<center>Chapter 30</center>
Germany, December 1942
The door opened easily, and - though it wasn’t very warm in the cabin - Max was immensely glad to be inside. The wind was cold and strong this time of the year and the pelting rain had constantly been whipping his face, showing no signs of mercy.
He tried to shake the soaked jacket off of him, his hands numb and cold. Remorsefully, he thought of the mittens he’d left on the table, of the shawl he had lost weeks ago. His jacket – now heavy with absorbed water – had obediently served its purpose; Max’s sweater was, though very cold, still dry.
“God, Max!”
Looking up, he noticed Liz dropping her broom and hurrying towards him.
“You shouldn’t go out in this weather,” she chided him gently as she helped him out of his jacket. He was silent, amused with her maternal instincts, and allowed her to guide him to the living room. Meredith was there, nodded a vague hello, and retreated to the kitchen.
“Sit down,” Liz ordered. She seated him on the couch and started to wrap him into a blanket. He protested – he didn’t want to soil her blankets – but his words fell on deaf ears. Another blanket was wrapped around him, and she took the only towels they owned to dry his hair.
He smiled sheepishly as she rubbed the towel over his hair, and she couldn’t keep herself from smiling, either. “It wasn’t very smart of you to come here, Max,” she admonished him, pulling the blanket tighter around him. “You could have caught a cold.” She was silent for a while, pensively staring in his eyes. “Or worse,” she added quietly.
“You need to eat,” he weakly protested. His heart was warm and very much alive; a painful contrast with his frozen body.
“We had enough food supplies for the next week,” she countered gently. “You didn’t have to come. I don’t want you to get ill because of me. You know that.”
Max shrugged lightly, tiny water drops falling upon his nose, sliding down his skin. “I just wanted to see you.”
She smiled, touched by his confession, and tenderly kissed the raindrop on his nose away. “That’s really sweet, Max, but you should’ve waited.”
“It had been raining the entire day! I couldn’t wait forever,” he complained, looking boyishly innocent. “I’m sorry.”
His charming grin tugged persistently at her heartstrings, and she smiled lightly. “It’s all right,” she gave in and sat down beside him. The couch moaned in protest, but both of them ignored it. “Next time, just wait for the rain to stop, please. Getting pneumonia won’t help me.”
“I’ll wait,” he promised. He lifted one side of the blanket, silently inviting her to curl up beside him. She smiled, quite shyly, and crept closer. Wrapping one arm around his waist, she rested her head next to his, meeting his loving stare.
He breathed out a long, content sigh. The frozen skin of his stomach came to life under her arm and loving touch, and the warmth in his heart spread quickly.
“How cozy,” Meredith remarked, obviously slightly offended that no one was paying any attention to her. Her words went unanswered, though, just like her exasperated sigh. Huffing indignantly, she left the room, her loud footsteps on the stairs resonating through the cabin.
“You’re right,” Max whispered when Meredith was gone. “She can be quite an annoyance.”
Liz giggled quietly and then tried to be still, tried to even her breath in order to hear his.
“Were you cleaning?” he asked, thinking back to the broom she’d been holding when he had arrived.
She nodded against his chest. “Yes, I was. It keeps me busy, and away from Meredith.”
Smiling, he moved his hand to her hair and touched it reverently. “You have your work cut out for you, then.”
“I have,” she admitted. Both of them fell silent, and she softly kissed his cheek. “Remember how you said that I was jealous of Meredith?”
Max thought briefly, and then nodded.
“I think it’s the other way around. I think she is jealous of me.”
“Maybe,” he said as he considered her words. He wasn’t really concentrating, though. His fingers traced her face – her nose, her jaw line, her lips.
Her heartbeat sped up, quickened until it pounded madly in her chest, slamming against her ribs. “Have you… ever been in love?”
“Is this about Karen again?” Max asked her, quasi threateningly. “Because I already explained that it was a crush strictly based on the eraser she’d given me.” His hand had secretly crept under the sweater he had given her several weeks ago and was gently stroking the skin of her back.
She smiled, but shook her head. “Seriously, Max. Have you ever been in love?”
He was quiet for awhile, staring down at her. “I am,” he admitted. “I am in love.”
“You really are?” she asked, and held her breath, unable to believe him. “With… With me?”
Nodding, he kissed her lips. “With you.”
“But… why?”
“Just because you are you,” he said, “and I am me. I can’t really explain why I’m in love. I don’t want to be in love. I just am.”
“And that’s all that matters to you,” she guessed, skeptically looking up at him.
“And that’s all that matters,” he assented, and kissed her forehead. “Don’t you agree?”
She sighed, closing her eyes. “Can’t you see you’re acting like a fool?”
Laughing, he kissed her again. “That’s what people do when they’re in love.”
He tried to kiss her on her lips, but she turned away from him. “Max… I don’t understand you. Don’t you see that this is wrong?”
“Wrong?” he echoed, not quite following her. His hand continued to stroke her back, lovingly tracing her spine.
“This won’t work,” she said, trying to keep her heartfelt sadness out of her voice. “It really won’t. You’re… risking your life, just by coming here. I can never give you what you want.”
He stilled his movements. “You can’t love me?”
“I can’t marry you,” she said, steadfastly refusing to meet his eyes. “I can never bear your children. I can’t be with you night and day.”
“I don’t…” he started, but she stopped him by looking up. Tears were swimming in her eyes, her face fallen, her lips pursed together.
“One day,” she told him, “One day, you’ll regret this. When I’m old and gray and ugly, and you wish you had married another, beautiful woman, you’ll regret this.”
“I won’t,” he vowed. “I’ll never regret loving you.” Gently grabbing her chin, he lifted her head so that he could see her eyes, and he carefully studied her face. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”
She looked away from him. “It’s wrong,” she whispered brokenly. “It just is.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Max made her look at him, gently turning her face, having her eyes meet his again. “Who told you this?” he demanded quietly.
“Everybody knows that it’s true,” she said.
“Who’s everybody?”
After hesitating briefly, she answered, “Everybody. Hitler, your parents, Meredith…”
He smiled. “What did Maria tell you? And how about Jim, or your parents? Who would you rather believe?” He was silent, looked deeply into her eyes. “What does your heart tell you?”
She was quiet for a while, her brows drawn together in a pensive frown. “It doesn't matter what my heart tells me, Max. It won't work. It's a given.”
“It will,” he insisted. “If you love me, it will work. This war won’t last forever.” He paused for several seconds. “Do you love me?”
“I… don’t know,” she hesitated.
Unable to hide his disappointment, he moved to sit upright. “I should get going,” he said, and failed to notice the pained look on Liz’s face.
<center>***</center>
Author’s Note: Hanukkah is a traditional party. Unlike some people think, it has nothing to do with Christmas and it isn’t a really major holiday for Jews. It’s an important day, yes, but Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement) and Rosh ha-Shanah (New Year) are more important, since they celebrate a new beginning and a striving to repair problems that are caused by misdeeds in the past year.
I looked up what the date was of Hanukkah in 1942 (since that changes every year) and apparently, it was celebrated the third of December until the eleventh of December (Hanukkah is the eight-day Festival of Lights).
Well, let’s skip to what you need to know to understand this chapter:
Menorah; a nine-stemmed candle. People used to place it on their doorsteps so everyone could see it. Candles are placed in the menorah, starting on the right. They are lit starting on the left.
Shamash; the candle in the middle of the menorah. It’s raised higher than the others and is used to light the other candles (one extra each night, after sundown).
Dreidel; I don’t really know how to describe a dreidel. It would be easier if you could just see it. Anyway, basically, the dreidel is a top with four square sides that’s spun in a children’s game. The Jewish characters are read as ‘a great miracle happened there’ (in case it’s played in Israel, the last word is ‘here’).
Der Schweinkopf; German for em.. pighead? I don’t know if it’s called swinehead in English, too, but it really does sound better in German (and in Dutch, zwijn, as well.)
Hmm… Now, with Hanukkah, people who celebrate it exchange small gifts.
Nothing major.
That being said and done, let’s continue with the actual chapter.
<center>Chapter 31</center>
Germany, the third of December, 1942 – Hanukkah
“Are you all right?”
Surprised, Liz looked up. Meredith was looking at her, her eyes strangely compassionate.
“I’m fine,” Liz lied weakly, not too eager to start a conversation with Meredith. The truth was obvious, though. Meredith had seen her tears after Max had left. Meredith knew that she was everything but fine.
Today was one of the days she had once enjoyed more than her own birthday. She wanted to be with her family, with her parents, with Kyle and Aunt Caroline. She wanted to see her father say the blessings before lighting the menorah, she wanted to play with Kyle, she wanted to serve dinner with her mother and her aunt.
She wanted to be with Max.
She wasn’t sure if he would come, though. A week ago, he had promised he would, but she didn’t know whether what had happened yesterday had changed his mind.
Meredith shook her head slowly, clearly not believing her lie, her long, rather jumpy hair bouncing lightly and she walked towards the kitchen. “Don’t worry,” she said. Liz wasn’t sure if it was a sneer, or if it was meant as a way to reassure her. “He’ll come.”
Her words made Liz’s mind wander.
Years ago, she had been the one saying them. Years ago, she had tried to convince Lena and herself of the same thing.
Max hadn’t come back then.
She highly doubted that he would come now.
Somehow, in some ways, what had happened all those years ago still bothered her.
He hadn’t stood up for her when she had needed him to. He hadn’t helped her when she had so obviously been in dire need of his aid. He had let her fall, just like that, and had never even uttered as much as an apology.
Maybe that was why she was so hesitant to tell him how she felt. She loved him, she was certain of that, but she didn’t want to love him. It not only wasn’t right, it was dangerous as well.
Not just for him, and not just in the physical sense of the word.
She pulled the blankets up higher, and searched Lena. Moving to the cold and humid cabin, along with the lonely nights Liz had endured – filled with eerie silences and moving shadows – hadn’t done her loyal friend any good. The ear that had once been sewed on was hanging on a string, dangerously close to falling off altogether.
“He’ll come,” Liz whispered, all of a sudden overwhelmed by the mere memory. Tears stung her eyes as she smoothened the bear’s fur and tied the ribbon a bit tighter. “He’ll come.”
<center>***</center>
She had heard his footsteps long before she saw his tall figure in the doorway.
“You came,” she stated quietly, and pushed herself into a sitting position.
Max frowned, let his bag slide down his shoulder and sat down beside her. “Of course I came,” he said. “I promised you I would, didn’t I?”
Nodding quietly, she moved over and hid Lena behind her back.
He smiled, but his smile didn’t quite manage to reach his eyes. “Happy Hanukkah,” he said, and bent over to kiss her on the cheek.
“Happy Hanukkah,” she whispered back to him, noticing the awkwardness in his movements. It hung around him and filled the room with its almost tangible presence. His stubbly cheek lightly brushed over her skin as he pulled back – agonizing slowly – and she squeezed her eyes shut, not feeling any desire to feel the way she did.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Max said quietly, his fingers playing with the corner of the blanket. She wrinkled her forehead, confused. He almost seemed to feel guilty about what had happened, while it had been entirely her fault.
“I shouldn’t have left so abruptly,” he said. “If you’re not ready to…” A painful silence fell as he swallowed and looked away.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, just to ease that nagging feeling of guilt slowly nibbling away at her conscience. “I shouldn’t have started the whole thing.”
He shook his head. “I overreacted.”
Sighing, she placed her hand on top of his. “Let’s just… try to forget it, okay?”
“You’re right,” he agreed slowly. “I have to go to Munich soon, and, after all, it’s a holiday.”
As she nodded, a grin slowly started to stretch itself on his face, and he reached for his bag. “I came carrying gifts, you know.”
“Gifts? For me?” Liz smiled, feeling a childish happiness bubbling up inside of her.
“No, for Meredith,” Max teased. “Of course they’re for you, peanut. Uhm… this one’s from your father…” he said, and handed her a package wrapped up in rumpled, second-hand gift paper.
“My father? Have you seen him?” she asked eagerly as her fingers tore at the paper, impatient to peel it off.
“He gave it to Jim, who gave it to me,” Max explained. “But he’s doing well, I think. Missing you.”
She looked up at him and smiled sadly. Her gaze dropped to the package in her lap again, and she finished unwrapping it. She was holding a wooden top, with four square sides. “A dreidel,” she said, surprised. “Did he make this himself?”
Nodding, Max took it from her and showed her a little heart engraved in the wood. “He told Jim that you should at least get to celebrate Hanukkah with a dreidel. He sends you his and your mother’s love.”
He gave the top back to her again, and Liz studied it carefully, her fingers tracing the heart and the four Hebrew characters. “A miracle happened here,” she whispered, and smiled sadly before laying it aside.
“I have a present for you, too,” she said, and laughed at Max’s eager expression. “It’s nothing, really,” she tried to dampen his hopes.
“I dare to doubt that,” Max laughed.
“No, really,” she insisted, “I made it myself. It’s nothing. I didn’t even wrap it up.”
He shrugged, a light blush of excitement grazing his cheeks.
“Honestly,” she tried once more, “there are some wrong stitches, and some ravels…” Reaching behind the couch, she found the scarf she had hidden.
“Here,” she lamely said as she handed it to him. “It’s nothing, I told you.” Nervously biting on her bottom lip, she forced herself to look at him. “Happy Hanukkah.”
Letting the scarf slide through his hands, he beamed up at her. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” He rolled it out and admired it. As Liz felt some of her nervousness dissolve, he smiled and turned the shawl over. “It’s blue,” he said. “That’s my favorite color.”
She smiled shyly. “I knew that.”
“Is this… a heart?” he asked her excitedly, showing her the M she had embroidered in his shawl.
Blushing, she shook her head. “It’s a quite deformed M,” she explained.
“Oh,” Max said, a bit less cheerful. “It looked like a heart to me.”
“It’s an M,” Liz insisted, “but if you want it to be a heart, it can be a heart.”
He smiled and wrapped it around her neck. “It looks good on you.”
She laughed, and pushed his hand away. “I made it for you. You should wear it.”
“I’ll take it with me to Munich, and to Russia,” Max promised, his tone no longer as light as before.
Liz nodded slowly.
Munich.
She had almost forgotten about Munich.
“Bring that scarf back to me,” she implored, holding on to the scarf as if it would guarantee a safe return. “Promise me you’ll bring it back.”
“I will,” he smiled, and kissed her forehead. “I will, I promise you.”
She mustered all the confidence she could gather, and dredged up a feeble smile. He had to leave. He might never get the chance to return.
“Max?”
After draping the scarf over the couch’s arm, he looked up at her.
She scraped her throat nervously, waging an internal struggle. Should she tell him? Could she risk it?
“I love you, too,” she managed on an exhale, but grimaced immediately. When he had said those words, they had sounded so right, but coming from her mouth, they seemed stupid, and incredibly insignificant.
“You do?” he breathed out, disbelief readably etched on his face.
“I… think I do,” she nodded. “How did you know?”
He shrugged, his lips bearing a grandiose grin. “I just felt it.”
“How can you be so sure it’s love?” she pressed. “Have you ever felt it before?”
He shook his head.
She noticed the little flecks of amber in his eyes, the golden aureoles around his irises. “Then how can you be so very certain of it?”
He smiled, striking her as old, and so much wiser than her. “For that very reason,” he said. “Because I have never felt this way before, and I never will feel this way again, either.”
Her bottom lip quivered when she looked away. His gaze was too intense, too loving.
He bent forward and carefully took a hold of her cheek, turning her head. His lips met her in a tender, trembling kiss, before he let his hand slide down to hers.
Hot tears stung her eyes, and she reached forward to kiss him again. “I love you,” she whispered. Now that she had said it, she couldn’t keep herself from saying it again. “I really do love you, Max. I’m certain of it.”
She could feel his smile against her lips.
“And I love you, Liz Parker,” he told her, “just remember that.”
He pulled back slowly, and smiled. The twinkle in his eyes was almost mischievous, and Liz felt a strange feeling of excitement in the pit of her stomach.
“I brought something else with me,” he said, and rummaged among the objects in his bag, finally hauling one out of it.
“A radio!” she exclaimed, an excited giggle slipping over her lips.
He nodded, grinning broadly, and fidgeted a little with the different knobs, tuning it. A familiar, creaking noise filled the room, and it was only then that she realized how much she had missed the radio, and even more than that, music.
Max finally found a channel and turned on the volume control.
“Not too loud,” Liz warned him. “Meredith’s asleep.”
He nodded and messed around a bit with the volume and tuning. “That’s better,” he said, satisfied. The first, tender notes of an aria from an opera she had heard before drifted into the room, the tenor’s voice stringing them together with care. Max extended his hand and curtsied slightly. “Dance with me?”
Laughing, she placed her hand in his. “There’s nothing I’d rather do,” she replied truthfully and let him draw her closer.
They danced in silence for a while, her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed. His hands swerved over her skin, wandering aimlessly, relishing in its subtleness. Placing her lips against his neck, she lightly kissed him. Her hands entangled in his hair, pulling his face closer to hers as she successively kissed his cheeks, nose and finally, his lips.
The music came to an end, and a veiled, silky voice interrupted the broadcast, carefully concealed venom dripping off of his words.
She immediately stiffened and extracted herself from his arms. “Make him stop,” she beseeched him, shivering lightly. For a few seconds, Max tried to find another channel, but Hitler’s speech was being broadcasted by every station.
“Der Schweinkopf,” Liz muttered angrily, a feeling of disappointment settling over her. “Well, just turn it off, then.”
Max did as she asked, and the radio seemed to gulp up the voice that still hung in the room. She sat down on the couch again, slipping under her blanket. He took place beside her, reached into his bag and fished something out of it.
“Another surprise?” Liz asked, slightly amazed.
“This one’s mine,” Max confided her. “It’s not much, but I really didn’t know what to give you.”
She smiled, and peeled off the paper. “Tonight was more than enough, Max.” The paper had hidden two books, a pencil and a notebook, and she smiled up at him. “Thank you,” she said, and kissed his lips.
Max smiled, unable to handle her gratitude, and reached forward. “This book belonged to my father,” he explained, “when he had to learn English. He gave it to me, and I’m giving it to you now.”
“English?” she stared at him, aghast.
He nodded, his eyes serious. “We’ll leave this place someday, Liz,” he said. “We’ll go far away from here. To the United States of America, Australia, New Zealand… Far away from here.” Taking her hand, he wove his fingers through hers.
Liz squeezed his hand lightly. “They don’t accept Jewish refugees from Germany, Max,” she said sadly, trying to keep her feet on the ground.
“They’d be crazy to turn you away,” he countered with a determined shake of his head. “They won't do that.”
“They turned away the S.S. St. Louis,” she reminded him, “and the Struma.”
“I’ll get you there,” he promised her, and, after undecidedly hovering above her for a minute, he lowered his face and kissed her.
She smiled, trying her best to forget about the future, trying to feel and enjoy all that they had been given – brief moments in time, mere grains of sand in comparison with the vast beach that was life.
His hand traveled down, fingers tracing her spine until they found the raveled ribbon that held her dress together. His hand rested there, and she hesitated – just for a split second. The fear of losing him, the black gap of loneliness that was looming in the distance, deafeningly silent, patiently awaiting her made her reach behind her back, her hand on his as it gave the ribbon a determined tug.
<center>***</center>
Uphill Battle (ML / Teen) (Complete)
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<center>Chapter 32</center>
Germany, December 1942
When he woke up, Liz was still asleep, her body warm and familiarly soft against his, the fragrance that was typically hers surrounding him. He smiled faintly, kissed her forehead and lifted her head from his chest, gently, careful not to wake her. She didn’t protest, but a look of discomfort flitted over her face when he disentangled their legs and sat up straight. The couch – even shakier than the day before – creaked loudly, and Max grimaced, his eyes fearfully fixed on her face. She made a little sound, snuggled deeper under the blankets and curled up, pulling her knees to her chest.
