A BOY AND HIS BEGGING HAT

By Drew Chibib

Its been 6 years since they cut the kings head off. i They said life would be easier
under the new republic. It isnt. It seems every other person I know has been called a threat
to the safety of the republic; every time anyone hears those words they cringe, cringe for
the people who are bound for the Guillotine. Everyone here has heard of the happenings in
Britains colonies, how the people rose up and created their own government, one where all
men are created equal, one where everyone has a say. We couldve had that. There was
nothing the citizens wanted more than a just and fair society, one where all men have a say.
They said they could give that to us, they said life would get better. It didnt.
My family situation is a unique one. My father died before I was born, fighting in America
against the British.ii My mother and I live alone, barely scraping a living off of the hot, thick,
muddy streets, living off of stale bread and bland porridge, but as long as we have each
other we are happy. Im only nine, but mother tells me I have wisdom well beyond my years.
I like to think so, too.
Throughout all of the hardship my mother and I had been experiencing, there has been one
thing keeping me going: my violin. Every morning, when I wake up, my mom hands me two
small pieces of bread and a hat. Violin in hand, I place the bread in the hat and leave, never
without giving her a hug. Dont ever leave me, Leoniii, my brave lion. You are all I have, she
says, her loving eyes looking deep into my heart as I walk out the door. Be safe, I often
hear her whisper, before I close the door and disappear to the streets.
In the streets I am a different person. At home, I am my mothers son. In the streets, I am no
one, I am just an entertainer, just there to do the only thing I know: play the violin. Once Im
sure my mother is out of sight, I stuff the bread in my face and devour it like a hound. Save
your bread, she always says, urging me to conserve my energy; we both know that the
most food we can afford is a few stale loaves of bread. I always eat my bread quickly, trying
to rid myself of the guilt I feel, hearing my mothers words in the back of my head. Once I
finish my bread I find a busy spot in the square, put down my hat, and start playing. Once I
begin playing, nothing else in the world matters. My violin was my escape, my escape from

the horrors of the world and my key into a world where I am the king, where I chose the
notes, where my fingers glide across the neck with the swiftness and ease of a brisk summer
wind. I lose track of time when I play the violin, all activity around me blurring into a
constant stream of colors. I eventually notice the colors in the sky change and I know it is
time to return home. I stop playing the violin, and the world around me appears again. I look
down at the hat and usually find a few coins, on a bad day, sometimes I find nothing. A large
amount of coins or not, I return home every day and without fail, find my mother in the
kitchen, stirring a pot full of steaming hot, bland soup, there to greet me with a smile. But
that was all about to change.
*

July 17th, 1799

As usual, I didnt sleep well last night. I never do. The thoughts and worries in my
head mock me as I lay in bed, dancing around in my head like drunken soldiers in a pub. I
think of the future. The future of my country; the future of my mother; the future of me. I
worry for what might lie ahead, I worry who will get called up to trial next. Trial. A funny word
really, a word with no meaning in this barbaric, dystopian mess of a society. iv Every trial has
resulted in a conviction, every trial has resulted in the accuseds head, guilty or innocent,
rolling lazily down the steps of the platform to the cheers of hundreds of faceless onlookers.
I woke up this morning to a bang, right as my mothers decapitated head slammed the
ground below the guillotine to the cheers of the people in my dream. I sat up in my bed,
sweating like a pig. It took a few seconds to absorb my surroundings, but I was hearing the
hustle and bustle of the slums of Paris in no time. I slid out of bed and was greeted with the
usual, foul stench of the streets. The waste of the animals, and the waste of the people, all
mixed together into a thick, sludgy, soupy air that slowly rose from the ground and seeped
into every nook and cranny. After taking a minute or so to let my nose adjust, I slipped on
my clothesmy only shirt and my only pair of pantsand trudged to the only other room in

the cottage, the kitchen, where the banging was now louder and piercing the house with
more frequency. I trudged to the door, collecting mud on my bare feet, grabbed the door
handle, and swung the door open with all of my strength. I looked up with my groggy
morning eyes and saw the face of a Jacobin soldier, staring right back at me.
*

