Michael Smith is a British writer, based in Europe. He studied university mathematics (yes, mathematics!) before realizing creative writing was much more fun. The absurdities of life continue to be a rich source of material, as does the international nature of his day job. 

To date, he has published ‘Gruseltal’, a novel (humorous, he hopes) and two collections of short stories, ‘Fonts’, then ‘Songs’, all available from the usual online bookstores. 

Website: https://frucht-schleifen.weebly.com/books.html 

Conjuring

A conjuror spends his working life deceiving people.  He enjoys playing for an audience; indeed, the larger the better. Many of his tricks are sleights of hand, planned meticulously weeks, or even months, beforehand. To make his tricks all the more believable, he may collude behind the scenes with trusted experts in deception. 

            The real art of the conjuror is to keep the audience distracted by quite trivial, even mundane events, while the real deception takes place unnoticed. He is sometimes assisted by a sidekick, whose chief purpose is to further distract the audience away from what is really happening.

            For the most part, people in the audience know they are being deceived, but are happy to accept it all, just for the entertainment value. And they are more than willing to pay the conjuror for the privilege of being deceived by him. The audience knows what they are experiencing is far removed from the truth and reality, but they remain content to be entertained by the deception.

            And when he has finished his act, the audience will applaud. They will marvel agog at how they were tricked, yet seem happy to have been duped so easily.

            Some members of the audience, however, understand how the tricks work; and most of these choose to remain silent, not wishing to spoil the magic spell woven by the conjuror. In fact, any brave, yet lonely, member of the audience, who does try to call out how a trick has been performed, is quickly and efficiently silenced by the majority who, it seems, are content to remain in their blissful ignorance.

            Politics is a lot like conjuring.

A Field, 1945

“Hey, Cecil, looks like it’s over. We’ve just heard it on the wireless. The ceasefire is holding.”

Cecil looks to the horizon, then absentmindedly takes another bite of the stolen apple he’s been savoring.

“Cecil? Did you hear me?” asks Barney.

“Yes, I heard.”

“Well?”

Cecil pauses. “We’ve all been looking forward to this day for six long years,” he sighs, “but now it’s finally here, I … I don’t know how to react.”

“I do! One of the chaps has found some cider in the cellar of that old farmhouse, and the C.O. has given permission for us to drink it. Are you coming?”

Cecil pauses again. “I’ll probably be along later. I just need some time to …” He is unsure how to finish the thought, so he thinks on …

… For the past six years, every moment of every day has been focused on one aim. But now that aim has been achieved, what next? All the talk, all the planning, all the effort, has been directed to winning this bloody war. But nobody has thought about what next. Sure, millions in Europe have dreamed about this day of victory, this day the misery finishes; but nobody has actually thought it through. What next?

Officers will continue to bark their orders, I suppose. But how long before some brave soul challenges them with a simple, ‘Why?’ And we’ve all had a job for six years. We’ve all been employed. But what next? We’ll all have to adjust to life on civvy street. Will there be jobs for us all when we return?

Cecil suddenly realizes Barney has gone, then senses just how quiet everything has become. He is alone, a delicious solitude he has craved since that first day of army training, crammed into sweaty barracks, bombarded by the incessant noise of chaotic military activity. Even in the quieter moments, there was always the background hum of army life; trucks rumbling in the distance taking something somewhere, Barney’s snoring, marching boots stomping on gravel parade grounds, dance music, and the nervous laughter of local girls.

Latterly, during the push across a shrinking Germany, there was the crack of gunfire and the nerve-attacking thud of distant shells; further nails in the coffin of the Third Reich. And, of course, there were the terrifying sounds he had tried so hard to suppress; the screaming banshee cry of a diving Stuka, the whimpered pleading of injured and dying heroes littering the Normandy beach, and later, the sobbing of men in their bivouacs, brutal visions denying them sleep. Now, reclining in a field in northern Germany, the only sound is the shrill call of a wheeling eagle, unaware its form had been stolen and abused as a symbol of Nazi pride and terror.

What next?

Some will want retribution and reparations; others will want to just get home safely to their loved ones, and restart their lives. A pint with the lads down the pub, and a sing-a-long while old Ernie bashes out a tune on the piano.

Some scars will be painfully visible; others will remain painfully hidden. Some will bury their emotions as deep as the myriad graves of fallen comrades; others will wear their hurt like a blood-stained bandage. One thing is certain, though; none of us will escape unscathed. But, in some ways the war has been the easy part; we’ve always been told what to do. the peace will be much harder; we’re on our own now.

Cecil looks around, keen to capture this momentous moment in time. He’s in a field in northern Germany. He’s exhausted, glad of the inaction following weeks of intense activity. He’s sitting on grass warmed by the late spring sunshine, his back resting against a gnarled tree trunk. He’s surrounded by desolate farmland and neglected orchards. He takes a final bite of the apple he pilfered from last year’s crop, found in the cool of a local cellar, before hurling the core as far as possible. Inwardly, he is battling a turmoil of conflicting emotions, each fighting for his attention. He is utterly overwhelmed, yet a solitary tear is the only outward manifestation. He remains motionless.

His attention is suddenly arrested by movement on the dusty road running along the field’s length. He welcomes the distraction. He sees a young woman cycling wearily, her chestnut hair flowing freely behind her. Cecil watches, recognizing her as one of the local farmhands; another young life devastated by war. What must she be feeling, now that the inevitable surrender has arrived? Fear, certainly. Relief, perhaps? Anger?

And what about Germany, and ordinary German people? What’s next for them? The young woman on the bicycle stops, dismounts and wipes her face with a white handkerchief that flutters in the breeze. Cecil realizes this war hasn’t been about fighting the likes of her. Had they met under different circumstances, they might have shared a joke, a cigarette, a drink, a meal, a bed, a lifetime.

What next?

Will we be posted East where the war continues? Surely not.

Or, do we go back to what we had before the war? Not likely! Like most people, Cecil had a hard life before the war; the thirties were not pleasant for those trapped in working-class poverty. But, perhaps, being close to death, having it as a daily companion, helps one to appreciate life. We’ve survived the war; now we have to survive the peace.

Rather than joining his comrades in their drunken revelry celebrating victory, Cecil realizes that in every conflict there are the victors and there are the defeated; but it is only a true victory if both sides can live on in peace.

Cecil stands, and walks over to the young German woman. The future starts now.