He expelled a quiet breath of relief, and, reaching for the clothes they’d shed so easily last night, he tried to ease the pain that leaving her caused him.
<center>***</center>
The sound of a muttered curse roused her, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, not willing to let the warm feeling of peacefulness flee with the break of day. Sleep was reluctant to take her back, though, and she rolled over on the small space of the couch, onto her other side. There was a stumble on the other side of the room that made her open her eyes. She could make out Max’s dark silhouette through the shadiness of her surroundings, struggling to get his jacket on, violently jerking at the lapels until he noticed her looking at him.
He was quiet for a moment, and took a hesitant step towards her. “Hey,” he whispered, the love in his voice, the beautiful look in his eyes making her heart ache. His face bore an expression that bordered somewhere between guilt and sadness, and she was still contemplating about it, trying to distinguish what his face told her, when he gave her a weak smile.
“Hey,” she whispered back to him, her throat dry from the dusty atmosphere in the room and maybe, just maybe, his departure played a part in it at well. She coughed twice, but the painful lump in her throat was unwilling and stubborn, and didn’t budge.
He buttoned up his coat and took his mittens out of his pockets. The guilt was still prominently present on his face, and he uncomfortably walked back to the door.
She sat up slowly, clasping the blanket to her chest. “Were you…” she started, but paused, her mind slightly muddled, still trying to rid itself from sleep’s fog. Gesturing towards the door, she noticed how his gaze drifted from the doorway to her face, and back to the doorway again. She shook her head incredulously, hurt painfully making its way to her heart, forcing itself upon her. “You were just going to leave, weren’t you? Without telling me goodbye?”
He didn’t reply, but his face gave him away. Even in the darkness of the room, Liz could make out the sad line that was his mouth, the guilt so evidently etched on his face. “I thought last night meant something to you,” she whispered. Every single moment that passed after she’d spoken up, and an awkward, heavy silence had fallen, tore out her heart further, shredding it slowly, painfully, until burning, charred embers were all what remained.
“It did,” he said quietly, and through the darkness and her tears, she could see him walking back to her. She shivered involuntarily, and pulled the blanket tighter around her naked body. He came closer still, and finally sat down beside her. “I couldn’t say goodbye,” he admitted softly, both shame and guilt discernible in his voice. “I just couldn’t. I wouldn't be able to leave you.”
He wrung his hands, clasped them together and stared down at them in embarrassment. When he looked up again, his eyes met hers briefly, then dropped back to his lap, only to be lifted again as he gazed at a pale spot on the wall. His voice was soft, fragile, as he spoke up, barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid.”
Blinking, she regarded him, hating herself for forgiving him as quickly as she did. Her hand found his hands, and she squeezed them lightly. “As am I,” she whispered. “It makes saying goodbye even more necessary, Max. Don’t you see?”
He nodded slowly, but still didn’t dare to have his gaze cross hers. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said in a broken whisper. “I can’t.”
“You’ll do fine without me,” she tried to convince him, her fingers seeking his cheek, trying to turn his face and have him looking at her through the darkness.
“I won’t…” he sighed, and when he turned to face her, hurt aimed for her heart, shooting through her body at noticing the wetness in his eyes. “I won’t.”
Her heart dropped to her stomach, where it beat wildly, painfully, with unconditionally love, sadness, and remorse. She reached for his face, caressed his stubbly cheek with her thumb, and, brushing a stray tear, that had dared to go into the unknown, that had dared to fall, aside, she let a weak smile linger on her lips. “Come here.” Dropping the blanket she’d been holding, she spread her arms slightly and bent forward to embrace him. His head ensconced itself in the crook of her neck, his lips grazing over her skin in a slow, desperate motion. She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against his.
“You’ll survive,” she whispered, her warm breath over his cheek making him shiver, making him pull her closer to him. “You’ll be gone for two weeks, Max. They’ll be over before you know it. Two weeks. We never used to see each other more than once a week, and we did fine back then, too, didn’t we?”
He groaned, cursing the tears stinging his eyes, squeezing his eyes shut. “This is different, Liz, and you know it.”
Her fingers threaded through his hair when she looked up at him. “You’ll come back to me,” she persisted. “You promised you would.” Her hands took a hold of his jacket, and she made his gaze cross hers. “You promised.”
Nodding slowly, he gave her lips a chaste kiss. His eyes fell, and he furiously rubbed at his cheeks to erase any traces of his tears. “I will,” he vowed quietly, and stood up, forcing himself to look at the dark walls when she got up as well, and wrapped a blanket around her naked form.
She stepped up at him from behind, and put her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “I’ll see you in two weeks,” she said softly, and kissed his neck. He turned slowly, and, peering up at him, she stroked his cheek, her fingertips lightly brushing over his skin. “Goodbye, Max.”
He swallowed, and for the first time, she noticed how his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Goodbye,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering there for a second. He wheeled around and walked towards the door, where he dared to cast a last glance at her from over his shoulder.
Smiling feebly, she nodded at him, and he opened the door, letting in the light of morning. It danced over the walls, over his face and her body, momentarily blinding her. Before her eyes had recovered from the sudden change in light, the door fell shut again, and the room once more was deprived of daylight.
Quickly, she made her way to the window, and looked for the hole she’d peeped through before. Max’s form was rapidly distancing itself from hers, his shoulders slumped, his hands in his pockets. She watched until he had disappeared completely, her eyes following him until he was nothing more than a blotch on the horizon. Leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes, every heartbeat painfully discernible. She slid down slowly, a sob tearing itself from her throat, and she threw her arms around her legs, laid her head upon her knees. Tears burnt her eyes, but they didn’t fall as she cried loudly.
Several minutes passed before her cries grew weaker, and the first tears fell, flowing down, shamelessly crossing her cheeks. Realizing that, if Meredith would find her in this state - on the ground and crying - the girl would think she had been right, and would feel something close to satisfaction, Liz made herself stand up. She staggered towards the couch, where she fell down again, and buried her head in the pillows.
In between of her sobs, she gasped for air, and, through her tears, she noticed something blue draped over the couch’s arm, something that made her anguish grow.
He had forgotten his scarf.
<center>***</center>
Germany, December 1942
When he woke up, Liz was still asleep, her body warm and familiarly soft against his, the fragrance that was typically hers surrounding him. He smiled faintly, kissed her forehead and lifted her head from his chest, gently, careful not to wake her. She didn’t protest, but a look of discomfort flitted over her face when he disentangled their legs and sat up straight. The couch – even shakier than the day before – creaked loudly, and Max grimaced, his eyes fearfully fixed on her face. She made a little sound, snuggled deeper under the blankets and curled up, pulling her knees to her chest.
He expelled a quiet breath of relief, and, reaching for the clothes they’d shed so easily last night, he tried to ease the pain that leaving her caused him.
<center>***</center>
The sound of a muttered curse roused her, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, not willing to let the warm feeling of peacefulness flee with the break of day. Sleep was reluctant to take her back, though, and she rolled over on the small space of the couch, onto her other side. There was a stumble on the other side of the room that made her open her eyes. She could make out Max’s dark silhouette through the shadiness of her surroundings, struggling to get his jacket on, violently jerking at the lapels until he noticed her looking at him.
He was quiet for a moment, and took a hesitant step towards her. “Hey,” he whispered, the love in his voice, the beautiful look in his eyes making her heart ache. His face bore an expression that bordered somewhere between guilt and sadness, and she was still contemplating about it, trying to distinguish what his face told her, when he gave her a weak smile.
“Hey,” she whispered back to him, her throat dry from the dusty atmosphere in the room and maybe, just maybe, his departure played a part in it at well. She coughed twice, but the painful lump in her throat was unwilling and stubborn, and didn’t budge.
He buttoned up his coat and took his mittens out of his pockets. The guilt was still prominently present on his face, and he uncomfortably walked back to the door.
She sat up slowly, clasping the blanket to her chest. “Were you…” she started, but paused, her mind slightly muddled, still trying to rid itself from sleep’s fog. Gesturing towards the door, she noticed how his gaze drifted from the doorway to her face, and back to the doorway again. She shook her head incredulously, hurt painfully making its way to her heart, forcing itself upon her. “You were just going to leave, weren’t you? Without telling me goodbye?”
He didn’t reply, but his face gave him away. Even in the darkness of the room, Liz could make out the sad line that was his mouth, the guilt so evidently etched on his face. “I thought last night meant something to you,” she whispered. Every single moment that passed after she’d spoken up, and an awkward, heavy silence had fallen, tore out her heart further, shredding it slowly, painfully, until burning, charred embers were all what remained.
“It did,” he said quietly, and through the darkness and her tears, she could see him walking back to her. She shivered involuntarily, and pulled the blanket tighter around her naked body. He came closer still, and finally sat down beside her. “I couldn’t say goodbye,” he admitted softly, both shame and guilt discernible in his voice. “I just couldn’t. I wouldn't be able to leave you.”
He wrung his hands, clasped them together and stared down at them in embarrassment. When he looked up again, his eyes met hers briefly, then dropped back to his lap, only to be lifted again as he gazed at a pale spot on the wall. His voice was soft, fragile, as he spoke up, barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid.”
Blinking, she regarded him, hating herself for forgiving him as quickly as she did. Her hand found his hands, and she squeezed them lightly. “As am I,” she whispered. “It makes saying goodbye even more necessary, Max. Don’t you see?”
He nodded slowly, but still didn’t dare to have his gaze cross hers. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said in a broken whisper. “I can’t.”
“You’ll do fine without me,” she tried to convince him, her fingers seeking his cheek, trying to turn his face and have him looking at her through the darkness.
“I won’t…” he sighed, and when he turned to face her, hurt aimed for her heart, shooting through her body at noticing the wetness in his eyes. “I won’t.”
Her heart dropped to her stomach, where it beat wildly, painfully, with unconditionally love, sadness, and remorse. She reached for his face, caressed his stubbly cheek with her thumb, and, brushing a stray tear, that had dared to go into the unknown, that had dared to fall, aside, she let a weak smile linger on her lips. “Come here.” Dropping the blanket she’d been holding, she spread her arms slightly and bent forward to embrace him. His head ensconced itself in the crook of her neck, his lips grazing over her skin in a slow, desperate motion. She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against his.
“You’ll survive,” she whispered, her warm breath over his cheek making him shiver, making him pull her closer to him. “You’ll be gone for two weeks, Max. They’ll be over before you know it. Two weeks. We never used to see each other more than once a week, and we did fine back then, too, didn’t we?”
He groaned, cursing the tears stinging his eyes, squeezing his eyes shut. “This is different, Liz, and you know it.”
Her fingers threaded through his hair when she looked up at him. “You’ll come back to me,” she persisted. “You promised you would.” Her hands took a hold of his jacket, and she made his gaze cross hers. “You promised.”
Nodding slowly, he gave her lips a chaste kiss. His eyes fell, and he furiously rubbed at his cheeks to erase any traces of his tears. “I will,” he vowed quietly, and stood up, forcing himself to look at the dark walls when she got up as well, and wrapped a blanket around her naked form.
She stepped up at him from behind, and put her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “I’ll see you in two weeks,” she said softly, and kissed his neck. He turned slowly, and, peering up at him, she stroked his cheek, her fingertips lightly brushing over his skin. “Goodbye, Max.”
He swallowed, and for the first time, she noticed how his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Goodbye,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering there for a second. He wheeled around and walked towards the door, where he dared to cast a last glance at her from over his shoulder.
Smiling feebly, she nodded at him, and he opened the door, letting in the light of morning. It danced over the walls, over his face and her body, momentarily blinding her. Before her eyes had recovered from the sudden change in light, the door fell shut again, and the room once more was deprived of daylight.
Quickly, she made her way to the window, and looked for the hole she’d peeped through before. Max’s form was rapidly distancing itself from hers, his shoulders slumped, his hands in his pockets. She watched until he had disappeared completely, her eyes following him until he was nothing more than a blotch on the horizon. Leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes, every heartbeat painfully discernible. She slid down slowly, a sob tearing itself from her throat, and she threw her arms around her legs, laid her head upon her knees. Tears burnt her eyes, but they didn’t fall as she cried loudly.
Several minutes passed before her cries grew weaker, and the first tears fell, flowing down, shamelessly crossing her cheeks. Realizing that, if Meredith would find her in this state - on the ground and crying - the girl would think she had been right, and would feel something close to satisfaction, Liz made herself stand up. She staggered towards the couch, where she fell down again, and buried her head in the pillows.
In between of her sobs, she gasped for air, and, through her tears, she noticed something blue draped over the couch’s arm, something that made her anguish grow.
He had forgotten his scarf.
<center>***</center>
Last edited by Anais Nin on Mon Mar 01, 2004 11:26 am, edited 1 time in total.
-
Anais Nin
- Enthusiastic Roswellian
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2003 12:15 am
- Location: The Netherlands
<center>Chapter 33</center>
Germany, December 1942
“Where have you been?”
His father was leaning against the door frame, the expression in his eyes unreadable. Scratching his eyebrow, Max straightened and met his father’s inquiring stare.
“I went to see Maria,” he lied, the sound of his voice genuine and self-confident, his cheeks unblushing.
Philip gave his son a sceptic look and crossed his arms. “Maria Connor?”
The hesitation in Max’s eyes was only briefly present, but his father didn’t fail to notice it. Returning his attention to the clothes he was trying to stuff into his suitcase, Max nodded. “Yes, father. Maria Connor, my friend. Why?”
“Because…” Philip said slowly, and walked into Max’s room until he was standing beside him, “Miss Connor attended Patricia Williams’s party last night. Where you were supposed to be, according to your mother.”
Max’s hand stilled their movements, but his eyes kept looking at his unfolded clothes and the suitcase. His mind tried to suppress the rising wave of panic that tried to wash over him, and he swallowed. “It was a tedious party, father,” he said, praying his father would believe the lies he was about to tell. “I could see it the second I arrived, and left that instant. I have wandered for a little while, and met Maria after she had left the party as well.”
There was still a suspicious glance in his father’s eyes when he dared to peer up at him.
“You know very well about the curfew, Max. You’re the son of the mayor. Particularly you should be home before night falls.” Philip gave his son a weary look, and shook his head in a disappointed manner. “You didn’t spend the night with Maria, did you?”
“No, God, no…” Max said, inserting a laugh to ridicule his father’s suggestion. “Maria’s just a friend, father. A very good friend.”
“You know you can talk with me about this, Max,” Philip said, running his fingers through his hair as he walked back towards the door. “You don’t have to sneak around as if you have something to hide. If you want to marry Maria, we can discuss it.”
“Father!” Max straightened with a sigh of annoyance. “I’m not in love with Maria. She’s my friend – I told you that. Why do you insist there’s anything more to it?”
“You’ve changed, son. A lot. I hate to think that you’re hiding things from me.”
Max met his father’s eyes, confusing feelings speeding his heartbeat. For a second, he could have sworn that it was sadness he saw in his father’s eyes, that there was a tinge of pain in his father’s voice.
“I’m still me,” he said, looking down at his sock-clad feet, at the cold tiles beneath them. “And if I’ve changed, it’s for the better, I swear.”
He paused, and was quiet for a brief moment, trying to order his thoughts.
His father looked at him absent-mindedly, obviously struggling with himself, uncertain of his own feelings. “I just pray that you will sense trouble when you get across it, and that you’ll steer clear of it.”
“I’ll be fine, father.” Max nodded at his father encouragingly. “Don’t worry.”
Philip nodded wearily. Long after he had left, his presence still lingered in the room, an awkward, dark silence heavy on Max’s heart.
<center>***</center>
Germany, December 1942
During the weeks that followed, Meredith seemed to be more of an annoyance than usual. Sharp remarks about Max, Liz, and Max and Liz as a couple followed each other in a rapid pace.
Nights came easily, unannounced, and were reluctant to leave, slowly creeping out of the dark room when the sun started to rise. She filled the emptiness around and inside of her with prayers – to her God, to his – but they would flee from her, unanswered. They would grow more desperate as the next day started to break, until at last, all she could do was lay still and listen to the night sounds the house made – the creaking of the ceiling, the howling of the wind, the pattering of the mice that occupied the small cabin with them. She would try to calm down, to stop her tears from falling, to swallow past the lump in her throat. She would try to be deaf for the sounds around her, to replace them with the sound of his voice, of his laughter, to see his eyes looking down in hers.
Finally, somewhere close to dawn, she’d lose herself in her sleep, but never for long. Her dreams were haunted, and she had rollen off the couch and fallen to the floor repeatedly.
The small thread of hope that she was clinging to was a telegram that Max had sent to Maria about a week after he had left. He was doing all right, he wrote, and missed them terribly. The people he had met were nice, and the teachers weren’t too hard on him.
She didn’t believe a single word of what he wrote, but his handwriting proved to her that he was still alive, and that he was doing well.
Time crept by slowly, but at last, it was one day before Christmas, and Max would return. She slightly feared the moment he would walk through the door. Would the two weeks without her have changed him? Would she still know him as deeply and thoroughly as she thought she did before?
She prayed she would.
<center>***</center>
Germany, December 1942 – Christmas Eve
She knew he was standing in the doorway before she heard his nervous cough. He was still the same as he had been two weeks ago – his face, his nose, his lips – but something had irretrievably fled from his eyes.
“Hey,” he greeted her weakly, taking a hesitant step towards her.
She smiled, and sat up straight. “Hey.”
There was a distant look in his eyes, and a weariness she couldn’t recognize carefully shrouded the man she’d once known, hid him from her.
Wishing that maybe it was the distance between them - or the darkness – that made him look so different, she took a step closer to him, studying his face in the candle’s flickering light. A tentative silence crept upon them as she approached him, carefully, until she couldn’t stop herself, and tears slid down her cheeks, leaving burning trails of relief on her skin.
His arms immediately enveloped her in a tight embrace, and she somehow was aware that he needed this more than anything.
They clung to each other, breathing each other in. Her eyes were closed, and she let him hold her, his tight grip never weakening, his tears wetting her hair. “I missed you,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes tighter shut.
He held her close, one hand fisted in her hair, the other on her back, pressing her closer still. “God, I missed you,” he said, forcing the words through his emotion clogged throat, his voice thick.
The door opened with a loud creak, and Meredith breezed past them, slanting them an exasperated look. “Max,” she nodded a greeting, and, carrying her dirty laundry in a basket, she opened the front door. An icy wind filled the room and lingered; even after Meredith had slammed the door shut.
Liz shivered lightly and buried her head into the crook of Max’s neck, kissing him lightly. “How have you been?”
Raising one hand to caress her cheek, he shrugged. “All right. Did Maria get the telegram I sent her?”
She nodded, and slightly withdrew herself from his arms to sit down on the couch. He sat down next to her and, never again wanting to be without her, took her in his arms again. Her lips sought out his, and they met in a quiet, tender kiss. After pulling back, he laid his forehead against hers, closed his eyes, but opened them again before speaking up. “I love you.”
Smiling feebly, Liz gazed in his eyes. “How have you been, Max?” she repeated her previous question. “The truth this time, please.”
The carefree love that had shone in his eyes several seconds before had dissipated, leaving an eerie blankness behind. “I’ve been all right,” he said, the beseeching look in his eyes begging her to believe him, to not ask any further. “I survived, just like you said I would.”
“You can tell me about it,” she carefully persisted, brushing the back of her hand over his cheek. “I want to know.”
“You don’t.” Max shook his head wearily, pain shimmering through in his eyes. “You don’t want to know what I know.”
“But I do. Please.”
He sighed unhappily and, carefully tucking away the pain that slashed through his body, he kissed her cheek. “I can’t tell you.”
“Please, Max,” she pleaded, her eyes searching his for any hidden answers. “I want to go through what you’ve gone through. I want to be able to help you.”
