My name’s Marc, and I’m sick of toys.
Boys play at war; they like playing with lead soldiers, putting them in place, moving them around, pretending they’re firing their guns. It’s all an illusion. Those soldiers are dead; lifeless. Lead soldiers are just figurines. Like the figures in a nativity scene, they’re not alive. They’re just there to represent Baby Jesus and the cow. Do you think the cow is really chewing hay and warming Baby Jesus? I don’t think so. That would be impossible. It’s all just pretend. It’s the same for lead soldiers. They are lifeless. Me, I don’t believe in all that nonsense. And after you’re done moving all those lead soldiers about, how do you even know who’s won?
Hah! You see how smart I am? The Russians will say: “Russia has won!” The Germans will say: “Germany is victorious!” That’s why I'm sick of toys. I’m too old for them. I don’t believe in these things. I’m a big boy now.
Hah! I even help my mother. She asked me to go to the end of the street to buy a Christmas tree with a few coins. In France, there are lots of fir trees so we have no shortage of them and they sell for cheap. What we don’t have are soldiers, brave men, strong men, soldiers to go to war. We hate the Germans and fear the Russians. We hate the Germans because they won’t let us make toys out of metal. Apparently it’s needed for the war. We fear the Russians because in Russia rubber toys are forbidden. Forbidden! Verboten, as the Germans would say. I'm sick of toys! Hah!
Should I play at being a shopkeeper with the girls? Out of the question. I'm too old for that, I have better things to do. Though it’s true that girls are smarter than boys. Cleverer and more...something. What’s the word? More mature! They don’t play with lead soldiers. They play at buying and selling. They think supply and demand is fun. They sell eggs in secret and butter so people can make fried eggs. But I don’t care, I’m sick of toys. The important thing is for us to be together around the Christmas tree.
So this morning, like a man, I put on my boots and my beret. I went to the end of the street and began bartering with the shopkeeper.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” he asked me.
“I need a tree for Christmas Eve, that’s what my mother says.”
“Your mother? Well, she’s right I suppose. How about this one?”
“Too big, I won’t be able to carry it,” I answered.
“How about this? Will this do?”
“Still too big, I can’t carry that.”
“Oh la la, any smaller and you won’t have enough space for your stockings and your presents!” the shopkeeper gasped.
“I’m sick of toys anyway!”
Hah! It takes a man to proclaim loud and proud that he is sick of toys. Still, I must admit I’d like to have a stocking under the tree this year. Just a stocking, and maybe a present. Last year I got an orange. I like oranges; they’re more use than toys. I even know how to peel an orange so the skin stays in one piece; my grandmother taught me how. Grandma knits our hats and scarves for us too. But she can’t get wool now, so she unravels things and re-knits them to keep herself busy in front of the fire. It makes me laugh to see jumpers disappearing and then reappearing from grandma’s needles. When I say I’m sick of toys, she bursts out laughing. She says that when I’m older, I’ll like toys all over again. I don’t think that’s true. She says that when you’re older, you need to fill your head with silly things, otherwise life gets too sad. I think it’s true that life is sad. But even though Papa died in the war, and even if we won’t have turkey for Christmas, even if mama cries while grandma knits, I’m still sick of toys.
Alan Alfredo Geday