Wheres your father, boy? The soldier barked as he stormed past me into the main
room. Well sir, he isnt here right now, I said, clenching my fists, hoping that he would
realize he was in the wrong house, apologize, turn around, and leave. He didnt. Well where
is he then? The soldier said, searching through the house like a man possessed. Staring
with concern at the musketv on his back and the cutlass at his side, I spoke carefully: Im
afraid hes dead, sir. The soldier stopped his frantic hunt through the house and looked up.
We shared a long, silent stare. After a silence that seemed like forever, he quickly walked
over to me and grabbed me by the collar, dragging me behind the wall where we were
hidden. He whispered, but he whispered with what seemed to be an angry, even remorseful
tone. Are you the son of Jaqen Lamon? I looked down at the floor and then back up into his
seemingly soulless eyes. Yes. He was my father. The soldier looked at me, if I remember
correctly he might have even smiled, but only for a fleeting second as soon, a look of
concern swept across his face, and then he stuck out his hand. Pleasure to meet you, he
said. I am Marcel, and your father was the greatest man I ever knew. Everything you know
is about to change. Come with me.
Obviously, I was skeptical. I looked up at Marcels giant body, from his inhumanly large legs
to his intimidating face, his unruly black hair disguising eyes that maybe, just maybe, had
some kindness within them. I struggled to find words, and only managed to stammer out a
B-b-but, my mom! Marcel looked at me with condolence. Im afraid we dont have time to
talk about your mother. We need to get out of herenow. He looked at me. I didnt look
back; I didnt want him to see my tears. My mother should have been in the markets right
now, selling the few vegetables we grew behind our house, but I had a strange feeling that

she wasnt there. Pack a bag, and be quick about it, Marcel told me quietly. I dont need a
bag, I whispered, more to myself than to Marcel. I walked swiftly into the room that my
mother and I share, knowing already what I was going to grab. First, I went straight for my
mothers bible; on the way out, I snatched up my violin and walked back to Marcel. Ready
little guy? Marcel asked, obviously tryingand failingto seem friendly. As we left the
house, I turned back to my house. Our house. Holding my mothers bible, I whispered a soft
goodbye; I heard her words in my head. Be safe. Dont ever leave me. My eyes scanned
the house, and for some reason, their gaze fell on the dirty, old hat that my mother had
given me every morning before I left to play my violin. A single tear fell on the bible as I
turned my back to that house for the last time, and stepped out into the dark, scary,
unknown.
*

December 25th, 1801

Its been two years since I left the life I knew and the mother I so loved. Im an eleven
year old boy, travelling with my best friend Marcel, the two of us inseparable travelling
companions, me being the brain and him being the brawn.
After leaving my house all those years ago, Marcel took me to join him in his house,
an inconspicuous little cottage with a basement. He and I hid. We hid and we hid,
Marcel not answering a single one of my hundreds of questions, never telling me
what was going on, but eventually I found out. The general Napoleon was returning
from his military campaign in Egyptvi, and upon his return, declared himself the First
Consul of the Republic.vii All opposition was to be stomped out. While hiding in the
basement I could hear the carnage above, the mindless killing of innocent people.
After weeks of eating moldy biscuits and flinching at the slightest noise by our door,
Marcel finally gave the okay to come upstairs.

Its time to go, little man, Marcel said to me, Little Man. Marcel had kept
calling me that, I think it was his way of showing care for me; if it was, he wasnt very
good at it. Anyway, we left the house with nothing but a few supplies; Marcel with his
weapons, his musket and cutlassviii, and me with mine, my violin. We went around to
the back of his house, passing through the nearly intolerable smell of the alley and
into his stable. When I entered, the smell hit me like a punch right in the face. First, I
smelled the excrement, the smell infiltrating my nostrils and slithering through my
body. Then, the acrid smell of rotting meat consumed it, taking over my body,
causing me to double over and dry heave. What, you cant handle the smell?
Marcel said, with a slight smirk on his face. I guess I forgot to get rid of the rest of
the pig I slaughtered last month. He grabbed his horse by the reins, and began to
walk out of the stable. Come, little man. I thought you couldnt handle the smell? I
couldnt. But for some reason, I couldnt take my eyes off of a hat, not much unlike
the one my mother had given me before. Finally, Marcel dragged me out of the room,
huffing and puffing. I swear, he said under his breath, If I have to drag you out of
another room, Ill lose it. Finally, we were ready to go. He picked me up with ease,
gently placing me onto the horse with his giant arms. He hopped on behind me, and
we rode. I didnt ask where we were going, because I knew already. We were going
away. Going anywhere but France, going as far away as we could from Napoleon and
the very concept of harsh, apathetic leaders that Marcel fought to rid France of. We
rode into the night, without talking. As I started to fall asleep to the rhythm of the
horses methodical gallop, all I could think of was my mother and that plain, worn-out
hat.
*

January 19th, 1805

For four years now, Marcel and I have been playing a game of cat and mouse with Napoleon
and his army. It seems every time we find a free country, within months Napoleon sweeps

his army through the land, adding another region to his now growing Empire.