“Fine,” he gave in, conceding his defeat with another weak sigh. “I heard… things… from other students, from other places…” he trailed off, the distant look in his eyes scaring her lightly.
Her eyes begged him to continue, though, and skilfully avoiding her gaze, he stared at the candle’s flame. “There’s this man. A professor. Stieve. He…” Max swallowed laboriously and looked down at her hands clasped around his.
“When a woman… when she is to be executed… he tells her the scheduled date and then he studies what kind of… effect... it has on her period…”
Liz stared at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend what he’d just told her.
Restlessly playing with her hands, he followed the movements their fingers made. “That’s not all. It’s said that he… had some women raped before they were… executed… so that he could study the… effects…”
Still unable to speak, Liz paled slightly, the blood draining from her face. She wrapped her arms around him, letting him know that she was there. “That’s horrible,” she whispered, agony twisting inside her stomach. “Inhuman.”
Inhaling slowly, Max nodded. Guilt invaded his mind – how could he have told her this? – and increased dramatically when he realized that it felt good to have her comforting him, to have her knowing what he knew. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I’m glad you did,” she told him, miserable with the newfound knowledge, but glad that she could now understand his behavior, that she could understand why he was just a mere shadow of the man he once was.
Kissing him on his lips, she wiped the tears from his cheeks and pulled him close. “I love you, Max,” she said. “No matter what.”
<center>***</center>
<center>Chapter 34</center>
Germany, January 1943
Saying goodbye for the second time was surprisingly easy on her, certainly when she compared it to how she had felt the first time he had left. Maybe it had something to do with their newfound closeness, with knowing that she loved him and that he loved her back. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had survived his first two weeks without her – that she had survived them – and that he had returned and would always return to her, like he had promised.
Maybe it was because she had something else on her mind that kept her up every night, bothering her every single moment of the day. Maybe it was the task that awaited her – telling him her worries – that made saying goodbye seem so much easier and less significant.
An inaudible sigh tumbled over her lips, and she closed her eyes, grateful that Max was still asleep. She needed to find a way to break the news to him. Of course, she still wasn’t completely sure about it, but she thought she couldn’t be mistaken. It would be too much of a coincidence.
His breath on her cheek was warm and it came evenly, in a relaxed rhythm. She listened to his breathing, and stared at the candle’s display of light and dark on the stone walls.
How? How could she ever tell him?
Would he be angry with her?
She knew he wouldn’t be. He’d never been angry with her; save the time she’d basically told him that she didn’t love him.
No, he wouldn’t be angry.
He’d be hurt.
And that scared her - more than anything.
<center>***</center>
His lips were dry and, wetting them briefly before opening his eyes, he tried to cling to the last remnants of his dream. A pleasant weight rested on his chest – the weight of her head – and her hair tickled his skin. Her fingers were absent-mindedly drawing patterns on his chest, moving up and down over his ribcage in a slow, leisurely tempo.
Daring to look down at her - praying that he wouldn’t awaken in his own bed, without her – his eyes skimmed over her lovely features. She was staring at the wall and hadn’t even noticed his awakening.
“Good morning,” he whispered. Wetting his lips hadn’t helped; they were still dry, and his voice was raw, painful to his throat.
She looked up wearily, a lock of hair caressing her skin as it slid down, over her cheek, rosy and warm, and it finally stopped to hang in front of her eyes. “Morning,” she whispered back to him, and her smile touched her lips just barely.
His content sigh interrupted her train of thoughts briefly, and she crawled up and kissed his lips. “I’m going to miss you,” she stated quietly.
He nodded in agreement, his hand reaching for her face. “I’ll miss you, too,” he said. “You know that.”
She didn’t reply, but her fingers’ movements on his chest faltered.
Frowning, he tried to suppress the feeling her demeanor was giving him, tried to ignore what his senses were already telling him.
“Max…” she began, her voice quiet and hesitant. The anxious look in her eyes made agony twist inside his stomach, and he scraped his throat nervously.
“Suppose…” she said, pausing momentarily, “suppose I’d be… pregnant. That would be… bad… wouldn’t it?”
He blinked hesitantly, unsure what to say. “Yes. No. I mean… It… it wouldn’t make our lives… easier…”
Uncertain tears welled up in the eyes that had just been gauging his reaction, and worried, he lifted her head with his hand and made her look at him. “Are you?” he croaked, a nervous feeling rising to his throat, stubbornly clogging it.
Guilt was embedded in her eyes, those wonderful, loving, open eyes, and she shrugged lightly. She swallowed and dropped her gaze to the floor. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m late.”
“How… late… exactly?”
She shook her head, unsure. “Over a week, I think.” Her eyes darted to his face. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she said, not knowing who she was trying to reassure. “My period’s never been really regular.”
Her words made him nod lightly, and his fingers drifted to her face, brushing over her cheeks. “A week…”
“Maybe I’m just late because the last weeks were so stressful,” she suggested, half hopeful.
“Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “We can’t count on that, though.”
She was quiet for a while, her eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”
Frowning, he tilted her chin back with his thumb, and stared down at her, into her eyes. “What for? It takes two, Liz.”
She forced her eyes to look away from his and fumbled with the corner of the blanket.
A rosy, light blush made her pale cheeks seem a bit healthier, and Max could feel some of his worries subdue. “I’ll ask around when I’m in Russia, all right? Maybe someone knows a way to get out of here.”
Shaking her head remorsefully, she sat up straight, her hair brushing her shoulder, gliding to her back. “There’s no way to get out of here, Max,” she said. “It’s idealistic to think there is. You and I, we both know that.”
“I’ll talk to Jim,” he obstinately insisted, his eyes fiery, taking on a stubborn hint. “Jim knows people – people who know people. There has to be a way to escape this madness.”
She looked away from him, but didn’t protest.
He and she, they both knew there was only one way out of the situation they were in.
<center>***</center>
Germany, January 1943
Under the sound of loud whistles and the rattling of wheels on the metal rails, the train arrived at the station. With his duffle bag swung over his shoulder, he pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and took a step towards his family.
He briefly hugged his father, kissed his mother and sister on both cheeks and shook his brother’s hand. The one person he missed most, was the one person he had already said his goodbyes to.
“Fare well, son,” his father nodded at him.
His mother smiled weakly and pulled him back into her arms. He fought against the tears, blinking several times. She ran her fingers through his hair and tried to protect him from the outside world by shielding him from it with her brittle, old body. “Return safely, Max,” she begged him. “Please.”
Nodding, he withdrew himself from her arms and gave them a lop-sided smile. “I’ll see you,” he said, and listlessly ambled over to the train, throwing hesitant glances over his shoulders.
When in the train, he looked through its dirty, yellowy window and found his family standing there, already distanced from him in more ways than he could explain. He let his duffel bag plump down on the seat next to his and laid his head back to the chair. The air in the carriage was musty, tickling his nose, and a fellow passenger had shrouded the rest of the carriage in smoky clouds. The stench and foggy smoke remained, even when the man put out his cigar.
Max shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position, and finally closed his eyes, conjuring up the image of Liz, laughing, smiling, biting her lip. He yawned and willingly let sleep come over him.
It was going to be a long ride.
<center>***</center>
<center>Chapter 35</center>
As the weeks after his departure passed, it became more and more evident that she had to be pregnant. A sickening nausea claimed her in the mornings, and she would throw up, getting rid of the hesitation and anxiety that had gathered in her stomach the night before, as she had lied awake, unable to sleep with the heavy burden of her worries.
She yearned for a way to tell Max, to let him know that she was indeed with child, his child. It was nearly impossible to contact him, though. All she had, and all she woke up for when dawn came, and the forest around her came to life, were telegrams from him, addressed and sent to Maria, but meant for her and her alone.
Meredith seemed to have an idea of what was going on, but didn’t speak about it with her. She simply showed less and less of herself, hiding away in the attic, occupying herself with pencils, large, yellowy papers and drawings that still needed to be finished. She came down once in a while – about twice a day – so that she could eat and drink, but would exchange no more than three words and a rather rushed out greeting with Liz.
Liz was painfully aware of her loneliness – the heavy, horrible secret she was bearing reminded her of it every moment of the day. She did not dare to tell Maria, and Meredith wasn’t even an option. All she could do was wait for Max, pray for him, and hope, wish that he would return safely, unharmed.
The agonizing, heavy silences inside and outside of the cabin never left her alone, followed her loyally, closer to her than her own shadow, and they gave her mind plenty of time to think. As time passed, a conclusion reluctantly unfolded itself, uncurling with every second of loneliness that went by, with every word she wanted to say to him, to Maria, to anyone, but never said, and pushed away roughly.
She had made up her mind, and all she had to do was wait for him to return to her, so that she could tell him so, and could do as she had decided.
<center>***</center>
Russia, February 1943
“Leave him, Evans.”
The eyelids of the man beneath him trembled lightly. Reluctantly, he looked up at his colleague, Adriaan Regenbaum, who was already bending over the next victim. The victim below him made a low, guttural sound, and his fisted hand clenched and unclenched briefly. Blood gushed out of a chest wound, and issued out of several other wounds on different locations of his body. It oozed out of his veins, slipping away slowly, just like the victim’s life.
“Evans?”
He slanted a quick glance at Adriaan, then focused on his victim again. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Adriaan getting up and seconds later, his colleague’s shadow fell over him.
“He won’t make it, Max. Let him go.”
Adriaan’s voice was heavy and low, but it wasn’t filled with sorrow, or anything that came even remotely close to it. The only emotion that Max could distinguish in it was sympathy, and not for the victim, but for him; for his trainee.
Max nodded obediently as he had all those times before, in situations similar to this one – the wounds would be the same, the expressions, the uniforms, but the faces - the victims - they would always differ.
In the beginning, Adriaan had told him that he would get used to it. It was only normal that it got to you the first time, and the second time, but after some weeks, it no longer was supposed to affect you. If you wanted to help people, you should realize that you had to make decisions. The people that were as good as dead weren’t worthy of your time. It were the victims that had wounds less severe you should treat. Those victims still had a good chance at surviving, at revalidating and fighting for their country once more.
Max knew that, but still, it was hard to get up and give up on a person. It shattered his soul a bit more every time, and it pained him beyond imaginable, for he knew he was losing something. What, he would never be able to explain, but that it slipped through his hands was certain.
He straightened slowly, the muscles in his thighs and calves putting up a painful protest. The victim at his feet made another sound, and Max intended to glance down at him one last time, when pale, blue eyes, framed by long, blond lashes met his.
Startled, he called Adriaan’s name, his voice trembling. “I want to help him,” he said. “I need to.”
Adriaan favored the victim with a doubtful, sceptic glance, then stared at Max. “Do as you like, as long as it won’t take you too long.” He looked down at the man again, shaking his head slowly. “He’s a goner, Evans. This is hopeless.”
Still shaking his head, stupefied by Max’s ignorance, he handed him two latex gloves. “You’re going to need them.”
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
It was still dark when she slipped out of the house and made her way through the woods. The forest ground was wet and slippery; the rain that had fallen yesterday had frozen overnight, creating a thin layer of breakable, delicate ice. The cold had somehow found a way to seep through the soles of her shoes, and it now crept upwards slowly, her toes and feet frozen to the bone.
The lake, she noticed, was covered with a thin layer of ice as well. She stooped down and examined it briefly. Fishes swum underneath it as if nothing in their surrounding had changed, as if there wasn’t an frosty plate drifting above them, creaking ominously whenever a bird waggled over it. She stared at them for a while, marveling at their swift movements, at their scaled bodies.
She never heard him sneaking up upon her, and never would she have suspected him to grab her like he did. His arm went around her waist, and his mouth landed upon her bare, cold shoulder.
Startled, she stiffened, and her erratically beating heart did not come to rest until she heard his voice.
“Hey beautiful,” he whispered. He turned her around and took a step back so that he could take a better look at her face.
“Max!” she stammered out after the initial shock started to wear off, glad to see him again. Throwing herself in his arms, she pounded on his chest with her fists. “Don’t ever do that again,” she admonished him, but her actions belied her words as she pulled him closer and kissed his cheek affectionately. “You scared the hell out of me!”
“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Max teased her as he smoothed her hair. “Hell wouldn’t even want to be inside of a girl as lovely as you.”
She laughed and gave him a friendly shove. “You crazy fool,” she muttered, and pulled him back to her. Her lips sought out his in a tender kiss, and she sunk deeper into his arms. She tried to get the kiss more passionate – if only to lose the burning ache inside of her, the fear of saying what needed to be said – but he didn’t quite follow her lead and broke them apart.
“I missed you,” he said, and sighed lightly, resting his forehead against hers. “You don’t have the foggiest clue as to how much.”
She fought to keep her smile upon her lips, but it painfully slid away – far down, to where she had buried her secret last month, where it now laid, waiting to be dug up again, waiting to be told.
“And?” he wondered breathlessly. “Are you? Pregnant, I mean?”
Her heart beat frantically as she nodded slowly, and tried to gather enough courage to tell him the truth.
His eyes stared down in hers for another long second. He was surprised by her answer, she was sure, even though he had expected it. He was silent, his eyes incomprehensive until he blinked, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards in a smile that reached out for them. “That’s… amazing,” he breathed out.
She dodged his stare and gazed at the lake, at the fishes deep below. “You don’t have to pretend to be glad, Max. I’d understand it if --”
“But I am,” he protested, “I am glad! Even though we did not plan for this, I’m glad.” His eyes darkened a bit as he paused. “Some new life in this never ending circle of death would be a greatly appreciated miracle.”
She let out a bitter laugh, but he didn’t seem to notice the emotional wreck she was.
“I haven’t told Jim yet,” he confided her, “but I’m planning to do so soon. He’ll be disappointed in us, of course, but I really believe that he’ll want to help us. Don’t you?”
Shrugging, she looked as he stooped down and picked up some pebbles. An image of her grandmother’s grave flashed before her eyes, but she pushed it away forcefully, not prepared to deal with it, having more on her mind than she could bear as it was.
“I don’t think he can,” she replied truthfully. “There’s no way out of this hellhole, Max. No matter how badly you wish there is.”
“There is a way out of here,” he stubbornly alleged. He threw a pebble onto the ice and watched as it slid and slithered, and ended up falling through a hole. “There is a way, if you’re just willing to let yourself believe.”
“There’s none,” she said.
He chose a different angle to throw his rock, and this time, it ended up on the water. They watched as it leapt one, two, three times, then finally sunk to the bottom of the lake. “Where a will is, is a way,” he reminded her.
“Not here, Max,” she told him gravely, “not now.”
He shook his head in amazement – how could she be this obstinate? – and decided to change the subject. “Have you thought of names yet? I know it’s a bit early, but in Russia…” he paused briefly, and a frown of pain flit over his features, “in Russia,” he continued after pulling himself together, “sleep didn’t come easily. I would lie awake for hours. I’d think of you, and… and of our… our baby…”
He smiled, shaking his head. It was strange to think of a child of theirs, growing in her abdomen that very second. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her. She didn’t look any different from before; her hair was still as shiny and long, her mouth was still as red and lovely as before, her figure still as elegant and delicate. The only change he had noticed lied in her eyes, that still were as deep as before, but now seemed somewhat shielded.
Blaming it on his long absence, he went on, “I was thinking about Robin, for when it’s a boy. And maybe Anna for a girl? Or Janette?”
Seeing her empty expression, he rambled on. “We don’t have to name it like that. I was just coming up with suggestions. If you don’t --”
“I don’t want to have it, Max,” she interrupted him, surprising not only him, but herself as well. She had thought that she'd never get herself to tell him.
He frowned, not understanding her words. “What? You don’t want to have what?”
“The baby,” she elucidated, her lips pursed together as she looked away from him, at the reed on the shores on the others side of the lake as it waved in the wind. “I don’t want it.”
“But… why?” he stuttered, the blood draining from his cheeks.
She shook her head, amazed by his inability to understand her. “Because it just can’t be. Having a baby is dangerous when you’re hiding out. You can’t tell it to be quiet, to not cry when soldiers are near. You can’t control it.”
Max gaped at her, still not completely understanding her motives. “So… you don’t want it because it’s inconvenient for you? Because you can’t control it?”
“You’re twisting the words in my mouth, Max,” she refuted, her hands trembling, burning tears welling up in her eyes. “What I mean is that it will endanger not only itself, me and Meredith, but you, Jim and Maria as well. I... I can’t give it a future!”
She tore her eyes away from his and turned to look at the lake once more so that he wouldn’t see her tears. “What do I have to offer, but isolation, heartache and fear? What kind of life would that be for a child?”
Raising her eyes to the heavens above, she wondered why their God was so cruel. “It’s better off not being born,” she ensured Max in a tear-clogged voice as pain slashed through her. “I don’t want it to grow, I don't want it to be born because... because I already love it too much. I want it to die now, before it’s able to go through what I’ve gone through.”
Her heart pounded in her throat as she swallowed, and closed her eyes. “I want it to go before I get too close to it.”
“It’s not just your child, Liz,” he exclaimed in protest, his anger mounting. He grabbed her shoulder and swiveled her around. “It’s mine, too. Don’t you think I should have a say in it?”
“That’s why I waited with… with…” she paused, unable to get ‘killing’ over her lips, and instead, a teary sob was ripped from her throat. “That’s why I... I waited for you to return.”
“For what?” he wondered loudly, his voice harsh. He shook his head, sadness stumping away at his heart and for the first time in his life, he felt as if he had never known her at all. “It’s obvious you already made your decision, and that my opinion doesn’t matter.”
She bit on her lip, hating herself for being this weak, for letting him hurt her so easily. “It’s better this way, Max. It’s better. I want it gone.” Placing her hands on the sides of her face, she pushed at her temples, trying to stop the aching throbbing inside of her head. “I want it gone,” she whispered brokenly, lifting her tear-filled eyes to meet his. “I just… I just want it… gone…”
The look he gave her was one of utter disgust, and he took a step back. “If you do this, Liz,” he warned her, his eyes fiery and deprecatingly, “if you choose to go through with this, I swear – and may God be my witness – I will never forgive you. Never.”
In one fluent, angry motion, he threw all the pebbles that had been left in his hand into the lake, the loud creaking of ice startling not only her, but the birds on the other side of the lake as well. They flew up one by one, following each other on a journey into the unknown. When she looked back at him, she noticed that he had left as well.
She was left wondering, thinking she might have dreamt it all, but the broken ice and the red spot on her arm, the patch of skin where he had held her, proved her the opposite.
<center>***</center>
Germany, December 1942
“Where have you been?”
His father was leaning against the door frame, the expression in his eyes unreadable. Scratching his eyebrow, Max straightened and met his father’s inquiring stare.
“I went to see Maria,” he lied, the sound of his voice genuine and self-confident, his cheeks unblushing.
Philip gave his son a sceptic look and crossed his arms. “Maria Connor?”
The hesitation in Max’s eyes was only briefly present, but his father didn’t fail to notice it. Returning his attention to the clothes he was trying to stuff into his suitcase, Max nodded. “Yes, father. Maria Connor, my friend. Why?”
“Because…” Philip said slowly, and walked into Max’s room until he was standing beside him, “Miss Connor attended Patricia Williams’s party last night. Where you were supposed to be, according to your mother.”
Max’s hand stilled their movements, but his eyes kept looking at his unfolded clothes and the suitcase. His mind tried to suppress the rising wave of panic that tried to wash over him, and he swallowed. “It was a tedious party, father,” he said, praying his father would believe the lies he was about to tell. “I could see it the second I arrived, and left that instant. I have wandered for a little while, and met Maria after she had left the party as well.”
There was still a suspicious glance in his father’s eyes when he dared to peer up at him.
