this knowledge on to her brothers. But although money and all that it represented in the world—territory, goods, religion—was the basis of war, they had no feel for it. They could write and calculate, those boys, but it was war stories that they fed upon.
Despairing of their attention, Augustus read The Iliad out loud every night after they were finished with mathematics. That the translation was ornate and repetitive was so much the better—the boys sank into the drama and made their father read it many times. It became the only book that mattered. They chased one another around the house brandishing long sticks for spears; as either Hector or Achilles, they destroyed and mutilated each other over and over. Shawano, the youngest, got the hardest treatment. They pretended to burn him on a funeral pyre or even chopped him up with their hands to feed him, raw, to the dogs. He had to lie still and not laugh while he was gorged upon by vultures. Although Augustus had been careful to teach them the realities of carnage—even to the point of telling them about their own family tragedy—the boys gloried in Asin’s narratives, and in the glamour of the Trojan War, and they lamented that these conflicts were long finished. So it was with tremendous excitement that they learned, through reading their father’s newspaper, that a fresh, new war was being waged in France, against Germany. Real bloodshed, real valor, real killing, real heroes. Moreover, they were thrilled to find out they could join this war. There was also a recruitment notice in the newspaper.
One day, without telling anybody but Asin, whose clouded eyes lit with supreme joy, the brothers went to the town hall, where the recruiter sat waiting in a corner, at a wooden desk. They signed up to become soldiers and were delighted to learn they would be given uniforms with round hats and pants with legs that puffed at the hips. They would also have tailored jackets, but only after they’d passed certain tests. Once they were trained, they would also be given new guns. After that they would be transported to the war.
“How soon can we get there?” asked Charlie.
Z OSIE AND M ARY could not bear for their sons to leave. Both mothers threatened to cut their hair and slash their arms, but in the end they seethingly wept and packed lunches for their boys to eat on the train. They said good-bye in the road and told Augustus that their hearts were too full to go along. Actually their hearts were full of rage. Once their sons were out of sight, they took the path to old Asin’s house, where they drew their razor-keen fish knives and assured him that if any harm came to their sons they would carve him up and dry him on a rack.
They had said nothing to Augustus the night before, however, for it was obvious that he was stricken when he threw the Oxford World’s Classics edition of The Iliad into the outdoor cooking fire. He intended to stamp the ashes of the book into the earth, but to his surprise Zosie plucked the book out before the cover was more than scorched.
“I listen too,” she said. “We’re just like those people, never knowing what the gods or the government is going to do to us next.”
A UGUSTUS AND P EACE walked into the train station with the young men. The freckles appeared on Peace’s face, dark points of distress. It appeared to Augustus that he had spent his life in error. He had protected his sons from the train station by educating them as best he could—still they chose the same inscrutably violent path as Scranton Roy. The boys already had their tickets, so Augustus and Peace sat down with them on a long bench. Silently, they waited. The floor of the train station was polished terrazzo based on a singular slate-green crushed marble. The walls were paneled with ancient oak worked into scenes of progress. There were wagons, valiant pioneers, oxen, plows, trains of course. As the Americans advanced counterclockwise around the great
Despairing of their attention, Augustus read The Iliad out loud every night after they were finished with mathematics. That the translation was ornate and repetitive was so much the better—the boys sank into the drama and made their father read it many times. It became the only book that mattered. They chased one another around the house brandishing long sticks for spears; as either Hector or Achilles, they destroyed and mutilated each other over and over. Shawano, the youngest, got the hardest treatment. They pretended to burn him on a funeral pyre or even chopped him up with their hands to feed him, raw, to the dogs. He had to lie still and not laugh while he was gorged upon by vultures. Although Augustus had been careful to teach them the realities of carnage—even to the point of telling them about their own family tragedy—the boys gloried in Asin’s narratives, and in the glamour of the Trojan War, and they lamented that these conflicts were long finished. So it was with tremendous excitement that they learned, through reading their father’s newspaper, that a fresh, new war was being waged in France, against Germany. Real bloodshed, real valor, real killing, real heroes. Moreover, they were thrilled to find out they could join this war. There was also a recruitment notice in the newspaper.
One day, without telling anybody but Asin, whose clouded eyes lit with supreme joy, the brothers went to the town hall, where the recruiter sat waiting in a corner, at a wooden desk. They signed up to become soldiers and were delighted to learn they would be given uniforms with round hats and pants with legs that puffed at the hips. They would also have tailored jackets, but only after they’d passed certain tests. Once they were trained, they would also be given new guns. After that they would be transported to the war.
“How soon can we get there?” asked Charlie.
Z OSIE AND M ARY could not bear for their sons to leave. Both mothers threatened to cut their hair and slash their arms, but in the end they seethingly wept and packed lunches for their boys to eat on the train. They said good-bye in the road and told Augustus that their hearts were too full to go along. Actually their hearts were full of rage. Once their sons were out of sight, they took the path to old Asin’s house, where they drew their razor-keen fish knives and assured him that if any harm came to their sons they would carve him up and dry him on a rack.
They had said nothing to Augustus the night before, however, for it was obvious that he was stricken when he threw the Oxford World’s Classics edition of The Iliad into the outdoor cooking fire. He intended to stamp the ashes of the book into the earth, but to his surprise Zosie plucked the book out before the cover was more than scorched.
“I listen too,” she said. “We’re just like those people, never knowing what the gods or the government is going to do to us next.”
A UGUSTUS AND P EACE walked into the train station with the young men. The freckles appeared on Peace’s face, dark points of distress. It appeared to Augustus that he had spent his life in error. He had protected his sons from the train station by educating them as best he could—still they chose the same inscrutably violent path as Scranton Roy. The boys already had their tickets, so Augustus and Peace sat down with them on a long bench. Silently, they waited. The floor of the train station was polished terrazzo based on a singular slate-green crushed marble. The walls were paneled with ancient oak worked into scenes of progress. There were wagons, valiant pioneers, oxen, plows, trains of course. As the Americans advanced counterclockwise around the great
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