Think (Before You Act or Speak)
by Jessica Steves
Johan nervously rubs his fingers over the tabletop, which is worn and scratched and stained with cup rings. A square of afternoon light has been thrown across it from the window, turning the boy’s hand golden where it flows over him and leaving his wrist pale and shadowed. There’s the latest copy of the Hamburger Morgenposten, dated April 24th, 1952, lying on the table close to his hand, and scattered around it like orbiting moons are the salt and pepper shakers, some piled letters for his mother, as well as the saucer that Armen, the man sitting across the table from Johan, is using as an ashtray.
Armen is about thirty years old but looks older, carrying an added decade in his eyes. One eye is plain grey and trained on Johan, watching how the boy fidgets in his seat and occasionally turns his head to look through the window, and the other is greyish-blue and made of glass, and watches nothing at all. The blue hint is an error, an imperfection that betrays it as a fake when coupled with the shrapnel scars around the socket. He is not Johan’s father.
The man sighs and taps the ash off the end of his cigarette, making Johan look at him. “What happened?” the man asks, his voice rasping but quiet. Normally Armen doesn’t look at the boy when he speaks, knowing that something about the glass eye spooks Johan and puts him on edge, but now he turns to face him and makes it clear that Johan has his full attention.
Johan squirms in place under the weight of the man’s gaze, trying to think of something to say that isn’t too incriminating. The clock ticks, water gurgles in the pipes within the walls, and someone walks around in the apartment above this one—but those aren’t real sounds, just the background susurrus of life in a city, and the silence stretches out between them.
Stretches until it snaps. “Johan,” Armen warns.
The boy’s shoulders hunch and then relax at the sound of the man’s voice, the movement come and gone in less than a second, almost a flinch. “I…” the boy begins. He trails off, thinks for a moment, then starts again: “I was with Dieter, and we got into an argument, and I got mad and hit him, and he hit me, and then Christoph saw us and yelled, and I ran away. I know it was wrong. I’m sorry.” Johan looks down, afraid of Armen’s reaction, and begins chewing his lower lip. He always does this when he’s nervous, and can taste copper on his tongue when the scabs break open under his teeth.
“Is that the truth?” Armen asks.
Johan nods down at his lap.
“Look at me and say it.”
He drags his head back up. Armen’s face shows neither anger nor disappointment. His glass eye offers no hint of his thoughts, and the real one is unreadable.
Johan licks the blood off his lips. “It’s true, sir,” he says.
Whatever is on his face that Armen is interested in seeing passes inspection, because the man nods and looks away. He stares at the wall as he thinks. Johan looks down again and begins picking at a hangnail on his left index finger, desperate for something to do with his hands.
“Was the argument worth the fight?” Armen rasps after a few seconds.
“No, sir,” Johan answers.
“Look at me when you talk.” The command is as soft as Armen’s hoarse voice can make it, and isn’t particularly angry—just barely annoyed, really. Johan looks up again, clasping his hands together in his lap in an attempt to keep them still and uninteresting.
“It wasn’t worth it, sir,” he says.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Johan shrugs, unable to stop himself from looking down at the tabletop.
“When I was your age and started fights, my father would take me into the woods, have me pick a branch, and then paddle me with it hard enough that I couldn’t sit down for dinner,” Armen says. Johan looks up at that, because it’s hard for him to imagine Armen having two eyes, let alone as a child.
The man looks back at him. “Should I do that?” he asks.
“...The woods are a long way away,” Johan answers cautiously.
“Does that mean yes?”
Johan shakes his head hard, and Armen’s mouth momentarily twists into something that might have been a thin smile. It’s gone before Johan can be sure, however.
“I’m going to have to hit you for this,” the man rasps, serious again. He doesn’t sound happy when he says that—but then, he rarely ever does, about anything. “Maybe not that hard, but I will.”
“Yes, sir,” Johan says, because there isn’t anything else to say.
“What were you arguing about?”
“Nothing,” the boy says. He shrugs and looks down.
“Nothing is going to get you no dinner as well as a beating. Look up and tell me.”
Johan squirms uncomfortably in his seat, grimacing and looking at the wall next to Armen’s head as he tries to find the right words. “We were… we were playing War,” he begins eventually, the words slow and cautious. “And I wanted to be the general, and Dieter said no, and we argued, and that’s why we got into a fight. He always gets to be the general; it’s not fair.” The words start to rush out of his mouth now, practically stumbling over themselves in an effort to be said. “The only time he’s not the general is when we’re enemies, and then he always gets to be the Americans, or the French, or the English, and he won’t even let me be the Russians. I always have to be the Germans. It’s not fair. I was just trying to get my turn.”