“You know very well about the curfew, Max. You’re the son of the mayor. Particularly you should be home before night falls.” Philip gave his son a weary look, and shook his head in a disappointed manner. “You didn’t spend the night with Maria, did you?”
“No, God, no…” Max said, inserting a laugh to ridicule his father’s suggestion. “Maria’s just a friend, father. A very good friend.”
“You know you can talk with me about this, Max,” Philip said, running his fingers through his hair as he walked back towards the door. “You don’t have to sneak around as if you have something to hide. If you want to marry Maria, we can discuss it.”
“Father!” Max straightened with a sigh of annoyance. “I’m not in love with Maria. She’s my friend – I told you that. Why do you insist there’s anything more to it?”
“You’ve changed, son. A lot. I hate to think that you’re hiding things from me.”
Max met his father’s eyes, confusing feelings speeding his heartbeat. For a second, he could have sworn that it was sadness he saw in his father’s eyes, that there was a tinge of pain in his father’s voice.
“I’m still me,” he said, looking down at his sock-clad feet, at the cold tiles beneath them. “And if I’ve changed, it’s for the better, I swear.”
He paused, and was quiet for a brief moment, trying to order his thoughts.
His father looked at him absent-mindedly, obviously struggling with himself, uncertain of his own feelings. “I just pray that you will sense trouble when you get across it, and that you’ll steer clear of it.”
“I’ll be fine, father.” Max nodded at his father encouragingly. “Don’t worry.”
Philip nodded wearily. Long after he had left, his presence still lingered in the room, an awkward, dark silence heavy on Max’s heart.
<center>***</center>
Germany, December 1942
During the weeks that followed, Meredith seemed to be more of an annoyance than usual. Sharp remarks about Max, Liz, and Max and Liz as a couple followed each other in a rapid pace.
Nights came easily, unannounced, and were reluctant to leave, slowly creeping out of the dark room when the sun started to rise. She filled the emptiness around and inside of her with prayers – to her God, to his – but they would flee from her, unanswered. They would grow more desperate as the next day started to break, until at last, all she could do was lay still and listen to the night sounds the house made – the creaking of the ceiling, the howling of the wind, the pattering of the mice that occupied the small cabin with them. She would try to calm down, to stop her tears from falling, to swallow past the lump in her throat. She would try to be deaf for the sounds around her, to replace them with the sound of his voice, of his laughter, to see his eyes looking down in hers.
Finally, somewhere close to dawn, she’d lose herself in her sleep, but never for long. Her dreams were haunted, and she had rollen off the couch and fallen to the floor repeatedly.
The small thread of hope that she was clinging to was a telegram that Max had sent to Maria about a week after he had left. He was doing all right, he wrote, and missed them terribly. The people he had met were nice, and the teachers weren’t too hard on him.
She didn’t believe a single word of what he wrote, but his handwriting proved to her that he was still alive, and that he was doing well.
Time crept by slowly, but at last, it was one day before Christmas, and Max would return. She slightly feared the moment he would walk through the door. Would the two weeks without her have changed him? Would she still know him as deeply and thoroughly as she thought she did before?
She prayed she would.
<center>***</center>
Germany, December 1942 – Christmas Eve
She knew he was standing in the doorway before she heard his nervous cough. He was still the same as he had been two weeks ago – his face, his nose, his lips – but something had irretrievably fled from his eyes.
“Hey,” he greeted her weakly, taking a hesitant step towards her.
She smiled, and sat up straight. “Hey.”
There was a distant look in his eyes, and a weariness she couldn’t recognize carefully shrouded the man she’d once known, hid him from her.
Wishing that maybe it was the distance between them - or the darkness – that made him look so different, she took a step closer to him, studying his face in the candle’s flickering light. A tentative silence crept upon them as she approached him, carefully, until she couldn’t stop herself, and tears slid down her cheeks, leaving burning trails of relief on her skin.
His arms immediately enveloped her in a tight embrace, and she somehow was aware that he needed this more than anything.
They clung to each other, breathing each other in. Her eyes were closed, and she let him hold her, his tight grip never weakening, his tears wetting her hair. “I missed you,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes tighter shut.
He held her close, one hand fisted in her hair, the other on her back, pressing her closer still. “God, I missed you,” he said, forcing the words through his emotion clogged throat, his voice thick.
The door opened with a loud creak, and Meredith breezed past them, slanting them an exasperated look. “Max,” she nodded a greeting, and, carrying her dirty laundry in a basket, she opened the front door. An icy wind filled the room and lingered; even after Meredith had slammed the door shut.
Liz shivered lightly and buried her head into the crook of Max’s neck, kissing him lightly. “How have you been?”
Raising one hand to caress her cheek, he shrugged. “All right. Did Maria get the telegram I sent her?”
She nodded, and slightly withdrew herself from his arms to sit down on the couch. He sat down next to her and, never again wanting to be without her, took her in his arms again. Her lips sought out his, and they met in a quiet, tender kiss. After pulling back, he laid his forehead against hers, closed his eyes, but opened them again before speaking up. “I love you.”
Smiling feebly, Liz gazed in his eyes. “How have you been, Max?” she repeated her previous question. “The truth this time, please.”
The carefree love that had shone in his eyes several seconds before had dissipated, leaving an eerie blankness behind. “I’ve been all right,” he said, the beseeching look in his eyes begging her to believe him, to not ask any further. “I survived, just like you said I would.”
“You can tell me about it,” she carefully persisted, brushing the back of her hand over his cheek. “I want to know.”
“You don’t.” Max shook his head wearily, pain shimmering through in his eyes. “You don’t want to know what I know.”
“But I do. Please.”
He sighed unhappily and, carefully tucking away the pain that slashed through his body, he kissed her cheek. “I can’t tell you.”
“Please, Max,” she pleaded, her eyes searching his for any hidden answers. “I want to go through what you’ve gone through. I want to be able to help you.”
“Fine,” he gave in, conceding his defeat with another weak sigh. “I heard… things… from other students, from other places…” he trailed off, the distant look in his eyes scaring her lightly.
Her eyes begged him to continue, though, and skilfully avoiding her gaze, he stared at the candle’s flame. “There’s this man. A professor. Stieve. He…” Max swallowed laboriously and looked down at her hands clasped around his.
“When a woman… when she is to be executed… he tells her the scheduled date and then he studies what kind of… effect... it has on her period…”
Liz stared at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend what he’d just told her.
Restlessly playing with her hands, he followed the movements their fingers made. “That’s not all. It’s said that he… had some women raped before they were… executed… so that he could study the… effects…”
Still unable to speak, Liz paled slightly, the blood draining from her face. She wrapped her arms around him, letting him know that she was there. “That’s horrible,” she whispered, agony twisting inside her stomach. “Inhuman.”
Inhaling slowly, Max nodded. Guilt invaded his mind – how could he have told her this? – and increased dramatically when he realized that it felt good to have her comforting him, to have her knowing what he knew. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I’m glad you did,” she told him, miserable with the newfound knowledge, but glad that she could now understand his behavior, that she could understand why he was just a mere shadow of the man he once was.
Kissing him on his lips, she wiped the tears from his cheeks and pulled him close. “I love you, Max,” she said. “No matter what.”
<center>***</center>
<center>Chapter 34</center>
Germany, January 1943
Saying goodbye for the second time was surprisingly easy on her, certainly when she compared it to how she had felt the first time he had left. Maybe it had something to do with their newfound closeness, with knowing that she loved him and that he loved her back. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had survived his first two weeks without her – that she had survived them – and that he had returned and would always return to her, like he had promised.
Maybe it was because she had something else on her mind that kept her up every night, bothering her every single moment of the day. Maybe it was the task that awaited her – telling him her worries – that made saying goodbye seem so much easier and less significant.
An inaudible sigh tumbled over her lips, and she closed her eyes, grateful that Max was still asleep. She needed to find a way to break the news to him. Of course, she still wasn’t completely sure about it, but she thought she couldn’t be mistaken. It would be too much of a coincidence.
His breath on her cheek was warm and it came evenly, in a relaxed rhythm. She listened to his breathing, and stared at the candle’s display of light and dark on the stone walls.
How? How could she ever tell him?
Would he be angry with her?
She knew he wouldn’t be. He’d never been angry with her; save the time she’d basically told him that she didn’t love him.
No, he wouldn’t be angry.
He’d be hurt.
And that scared her - more than anything.
<center>***</center>
His lips were dry and, wetting them briefly before opening his eyes, he tried to cling to the last remnants of his dream. A pleasant weight rested on his chest – the weight of her head – and her hair tickled his skin. Her fingers were absent-mindedly drawing patterns on his chest, moving up and down over his ribcage in a slow, leisurely tempo.
Daring to look down at her - praying that he wouldn’t awaken in his own bed, without her – his eyes skimmed over her lovely features. She was staring at the wall and hadn’t even noticed his awakening.
“Good morning,” he whispered. Wetting his lips hadn’t helped; they were still dry, and his voice was raw, painful to his throat.
She looked up wearily, a lock of hair caressing her skin as it slid down, over her cheek, rosy and warm, and it finally stopped to hang in front of her eyes. “Morning,” she whispered back to him, and her smile touched her lips just barely.
His content sigh interrupted her train of thoughts briefly, and she crawled up and kissed his lips. “I’m going to miss you,” she stated quietly.
He nodded in agreement, his hand reaching for her face. “I’ll miss you, too,” he said. “You know that.”
She didn’t reply, but her fingers’ movements on his chest faltered.
Frowning, he tried to suppress the feeling her demeanor was giving him, tried to ignore what his senses were already telling him.
“Max…” she began, her voice quiet and hesitant. The anxious look in her eyes made agony twist inside his stomach, and he scraped his throat nervously.
“Suppose…” she said, pausing momentarily, “suppose I’d be… pregnant. That would be… bad… wouldn’t it?”
He blinked hesitantly, unsure what to say. “Yes. No. I mean… It… it wouldn’t make our lives… easier…”
Uncertain tears welled up in the eyes that had just been gauging his reaction, and worried, he lifted her head with his hand and made her look at him. “Are you?” he croaked, a nervous feeling rising to his throat, stubbornly clogging it.
Guilt was embedded in her eyes, those wonderful, loving, open eyes, and she shrugged lightly. She swallowed and dropped her gaze to the floor. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m late.”
“How… late… exactly?”
She shook her head, unsure. “Over a week, I think.” Her eyes darted to his face. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she said, not knowing who she was trying to reassure. “My period’s never been really regular.”
Her words made him nod lightly, and his fingers drifted to her face, brushing over her cheeks. “A week…”
“Maybe I’m just late because the last weeks were so stressful,” she suggested, half hopeful.
“Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “We can’t count on that, though.”
She was quiet for a while, her eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”
Frowning, he tilted her chin back with his thumb, and stared down at her, into her eyes. “What for? It takes two, Liz.”
She forced her eyes to look away from his and fumbled with the corner of the blanket.
A rosy, light blush made her pale cheeks seem a bit healthier, and Max could feel some of his worries subdue. “I’ll ask around when I’m in Russia, all right? Maybe someone knows a way to get out of here.”
Shaking her head remorsefully, she sat up straight, her hair brushing her shoulder, gliding to her back. “There’s no way to get out of here, Max,” she said. “It’s idealistic to think there is. You and I, we both know that.”
“I’ll talk to Jim,” he obstinately insisted, his eyes fiery, taking on a stubborn hint. “Jim knows people – people who know people. There has to be a way to escape this madness.”
She looked away from him, but didn’t protest.
He and she, they both knew there was only one way out of the situation they were in.
<center>***</center>
Germany, January 1943
Under the sound of loud whistles and the rattling of wheels on the metal rails, the train arrived at the station. With his duffle bag swung over his shoulder, he pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and took a step towards his family.
He briefly hugged his father, kissed his mother and sister on both cheeks and shook his brother’s hand. The one person he missed most, was the one person he had already said his goodbyes to.
“Fare well, son,” his father nodded at him.
His mother smiled weakly and pulled him back into her arms. He fought against the tears, blinking several times. She ran her fingers through his hair and tried to protect him from the outside world by shielding him from it with her brittle, old body. “Return safely, Max,” she begged him. “Please.”
Nodding, he withdrew himself from her arms and gave them a lop-sided smile. “I’ll see you,” he said, and listlessly ambled over to the train, throwing hesitant glances over his shoulders.
When in the train, he looked through its dirty, yellowy window and found his family standing there, already distanced from him in more ways than he could explain. He let his duffel bag plump down on the seat next to his and laid his head back to the chair. The air in the carriage was musty, tickling his nose, and a fellow passenger had shrouded the rest of the carriage in smoky clouds. The stench and foggy smoke remained, even when the man put out his cigar.
Max shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position, and finally closed his eyes, conjuring up the image of Liz, laughing, smiling, biting her lip. He yawned and willingly let sleep come over him.
It was going to be a long ride.
<center>***</center>
<center>Chapter 35</center>
As the weeks after his departure passed, it became more and more evident that she had to be pregnant. A sickening nausea claimed her in the mornings, and she would throw up, getting rid of the hesitation and anxiety that had gathered in her stomach the night before, as she had lied awake, unable to sleep with the heavy burden of her worries.
She yearned for a way to tell Max, to let him know that she was indeed with child, his child. It was nearly impossible to contact him, though. All she had, and all she woke up for when dawn came, and the forest around her came to life, were telegrams from him, addressed and sent to Maria, but meant for her and her alone.
Meredith seemed to have an idea of what was going on, but didn’t speak about it with her. She simply showed less and less of herself, hiding away in the attic, occupying herself with pencils, large, yellowy papers and drawings that still needed to be finished. She came down once in a while – about twice a day – so that she could eat and drink, but would exchange no more than three words and a rather rushed out greeting with Liz.
Liz was painfully aware of her loneliness – the heavy, horrible secret she was bearing reminded her of it every moment of the day. She did not dare to tell Maria, and Meredith wasn’t even an option. All she could do was wait for Max, pray for him, and hope, wish that he would return safely, unharmed.
The agonizing, heavy silences inside and outside of the cabin never left her alone, followed her loyally, closer to her than her own shadow, and they gave her mind plenty of time to think. As time passed, a conclusion reluctantly unfolded itself, uncurling with every second of loneliness that went by, with every word she wanted to say to him, to Maria, to anyone, but never said, and pushed away roughly.
She had made up her mind, and all she had to do was wait for him to return to her, so that she could tell him so, and could do as she had decided.
<center>***</center>
Russia, February 1943
“Leave him, Evans.”
The eyelids of the man beneath him trembled lightly. Reluctantly, he looked up at his colleague, Adriaan Regenbaum, who was already bending over the next victim. The victim below him made a low, guttural sound, and his fisted hand clenched and unclenched briefly. Blood gushed out of a chest wound, and issued out of several other wounds on different locations of his body. It oozed out of his veins, slipping away slowly, just like the victim’s life.
“Evans?”
He slanted a quick glance at Adriaan, then focused on his victim again. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Adriaan getting up and seconds later, his colleague’s shadow fell over him.
“He won’t make it, Max. Let him go.”
Adriaan’s voice was heavy and low, but it wasn’t filled with sorrow, or anything that came even remotely close to it. The only emotion that Max could distinguish in it was sympathy, and not for the victim, but for him; for his trainee.
Max nodded obediently as he had all those times before, in situations similar to this one – the wounds would be the same, the expressions, the uniforms, but the faces - the victims - they would always differ.
In the beginning, Adriaan had told him that he would get used to it. It was only normal that it got to you the first time, and the second time, but after some weeks, it no longer was supposed to affect you. If you wanted to help people, you should realize that you had to make decisions. The people that were as good as dead weren’t worthy of your time. It were the victims that had wounds less severe you should treat. Those victims still had a good chance at surviving, at revalidating and fighting for their country once more.
Max knew that, but still, it was hard to get up and give up on a person. It shattered his soul a bit more every time, and it pained him beyond imaginable, for he knew he was losing something. What, he would never be able to explain, but that it slipped through his hands was certain.
He straightened slowly, the muscles in his thighs and calves putting up a painful protest. The victim at his feet made another sound, and Max intended to glance down at him one last time, when pale, blue eyes, framed by long, blond lashes met his.
Startled, he called Adriaan’s name, his voice trembling. “I want to help him,” he said. “I need to.”
Adriaan favored the victim with a doubtful, sceptic glance, then stared at Max. “Do as you like, as long as it won’t take you too long.” He looked down at the man again, shaking his head slowly. “He’s a goner, Evans. This is hopeless.”
Still shaking his head, stupefied by Max’s ignorance, he handed him two latex gloves. “You’re going to need them.”
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
It was still dark when she slipped out of the house and made her way through the woods. The forest ground was wet and slippery; the rain that had fallen yesterday had frozen overnight, creating a thin layer of breakable, delicate ice. The cold had somehow found a way to seep through the soles of her shoes, and it now crept upwards slowly, her toes and feet frozen to the bone.
The lake, she noticed, was covered with a thin layer of ice as well. She stooped down and examined it briefly. Fishes swum underneath it as if nothing in their surrounding had changed, as if there wasn’t an frosty plate drifting above them, creaking ominously whenever a bird waggled over it. She stared at them for a while, marveling at their swift movements, at their scaled bodies.
She never heard him sneaking up upon her, and never would she have suspected him to grab her like he did. His arm went around her waist, and his mouth landed upon her bare, cold shoulder.
Startled, she stiffened, and her erratically beating heart did not come to rest until she heard his voice.
“Hey beautiful,” he whispered. He turned her around and took a step back so that he could take a better look at her face.
“Max!” she stammered out after the initial shock started to wear off, glad to see him again. Throwing herself in his arms, she pounded on his chest with her fists. “Don’t ever do that again,” she admonished him, but her actions belied her words as she pulled him closer and kissed his cheek affectionately. “You scared the hell out of me!”
“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Max teased her as he smoothed her hair. “Hell wouldn’t even want to be inside of a girl as lovely as you.”
She laughed and gave him a friendly shove. “You crazy fool,” she muttered, and pulled him back to her. Her lips sought out his in a tender kiss, and she sunk deeper into his arms. She tried to get the kiss more passionate – if only to lose the burning ache inside of her, the fear of saying what needed to be said – but he didn’t quite follow her lead and broke them apart.
“I missed you,” he said, and sighed lightly, resting his forehead against hers. “You don’t have the foggiest clue as to how much.”
She fought to keep her smile upon her lips, but it painfully slid away – far down, to where she had buried her secret last month, where it now laid, waiting to be dug up again, waiting to be told.
“And?” he wondered breathlessly. “Are you? Pregnant, I mean?”
Her heart beat frantically as she nodded slowly, and tried to gather enough courage to tell him the truth.
His eyes stared down in hers for another long second. He was surprised by her answer, she was sure, even though he had expected it. He was silent, his eyes incomprehensive until he blinked, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards in a smile that reached out for them. “That’s… amazing,” he breathed out.
She dodged his stare and gazed at the lake, at the fishes deep below. “You don’t have to pretend to be glad, Max. I’d understand it if --”
“But I am,” he protested, “I am glad! Even though we did not plan for this, I’m glad.” His eyes darkened a bit as he paused. “Some new life in this never ending circle of death would be a greatly appreciated miracle.”
She let out a bitter laugh, but he didn’t seem to notice the emotional wreck she was.
“I haven’t told Jim yet,” he confided her, “but I’m planning to do so soon. He’ll be disappointed in us, of course, but I really believe that he’ll want to help us. Don’t you?”
Shrugging, she looked as he stooped down and picked up some pebbles. An image of her grandmother’s grave flashed before her eyes, but she pushed it away forcefully, not prepared to deal with it, having more on her mind than she could bear as it was.
“I don’t think he can,” she replied truthfully. “There’s no way out of this hellhole, Max. No matter how badly you wish there is.”
