Chantel's Reviews > D.P.

** spoiler alert ** I am inclined to begin from a middle point. Stories that explore the beginning as though the romanticism of the start were the bloom of the first petal, sometimes feel disingenuous. I do not believe that we remember well that very first moment. This being said, I am not entirely correct in feeling this way. So many times throughout life we need to remember the first time; first kisses, a first touch, the start of feeling freedom & cool breezes; the beginning is where the story is born. When Joe meets the reader he is on the cusp of a new start though, his story has long since begun.

When I listened to LeVar Burton emphasize the life of the displaced boy, Joe, I melted into the scenery. There is no way for the reader to intervene. The prize to be won in completing a journey through a story is the collection of awareness. Joe’s situation is not a one-off. He remains a member of the slew of people, children, who are displaced by conflict month after month, as the years crawl by. This might leave the reader inclined to wonder why Joe’s story matters at all. What could a child have to tell that an adult has not already heard?

Vonnegut wrote about a young Black boy living in the German countryside. I should hope that it is not inconceivable for the reader to imagine how Joe might feel as the only Black person in the village; as the only child who has no knowledge of where or who he came from. As the trolley of children wanders the small streets daily for fresh air Joe is often picked out of the group, teased & taunted, it becomes difficult for him to hold out hope that when the war is over, he will have somewhere to go.

On a walking journey like every other, Joe comes across a man who looks like he could be his own father. The reader will forgive the childlike joy at meeting an adult who looks like them, or whom the child believes could be their parents because the pull for connection overcompensates the tragic logic flaws in his eagerness. The man Joe sees is an American soldier. As it turns out, this soldier is part of a troop of many other Black soldiers, set out through the German countryside during Joe’s fateful walk.

This is not a story that shines brightly with exceedingly poignant literary prose or that brings to life the calibre of Vonnegut’s talent. Rather, readers make their way through very simple scenery—buses, trees, grimy stone paths, trenches, & decaying buildings—all to be met once more with the displaced person standing stone still in the middle of it all. Joe’s story is that of any child who might have felt disordered by life; disorganized by the stringent ardour of an adult world. Joe is just a child.

As Joe saddles up to run away with the soldiers he meets, certain that the first man he saw was indeed his very own father, one learns of the power of simplicity. The back & forth dialogue between the Americans & the German child evokes the feeling of frustration. One has a longing to see some form of movie magic brought into the scene; someone must understand more than they are letting on; someone needs to intervene so that it is made clear.

Unfortunately, with a chocolate supply nestled from guilt, sadness, & wordless despair, Joe is sent back to the orphanage where the nuns & other children wait to hear of his new treasury of sweets. After all that is said & done, the reader remains in the mud trenches with the soldiers. The adult reader may find it difficult to overcome the despair that reeks through the sweat & mud on the military uniforms of the men who watch an orphan child be, once more, left alone.

I will not lie & say that this story evoked in me emotions of overwhelming sadness or left me feeling as though I might never escape the confines of the written word. Rather, what it left me thinking about was the importance of words. Joe is able to communicate his need for a family to a complete stranger, one who speaks a different language than he. Words of hope from the stories he heard drew Joe closer to the figure of a father that he crafted in his own mind. The words of the author peeled back the layers of terror inflicted by war to allow the reader the chance to watch a young child hope, beyond hope, that love might come his way.

My experience reading this story was made greater by LeVar Burton who, since the start, has encouraged a love of words in me. His narration of this story brought forward the delicacy found in the most intimate of connections. I am grateful for the efforts he & his team put forward in bringing this story to life. The sounds of gravel under rolling tires, laughter in the background, slicing candy wrappers, the audible shrug & sigh of the shoulders; the eagerness for proximity & warmth. All this was translated through narration by a person who, one can tell, loves the story in their hands with the care of a tender, steady, worldly reader.

If you would like to listen to this story, please visit LeVar Burton Reads