THE PENKNIFE by RAYMOND STONE
Tommy stopped and listened. There it was again. A board squeaked and then something moved quickly. Bits of straw floated down from the hay loft. He stood quite still, holding his breath. Whatever it was up there might be dangerous.
He pulled a penknife out of his pocket and unfolded the longest blade. With his eyes trained on the open trap at the top of the ladders, he crept forward and climbed up. The first thing he saw as he peered over the opening was the sole of a very large boot.
“Hello.”
Tommy jumped and nearly fell. He pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the trap. The man lay on some sacks, his blonde hair covered in strands of straw. His gray clothes were dirty and there was a bloody cut just beneath one of his clear blue eyes.
“You hurt, mister?”
“No, but I would like to eat something.”
The guttural voice alerted Tommy.
“You escaped, haven’t you? I know who you are. You’re a Fritzy.”
The German smiled and explained he had escaped from the work party on an adjoining farm. Everyone was being sent home the following summer but he wanted to go home right away to be with his mother and father at Christmas. Tommy thought for a moment, then climbed onto the loft floor and sat next to the German. “Can you get home by Christmas, it’s next week?”
“I can try.” He looked at Tommy and then at the knife. “I would need something like that. It would help me to survive. Yes, it would be very useful.”
Tommy drew back. The knife had been his father’s.
The ‘Caledonian’, an oil tanker, sank after a U Boat attack in the North Atlantic and along with some of the crew, his father made it back to Liverpool, only to die from his wounds.
The farmer, who had taken Tommy in as an evacuee from London at the start of the blitz, received the news by telegram. Tommy’s mother, later killed during an air raid on the EastEnd, sent the knife to her son as a keepsake on his seventh birthday. The ship’s name had been engraved on one side.
Tommy put the knife back in his pocket and promised to find some food that night. On the way back to the farm he wrestled with the thought that besides some photographs of his parents, he would have nothing else to remember them by if he gave up the penknife.
Later that night, the German ate the bread and cheese that Tommy managed to save from his own supper. As the German drank a cup of milk, Tommy took the penknife from his pocket and reluctantly, handed it over.
“I promise you will get this back.” The German shook Tommy’s hand and disappeared into the night.
Tommy looked after the man, hoping.
Winter hay feed lay across the field and enough chopped logs to last through the Christmas were stacked in the tractor’s front loader. Tommy heard his wife calling him and turned to see her walking across the field. Jenny reached him, breathless.
Dinner was ready. They walked back to the cottage and as they entered, Jenny announced they had a guest.
A middle aged man stood with his back to the fire, a huge grin across his face.
“Hello, Tommy.”
Tommy gripped his wife’s arm, hardly able to believe his eyes. He grinned back and turned to Jenny. “Do you know who this is?”
“Yes. We’ve been having a conversation about you.” She kissed him and left the parlor.
Tommy shook his head. “Twenty five years, Fri….sorry.”
They both laughed.
“Gunter, but you call me Fritzy.”
They hugged and stood looking at each other for a few moments.
“I am here because of my promise, Tommy,” explained Gunter. “All those years ago you sacrificed something that meant so much. I promised to return your knife but lost it, and each Christmas since, I’ve been sad. This year I found it in my attic, thrown into an old box I’d forgotten about. I wanted to bring it myself.” Tears formed and trickled down his cheeks. “I managed to escape to Dover and hid among some of my countrymen being shipped out. We were loaded onto a train for Hamburg and I made it home to spend Christmas with my parents. You made my Christmas.”
Tommy took the knife from the outstretched hand.
“ Happy Christmas, Tommy.”
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