“There is a way out of here,” he stubbornly alleged. He threw a pebble onto the ice and watched as it slid and slithered, and ended up falling through a hole. “There is a way, if you’re just willing to let yourself believe.”
“There’s none,” she said.
He chose a different angle to throw his rock, and this time, it ended up on the water. They watched as it leapt one, two, three times, then finally sunk to the bottom of the lake. “Where a will is, is a way,” he reminded her.
“Not here, Max,” she told him gravely, “not now.”
He shook his head in amazement – how could she be this obstinate? – and decided to change the subject. “Have you thought of names yet? I know it’s a bit early, but in Russia…” he paused briefly, and a frown of pain flit over his features, “in Russia,” he continued after pulling himself together, “sleep didn’t come easily. I would lie awake for hours. I’d think of you, and… and of our… our baby…”
He smiled, shaking his head. It was strange to think of a child of theirs, growing in her abdomen that very second. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her. She didn’t look any different from before; her hair was still as shiny and long, her mouth was still as red and lovely as before, her figure still as elegant and delicate. The only change he had noticed lied in her eyes, that still were as deep as before, but now seemed somewhat shielded.
Blaming it on his long absence, he went on, “I was thinking about Robin, for when it’s a boy. And maybe Anna for a girl? Or Janette?”
Seeing her empty expression, he rambled on. “We don’t have to name it like that. I was just coming up with suggestions. If you don’t --”
“I don’t want to have it, Max,” she interrupted him, surprising not only him, but herself as well. She had thought that she'd never get herself to tell him.
He frowned, not understanding her words. “What? You don’t want to have what?”
“The baby,” she elucidated, her lips pursed together as she looked away from him, at the reed on the shores on the others side of the lake as it waved in the wind. “I don’t want it.”
“But… why?” he stuttered, the blood draining from his cheeks.
She shook her head, amazed by his inability to understand her. “Because it just can’t be. Having a baby is dangerous when you’re hiding out. You can’t tell it to be quiet, to not cry when soldiers are near. You can’t control it.”
Max gaped at her, still not completely understanding her motives. “So… you don’t want it because it’s inconvenient for you? Because you can’t control it?”
“You’re twisting the words in my mouth, Max,” she refuted, her hands trembling, burning tears welling up in her eyes. “What I mean is that it will endanger not only itself, me and Meredith, but you, Jim and Maria as well. I... I can’t give it a future!”
She tore her eyes away from his and turned to look at the lake once more so that he wouldn’t see her tears. “What do I have to offer, but isolation, heartache and fear? What kind of life would that be for a child?”
Raising her eyes to the heavens above, she wondered why their God was so cruel. “It’s better off not being born,” she ensured Max in a tear-clogged voice as pain slashed through her. “I don’t want it to grow, I don't want it to be born because... because I already love it too much. I want it to die now, before it’s able to go through what I’ve gone through.”
Her heart pounded in her throat as she swallowed, and closed her eyes. “I want it to go before I get too close to it.”
“It’s not just your child, Liz,” he exclaimed in protest, his anger mounting. He grabbed her shoulder and swiveled her around. “It’s mine, too. Don’t you think I should have a say in it?”
“That’s why I waited with… with…” she paused, unable to get ‘killing’ over her lips, and instead, a teary sob was ripped from her throat. “That’s why I... I waited for you to return.”
“For what?” he wondered loudly, his voice harsh. He shook his head, sadness stumping away at his heart and for the first time in his life, he felt as if he had never known her at all. “It’s obvious you already made your decision, and that my opinion doesn’t matter.”
She bit on her lip, hating herself for being this weak, for letting him hurt her so easily. “It’s better this way, Max. It’s better. I want it gone.” Placing her hands on the sides of her face, she pushed at her temples, trying to stop the aching throbbing inside of her head. “I want it gone,” she whispered brokenly, lifting her tear-filled eyes to meet his. “I just… I just want it… gone…”
The look he gave her was one of utter disgust, and he took a step back. “If you do this, Liz,” he warned her, his eyes fiery and deprecatingly, “if you choose to go through with this, I swear – and may God be my witness – I will never forgive you. Never.”
In one fluent, angry motion, he threw all the pebbles that had been left in his hand into the lake, the loud creaking of ice startling not only her, but the birds on the other side of the lake as well. They flew up one by one, following each other on a journey into the unknown. When she looked back at him, she noticed that he had left as well.
She was left wondering, thinking she might have dreamt it all, but the broken ice and the red spot on her arm, the patch of skin where he had held her, proved her the opposite.
<center>***</center>
Last edited by Anais Nin on Tue May 18, 2004 12:29 am, edited 7 times in total.
<center>...endless so far in myself, follow me...
</center>
</center>
-
Anais Nin
- Enthusiastic Roswellian
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2003 12:15 am
- Location: The Netherlands
I tried to picture Tess the way I saw her in A Roswell Christmas Carol. I actually loved her personality in that episode.
<center>Chapter 36</center>
United States of America, March 1943
Alan loudly slammed the oven’s door shut and wiped the sweat of his forehead. The day had just barely begun, and already, he looked forward to its end.
“Frustrated?” Tess queried softly, her fingers brushing over his arms lightly, encouragingly.
The gesture brought an unstable smile upon his lips, and he shrugged. “Just tired, I guess.”
“Tired? Really? You didn’t seem so tired last night,” she teased, and, putting the croissants in paper bags as if she’d never done anything else in her entire life, she raised her eyebrow, daring him.
“Funny,” he grinned and shook his head in a depreciating manner as he checked the cash register. His wife’s bright mood lightened his some, though, and it was of infinite significance to him to feel the warmth of her love wrapping itself around him.
“You know…” Tess began, and smiled lightly at him, “if you hadn’t kept me from talking, I would’ve told you something last night.”
Alan shook his head again, banging his hand down at the cash register, that didn’t seem willing to cooperate. “Really?” he asked absentmindedly, turning and twisting his key until the cash register sprung open.
All of a sudden, she was right behind him, her arms around his waist, her breath brushing over his cheeks. “Something of great importance,” she said.
And, even though they had been married for quite some time – over three years already, time seemed to have flown! – he still couldn’t believe that she was his, and his forevermore. It was hard for him to grasp her reasons for sticking with him, even through his moody days, for running a bakery with him, for working as hard as she did… He couldn’t get it, but he was thankful – every single day. “What is it?” he wondered, his heartbeat taking on a more frantic, rapid pace as her lips kissed his neck.
“You…” she whispered, and placed her finger against his chest, her eyes, those loving, deep blue eyes, smiling happily, “are going to be a daddy!”
He blinked twice, his heart skipping a beat. Unwilling to believe his ears, even though they didn’t deserve his distrust, he cleared his throat. “What? What did you say?”
She was close to jumping up and down, her eyes sparkling. “You heard me, Alan. I’m pregnant!”
Blinking again, he felt his lips giving way to a enormous grin. “Really? You aren’t… kidding me, are you?”
Shaking her head, she threw her arms around his neck. “For real,” she laughed, her lips brushing over his in a tremulously, giggly kiss.
He lifted her up and spun round and round with her in his arms, through their laughter not noticing that the church bells had sounded ages ago, and that customers were outside, waiting for the bakery to open.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
He left his house in a hurry, his bag heavy in his hand. He’d taken a lot of provisions, hoping that by doing so, he could postpone a next visit.
Would she already have done it? Would she be able to do it, knowing that he would hate her for it?
One part of his mind, maybe the part that people associated with the heart, told him that she wouldn’t have removed it – not yet, not without his consent. The other part of his mind, though, the more realistic part, was doubting that. Some days ago, Liz had proven that she wasn’t the person he had always thoughts she was, that she wasn’t who he had expected her to be, who he had loved with heart and soul.
No, the thought of aborting their baby wouldn’t even have crossed the mind of the person he had loved.
Lost in the anger and confusion that – dominated by pain – had flooded his mind days ago – sensations that never ebbed, never left – he rushed through the woods, taking a different route than usual. Not once did he notice the couple he had startled with his rapid pace, with his loud footsteps.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
She heard him moving around inside the living room. Would the sight of her smirched, awfully green couch hurt him like it hurt her? Would the blankets remind him of that night so many weeks ago, would it make him want to go back, and make those angry words unsaid?
Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she felt nausea rising to her throat, the acid taste making her swallow several times.
She opened the door quietly, her eyes immediately drawn to him. He stood bent-over over his bag, taking its contents out of it, placing them on the table with a loud thud.
“Can we talk?”
Jerking his head up, he whirled around, his eyes wide. After recovering from the initial shock that seeing her brought him, he gave his head a little shake of uncertainty, causing his bangs to dishevel. “Are you reasonable today?”
She sighed, her heart’s beating dampened by the thick lumps of pain that settled around it. “I need to talk this out with you, Max. We both need this.”
He laughed bitterly. “If you think you’ll be able to convince me, then forget it.”
“Max…” She sighed again, and briefly closed her eyes, trying to suppress the hurt as it ripped through her body. “What I need is for you to understand me. Please.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t, and I won’t. The truth is: I don’t really want to.”
Her eyes pleadingly sought out his, the first shimmers of tears glistening in them. “Please… Just… hear me out.”
“To hear you say what? That you have no problems with killing a defenceless, innocent baby? One that has done nothing wrong to anyone, that’s pure and unblemished?” He huffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe your religion doesn’t disapprove of this.”
“This has nothing to do with my religion,” Liz bit, slowly losing her temper, her fisted hands trembling at her sides. “This has to do with life and survival. I love it enough to let it go, Max.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, the darkness in them scaring her. “You always knew how to beautify things,” he said, the hatred in his voice slicing through her. “I’m out of here.”
The walls of the cabin shook as the door was thrown in its frame, as did the walls of her strong façade. Feeling utterly empty for the first time in her life, she broke down and cried.
Maybe what Max was implying was right.
Maybe she was a horrible person.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
A tickling sensation ran up her leg when she felt a fish swim past her foot, its slippery body brushing lightly against her cold one. Every step took her deeper into the dark, calm water, that peacefully awaited her surrender.
One hand rested on her belly – her other hand held her skirt up – and she tried not to feel the iciness around her, the way the cold slit through her body, froze her veins and, finally, her heart.
The significance of her decision was embodied in the aching throbbing in her head, the heavy, salty lump in her throat. This was it. She’d said her last goodbyes to the growing being inside of her, and was ready to do what was needed.
She paused, though, when remnants of loud cries and the barking of dogs drifted towards her. She could only make out fragments of them, and took some hurried, stumbled steps backwards, dropping her skirt.
In the distance, through the green haze of trees and plants, she could see the cabin. Men – soldiers, she assumed with worry – were scurrying around it. Despite of her fears, she sneaked towards the bushes at the edge of the lake, her heart loudly pounding against her ribcage. The stems of reed brushed along her calves as she walked closer still, only stopping when she noticed two men dragging a person out of the cabin.
Meredith.
Panic started to stir inside of her as she regarded the scene unfold before her. It bubbled up, agonizingly slowly, until the bubbles reached her chest and heart and started to spurt, bursting asunder painfully. Would Meredith betray her? Would she tell the soldiers of her presence?
The men drew Meredith with them, hit her as she tried to escape. Some soldiers stayed behind, but it didn’t seem as if they were looking for a second person.
Barking, though, the bloodhounds they’d brought with them tried to convince them of the opposite. Shivering as she became aware of how close she was to being discovered, she stumbled backwards and walked deeper and deeper into the lake. Her feet got entangled in the wet slips of her dress, and she fell, water splashing into her face and eyes. Coughing, she swum further, her clothes heavy, trying to drag her down.
The sounds of the hounds came closer; a surreal yelping that resonated through the woods. The voices of the soldiers gained in volume as well, the footsteps nearing her in an increasing tempo. After taking a deep breath, she dove under water and swum towards the nearest bush of reed, only breaking to the surface again when her vision became blurred and her lungs screamed out for oxygen.
“… only one woman.”
She held her breath, seeing the hounds sniff at the place where she had stood several minutes ago. The men at the shore were talking loudly, obviously disagreeing.
“…don’t know… seemed to live more persons in that cabin.”
“He wouldn’t have… if there lived more people. Svenson reported that the boy… done it for a girl. Why else?”
Starting to become aware of the cold water around her, Liz wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to protect her child in a way she knew was futile. She didn’t want to lose it like this. She had wanted to be the one to make the decision. Now the Germans had managed to take yet another thing from her, the last thing she had been able to control, the last thing that had been hers to care for, and hers alone after Max had left.
The hounds barked once more but seemed to give up the fight, and the men pulled them back until finally, they disappeared in the woods.
She shivered, cold, but didn’t come out of the lake until the sun had started to set, and the forest was once more quiet and peaceful. Standing up, she waded to the shore, her steps unstable.
Reality didn’t sink in until she had returned to the burnt-down cabin.
She’d lost everything she ever cared for.
<center>***</center>
<center>Chapter 36</center>
United States of America, March 1943
Alan loudly slammed the oven’s door shut and wiped the sweat of his forehead. The day had just barely begun, and already, he looked forward to its end.
“Frustrated?” Tess queried softly, her fingers brushing over his arms lightly, encouragingly.
The gesture brought an unstable smile upon his lips, and he shrugged. “Just tired, I guess.”
“Tired? Really? You didn’t seem so tired last night,” she teased, and, putting the croissants in paper bags as if she’d never done anything else in her entire life, she raised her eyebrow, daring him.
“Funny,” he grinned and shook his head in a depreciating manner as he checked the cash register. His wife’s bright mood lightened his some, though, and it was of infinite significance to him to feel the warmth of her love wrapping itself around him.
“You know…” Tess began, and smiled lightly at him, “if you hadn’t kept me from talking, I would’ve told you something last night.”
Alan shook his head again, banging his hand down at the cash register, that didn’t seem willing to cooperate. “Really?” he asked absentmindedly, turning and twisting his key until the cash register sprung open.
All of a sudden, she was right behind him, her arms around his waist, her breath brushing over his cheeks. “Something of great importance,” she said.
And, even though they had been married for quite some time – over three years already, time seemed to have flown! – he still couldn’t believe that she was his, and his forevermore. It was hard for him to grasp her reasons for sticking with him, even through his moody days, for running a bakery with him, for working as hard as she did… He couldn’t get it, but he was thankful – every single day. “What is it?” he wondered, his heartbeat taking on a more frantic, rapid pace as her lips kissed his neck.
“You…” she whispered, and placed her finger against his chest, her eyes, those loving, deep blue eyes, smiling happily, “are going to be a daddy!”
He blinked twice, his heart skipping a beat. Unwilling to believe his ears, even though they didn’t deserve his distrust, he cleared his throat. “What? What did you say?”
She was close to jumping up and down, her eyes sparkling. “You heard me, Alan. I’m pregnant!”
Blinking again, he felt his lips giving way to a enormous grin. “Really? You aren’t… kidding me, are you?”
Shaking her head, she threw her arms around his neck. “For real,” she laughed, her lips brushing over his in a tremulously, giggly kiss.
He lifted her up and spun round and round with her in his arms, through their laughter not noticing that the church bells had sounded ages ago, and that customers were outside, waiting for the bakery to open.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
He left his house in a hurry, his bag heavy in his hand. He’d taken a lot of provisions, hoping that by doing so, he could postpone a next visit.
Would she already have done it? Would she be able to do it, knowing that he would hate her for it?
One part of his mind, maybe the part that people associated with the heart, told him that she wouldn’t have removed it – not yet, not without his consent. The other part of his mind, though, the more realistic part, was doubting that. Some days ago, Liz had proven that she wasn’t the person he had always thoughts she was, that she wasn’t who he had expected her to be, who he had loved with heart and soul.
No, the thought of aborting their baby wouldn’t even have crossed the mind of the person he had loved.
Lost in the anger and confusion that – dominated by pain – had flooded his mind days ago – sensations that never ebbed, never left – he rushed through the woods, taking a different route than usual. Not once did he notice the couple he had startled with his rapid pace, with his loud footsteps.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
She heard him moving around inside the living room. Would the sight of her smirched, awfully green couch hurt him like it hurt her? Would the blankets remind him of that night so many weeks ago, would it make him want to go back, and make those angry words unsaid?
Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she felt nausea rising to her throat, the acid taste making her swallow several times.
She opened the door quietly, her eyes immediately drawn to him. He stood bent-over over his bag, taking its contents out of it, placing them on the table with a loud thud.
“Can we talk?”
Jerking his head up, he whirled around, his eyes wide. After recovering from the initial shock that seeing her brought him, he gave his head a little shake of uncertainty, causing his bangs to dishevel. “Are you reasonable today?”
She sighed, her heart’s beating dampened by the thick lumps of pain that settled around it. “I need to talk this out with you, Max. We both need this.”
He laughed bitterly. “If you think you’ll be able to convince me, then forget it.”
“Max…” She sighed again, and briefly closed her eyes, trying to suppress the hurt as it ripped through her body. “What I need is for you to understand me. Please.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t, and I won’t. The truth is: I don’t really want to.”
Her eyes pleadingly sought out his, the first shimmers of tears glistening in them. “Please… Just… hear me out.”
“To hear you say what? That you have no problems with killing a defenceless, innocent baby? One that has done nothing wrong to anyone, that’s pure and unblemished?” He huffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe your religion doesn’t disapprove of this.”
“This has nothing to do with my religion,” Liz bit, slowly losing her temper, her fisted hands trembling at her sides. “This has to do with life and survival. I love it enough to let it go, Max.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, the darkness in them scaring her. “You always knew how to beautify things,” he said, the hatred in his voice slicing through her. “I’m out of here.”
The walls of the cabin shook as the door was thrown in its frame, as did the walls of her strong façade. Feeling utterly empty for the first time in her life, she broke down and cried.
Maybe what Max was implying was right.
Maybe she was a horrible person.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
A tickling sensation ran up her leg when she felt a fish swim past her foot, its slippery body brushing lightly against her cold one. Every step took her deeper into the dark, calm water, that peacefully awaited her surrender.
One hand rested on her belly – her other hand held her skirt up – and she tried not to feel the iciness around her, the way the cold slit through her body, froze her veins and, finally, her heart.
The significance of her decision was embodied in the aching throbbing in her head, the heavy, salty lump in her throat. This was it. She’d said her last goodbyes to the growing being inside of her, and was ready to do what was needed.
She paused, though, when remnants of loud cries and the barking of dogs drifted towards her. She could only make out fragments of them, and took some hurried, stumbled steps backwards, dropping her skirt.
In the distance, through the green haze of trees and plants, she could see the cabin. Men – soldiers, she assumed with worry – were scurrying around it. Despite of her fears, she sneaked towards the bushes at the edge of the lake, her heart loudly pounding against her ribcage. The stems of reed brushed along her calves as she walked closer still, only stopping when she noticed two men dragging a person out of the cabin.
Meredith.
Panic started to stir inside of her as she regarded the scene unfold before her. It bubbled up, agonizingly slowly, until the bubbles reached her chest and heart and started to spurt, bursting asunder painfully. Would Meredith betray her? Would she tell the soldiers of her presence?
The men drew Meredith with them, hit her as she tried to escape. Some soldiers stayed behind, but it didn’t seem as if they were looking for a second person.
Barking, though, the bloodhounds they’d brought with them tried to convince them of the opposite. Shivering as she became aware of how close she was to being discovered, she stumbled backwards and walked deeper and deeper into the lake. Her feet got entangled in the wet slips of her dress, and she fell, water splashing into her face and eyes. Coughing, she swum further, her clothes heavy, trying to drag her down.
The sounds of the hounds came closer; a surreal yelping that resonated through the woods. The voices of the soldiers gained in volume as well, the footsteps nearing her in an increasing tempo. After taking a deep breath, she dove under water and swum towards the nearest bush of reed, only breaking to the surface again when her vision became blurred and her lungs screamed out for oxygen.
