99 Red Balloons. Elisabeth Carpenter
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about Mummy any more. Every time I do, he shouts at me. For the fiftieth fucking time, stop talking about Mummy and Daddy. I’ll leave you in a field if you’re not careful. It was dark when he said that.
Out of the window, the land is flat. It’s like I can see for miles, but I can’t see England. We’re nowhere near the sea.
‘When are we stopping for food?’ It’s my tummy that told my mouth to talk. My brain didn’t want it to.
‘Ah, so it does speak.’ He reaches over to the passenger seat and puts a cap on his head. It’s not a nice cap like Abigail from school got from Disneyland, but a beige one – like a grandad would wear. ‘Once we cross the border, we’ll stop off somewhere. Promise. We just have to get past these bastards.’
He’s the only man I’ve ever met that would do swearing in front of a kid. My gran would have a coronary if she heard him.
In front of us, cars are lined up in rows. There are little houses in the middle of the road that everyone is stopping beside. George turns round.
‘Listen, kid. They might call you by a different name, but it’s just a game. We’re playing at pretend. If you win, and they don’t guess your real name, then I’ll buy you some sweets after your dinner. Deal?’
I nod. I just heard different name and sweets. I’m quite good at pretending. In my first school play, I was Mary – and I didn’t have to say anything. All the grown-ups believed I actually was Mary. ‘George’ might not even be his real name; I said it twice ten minutes ago and he didn’t reply. He was probably ignoring me again.
He can’t sit still in his seat. He must have ants in his pants. He turns round again.
‘Are you all right? Just be calm, everything will be okay.’
I am calm.
He wiggles his fingers on the steering wheel.
‘Come on, man. You can do it. Ten grand, ten grand. All the booze I can drink. Come on, man.’
He thinks he’s whispering, but he’s not doing it properly.
The car stops. George winds down the window, and says something. It’s not English.
He hands them some paper, but I can’t see what’s on it. He told me to look out of my side, so I can’t peek too much.
A face appears at the window. A man with a grey beard. He’s wearing a flat hat, like a policeman’s. He points at me and makes circle shapes with his hand. It makes me laugh.
‘He’s telling you to wind the window down.’ George doesn’t sound mad, or happy.
I grab the handle with two hands and wind it round until the window is halfway down. The man squints at me. He’s really close, but his nose doesn’t come through the window. Is he a policeman? Shall I tell him that I’ve lost my mummy? I wish I knew how to speak the way George does. I’m trying to smile but my eyes are watering.
He stands back up and walks slowly round the car. He bends down to talk to George.
‘Die Kind ist acht?’
He’s talking like they sing in that song. I wish I knew more words than ninety-nine red balloons.
‘Ja weiß ich,’ says George. ‘Wir hören dass die ganze Zeit. Das arme Kind ist klein für ihr Alter.’
The man in the uniform laughs, but I can’t hear what he says back. I wouldn’t be able to understand it anyway. The guard hits the top of the car twice and says, ‘Willkommen zurück nach Deutschland.’ And we drive away.
After three minutes, George flings off his cap. He bangs the steering wheel three times with his fists. ‘Get the hell in! We did it, kid. That was the worst one – they’re right tough sods, those German border bastards. We’ve only gone and fucking done it. We’re in Germany, little one!’
Germany? My mummy’s never been to Germany before. Why would she be here?
I look out of the window, and it’s raining.
So are my eyes.
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