Johan falls silent, breathing slightly harder than before. He looks at Armen with a mixture of fear and defiance, expecting condemnation and trying to brace himself for it.
“You’re German,” Armen points out.
The boy shrugs uncomfortably, ashamed. “Yeah,” he says, “But the Germans are…” Johan trails off into silence, looking at the ugly lines of the shrapnel scars surrounding Armen’s glass eye. His face turns red.
“The Germans are what, Johan?” Armen rasps, leaning forward slightly and resting his forearms on the table. The cigarette sends a thin plume of bluish tobacco smoke to the ceiling from where it rests between the man’s fingers, entirely forgotten.
“It doesn’t matter,” Johan replies. “Please.”
“No. Tell me what we are.”
Johan wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, briefly glancing down at the orange bloodstain left behind on his skin before looking back up at Armen. “We’re… evil,” he says miserably, unconsciously cringing away from him a tiny bit, “We killed the Jews.”
“You didn’t kill anyone,” Armen growls, and his voice and the look on his face are harsh enough to make Johan flinch in his seat.
Armen sees the movement and checks himself, looking down at the tabletop so that he doesn’t have to see the boy’s face and hunching his shoulders slightly. Eventually he notices the cigarette in his hand, and almost seems surprised to find it there. He stares at it for a moment, raises it to his mouth, stops, looks at it again, and then grinds it out in the saucer. Ash mixes with the dregs of gritty coffee already there, and an oily sheen appears on the surface of the liquid when the square of afternoon sunlight from the window falls over it.
“Don’t… don’t get into fights,” Armen rasps eventually, unable to look at the boy when he speaks. The chair makes an obscenely loud squealing noise as it scrapes across the kitchen tile when he stands up, shattering the stillness of the apartment kitchen.
Johan stares at the man with wide eyes. He doesn’t understand what happened just now, but he knows that he really, really said the wrong thing. He looks down when Armen walks over to him, watching the man’s black boots stop beside his chair and hunching down in his seat, trying to get away without actually moving.
“Johan.”
For the sake of not raising his head he rips out the hangnail he had been picking at, watching a bead of blood well up in the newly-excavated crevasse between the nail and the skin. His hand is shaking, though not because of the newborn pain.
“You have to look at me, Johan.”
Armen’s voice is no different than it was the first time and doesn’t sound angry, but Johan can’t disobey an order twice. He drags his head up and looks at Armen, expecting punishment and knowing that there isn’t any escape.
Armen leans down slightly and puts a hand on Johan’s shoulder, and from this close it’s easy to see that the glass eye is a painted fake even without the blue. The man hesitates as he looks down at him, then says, with uncharacteristic gentleness, “It’s alright. You… you’re right, about… the war.” The words sound as though they were dragged out of his throat, and that they’re false, insincere—but at the same time they’re not, because they can’t be; it’s what everyone has told Johan his entire life.
“I am?” he asks.
Armen nods. “Yes. We all—me, your father, everyone else who fought—did… bad things. It was a bad time and we did bad things even though we knew they were wrong, because everyone else was doing them too.”
“...Did you like doing them?” Johan asks, and watches Armen’s jaw tighten as he speaks.
“No,” the man answers, “But I didn’t say anything or try to not do them. We did what we were told, even though it was wrong and we knew it was wrong, because someone told us to do it. Your mother… she sometimes says, ‘If everyone else jumped off a cliff would you jump too?’ and that… it… it would be stupid to jump, but if everyone around you is doing the same thing and the ones behind are screaming at you to run, run, run and go over, then you jump—even though you know you’ll die when you hit the ground, you jump. That was what it was like. Do you understand, Johan?” His voice has a desperation that the boy has never heard before, something like fear, and that in itself is frightening because Armen isn’t supposed to be scared of anything.
“Yes, sir,” Johan whispers.
“Good.” Armen straightens up, embarrassed by his own display of emotion, his face now wiped clean and carefully closed off. He takes a step back and looks at Johan for a moment, searching for something to say, and then, uncomfortable, gives up and glances out the window. He’s only thirty, but the added decade in his eyes manifests also in the stoop that’s appeared in his shoulders and the faintly haggard look on his face. He runs a hand through his hair and looks back at Johan.
“Think before you act or speak,” Armen says. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Johan echoes.