“… only one woman.”
She held her breath, seeing the hounds sniff at the place where she had stood several minutes ago. The men at the shore were talking loudly, obviously disagreeing.
“…don’t know… seemed to live more persons in that cabin.”
“He wouldn’t have… if there lived more people. Svenson reported that the boy… done it for a girl. Why else?”
Starting to become aware of the cold water around her, Liz wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to protect her child in a way she knew was futile. She didn’t want to lose it like this. She had wanted to be the one to make the decision. Now the Germans had managed to take yet another thing from her, the last thing she had been able to control, the last thing that had been hers to care for, and hers alone after Max had left.
The hounds barked once more but seemed to give up the fight, and the men pulled them back until finally, they disappeared in the woods.
She shivered, cold, but didn’t come out of the lake until the sun had started to set, and the forest was once more quiet and peaceful. Standing up, she waded to the shore, her steps unstable.
Reality didn’t sink in until she had returned to the burnt-down cabin.
She’d lost everything she ever cared for.
<center>***</center>
Last edited by Anais Nin on Tue May 18, 2004 12:28 am, edited 2 times in total.
<center>...endless so far in myself, follow me...
</center>
</center>
-
Anais Nin
- Enthusiastic Roswellian
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2003 12:15 am
- Location: The Netherlands
Thank you for all your feedback!
<center>This part is dedicated to Olka, who knows why. Thank you, honey. What you wrote... it really hit home for me.</center>
<center>Chapter 37</center>
Germany, March 1943
Water slid down her legs, dripping onto the pavement. Her feet left wet footsteps in their wake, a dirty mixture of mud, moss and grass. She tried to ignore the stitches in her side and ran on, the pattering of her feet against the pavement of some consolation to her.
The streets that once had been so familiar to her were now dark and deserted. The moon-cast shadows seemed to close in on her, seemed to follow her with unseeing eyes whenever she wasn’t looking.
Shivering, she turned around the corner of the street, and a pang of hope shot through her.
She knew this street.
It wasn’t far now.
Just three, four more streets and she would be safe. He would take her in. He would come through for her.
He always did.
Her hair hung down in wet, chilly strands that had gotten entangled and stuck to her face. With one hand in her side and one of her abdomen, she finally slowed her pace. In a desperate attempt to breathe in as much oxygen as possible, she gasped for air. It slid through her throat too fast, too roughly, the dry, tender tissue of her throat protesting in pain. She coughed weakly, doubling over in pain. The movement ran through her entire body, and an obstinate dizziness came up.
She walked on, however, her fervent craving to be with him stronger than her bodily demands. She needed to warn him that Meredith had been caught. She needed to tell him that Meredith might start to talk, that he, Jim and Maria were no longer safe. Their cover was blown, and they needed to leave town.
Quickening her footsteps, she kept her eyes downcast and had the tangled mess that was her hair shielding her face. It was unlikely she’d meet anyone at this hour of the night due to the curfew, but it wasn’t impossible.
Nothing seemed to be impossible; not anymore.
Liz partly expected to feel a warm, sticky liquid trickling down her legs – a telltale for the loss of her baby. She hadn’t felt it yet, though, and it confused her. The stitches in her sides weren’t a good sign, but, most likely, her child had survived. Or – the thought presented itself to her in its sheer horror – it was suffering a slow, painful dead at that very moment.
She clasped her hand tighter against her belly. The streets were longer and narrower than she could remember. No light shone from behind the darkened windows. Curtains were drawn and the complete, almost deafening silence around her gave her surroundings an eerie atmosphere. Her heartbeat was ridiculously loud to her own ears, as were her footsteps and the ragged sound of her breathing. Everything seemed to be out of proportion – not only the sounds, but the pain in her abdomen, the bright light of the moon, the rough texture of the pavement… the pain…
A sound just behind her made her jump, and she cast a stolen glance over her shoulder. The street behind her was just as empty as the rest of the street, though, but even that bit of knowledge was unable to calm the erratic beating of her heart. She scurried on, his house looming in the distance – dark, expectant, as if it had been waiting for her.
She needed to see him. She needed him to soothe her fears, to take care of the wounds on her bare feet, on her soul. She needed him to wrap his arms around her to keep her from falling apart, to keep together the broken pieces of her spirit and to hold her close.
She needed him.
Her feet thanked her mind with an inaudible sigh of relief when she slowed down once more and continued her way in a less hurried tempo. The windows of his house were dark and seemed to be peering down at her. The door was closed, and she was grateful for it – would it have been open, she would have been afraid to enter; the thought of being swallowed by its darkness not too appealing.
Sliding past the gate to the backyard, she held her breath, afraid to rouse the inhabitants of the sleeping house. She remembered what window used to lead to Max’s room. It was the second from the right, just next to the kitchen’s window. His parents and Roger – God, how much she disliked that boy – slept on the first floor and, if she remembered it correctly, he and Isabel both had a room on the ground-floor.
Steadying herself by leaning against the wall, she took a minute to catch her breath. Uncontrollable shivers ripped her apart, and she briefly closed her eyes, giving her mind a second to rest as well.
Finally, she had gathered enough courage and strength to rap her knuckles against the cold window. “Max!” she called out quietly, a tremor running through her body as she felt her dizziness returning with full force. “Max!”
The moonlight seemed to lessen momentarily as dark clouds drifted before the moon. Another shiver claimed her body as his, and she called out to him again, her knocks growing increasingly louder, increasingly desperate.
No one answered her calls, however, and after minutes and minutes of waiting, she gave up and leaned against the walls of his house, hanging her head low.
Where was he? Where could he be?
She let her arms slide down, the palms of her hand scratching painfully over the rough texture of the brick stones of the wall. They were bleeding, she noticed, but she couldn’t feel them. After the initial pain of grazing them over the stones, her hands had become numb and pale, almost yellowy.
“Max! Max!” she cried out, shaking all over, not caring who would hear. “Max…” Her rapid breathing slowed down as she crumbled to the ground and wept. Her fingers dug into the dark sand, hot tears dripping down.
A rustling sound coming out of his room made a spark of hope flare up inside of her. The hope was bright, nearly blinding, and she swiftly scrambled to her feet, swaying lightly. “Max!” she called softly, and knocked on his window again.
Her eyes could vaguely make out a shade in his room, hesitantly making its way to the window. Waves of relief flooded her, and tears of joy sprung into her eyes. She was safe. Soon, he’d gather her in his arms and make all the pain undone. He’d pick up the scattered pieces of her soul, he’d help her, regardless of their previous arguments.
There was a loud sound on the other side of the wall, and a metal click told her that the window was being opened.
She froze, the blood draining from her cheeks. Gazing down at her wasn’t Max, but his sister.
All thoughts of pain momentarily fled from her mind as she stared at Isabel’s hollow face, the aghast mouth, the beautiful features painfully distorted and the startled eyes that resembled the look in her own eyes so well.
Staggering backwards, she felt panic rippling through her body. She had to run. Now.
Isabel seemed to recover more quickly from the shock than she had, her mouth closing again, the surprised look lessening some. “Father!” she screamed. “Father! Roger!”
Another pang of panic ran through Liz, and she stumbled even farther backwards and turned, nearly tripping over her dress and her own feet.
Not daring to look over her shoulder, she dashed through the gate and ended up in the dark street once more. Doubtful for a split second, she glanced in both directions of the street.
She finally made her choice, and fled.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
“Liz! Oh my God!”
Arms aimed for her waist, embraced her and pulled her into the house. “You’re alive,” Maria whispered, pressing her close. “You’re alive, you’re alive…”
Fingers dug into her hair, traced her face.
“God, you’re alive…” Maria sobbed, pressing Liz’s dirty, wet body against her nightgown. “You’re alive…”
Liz managed to dredge up a feeble smile, but a feverous shiver made her tremble in Maria’s arms. Her knees buckled, and she sunk to the ground, dragging Maria down with her.
“Father! Dad!” Maria called her father, who, at the sound of her voice, quickly ran out of his room, wrapping a robe around his body.
Jim was just as, if not, even more, surprised to see his daughter’s friend lying lifelessly upon his doormat. “Liz…?” He shot a hesitant glance at Maria, who smiled lightly through her sadness and shrugged unsure.
“She’s alive, father,” she iterated her previous words. “Can you believe it? She must’ve escaped…”
Liz blinked weakly, fighting to remain conscious. “Where’s Max?” she croaked, forcing the words through her throat. “He wasn’t home… I… We have to leave… Meredith… They got Meredith… They knew…”
Maria caressed her friend’s cheeks with the back of her hand, still in awe that Liz was there, with them, but aware of the shock her words were about to bring. “We know, sweetie. Meredith did not talk.”
Disbelief must have dominated Liz’s gaze, for Maria explained it for her. “They put her against the wall, Liz. She’s… dead.”
She could feel her mouth trembling, her eyes watering, air rushing into her lungs and out of them again, but, at the same time, she couldn’t feel anything.
“Dead?” she echoed bleakly, her voice bland and weak, watered-out, even to her own ears.
Jim nodded slowly, helping her to stand up, even though she didn’t want to stand at all. She wanted to fall to the floor. She wanted to slam her fists against the tiles. She wanted to cry, struggle, fight, but couldn’t.
She couldn’t do anything.
“But… but…” she stammered, incompetence even managing to conquer her speaking abilities, “but… Max?”
Maria and Jim shared a significant look, one that she should’ve been able to decipher any time, any day, but not that day, not at that moment.
“Liz… They got Max,” Jim told her, keeping her steady as she paled and her legs refused to stand another second, going limp in protest. “He’s been put on the train... for transport.”
<center>***</center>
Thanks for everything, you all.
Stefanie
<center>This part is dedicated to Olka, who knows why. Thank you, honey. What you wrote... it really hit home for me.</center>
<center>Chapter 37</center>
Germany, March 1943
Water slid down her legs, dripping onto the pavement. Her feet left wet footsteps in their wake, a dirty mixture of mud, moss and grass. She tried to ignore the stitches in her side and ran on, the pattering of her feet against the pavement of some consolation to her.
The streets that once had been so familiar to her were now dark and deserted. The moon-cast shadows seemed to close in on her, seemed to follow her with unseeing eyes whenever she wasn’t looking.
Shivering, she turned around the corner of the street, and a pang of hope shot through her.
She knew this street.
It wasn’t far now.
Just three, four more streets and she would be safe. He would take her in. He would come through for her.
He always did.
Her hair hung down in wet, chilly strands that had gotten entangled and stuck to her face. With one hand in her side and one of her abdomen, she finally slowed her pace. In a desperate attempt to breathe in as much oxygen as possible, she gasped for air. It slid through her throat too fast, too roughly, the dry, tender tissue of her throat protesting in pain. She coughed weakly, doubling over in pain. The movement ran through her entire body, and an obstinate dizziness came up.
She walked on, however, her fervent craving to be with him stronger than her bodily demands. She needed to warn him that Meredith had been caught. She needed to tell him that Meredith might start to talk, that he, Jim and Maria were no longer safe. Their cover was blown, and they needed to leave town.
Quickening her footsteps, she kept her eyes downcast and had the tangled mess that was her hair shielding her face. It was unlikely she’d meet anyone at this hour of the night due to the curfew, but it wasn’t impossible.
Nothing seemed to be impossible; not anymore.
Liz partly expected to feel a warm, sticky liquid trickling down her legs – a telltale for the loss of her baby. She hadn’t felt it yet, though, and it confused her. The stitches in her sides weren’t a good sign, but, most likely, her child had survived. Or – the thought presented itself to her in its sheer horror – it was suffering a slow, painful dead at that very moment.
She clasped her hand tighter against her belly. The streets were longer and narrower than she could remember. No light shone from behind the darkened windows. Curtains were drawn and the complete, almost deafening silence around her gave her surroundings an eerie atmosphere. Her heartbeat was ridiculously loud to her own ears, as were her footsteps and the ragged sound of her breathing. Everything seemed to be out of proportion – not only the sounds, but the pain in her abdomen, the bright light of the moon, the rough texture of the pavement… the pain…
A sound just behind her made her jump, and she cast a stolen glance over her shoulder. The street behind her was just as empty as the rest of the street, though, but even that bit of knowledge was unable to calm the erratic beating of her heart. She scurried on, his house looming in the distance – dark, expectant, as if it had been waiting for her.
She needed to see him. She needed him to soothe her fears, to take care of the wounds on her bare feet, on her soul. She needed him to wrap his arms around her to keep her from falling apart, to keep together the broken pieces of her spirit and to hold her close.
She needed him.
Her feet thanked her mind with an inaudible sigh of relief when she slowed down once more and continued her way in a less hurried tempo. The windows of his house were dark and seemed to be peering down at her. The door was closed, and she was grateful for it – would it have been open, she would have been afraid to enter; the thought of being swallowed by its darkness not too appealing.
Sliding past the gate to the backyard, she held her breath, afraid to rouse the inhabitants of the sleeping house. She remembered what window used to lead to Max’s room. It was the second from the right, just next to the kitchen’s window. His parents and Roger – God, how much she disliked that boy – slept on the first floor and, if she remembered it correctly, he and Isabel both had a room on the ground-floor.
Steadying herself by leaning against the wall, she took a minute to catch her breath. Uncontrollable shivers ripped her apart, and she briefly closed her eyes, giving her mind a second to rest as well.
Finally, she had gathered enough courage and strength to rap her knuckles against the cold window. “Max!” she called out quietly, a tremor running through her body as she felt her dizziness returning with full force. “Max!”
The moonlight seemed to lessen momentarily as dark clouds drifted before the moon. Another shiver claimed her body as his, and she called out to him again, her knocks growing increasingly louder, increasingly desperate.
No one answered her calls, however, and after minutes and minutes of waiting, she gave up and leaned against the walls of his house, hanging her head low.
Where was he? Where could he be?
She let her arms slide down, the palms of her hand scratching painfully over the rough texture of the brick stones of the wall. They were bleeding, she noticed, but she couldn’t feel them. After the initial pain of grazing them over the stones, her hands had become numb and pale, almost yellowy.
“Max! Max!” she cried out, shaking all over, not caring who would hear. “Max…” Her rapid breathing slowed down as she crumbled to the ground and wept. Her fingers dug into the dark sand, hot tears dripping down.
A rustling sound coming out of his room made a spark of hope flare up inside of her. The hope was bright, nearly blinding, and she swiftly scrambled to her feet, swaying lightly. “Max!” she called softly, and knocked on his window again.
Her eyes could vaguely make out a shade in his room, hesitantly making its way to the window. Waves of relief flooded her, and tears of joy sprung into her eyes. She was safe. Soon, he’d gather her in his arms and make all the pain undone. He’d pick up the scattered pieces of her soul, he’d help her, regardless of their previous arguments.
There was a loud sound on the other side of the wall, and a metal click told her that the window was being opened.
She froze, the blood draining from her cheeks. Gazing down at her wasn’t Max, but his sister.
All thoughts of pain momentarily fled from her mind as she stared at Isabel’s hollow face, the aghast mouth, the beautiful features painfully distorted and the startled eyes that resembled the look in her own eyes so well.
Staggering backwards, she felt panic rippling through her body. She had to run. Now.
Isabel seemed to recover more quickly from the shock than she had, her mouth closing again, the surprised look lessening some. “Father!” she screamed. “Father! Roger!”
Another pang of panic ran through Liz, and she stumbled even farther backwards and turned, nearly tripping over her dress and her own feet.
Not daring to look over her shoulder, she dashed through the gate and ended up in the dark street once more. Doubtful for a split second, she glanced in both directions of the street.
She finally made her choice, and fled.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
“Liz! Oh my God!”
Arms aimed for her waist, embraced her and pulled her into the house. “You’re alive,” Maria whispered, pressing her close. “You’re alive, you’re alive…”
Fingers dug into her hair, traced her face.
“God, you’re alive…” Maria sobbed, pressing Liz’s dirty, wet body against her nightgown. “You’re alive…”
Liz managed to dredge up a feeble smile, but a feverous shiver made her tremble in Maria’s arms. Her knees buckled, and she sunk to the ground, dragging Maria down with her.
“Father! Dad!” Maria called her father, who, at the sound of her voice, quickly ran out of his room, wrapping a robe around his body.
Jim was just as, if not, even more, surprised to see his daughter’s friend lying lifelessly upon his doormat. “Liz…?” He shot a hesitant glance at Maria, who smiled lightly through her sadness and shrugged unsure.
“She’s alive, father,” she iterated her previous words. “Can you believe it? She must’ve escaped…”
Liz blinked weakly, fighting to remain conscious. “Where’s Max?” she croaked, forcing the words through her throat. “He wasn’t home… I… We have to leave… Meredith… They got Meredith… They knew…”
Maria caressed her friend’s cheeks with the back of her hand, still in awe that Liz was there, with them, but aware of the shock her words were about to bring. “We know, sweetie. Meredith did not talk.”
Disbelief must have dominated Liz’s gaze, for Maria explained it for her. “They put her against the wall, Liz. She’s… dead.”
She could feel her mouth trembling, her eyes watering, air rushing into her lungs and out of them again, but, at the same time, she couldn’t feel anything.
“Dead?” she echoed bleakly, her voice bland and weak, watered-out, even to her own ears.
Jim nodded slowly, helping her to stand up, even though she didn’t want to stand at all. She wanted to fall to the floor. She wanted to slam her fists against the tiles. She wanted to cry, struggle, fight, but couldn’t.
She couldn’t do anything.
“But… but…” she stammered, incompetence even managing to conquer her speaking abilities, “but… Max?”
Maria and Jim shared a significant look, one that she should’ve been able to decipher any time, any day, but not that day, not at that moment.
“Liz… They got Max,” Jim told her, keeping her steady as she paled and her legs refused to stand another second, going limp in protest. “He’s been put on the train... for transport.”
<center>***</center>
Thanks for everything, you all.
Stefanie
Last edited by Anais Nin on Tue May 18, 2004 12:34 am, edited 7 times in total.
<center>...endless so far in myself, follow me...
</center>
</center>
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Anais Nin
- Enthusiastic Roswellian
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2003 12:15 am
- Location: The Netherlands
<center>Chapter 38</center>
Germany, March 1943
She couldn’t really remember what had happened after falling. Maria had taken her in her arms - she knew that much - Maria had tried to comfort her. Fingers had sifted through her hair, had massaged her scalp. Pain had ruptured her body, waves and waves of a dull ache tearing her apart. She remembered longing for her teddy-bear, her sole support through the lonely times, but even Lena, who had been the only constant factor in her life, hadn’t managed to survive the SS, hadn't survived the fire.
Jim had left. She remembered that.
She couldn’t recall for how long he’d been gone, though. Suddenly, he had been back again, had explained her things that couldn’t quite reach her. Frankly, she hadn’t cared. Only when he had mentioned her parents, she had listened, really listened.
Her mother would await her in a farm in the south of Germany. Her father would remain at the farm at which he and her mother had hid. Jim had told her she would leave the next morning, long before sunrise, with a certain Chris, who would drop her off at the farm. Maria and he would leave the same day and head northwards. Maria would get to see Michael again. Liz had expected Maria to jump up, or at least smile in happiness, but her reaction to the news had been dampened by the events that had led to it.
Liz had nodded, unable to do anything else than agree with everything Jim said. The arrangements had been made and taken care of. For the first time of her life, she would leave the town in which she had grown up.
Instead of scaring her, as she had expected it to, it hadn't seem to matter to her.
She hadn't been able to get herself to care.
Germany, March 1943
The countryside sloped lightly. It stretched out below her – the fields, the trees, the rare buildings and farms. Nothing around her pointed to the war that raged on, everywhere around them. She sat high, upon the window sill of the shed’s loft, her legs crossed. A light, pleasant breeze played with her hair and brought forth the scent of freshly ploughed up land and the rain that had fallen overnight. Despite of how early in the season it was – spring had barely begun – the sky was nearly cloudless and a kind but rather weak and watery sun warmed the workers on the land.
