Horses versus Tigers.
Adam was another Lucky's patron, a Polish merchant marine who had been a little boy during the September Campaign. When I knew him, he was short and round and red-faced. He was quick-tempered, pounding his fist on the bar at the least mention of warfare or occupations or Communism or China. He had lived in the U.S. since the 60s or 70s, but his accent was still sharp and pointed, making words that seemed like fierce black birds.
Adam told me about the Polish September Campaign that began World War II. The Germans and Russians had shaken hands, secretly, under a table somewhere, on the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, by which they would conquer and divide Europe. Poland must have seemed like a natural starting point, being situated like a fat rope between the two new pals eager for a game of tug 'o' war.
Adam's uncle, along with most of the other men in the village, took to arms when the German Tigers growled and pawed their way over the horizon. But they had no tanks of their own, and their weapons were antique and pitiable. They wore their military uniforms if they had them. They rode their horses into the fray, if they had them.
I imagined this as Adam described the scene, fist pumping and upsetting his beer.
The German Tigers, fierce, lumbering, mechanical beasts, bombarding farmland with mortar shells, invincible, unmanly, hard and cruel. They inch forward, leaving lumpy trails of mud behind them. Soft German men hidden inside the metal hide. Smoke clouds stack higher and higher to either side.
Children like Adam hidden under beds or peeping through windows.
Polish uncles and fathers straddling the backs of strong, dark horses, manes thrown back, lips curled, eyes streaming from the smoke, hooves startling at the sound of mortar. The men in their clean uniforms, polished, gleaming honors, perhaps feathers, chests broad and brave, boots shining and black, eyes squinting and fearless, muskets raised. Or standing in work clothes, in clothes stained with soil and sweat, chins raised, jaws set.
What a sight it must have been for a boy spying from the cover of gingham curtains. How heroic they must have seemed. And how sad and comic. How sad and comic that they stood their, pitting horses against Tigers.
Adam told me about the Polish September Campaign that began World War II. The Germans and Russians had shaken hands, secretly, under a table somewhere, on the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, by which they would conquer and divide Europe. Poland must have seemed like a natural starting point, being situated like a fat rope between the two new pals eager for a game of tug 'o' war.
Adam's uncle, along with most of the other men in the village, took to arms when the German Tigers growled and pawed their way over the horizon. But they had no tanks of their own, and their weapons were antique and pitiable. They wore their military uniforms if they had them. They rode their horses into the fray, if they had them.
I imagined this as Adam described the scene, fist pumping and upsetting his beer.
The German Tigers, fierce, lumbering, mechanical beasts, bombarding farmland with mortar shells, invincible, unmanly, hard and cruel. They inch forward, leaving lumpy trails of mud behind them. Soft German men hidden inside the metal hide. Smoke clouds stack higher and higher to either side.
Children like Adam hidden under beds or peeping through windows.
Polish uncles and fathers straddling the backs of strong, dark horses, manes thrown back, lips curled, eyes streaming from the smoke, hooves startling at the sound of mortar. The men in their clean uniforms, polished, gleaming honors, perhaps feathers, chests broad and brave, boots shining and black, eyes squinting and fearless, muskets raised. Or standing in work clothes, in clothes stained with soil and sweat, chins raised, jaws set.
What a sight it must have been for a boy spying from the cover of gingham curtains. How heroic they must have seemed. And how sad and comic. How sad and comic that they stood their, pitting horses against Tigers.
posted by Autumn at 7:16 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home