ix

First, Marcel

and I went to Italy. When Napoleon conquered it, we rode to Western Germany. This year,
Napoleons army ravaged the countryside, leaving us no choice but to run away from his
army back towards France, the very place we were trying to avoid. Today at lunch at a small
pub a few miles outside of our hometown, I told Marcel what I wanted to do. Ive had
enough of this, Marcel. For almost six years now we have been running; I havent had a
home; I havent gone to school. I stood up. Marcel, I dont care if you come with me or not,
but I am going home. I dont care if I could be killed. I miss my mother; I promised her Id
never leavesheshe made me promise Marcel stood up and cut me off, as I broke down
into tears. Little man, he said, speaking with more kindness than I had ever heard from
him, You are all I have left. I will follow you to the ends of the Earth. Lets go home.
February 3rd, 1805
As we neared Paris, I noticed changes. The farmers no longer whistled as they toiled
away in the green fields, the birds didnt seem to sing quite the same. The sun beat down
with a harshness, rather than the warm, glowing hug that I was used to. When we arrived in
the city, everything was different. Houses were burned down, but next to the blackened,
sorry old buildings there stood huge, shining white ones, monuments to Napoleons New
Age. xMarcel and I meandered through the city, almost impossible to recognize based on
what we knew from the past. We found a pub to grab some dinner at and sat down. As we
were eating our dinner, a soldier came to our table.
Whats this? A soldier without the Emperors colors? And with a boy? You two
should leave before you get killed. Actually, get out of my pub. I can break the both
of you like a twig. My hand involuntarily slid next to me, to my violin. Marcel, caught
off guard, grew angry. I looked at him, and dread filled my heart. He was always hot
tempered, but this was uncalled for. I tried to stop him, but it was no use. Marcel,
shooting up from his chair, bellowed WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?! and punched the
soldier square in the face, knocking him right out. Hand bloodied, Marcel turned to

me. Run! He implored, the soldiers friends now getting up and grabbing their
pistols. I hesitated, knowing that this was going to be the last time I ever saw Marcel.
But as the soldiers cronies drew closer, I had no other choice. I grabbed my violin
and sprinted out of the door, to the sound of pistol blasts and screams. With every
blast I felt pain in my side; pain in my heart. Marcel was gone, and I was alone. I ran
as far away as I could from that pub, running past injured men on the streets,
running through rubble and merchants carts that have been turned over. I slipped
and fell while turning a corner, and when I got up I found the splintered remains of
my violin below me. I was crushed. My violin was the last thing I had to remember
my mother; my violin was my only escape. At this point I had lost enough, and didnt
even care anymore. I got up and kept running, covered in mud and who knew what
else, leaving my dirty, broken violin behind.
I ran until I couldnt run anymore. I finally stopped, and doubled over trying to
catch my breath. I looked up to the sky, fell to my knees, and wept for my only friend
Marcel.
*

I wept for what couldve been days, for what couldve been hours, not looking
anywhere but into my hands. When I had no more tears to cry, I stood, and looked ahead.
I fell on my knees with despair when I saw the pile of burnt wood that once was my house. It
had fallen in on itself, walls misplaced and charred, the floor and everything inside reduced
to charcoal. Slowly I rose, making my way inside. I walked to where I shared my room with
my mother and I found her favorite rocking chair, now a few pitiful wooden posts sticking out
of a pile of cold dust. The harsh winter wind blew overhead as my hand full of ash caught my
tears, streaming freely from my eyes as I realized there was no escape from tragedy. The
world was a terrible place and there was only one escape, an escape already taken by the
two people I loved most in the world. I wept for the country, for the future, for the past; I

wept for the mother and for the friend whom I would never see again; and as I cried, the
wind blew the burnt remains of my little old beggars hat into the dark, unwelcoming sky.

i The king of France, Louis XVI, and the rest of the Royal Family was beheaded by Guillotine in
1793
ii The French were a major reason that the United States won the Revolutionary War, sending
supplies and military support to America
iii Leon is a common French name, meaning Courageous, or like a lion
iv After the King was beheaded, the Reign of Terror ensued, with two political parties, the
Jacobins and the Girodins fighting for supremacy. Hundreds of thousands of people were executed.
v A musket was a 18th and early 19th century weapon, known for its subpar accuracy and knife
attached to the barrel
vi In the late 18th century, General Napoleon lead a campaign in Egypt to collect knowledge, art,
and control the Suez Canal, but eventually failed and was forced to return to France after meeting
resistance from the British
vii When Napoleon returned from Egypt, He declared himself First Consul (President) of France
viii The musket and cutlass (sword) were common weapons for the average French soldier
ix After crowning himself the Emperor of France in 1804, Napoleon continued his conquest of
Europe and met little resistance, until he controlled almost the entire continent
x Napoleon had great monuments built to recognize his conquests, the famous Arc du Triomphe
being one of them