She sighed and looked down longingly.
It was so easy.
All she had to do was lean forward, and the wind would take care of the rest. It would give her shoulders a gentle push that was needed and then, then it would carry her down until her body would meet the dark ground below, until her soul would find salvation. She’d be one with the dust again.
Not much was holding her back.
His voice in her ear, the inaudible beating of a second heart just below her own, her mother’s presence – those were the only things that kept her from going through with it.
With her fingers tightly clasped around the window frame beneath her body, she drew in a deep breath and listened to a few, incoherent tones, whistled by a bird she couldn’t see.
“It’s not your fault, honey.”
She didn’t hear her mother’s voice. She just… didn’t hear it.
She didn’t.
Her mother’s arms wrapped themselves around her waist, and her mother’s chin came to rest upon her shoulder. “I mean it, Liz. It isn’t your fault. Would you please… let it rest?”
She didn’t reply.
How could she?
All she could say would be an acknowledgement of what her mother tried so hard to deny.
“Liz…” her mother began, not in the least discouraged by the lack of replies, concern carefully wrapped around her voice. “Please, honey. You can’t go on like this.” A hand reached for her face, brushed back a few stray strands of hair. “Forgive yourself. Please.”
Tears burned in her eyes, but she bit them back. With Meredith dead – dead, she still couldn’t comprehend it – and Max in a camp… how could she? How would she ever?
She placed her hand upon her mother’s arm, and laid her cheek against her mother’s, not knowing whether she meant for it to be a sign of comfort, a sign of love, or a sign of support. “I love you, mom,” she whispered, silently blinking away her tears. “I love you.”
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
Maybe it was the pale look on her mother’s face that told her something was wrong. Maybe it were the trembling hands, the red eyes that indicated her agony, her defeat. Maybe it was in her mother’s entire stance.
“No,” Liz croaked, her voice breaking. “No, please, no…”
Her mother nodded, though, tears in her eyes, her lips tightly drawn together in a sad line. “They found him, honey. They… they have him.”
She clenched her fists, fighting against the tears, and shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice firmer than before. “It’s not true. It isn’t.”
Opening her arm slightly, her mother walked towards her. Tears didn’t flow down her cheeks, but glistened in her eyes, held back by the firm will of a broken woman.
Her mother was trying to be strong, supportive for her, and being aware of that was Liz's undoing.
Crying, she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Pain tore through her, and she shook her head, her body trembling. “It… it can’t be,” she stammered. “Please… Father… Not Father…”
Her mother ran her fingers through her hair, and together, they rocked back and forth, arms entangled, closer to one another than ever.
<center>***</center>
I love your feedback. You are too kind. I really, really appreciate it.
Thanks,
Stefanie
Germany, March 1943
She couldn’t really remember what had happened after falling. Maria had taken her in her arms - she knew that much - Maria had tried to comfort her. Fingers had sifted through her hair, had massaged her scalp. Pain had ruptured her body, waves and waves of a dull ache tearing her apart. She remembered longing for her teddy-bear, her sole support through the lonely times, but even Lena, who had been the only constant factor in her life, hadn’t managed to survive the SS, hadn't survived the fire.
Jim had left. She remembered that.
She couldn’t recall for how long he’d been gone, though. Suddenly, he had been back again, had explained her things that couldn’t quite reach her. Frankly, she hadn’t cared. Only when he had mentioned her parents, she had listened, really listened.
Her mother would await her in a farm in the south of Germany. Her father would remain at the farm at which he and her mother had hid. Jim had told her she would leave the next morning, long before sunrise, with a certain Chris, who would drop her off at the farm. Maria and he would leave the same day and head northwards. Maria would get to see Michael again. Liz had expected Maria to jump up, or at least smile in happiness, but her reaction to the news had been dampened by the events that had led to it.
Liz had nodded, unable to do anything else than agree with everything Jim said. The arrangements had been made and taken care of. For the first time of her life, she would leave the town in which she had grown up.
Instead of scaring her, as she had expected it to, it hadn't seem to matter to her.
She hadn't been able to get herself to care.
Germany, March 1943
The countryside sloped lightly. It stretched out below her – the fields, the trees, the rare buildings and farms. Nothing around her pointed to the war that raged on, everywhere around them. She sat high, upon the window sill of the shed’s loft, her legs crossed. A light, pleasant breeze played with her hair and brought forth the scent of freshly ploughed up land and the rain that had fallen overnight. Despite of how early in the season it was – spring had barely begun – the sky was nearly cloudless and a kind but rather weak and watery sun warmed the workers on the land.
She sighed and looked down longingly.
It was so easy.
All she had to do was lean forward, and the wind would take care of the rest. It would give her shoulders a gentle push that was needed and then, then it would carry her down until her body would meet the dark ground below, until her soul would find salvation. She’d be one with the dust again.
Not much was holding her back.
His voice in her ear, the inaudible beating of a second heart just below her own, her mother’s presence – those were the only things that kept her from going through with it.
With her fingers tightly clasped around the window frame beneath her body, she drew in a deep breath and listened to a few, incoherent tones, whistled by a bird she couldn’t see.
“It’s not your fault, honey.”
She didn’t hear her mother’s voice. She just… didn’t hear it.
She didn’t.
Her mother’s arms wrapped themselves around her waist, and her mother’s chin came to rest upon her shoulder. “I mean it, Liz. It isn’t your fault. Would you please… let it rest?”
She didn’t reply.
How could she?
All she could say would be an acknowledgement of what her mother tried so hard to deny.
“Liz…” her mother began, not in the least discouraged by the lack of replies, concern carefully wrapped around her voice. “Please, honey. You can’t go on like this.” A hand reached for her face, brushed back a few stray strands of hair. “Forgive yourself. Please.”
Tears burned in her eyes, but she bit them back. With Meredith dead – dead, she still couldn’t comprehend it – and Max in a camp… how could she? How would she ever?
She placed her hand upon her mother’s arm, and laid her cheek against her mother’s, not knowing whether she meant for it to be a sign of comfort, a sign of love, or a sign of support. “I love you, mom,” she whispered, silently blinking away her tears. “I love you.”
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
Maybe it was the pale look on her mother’s face that told her something was wrong. Maybe it were the trembling hands, the red eyes that indicated her agony, her defeat. Maybe it was in her mother’s entire stance.
“No,” Liz croaked, her voice breaking. “No, please, no…”
Her mother nodded, though, tears in her eyes, her lips tightly drawn together in a sad line. “They found him, honey. They… they have him.”
She clenched her fists, fighting against the tears, and shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice firmer than before. “It’s not true. It isn’t.”
Opening her arm slightly, her mother walked towards her. Tears didn’t flow down her cheeks, but glistened in her eyes, held back by the firm will of a broken woman.
Her mother was trying to be strong, supportive for her, and being aware of that was Liz's undoing.
Crying, she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Pain tore through her, and she shook her head, her body trembling. “It… it can’t be,” she stammered. “Please… Father… Not Father…”
Her mother ran her fingers through her hair, and together, they rocked back and forth, arms entangled, closer to one another than ever.
<center>***</center>
I love your feedback. You are too kind. I really, really appreciate it.
Thanks,
Stefanie
Last edited by Anais Nin on Tue May 18, 2004 12:33 am, edited 2 times in total.
<center>...endless so far in myself, follow me...
</center>
</center>
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Anais Nin
- Enthusiastic Roswellian
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2003 12:15 am
- Location: The Netherlands
Author's Note: The separating in the beginning was done to see who were useful for the Nazi's, and who weren't. The elderly, handicapped and sick were deported to extermination camps whereas the healthy prisoners stayed to work in a labor camp.
Most Germans didn't know about the existence of extermination camps, however. Max doesn't know about them either.
<center>Chapter 39</center>
Poland, March 1943
Cold air streamed over his naked skin, and involuntarily, he shivered. The sleepy haze that had clouded his mind in the stuffy, warm atmosphere of the train had evaporated quickly and now it was gone, he was painfully awake. Highly aware of his naked state, he wrapped his arms around himself in a futile attempt to shield his body and ward off the cold.
No one around him talked.
No one dared to.
Shivering, he watched his breath flee away in small clouds of vapor, circling heavenwards, escaping the camp the way he wanted to escape.
He slanted a quick glance sideward, at the older man next to him. Goosebumps covered the dry, blotched skin, and Max briefly wondered what the man would’ve done to end up there. Squinting against the light of the sun rising in the east, he looked for a familiar face, knowing he wouldn't find one. Women were running in circles, naked. The young and the old, the healthy and the sick were being separated. Children cried as they were pulled away from their mothers.
Women cried as they were separated from husbands, daughters, sons.
Men cried.
He was quiet, trying to regard the whole thing from the outside, trying to pretend that he wasn’t there, that he was merely a witness of God. The cutting wind and the man shivering next to him made that hard, though, and time after time, he was reminded of reality.
When guards gestured for the running to stop, about twenty women were still standing in the circle, their bare feet bleeding and covered with dirt. Most of them were old, shaking all over from the effort the running had demanded – those women, weak and harmless – were guided to an other group of women, old women.
One of the women – somewhere in her fifties, Max guessed, with the most remarkable face he had ever seen – cast a desperate glance over her shoulder and tried to pull away from the guard taking her. She was roughly jerked back, however, and stumbled and fell.
The fists of the man next to him clenched and unclenched.
Without a word being uttered, the men were led to the circle of sand. They knew the drill, and ran as fast and as long as they could. Max was pulled out the circle relatively soon, and he briefly wondered if that was a good or a bad thing. The older men would probably get to do the chores that weren’t too hard – that was the only fathomable reason for this sifting he could come up with.
The man that had stood next to him – the one with the blotched skin – was still running until finally, a guard wearing the uniform of the Waffen-SS pulled him out of the circle and led him to the right.
Max tried to see the man again later, when they got clothes and were brought to the cabins. He saw the reassuring face once more, a hesitant look in the man's eyes. In his arms was his wife. The sight of it warmed Max's heart, and he smiled weakly at the man, feeling sorry for him.
No matter how badly he missed Liz - his lovely Liz, with her sweet smelling hair and her sparkling eyes - he'd never wish for her to be with him.
He'd go through this alone, with a sheer memory of her to guide him.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
She sat in the windowsill again, perched highly above the fields, an English book lying untouched in her lap. It belonged to George Petersen, the farmer that took care of her and her mother. When he heard that she had learned some English, he’d dug up the dust-covered book from the attic, had wiped the cobwebs off it and had given it to her, favoring her with a smile. An early birthday present, he had said. Unable to disappoint him – the heart-shaped face and the laughing eyes – she had accepted it.
It was a love story, she had noticed.
Romeo and Juliet.
She didn’t read it, determined to let her hunger for the written word remain unsatisfied. She wouldn’t read it, she pledged to herself – never. She knew how it ended, and reading it would be sweet torture to her already strangled soul; the idea of ending her darkness, misery and pain so easily would be too alluring, too tempting to resist.
And she couldn’t. She shouldn’t.
Her mother… Her mother would never survive.
A pang of hurt ripped through her as she thought back of the weak shim that once had been her mother, strong, trusting and loving. After crying for days after father’s deportation, her mother had become physically sick, coughing the entire time. Though her mother had so desperately tried to hide it from her, Liz was sure that every time she had coughed, blood had marred her mother’s hands. Petersen had insisted to let her sleep in the farm, in a warm, comfortable bed, under the constant care of the missus. It was with reluctance that her mother had agreed with him, but, according to Petersen, her mother didn’t regret her decision.
She was recovering slowly, Liz had been told, but her vision had lessened, and trivial things like standing and eating now were difficult tasks that took her a lot of time.
Time…
Liz gazed down the country then up at the sky, at the sun that had just passed its pinnacle, at the clouds that passed over her head, casting swiftly moving shadows on the fields below.
She had plenty of time now.
The muffled sound of footsteps downstairs alerted her, and she stiffened slightly. A familiar voice drifted upwards, however, reassuring the heart that hammered painfully inside of her chest.
“I hope you like potatoes,” Karl laughed after he had said the password and had climbed up the ladder. He was carrying a tray with food – mostly potatoes from the fields – and placed it upon the windowsill.
She smiled at the farmer’s son, admiring the twinkling in his eyes. “If I didn’t like potatoes before, I would’ve learned to love them by now. I would've starved if I hadn’t.”
“Is that a veiled complaint?” Karl asked, half feigning shock, but his smile gave him away. “I planted these, miss!”
“Mmm…” she mumbled as she pricked a potato on her fork, taking a small bite. “You know I love them, Karl.”
“You’d better,” he joked, and leaned against the window’s frame. “What were you looking at?” He then noticed the book in her lap and picked it up with curiosity. “Are you reading this?”
Swallowing down her food, she shook her head before answering. “No.”
“Romeo and Juliet…” he said pensively. “Is that the same as ‘Romeo und Julia’? This is the English version, right?”
“Right,” she said reluctantly, focusing on her meal. “It’s by Shakespeare.”
He leaned forward and she shifted uncomfortably as she felt his chest against her back, his breath in her neck. His hand reached out and traced the gold letters on the cover of the book. “Where did you find it?”
“Your father gave it to me,” she replied as she looked back at him. She quickly turned her head back, though, when she became aware of how close his face was to hers.
“He did?” Karl shook his head, mildly surprised. “I didn’t even know we had it.”
She picked up the book and handed it to him. “You can have it,” she said, praying that, after taking the book from her, he would leave. “I have no intention of reading it any time soon.”
“Oh no. You have it,” he protested, pushing the book back into her hands. “My English is too poor to read a classic like Romeo and Juliet.”
Sighing, she laid the book aside and continued her meal. Karl’s hands – that had previously rested against the window frame – brushed aside her hair, and she choked lightly.
“You really are beautiful,” he said, the tips of his fingers moving over the skin of her neck, “for one of your kind.”
Uncertain of how she should show him she was in no way interested in him, she crept away from his touch and slipped off the windowsill. “Karl…” she started hesitantly, taking a step aside when his hand aimed for her cheek. “Please, don’t.”
He ignored her words, however, and pulled her closer to him, letting his lips brush over her cheeks, her jaw line, her neck.
“Karl…”
She didn’t want to offend him – after all he and his father were offering her and her mother a shelter – but she definitely didn’t want this. With the palms of her hands flat against his chest, she tried to push him away, enlarge the distance between them, but he was too strong and didn’t budge.
Pulling her closer still, she became painfully aware of his wandering hands, of his erection pressing against her leg.
She remembered the first time she’d felt it when she’d been with Max. His face flashed before her eyes and white-hot guilt flared up inside of her.
“Karl, no,” she protested, pushing him away with more determination. “Stop it.”
He looked up briefly, his blue eyes darker than before, his hair disheveled. “We both know you want this, too, Liz,” he whispered hoarsely, his breathing fast. “I can see it in your eyes.”
In her eyes? He could see it in her eyes?
But she didn’t. She didn’t want him at all. It was another man she yearned for, another man that she loved.
The first shimmers of panic started to leak into her words. “No, I don’t. I don’t want this, Karl.”
Her words fell on deaf ears, and when she felt Karl’s hand moving up to touch her breast, she decided to take more drastic measures and slapped him in his face with the flat of her hand.
Momentarily, he froze. Something flashed in his eyes – was it sensibility, or anger, or shame? – but he didn’t let go of her arms. Instead he tightened his grip on her. “How do you dare?”
His voice was low and dangerous, and it scared her.
She struggled to get out of his arms, but he wouldn’t let her slip out of them. He pressed his mouth against hers roughly, and for a second, Liz was back in her hometown, in the hide-out room at Maria and Jim’s, with Max’s lips pressed against hers, his tongue down her throat.
Hurt flooded her mind, and growing desperate, she fought him harder. Somehow they ended up on the floor, his right hand moving over her body as his left hand kept her down. She tried to kick him, hurt him, but he didn’t seem to feel her feet hitting his back, didn’t seem to feel her fists slamming against his chest.
Finally, when his hand was working to get her bodice off, she gathered, in an act of incompetence and defeat, her spit and spat him in his face. Time seemed to stop for a second as the slimy liquid dripped down his nose and fell upon her dress. Anger widened his eyes and, wondering if she had ever known fear before, she heard him growl. He lifted his knee and let it slam down into her stomach, as hard as he could.
She cried out in pain and fear, panic blinding her. Her hands aimed for her stomach and she curled up in a reflex to lessen the pain, to protect the growing being inside of her. He hit her in her face, fury burning behind his eyes.
“Please, Karl,” she begged him, her heart wildly slamming against her ribcage. She didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but when he hit her again, his hand left a burning imprint on her cheek and unwanted tears sprung in her eyes.
“Karl?”
She could only vaguely hear Petersen’s voice because of the rushing of blood behind her ears and her own strangled cries.
Closing her eyes, she wished for it to be over, her fingers clasped around her abdomen when she felt her blood trickling down her legs.
Karl was quiet now, his movements stilled.
The conversation that followed seemed to take forever, but passed before her heart had had the chance to beat twice. She could feel Karl being pulled off her body, the spots where he had hit her throbbing painfully. They screamed, she was sure, but she only heard ragged parts of the conversation, sounds that were barely above her whisper.
Then there were Peterson’s soothing hands brushing her hair out of her face. Or were it Karl’s? Her eyes flew open, meeting sad, embarrassed ones. The lips in the heart-shaped face were moving, and she concentrated on them, trying to figure out what he was trying to say.
It was no use.
“My baby,” she finally whispered, her voice dominating every other sound in the room. “My baby…”
His lips moved again, and she could see him echo her words, well-hidden surprise embedded in his eyes.
“My baby…” Her body shuddered as a cry was torn from her throat, unable to do otherwise.
A hand gently removed hers from her abdomen. She let them slide down to the wooden floor of the shed’s loft, lightly shaking with the intensity of the sadness coursing through her body.
“…fine, Liz…”
She gasped, fresh air streaming into her lungs. Her midriff protested painfully when she moved, a searing ache ripping through her. Wincing, her mind cried out for Max, for her mother.
“…fine. It will be fine.”
She wanted to believe Petersen.
Honestly, she did.
But the blood that pooled between her thighs and the aching throbbing in her head made it very difficult for her.
<center>***</center>
*hides*
I'll be back later to thank you for your feedback for chapter 38, okay? Right now, I have to study Physics.
Most Germans didn't know about the existence of extermination camps, however. Max doesn't know about them either.
<center>Chapter 39</center>
Poland, March 1943
Cold air streamed over his naked skin, and involuntarily, he shivered. The sleepy haze that had clouded his mind in the stuffy, warm atmosphere of the train had evaporated quickly and now it was gone, he was painfully awake. Highly aware of his naked state, he wrapped his arms around himself in a futile attempt to shield his body and ward off the cold.
No one around him talked.
No one dared to.
Shivering, he watched his breath flee away in small clouds of vapor, circling heavenwards, escaping the camp the way he wanted to escape.
He slanted a quick glance sideward, at the older man next to him. Goosebumps covered the dry, blotched skin, and Max briefly wondered what the man would’ve done to end up there. Squinting against the light of the sun rising in the east, he looked for a familiar face, knowing he wouldn't find one. Women were running in circles, naked. The young and the old, the healthy and the sick were being separated. Children cried as they were pulled away from their mothers.
Women cried as they were separated from husbands, daughters, sons.
Men cried.
He was quiet, trying to regard the whole thing from the outside, trying to pretend that he wasn’t there, that he was merely a witness of God. The cutting wind and the man shivering next to him made that hard, though, and time after time, he was reminded of reality.