The man nods at him, and the silence stretches out between them and sings with the tension of all the things that have not been said but writhe thickly in the air between them. When it snaps, Armen doesn’t speak, and instead turns on his heel and heads towards the door. His back is rigidly straight when he reaches it, and he doesn’t say goodbye even as it shuts behind him.
He never hits Johan for starting the fight with Dieter.
Armen is about thirty years old but looks older, carrying an added decade in his eyes. One eye is plain grey and trained on Johan, watching how the boy fidgets in his seat and occasionally turns his head to look through the window, and the other is greyish-blue and made of glass, and watches nothing at all. The blue hint is an error, an imperfection that betrays it as a fake when coupled with the shrapnel scars around the socket. He is not Johan’s father.
The man sighs and taps the ash off the end of his cigarette, making Johan look at him. “What happened?” the man asks, his voice rasping but quiet. Normally Armen doesn’t look at the boy when he speaks, knowing that something about the glass eye spooks Johan and puts him on edge, but now he turns to face him and makes it clear that Johan has his full attention.
Johan squirms in place under the weight of the man’s gaze, trying to think of something to say that isn’t too incriminating. The clock ticks, water gurgles in the pipes within the walls, and someone walks around in the apartment above this one—but those aren’t real sounds, just the background susurrus of life in a city, and the silence stretches out between them.
Stretches until it snaps. “Johan,” Armen warns.
The boy’s shoulders hunch and then relax at the sound of the man’s voice, the movement come and gone in less than a second, almost a flinch. “I…” the boy begins. He trails off, thinks for a moment, then starts again: “I was with Dieter, and we got into an argument, and I got mad and hit him, and he hit me, and then Christoph saw us and yelled, and I ran away. I know it was wrong. I’m sorry.” Johan looks down, afraid of Armen’s reaction, and begins chewing his lower lip. He always does this when he’s nervous, and can taste copper on his tongue when the scabs break open under his teeth.
“Is that the truth?” Armen asks.
Johan nods down at his lap.
“Look at me and say it.”
He drags his head back up. Armen’s face shows neither anger nor disappointment. His glass eye offers no hint of his thoughts, and the real one is unreadable.
Johan licks the blood off his lips. “It’s true, sir,” he says.
Whatever is on his face that Armen is interested in seeing passes inspection, because the man nods and looks away. He stares at the wall as he thinks. Johan looks down again and begins picking at a hangnail on his left index finger, desperate for something to do with his hands.
“Was the argument worth the fight?” Armen rasps after a few seconds.
“No, sir,” Johan answers.
“Look at me when you talk.” The command is as soft as Armen’s hoarse voice can make it, and isn’t particularly angry—just barely annoyed, really. Johan looks up again, clasping his hands together in his lap in an attempt to keep them still and uninteresting.
“It wasn’t worth it, sir,” he says.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Johan shrugs, unable to stop himself from looking down at the tabletop.
“When I was your age and started fights, my father would take me into the woods, have me pick a branch, and then paddle me with it hard enough that I couldn’t sit down for dinner,” Armen says. Johan looks up at that, because it’s hard for him to imagine Armen having two eyes, let alone as a child.
The man looks back at him. “Should I do that?” he asks.
“...The woods are a long way away,” Johan answers cautiously.
“Does that mean yes?”
Johan shakes his head hard, and Armen’s mouth momentarily twists into something that might have been a thin smile. It’s gone before Johan can be sure, however.
“I’m going to have to hit you for this,” the man rasps, serious again. He doesn’t sound happy when he says that—but then, he rarely ever does, about anything. “Maybe not that hard, but I will.”
“Yes, sir,” Johan says, because there isn’t anything else to say.
“What were you arguing about?”
“Nothing,” the boy says. He shrugs and looks down.
“Nothing is going to get you no dinner as well as a beating. Look up and tell me.”
Johan squirms uncomfortably in his seat, grimacing and looking at the wall next to Armen’s head as he tries to find the right words. “We were… we were playing War,” he begins eventually, the words slow and cautious. “And I wanted to be the general, and Dieter said no, and we argued, and that’s why we got into a fight. He always gets to be the general; it’s not fair.” The words start to rush out of his mouth now, practically stumbling over themselves in an effort to be said. “The only time he’s not the general is when we’re enemies, and then he always gets to be the Americans, or the French, or the English, and he won’t even let me be the Russians. I always have to be the Germans. It’s not fair. I was just trying to get my turn.”
Johan falls silent, breathing slightly harder than before. He looks at Armen with a mixture of fear and defiance, expecting condemnation and trying to brace himself for it.
“You’re German,” Armen points out.
