In my oversized one-piece green snow suit, my brother’s blue, we threw snowballs at cautious cars on main street, under the light we’d watch from inside the house to see snowing or not snowing, praying for no school. Most cars paused, angered, and continued. They were German because we lived there, in the village near the area of the fishing hole, in the woods on top of the mountain, outside the city, gray wet pavement. We had a superior position to the road, holding the high ground, aiming our bombardments, our shower of shells, our surprise attack. Autos on the snowy road, quiet main street, no school over the holidays, we were warm and precious, protected, and brothers. We knew the back cut-through just in case, up the stairs past Frau Beckerbender’s house – she and her daughter living as widow and spinster – through a black gate and the orchard’s open fields, where the young farmer chased us on a tractor once and I thought we were gone for sure. Row houses in that field now, the whole way, from road to road, one apple tree remaining. White Volkswagen Bug drove and my snowball hit the windshield and the man driving stopped in a skid. He opened the door and we bolted, a race across the backyard to the secret stairs, beyond bushes, a higher road into the apple trees. We paused on a hill, panting. After quiet minutes the car materialized instantly in front of us, we weren’t ready for it, the angry man jumped out wild.
