Jazz in the time of Blitzkrieg

Although the shrieking scream of the V2 rocket was receding, Billy was left trembling, in the drafty hollow apartment. He felt, more than heard, the low thud of the missile hitting the ground, if there had been a roof over his head, some dust would have come loose. Billy’s right hand was gripped tightly around the bronze trumpet, white knuckles showing through the early dawn haze. He tried relaxing his hand, tried to even out his breathing. His heart was still beating like a panicked animal throwing itself against the walls of its cage. Billy’s vision swam as he ran his left hand over his face, the right still clutching the instrument, try as he might, he couldn’t let go of it. Perhaps things would improve after he fed something to the empty cavern below his rib-cage.

Billy descended the broken stairs, playing a game of hopscotch where the rubble was too thick to pass, the dreary street outside was littered with ashy snow and grime. Subconsciously his feet started off towards the site of the rocket attack. The direction of the wind allowed his nostrils to flare as he inhaled the acrid smoke coming off the fresh bombed concrete. This sector had mostly been abandoned by the allies but they still managed to attract stray rockets every now and then. It was rumored the Germans had a quota to fill, like a meat-sale in a bankrupt department store, All Rockets Must GO! 

Billy knew he had to get something to eat, he had to find work, someone to play for but his feet kept dragging him towards the smoldering bombed out husk. The panic was rising up inside him, trying to hold him back but an invisible rope kept pulling him like a melancholy siren-call. He stopped a block away from the wreckage, and saw stray dogs sniffing around the rubble. The building had already been bombed once, there wasn’t much left, a few solitary fires burned in defiance to the cold. Something relaxed in his chest, he took a deep breath and started walking away. There was nothing for him to do here, usually Billy would run to the site of a bombing and try to hear sounds of people trapped inside. 

He was still wearing the great fur coat that he’d traded from the Russian pimp a few days ago. Billy used to play for his girls, before the rockets had found them. They used to stare at Billy with a mixture of pity and revulsion, sometimes they’d even offer him watery broth in return for a song from their homeland. Billy would stand on the cobbled street and play from memory, melodies he’d heard on the shortwave broadcasts before being deployed. The girls, mostly stick thin with blond tufts of hair peeking from behind tight headscarves, would sigh deeply and puff on hand-rolled cigarettes. The coat was their last memento, they’d ran away, the rockets were too much for them. 

Billy tried pulling the great coat closer against his chest, but it was a couple sizes too big for him. The front always dangled open, the biting breeze felt harsh against his open collar but his shoulders were burning from the warmth of the bear fur. He was steadily traversing the street towards the baker’s place, he was sure to find a sympathetic ear over there, if not sometimes the baker’s wife would take pity on him and give him some burned out bread, Billy didn’t mind the taste of the ash. Turning the corner, his sinuses were assaulted by the smell of roasting fat and gristle. The Turkish family occupying the slums were cooking meat again, from the looks of the pieces on the skewers, it was too big to be a rat, a pigeon or a cat perhaps. 

Billy tried running away but his torn shoes skidded on black snow and he went down, face-first, the trumpet digging into his ribs. He felt dizzy and the smell of meat grew stronger. A young Turkish boy, wearing tattered clothes that clearly belonged to an adult came running over, his fingers slicked with grease. Billy turned away, the smell of meat making him nauseous. He was dry heaving as the child stood staring at him, one benefit of starving for days was you had nothing to throw up. 

Billy was spitting to try and get rid of the rotten taste in his mouth, when he heard footsteps approaching, not just ordinary footsteps but those belonging to military issue boots. The man approaching him was wearing an officer’s dress uniform, complete with overcoat and cap. His clothes were immaculate, as if the snow and ash had decided to avoid him while falling. His mouth was moving but the only thing Billy heard was his own screaming as he ran away, like a whipped Dog. 

He couldn’t stand the sight of men like those, men who thought they had “control” over things. Billy was once like that too, he wasn’t born as Billy-the-trumpet-player, they used to call him Captain William Hirsch before he was thrown into the bone-crunching jaws of war. Billy remembered when the hotel came down, his entire platoon was stationed there. He used to tell the boys about his plans to open up his own jazz club after the war. 

The rockets found them in the middle of the night, sound and concrete crashed into Billy as he lay sleeping, cradling his trumpet. He’d been buried for days before they found him, lying among the corpses of his platoon. He was wheezing into the trumpet, that’s how they’d found him, sole survivor of the Blitz. Once they fished him out of the rubble, Billy ran away. They kept asking him questions, How many days had he been down there? Was anyone else alive? Why did some of the dead bodies have chunks of flesh bitten off? 

Leaning against a wall, trying to catch his breath, this time Billy did throw up.