone. And the little boy, too afraid to move, saw it all. Why did he wake  up? Who knows? But he did. When it was safe he soundlessly crawled over and took the wicker tray back to his side. Then he crossed his legs and silently counted the match boxes. There were ninety of them, priced at two pfennig a box. 


He hoped the old woman was the little girl's babicka. She looked more than old enough to be a grandmother. Yet he felt she was not. So he stuffed himself back into a corner (with the tray close behind) and stared at her empty place. Then he broke off a piece of cookie and ate it. But he did not fall back asleep all night........


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

The first day, after the beating, he just sat there. People walked by. They saw him, but nobody said anything. Oh, one young woman did approach. She started to talk to him, but her husband pulled  her away. When the neighborhood boys ran by he burrowed under the papers. They left him alone. So he just sat there, staring at the front of the houses 'cross the street. He did not cry. He missed his parents. He missed Max. But he did not cry. Later, when he needed to pee-pee, he quietly got up and walked off. There were secluded lots, much like unofficial parks, scattered throughout the district. Finding a quiet spot wasn't a problem. If anyone came close he just ran away. And he looked first before he stepped behind any bush. 


It was cold now. A thin blanket of snow covered the city. People hurried about, shopping, talking, visiting. He walked too, only much slower, absentmindedly following the footprints of a person gone before. Soon he was in Wenceslas Square, the very heart of the city. Papa took him there once to see the new museum. He liked the statues, all the clean, white faces of Czech heroes from ages past. He enjoyed the wide, marble galleries. They pretended it was a palace. And in a very real sense, it was. Papa bought him a toasted cheese sandwich in a little alcove set aside for resting. That day was fun. He wanted to relive it, so he went in. At first no one stopped him. He wasn't the only child inside. Small groups of well-off boys and girls followed teachers and guides, as they told about all the displays. For a little while, he forgot his problems and listened. Knights in armor. Paintings of wood sprites. He saw it all, just like he did with Papa. When it was lunchtime, the other children took seats 'round clean, marble tables in the place where he once had the toasted cheese sandwich. But food costs money and he did not have any. A lady came over in a long, dark blue dress with a lacy collar. She asked him where he belonged. He did not answer. She went over to speak with the teachers, but they didn't know him. So she lightly put her hand on the dirty shoulder of his little coat and gently, but firmly steered him through the vast chambers, til she shooed him out the large bronze doors. He never did get any lunch. 


The rest of the daylight hours were spent walking along Narodni Trida quietly looking at the people going in and out of the fine shops; not so much watching them, just looking. There was a nice, warm coffee house right by the National Theatre. It smelled so good. They had chocolate in there too. He stopped and looked in the window. Well dressed men and women gathered 'round small, tables drinking little cups filled with rich, aromatic brews. A few children were in there too, with nannies, or protective grandmothers. He watched them. He stared. Not that he meant to, but he just did. Then a man came out. He said - You there. Young man. A little low in funds are we? ......... The little boy wasn't sure what he meant. He never heard expressions like that. And he was afraid. He wanted to run away. But the man looked friendly, so he stood there and let him take him inside. Everything smelled delicious. Fine cakes, pastries and carefully crimped meat pies lined a glittering, glass showcase. They went over. The man said - Looks good, doesn't it? Pick something. I'd recommend a fat meat pie to start, then a sweet, little cheese pocket for dessert............... So that's what he had, washed down with a nice mug (for the children, they had mugs) of mocha mit schlag (mixture of coffee and chocolate, topped with whipped cream). The man tried to ask him some questions, but he got scared and said he had to go meet his 'big brother.' So the kind hearted gentleman took him back to the display case and bought him a half dozen large, thick chocolate swirled cookies, finished off with good chocolate sprinkles 'round the edges.  The fraulein  behind the counter handed him a crisp, white bag and smiled. He shyly thanked them both and politely walked back outside.  It was getting dark. He had to find a safe place to sleep. There was a small open air market just off the square.  The large, heavy wooden tables stayed out all night. He went down an aisle between two rows. A small flame from the nearby gas streetlight provided a weak, yellowish glow. He found a place under a sturdy table and crept in to rest. But then he thought better of it and dashed down a little alley to do his 'business.' After that he hurried back to claim his spot. It started to snow again. He held his little hands out from under the table and washed them clean in the cold, silvery flakes. A big cookie from the crisp, white bag would taste good now, so he began to eat one. Soon a few other poor, little children crept down the street to find places under the tables. No one made a noise. Some greeted each other. A few quiet words were exchanged, but that was it. A little girl, bundled in layer after layer of baggy sweaters took a spot across the aisle. She nodded. He nodded back. But she watched as he ate the huge, delicious cookie. She laid there, curled on her side, eyes measuring every single bite. After about twenty five heartbeats, the little fellow said - You want a cookie?.......... She nodded and he offered one. When she leaned out to take it, he saw the little wicker tray filled tiny, neat boxes of matches. 


They ate their cookies and fell asleep......


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