The boy shrugs uncomfortably, ashamed. “Yeah,” he says, “But the Germans are…” Johan trails off into silence, looking at the ugly lines of the shrapnel scars surrounding Armen’s glass eye. His face turns red.
“The Germans are what, Johan?” Armen rasps, leaning forward slightly and resting his forearms on the table. The cigarette sends a thin plume of bluish tobacco smoke to the ceiling from where it rests between the man’s fingers, entirely forgotten.
“It doesn’t matter,” Johan replies. “Please.”
“No. Tell me what we are.”
Johan wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, briefly glancing down at the orange bloodstain left behind on his skin before looking back up at Armen. “We’re… evil,” he says miserably, unconsciously cringing away from him a tiny bit, “We killed the Jews.”
“You didn’t kill anyone,” Armen growls, and his voice and the look on his face are harsh enough to make Johan flinch in his seat.
Armen sees the movement and checks himself, looking down at the tabletop so that he doesn’t have to see the boy’s face and hunching his shoulders slightly. Eventually he notices the cigarette in his hand, and almost seems surprised to find it there. He stares at it for a moment, raises it to his mouth, stops, looks at it again, and then grinds it out in the saucer. Ash mixes with the dregs of gritty coffee already there, and an oily sheen appears on the surface of the liquid when the square of afternoon sunlight from the window falls over it.
“Don’t… don’t get into fights,” Armen rasps eventually, unable to look at the boy when he speaks. The chair makes an obscenely loud squealing noise as it scrapes across the kitchen tile when he stands up, shattering the stillness of the apartment kitchen.
Johan stares at the man with wide eyes. He doesn’t understand what happened just now, but he knows that he really, really said the wrong thing. He looks down when Armen walks over to him, watching the man’s black boots stop beside his chair and hunching down in his seat, trying to get away without actually moving.
“Johan.”
For the sake of not raising his head he rips out the hangnail he had been picking at, watching a bead of blood well up in the newly-excavated crevasse between the nail and the skin. His hand is shaking, though not because of the newborn pain.
“You have to look at me, Johan.”
Armen’s voice is no different than it was the first time and doesn’t sound angry, but Johan can’t disobey an order twice. He drags his head up and looks at Armen, expecting punishment and knowing that there isn’t any escape.
Armen leans down slightly and puts a hand on Johan’s shoulder, and from this close it’s easy to see that the glass eye is a painted fake even without the blue. The man hesitates as he looks down at him, then says, with uncharacteristic gentleness, “It’s alright. You… you’re right, about… the war.” The words sound as though they were dragged out of his throat, and that they’re false, insincere—but at the same time they’re not, because they can’t be; it’s what everyone has told Johan his entire life.
“I am?” he asks.
Armen nods. “Yes. We all—me, your father, everyone else who fought—did… bad things. It was a bad time and we did bad things even though we knew they were wrong, because everyone else was doing them too.”
“...Did you like doing them?” Johan asks, and watches Armen’s jaw tighten as he speaks.
“No,” the man answers, “But I didn’t say anything or try to not do them. We did what we were told, even though it was wrong and we knew it was wrong, because someone told us to do it. Your mother… she sometimes says, ‘If everyone else jumped off a cliff would you jump too?’ and that… it… it would be stupid to jump, but if everyone around you is doing the same thing and the ones behind are screaming at you to run, run, run and go over, then you jump—even though you know you’ll die when you hit the ground, you jump. That was what it was like. Do you understand, Johan?” His voice has a desperation that the boy has never heard before, something like fear, and that in itself is frightening because Armen isn’t supposed to be scared of anything.
“Yes, sir,” Johan whispers.
“Good.” Armen straightens up, embarrassed by his own display of emotion, his face now wiped clean and carefully closed off. He takes a step back and looks at Johan for a moment, searching for something to say, and then, uncomfortable, gives up and glances out the window. He’s only thirty, but the added decade in his eyes manifests also in the stoop that’s appeared in his shoulders and the faintly haggard look on his face. He runs a hand through his hair and looks back at Johan.
“Think before you act or speak,” Armen says. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Johan echoes.
The man nods at him, and the silence stretches out between them and sings with the tension of all the things that have not been said but writhe thickly in the air between them. When it snaps, Armen doesn’t speak, and instead turns on his heel and heads towards the door. His back is rigidly straight when he reaches it, and he doesn’t say goodbye even as it shuts behind him.
He never hits Johan for starting the fight with Dieter.
Jessica Steves' short story won for the state of Maryland in the 12th grade Young Authors' Contest