Miracle at St. Anna (Movie Tie-in) by James McBride Page B

ain’t got no disserpation with you, Lieutenant,”Train said.
    â€œDisserpation?”
    â€œFuss. I ain’t got no fuss with you.”
    Standing on the ladder, Stamps felt his heart sagging. He had marched with Train for six months, trained with him, fought with him, shared latrines and foxholes with him, and realized he had never gotten to know him. He didn’t want to get to know him. It was better that way. It was better that he thought of him as a dumb nigger, because if he didn’t, Train reminded him of somebody else he knew, somebody he loved very much . . . his own father.
    â€œAll right, Train. Get some sleep and be ready tomorrow.”
    Train watched as the sun began its descent behind the forbidding mountains. Over the scattered firing in the canal below, he heard a woman’s voice on a loudspeaker, saying warmly in English with a German accent, “Welcome to the war, Ninety-second Division. What are you Negroes fighting for? America doesn’t want you. We want you. Come to us. I got something nice and warm for you. You can have all you want,” followed by the blaring sound of relaxing jazz. Still crouching, Train turned away from Stamps, the flares outside silhouetting his huge brown face against the mountains. “Tomorrow may never come,” he said softly.
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The boy dreamed of a woman standing on a hill. And in his dream she waved at him. Her hand was frozen in the air. He did not recognize her, but he saw her clearly, at the edge of a grassy field near a tree, hand held high. She seemed tired. He stood and watched as she waved, then she faded away. When he awoke, he was lying on the floor, the chocolate giant crouched over him, watching. Underneath the giant’s arm was the head of the woman from his dream. The giant had only her head. The boy regarded the Primavera ’s head, his eyes wide in fright.
    â€œAin’t nuthin’ but a good-luck charm, boy. Got magic in it. You wanna touch it?”
    The sound of the giant’s throaty voice was soothing, but when he held the statue head out and picked up the boy’s hand so that he could touch it, the boy drew his hand back.
    Train placed the head on the ground. “I guess you hungry, ain’t ya.”
    The boy ignored him. His chest hurt and he felt cold. Something inside him, deep inside, was not right. He looked up at the giant and felt as if a great haze were covering his eyes, as if he were looking at the chocolate giant through sheer white curtains. He watched as the giant shifted, slowly pulled out a tin of K-ration hash, speared some with a field fork, and offered it to him.
    â€œYou like this, don’tcha?”
    The boy ignored the fork and stared mutely as the giant’s lips moved. He had slipped again to that quiet place where there were no voices and no sounds. He decided to check with his friend Arturo to see if he was home. He closed his eyes. Arturo appeared right next to the giant’s shoulder, both of them hovering above him. Even standing up, Arturo wasn’t as tall as the crouching giant. The boy noticed that Arturo was wearing suspenders and no shoes.
    Arturo scratched his head absently. “I have lice,” he said.
    â€œWhere am I?” the boy asked.
    â€œYou are in the world.”
    â€œWhat’s the world?”
    â€œThe world is a giant’s head, and we’re living on his head, and when he turns his head, it’s your birthday.”
    The boy watched Train take off his helmet and sigh, then scratch his nappy head of hair.
    â€œWho is he?” the boy asked.
    Arturo was indignant. “He’s a chocolate maker who gives it out for free. And did you save some chocolate for your friend? You did not!”
    â€œI did,” the boy said. “I saved you some.” From his pocket, he produced a piece of D-ration chocolate that Train had given him.
    Hovering over the child, Train watched incredulously as the boy pulled the