When guards gestured for the running to stop, about twenty women were still standing in the circle, their bare feet bleeding and covered with dirt. Most of them were old, shaking all over from the effort the running had demanded – those women, weak and harmless – were guided to an other group of women, old women.
One of the women – somewhere in her fifties, Max guessed, with the most remarkable face he had ever seen – cast a desperate glance over her shoulder and tried to pull away from the guard taking her. She was roughly jerked back, however, and stumbled and fell.
The fists of the man next to him clenched and unclenched.
Without a word being uttered, the men were led to the circle of sand. They knew the drill, and ran as fast and as long as they could. Max was pulled out the circle relatively soon, and he briefly wondered if that was a good or a bad thing. The older men would probably get to do the chores that weren’t too hard – that was the only fathomable reason for this sifting he could come up with.
The man that had stood next to him – the one with the blotched skin – was still running until finally, a guard wearing the uniform of the Waffen-SS pulled him out of the circle and led him to the right.
Max tried to see the man again later, when they got clothes and were brought to the cabins. He saw the reassuring face once more, a hesitant look in the man's eyes. In his arms was his wife. The sight of it warmed Max's heart, and he smiled weakly at the man, feeling sorry for him.
No matter how badly he missed Liz - his lovely Liz, with her sweet smelling hair and her sparkling eyes - he'd never wish for her to be with him.
He'd go through this alone, with a sheer memory of her to guide him.
<center>***</center>
Germany, March 1943
She sat in the windowsill again, perched highly above the fields, an English book lying untouched in her lap. It belonged to George Petersen, the farmer that took care of her and her mother. When he heard that she had learned some English, he’d dug up the dust-covered book from the attic, had wiped the cobwebs off it and had given it to her, favoring her with a smile. An early birthday present, he had said. Unable to disappoint him – the heart-shaped face and the laughing eyes – she had accepted it.
It was a love story, she had noticed.
Romeo and Juliet.
She didn’t read it, determined to let her hunger for the written word remain unsatisfied. She wouldn’t read it, she pledged to herself – never. She knew how it ended, and reading it would be sweet torture to her already strangled soul; the idea of ending her darkness, misery and pain so easily would be too alluring, too tempting to resist.
And she couldn’t. She shouldn’t.
Her mother… Her mother would never survive.
A pang of hurt ripped through her as she thought back of the weak shim that once had been her mother, strong, trusting and loving. After crying for days after father’s deportation, her mother had become physically sick, coughing the entire time. Though her mother had so desperately tried to hide it from her, Liz was sure that every time she had coughed, blood had marred her mother’s hands. Petersen had insisted to let her sleep in the farm, in a warm, comfortable bed, under the constant care of the missus. It was with reluctance that her mother had agreed with him, but, according to Petersen, her mother didn’t regret her decision.
She was recovering slowly, Liz had been told, but her vision had lessened, and trivial things like standing and eating now were difficult tasks that took her a lot of time.
Time…
Liz gazed down the country then up at the sky, at the sun that had just passed its pinnacle, at the clouds that passed over her head, casting swiftly moving shadows on the fields below.
She had plenty of time now.
The muffled sound of footsteps downstairs alerted her, and she stiffened slightly. A familiar voice drifted upwards, however, reassuring the heart that hammered painfully inside of her chest.
“I hope you like potatoes,” Karl laughed after he had said the password and had climbed up the ladder. He was carrying a tray with food – mostly potatoes from the fields – and placed it upon the windowsill.
She smiled at the farmer’s son, admiring the twinkling in his eyes. “If I didn’t like potatoes before, I would’ve learned to love them by now. I would've starved if I hadn’t.”
“Is that a veiled complaint?” Karl asked, half feigning shock, but his smile gave him away. “I planted these, miss!”
“Mmm…” she mumbled as she pricked a potato on her fork, taking a small bite. “You know I love them, Karl.”
“You’d better,” he joked, and leaned against the window’s frame. “What were you looking at?” He then noticed the book in her lap and picked it up with curiosity. “Are you reading this?”
Swallowing down her food, she shook her head before answering. “No.”
“Romeo and Juliet…” he said pensively. “Is that the same as ‘Romeo und Julia’? This is the English version, right?”
“Right,” she said reluctantly, focusing on her meal. “It’s by Shakespeare.”
He leaned forward and she shifted uncomfortably as she felt his chest against her back, his breath in her neck. His hand reached out and traced the gold letters on the cover of the book. “Where did you find it?”
“Your father gave it to me,” she replied as she looked back at him. She quickly turned her head back, though, when she became aware of how close his face was to hers.
“He did?” Karl shook his head, mildly surprised. “I didn’t even know we had it.”
She picked up the book and handed it to him. “You can have it,” she said, praying that, after taking the book from her, he would leave. “I have no intention of reading it any time soon.”
“Oh no. You have it,” he protested, pushing the book back into her hands. “My English is too poor to read a classic like Romeo and Juliet.”
Sighing, she laid the book aside and continued her meal. Karl’s hands – that had previously rested against the window frame – brushed aside her hair, and she choked lightly.
“You really are beautiful,” he said, the tips of his fingers moving over the skin of her neck, “for one of your kind.”
Uncertain of how she should show him she was in no way interested in him, she crept away from his touch and slipped off the windowsill. “Karl…” she started hesitantly, taking a step aside when his hand aimed for her cheek. “Please, don’t.”
He ignored her words, however, and pulled her closer to him, letting his lips brush over her cheeks, her jaw line, her neck.
“Karl…”
She didn’t want to offend him – after all he and his father were offering her and her mother a shelter – but she definitely didn’t want this. With the palms of her hands flat against his chest, she tried to push him away, enlarge the distance between them, but he was too strong and didn’t budge.
Pulling her closer still, she became painfully aware of his wandering hands, of his erection pressing against her leg.
She remembered the first time she’d felt it when she’d been with Max. His face flashed before her eyes and white-hot guilt flared up inside of her.
“Karl, no,” she protested, pushing him away with more determination. “Stop it.”
He looked up briefly, his blue eyes darker than before, his hair disheveled. “We both know you want this, too, Liz,” he whispered hoarsely, his breathing fast. “I can see it in your eyes.”
In her eyes? He could see it in her eyes?
But she didn’t. She didn’t want him at all. It was another man she yearned for, another man that she loved.
The first shimmers of panic started to leak into her words. “No, I don’t. I don’t want this, Karl.”
Her words fell on deaf ears, and when she felt Karl’s hand moving up to touch her breast, she decided to take more drastic measures and slapped him in his face with the flat of her hand.
Momentarily, he froze. Something flashed in his eyes – was it sensibility, or anger, or shame? – but he didn’t let go of her arms. Instead he tightened his grip on her. “How do you dare?”
His voice was low and dangerous, and it scared her.
She struggled to get out of his arms, but he wouldn’t let her slip out of them. He pressed his mouth against hers roughly, and for a second, Liz was back in her hometown, in the hide-out room at Maria and Jim’s, with Max’s lips pressed against hers, his tongue down her throat.
Hurt flooded her mind, and growing desperate, she fought him harder. Somehow they ended up on the floor, his right hand moving over her body as his left hand kept her down. She tried to kick him, hurt him, but he didn’t seem to feel her feet hitting his back, didn’t seem to feel her fists slamming against his chest.
Finally, when his hand was working to get her bodice off, she gathered, in an act of incompetence and defeat, her spit and spat him in his face. Time seemed to stop for a second as the slimy liquid dripped down his nose and fell upon her dress. Anger widened his eyes and, wondering if she had ever known fear before, she heard him growl. He lifted his knee and let it slam down into her stomach, as hard as he could.
She cried out in pain and fear, panic blinding her. Her hands aimed for her stomach and she curled up in a reflex to lessen the pain, to protect the growing being inside of her. He hit her in her face, fury burning behind his eyes.
“Please, Karl,” she begged him, her heart wildly slamming against her ribcage. She didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but when he hit her again, his hand left a burning imprint on her cheek and unwanted tears sprung in her eyes.
“Karl?”
She could only vaguely hear Petersen’s voice because of the rushing of blood behind her ears and her own strangled cries.
Closing her eyes, she wished for it to be over, her fingers clasped around her abdomen when she felt her blood trickling down her legs.
Karl was quiet now, his movements stilled.
The conversation that followed seemed to take forever, but passed before her heart had had the chance to beat twice. She could feel Karl being pulled off her body, the spots where he had hit her throbbing painfully. They screamed, she was sure, but she only heard ragged parts of the conversation, sounds that were barely above her whisper.
Then there were Peterson’s soothing hands brushing her hair out of her face. Or were it Karl’s? Her eyes flew open, meeting sad, embarrassed ones. The lips in the heart-shaped face were moving, and she concentrated on them, trying to figure out what he was trying to say.
It was no use.
“My baby,” she finally whispered, her voice dominating every other sound in the room. “My baby…”
His lips moved again, and she could see him echo her words, well-hidden surprise embedded in his eyes.
“My baby…” Her body shuddered as a cry was torn from her throat, unable to do otherwise.
A hand gently removed hers from her abdomen. She let them slide down to the wooden floor of the shed’s loft, lightly shaking with the intensity of the sadness coursing through her body.
“…fine, Liz…”
She gasped, fresh air streaming into her lungs. Her midriff protested painfully when she moved, a searing ache ripping through her. Wincing, her mind cried out for Max, for her mother.
“…fine. It will be fine.”
She wanted to believe Petersen.
Honestly, she did.
But the blood that pooled between her thighs and the aching throbbing in her head made it very difficult for her.
<center>***</center>
*hides*
I'll be back later to thank you for your feedback for chapter 38, okay? Right now, I have to study Physics.
Last edited by Anais Nin on Tue May 18, 2004 12:34 am, edited 4 times in total.
<center>...endless so far in myself, follow me...
</center>
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Anais Nin
- Enthusiastic Roswellian
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2003 12:15 am
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<center>Chapter 40</center>
Germany, April 1943
The loud, penetrating sound of church bells ringing awoke her. The low, rich timbre filled her ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut before heaving a sigh and opening them with reluctance. The bed she slept in, the room she stayed in… they weren’t familiar to her. She couldn’t quite remember what had happened, where she was, who she was. It frightened her and she longed to bolt upright and run – run far away from the dark room, from the antique bed with musty blankets – but a searing ache in her abdomen prevented her from doing so.
Her hand flew to her stomach, that felt strangely empty, and her memories came rushing back at her.
Karl.
A wave of nausea threatened to wash over her, and she gagged at the pain and the memories that were welling up. Her hand reached for the comforter, gathered its rough material and fisted around it, clenching tighter and tighter until her knuckles were white and the pain in her hand dominated the pain in her stomach. Few tears sprung in her eyes and even fewer slid down her cheeks, their number belying the heavy sadness that remained embedded inside of her.
Her right hand remained on her stomach, stroking it lightly until her numb fingers failed to register the texture of the skin brushing beneath their tips. The light swell that had showed off her pregnancy some days ago was still there, but her stomach… She grimaced in pain, a persistent throbbing in her head making it difficult for her to think. Her stomach… it felt as if a cold, heavy void had settled deep down inside of her, and she knew that her child was gone.
She knew it, just as she had first known of her pregnancy.
She struggled to choke down a strangled sob, but it slipped past her lips, its ridiculously loud presence tearing up the silence in the room. The pain was persistent, nagging and strong, so strong. To keep from crying, she drew in a deep breath, blew it out and inhaled deeply again, trying to concentrate on her breathing, her surroundings rather than feeling the lashing pain running through her body.
The room was small and rather sober, Liz noticed. Daylight, its rays weak, struggled to get through a smirched, dirty, little window. Tiny dust particles floated in the air, illuminated by the sunlight that formed a path between the window and a large, oaken desk. The beam of light gently brushed over a vase that stood on top of the desk, containing several flowers that had probably been beautiful once, a long time ago.
A small, dark wooden crucifix hung above the door. It tilted slightly and looked dangerously close to falling. The thorn-crowned head was stooped, deep lines of sadness engraved on Jesus’ face. A twinge of recognition flitted through her – Mr. Rendall’s classroom had sported a similar crucifix, just as dark and somber as this one.
Where was she?
Stirring lightly, she tried to get up so that she could take in more of her surroundings, but it hurt… it hurt so much. The ache residing inside of her, the ache that burned her insides with its scorching heat threatened to swallow her. The room disappeared momentarily, darkness replacing it. She closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath by inhaling slowly, ignoring her heart’s hammering cry for more oxygen, for a more rapid circulation of blood.
Hushed voices drifted by, fragments of conversations resonated through the door. People were walking through the hallway, laughing with each other.
Women.
All the voices she heard were high and feminine, they belonged to women.
She was just about to flip over onto her other side and bury her head into her pillow, willing for everything to go away – the pain, the voices, the confusion – when the sound of footsteps in the hallway became noticeably louder.
Holding her breath, she clutched the blankets tightly to her body – a nightgown was all she was wearing – and watched with a sense of anticipation and growing panic as the door opened.
A small woman walked into the room, a grayish habit cloaking her body. She was singing quietly to herself in a foreign language – Latin, Liz guessed – and after lightening a candle, she took the dried, withered flowers out of the vase on the desk and replaced them with fresh ones.
Liz nervously cleared her throat, unsure of what to do.
Twirling around, the woman’s eyes met hers in surprise, a smile hovering about her lips. She was wearing a familiar coif, and suddenly Liz could put the pieces together. Despite of the tired state of her mind, she concluded that she was in a monastery.
Of course, this made no sense. What was she doing in a cloister, surrounded by Christians?
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” the nun greeted her nicely, her smile reaching upwards, a hint of it touching her eyes. There was something familiar about those eyes, something Liz couldn’t quite lay her finger on. She’d seen them before, but couldn’t remember when or where.
Rearranging the flowers in the vase, the sister lifted the vase and inhaled deeply, taking in the flowers’ scent. “You look better than yesterday,” she said as she put the vase down again and walked towards Liz. “Are you hungry?”
Suddenly aware that she was gaping, Liz snapped her mouth shut and searched for something to say. There were so many questions tumbling inside of her mind though, and it was difficult to choose what to say and ask first.
Seeing the indecision flickering in Liz’s eyes, the nun sat down on the bed that sagged lightly under their joint weight. “I’m Sister Agnes,” she introduced herself, her hand brushing Liz’s hair off her forehead. “You’re at the Bebenhausen Kloster.”
“I…” Liz frowned, her head aching. Agnes’s warm hand stroking her forehead in a reassuring manner caused emotion to rise to her throat and she tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. “Why…?” Her frown grew deeper as she tried to give voice to all the questions inside her head. “Where’s my… my mother?”
Agnes smiled again, and it was only then that Liz noticed the weariness in her eyes. “Your mother is fine. She’s still with the Petersen family. They believed it would be better for you, however, if we would take charge of you. With what happened…” Agnes trailed off, obviously reluctant to bring that subject up.
Grateful for that, Liz nodded, fighting against the pain the simple movement brought upon her. “How long have I… been here?” The question bothered her, especially because Agnes seemed so familiar.
“For three days,” Agnes replied. “You were sleeping when George brought you, and haven’t been fully awake since. You may have opened your eyes once or twice when I made you drink some water. Those times, you were feverish, almost delirious.” Agnes laughed lightly, the rare sound of her laughter filling the room. “You were raving, going on and on about bears and frozen fishes. I couldn’t understand a single word you were saying.”
With her cheeks hot, Liz tried to sit up, glad when Agnes offered her a hand. “I lost it, didn’t I?” she asked with a significant glance at her stomach, already knowing the answer to her question. She just needed someone else to confirm it for her, to tell her that it was true.
Pity shimmered through in Agnes’s eyes. “Yes, you did. We prayed for you and your little one, but it didn’t make it.” She paused briefly as grief overshadowed her face. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”
Liz closed her eyes to fight off the dizziness, but it was in vain. Her stomach rumbled, hungrily demanding nourishment, and she clasped her hands over it, abashed.
Agnes caught the sound, however, and smiled knowingly. “Let me get you something to eat,” she said. “You haven’t eaten anything decent since you came here.”
After laying the back of her hand on Liz’s forehead to see if her temperature wasn’t too high, she stood up and walked towards the door. She was about to close it behind her when she obviously changed her mind and hastily kept it from falling shut.
“Our sleeping beauty woke up, Mother,” Liz heard her say, and a woman, much older than Agnes, entered the room.
It wasn’t her wrinkles or her age that compelled respect from Liz. It was the woman’s eyes – the wisdom, the faith and the love that danced around behind them, the vivid spirit that shone through - that made Liz instantly admire her.
She bowed her head slightly in what she hoped was a grateful manner.
The abbess closed the door behind her and smiled. Her face became even more wrinkled and crooked because of this, but it earned another pang of respect and admiration from Liz.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” the abbess said and crossed the small room. “I trust it that Agnes took good care of you?”
Liz nodded, unsure what else to do. Everything was so… strange, rather ironic, actually. Here she was, a Jewish girl in a Christian monastery, in a room where Christ looked down upon her and where she was praying to her own God, wishing for Him to save her, to take her into His arms.
It didn't seem to make any sense.
<center>***</center>
Germany, April 1943
She bit on her lip to keep from wincing when Agnes’s fingers ran through her hair and got tangled up in it.
“Careful, careful,” Mother Veronica, the cloister’s abbess, admonished Agnes, her voice light. With a gentle smile upon her lips, she studied the sister’s work. “Don’t forget the strands in front of her face, dear.”
Agnes nodded quietly, rubbing more of the hair dye in Liz’s hair. She smiled down at Liz, who was still biting on her lower lip, half expecting for Agnes’s fingers to get tangled up in her hair again. “Your hair is beautiful, Elizabeth,” Agnes said with a slight sigh of admiration. “So long and shiny. Covering it with a coif is a shame.”
Liz smiled weakly, some of the tension leaving her. “Thank you.”
“You look better as a brunette, though,” Agnes laughed, shaking her head lightly. “Now close your eyes, darling.”
Obeying immediately, Liz let her eyes flutter closed, enabling Agnes to rub some hair dye into her eyebrows.
“All right. Done,” Agnes finally said, and got up, admiring her handiwork. “Not bad, huh?”
Liz hesitantly opened her eyes and looked into the mirror Mother Veronica handed her. Looking back at her was a complete stranger, but it wasn’t the color of the hair that made her seem so different from the girl she’d been before.
Something else had changed, and it went a lot deeper than something as superficial as the color of her hair.
<center>***</center>
Germany, April 1943
The loud, penetrating sound of church bells ringing awoke her. The low, rich timbre filled her ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut before heaving a sigh and opening them with reluctance. The bed she slept in, the room she stayed in… they weren’t familiar to her. She couldn’t quite remember what had happened, where she was, who she was. It frightened her and she longed to bolt upright and run – run far away from the dark room, from the antique bed with musty blankets – but a searing ache in her abdomen prevented her from doing so.
Her hand flew to her stomach, that felt strangely empty, and her memories came rushing back at her.
Karl.
A wave of nausea threatened to wash over her, and she gagged at the pain and the memories that were welling up. Her hand reached for the comforter, gathered its rough material and fisted around it, clenching tighter and tighter until her knuckles were white and the pain in her hand dominated the pain in her stomach. Few tears sprung in her eyes and even fewer slid down her cheeks, their number belying the heavy sadness that remained embedded inside of her.
Her right hand remained on her stomach, stroking it lightly until her numb fingers failed to register the texture of the skin brushing beneath their tips. The light swell that had showed off her pregnancy some days ago was still there, but her stomach… She grimaced in pain, a persistent throbbing in her head making it difficult for her to think. Her stomach… it felt as if a cold, heavy void had settled deep down inside of her, and she knew that her child was gone.
She knew it, just as she had first known of her pregnancy.
She struggled to choke down a strangled sob, but it slipped past her lips, its ridiculously loud presence tearing up the silence in the room. The pain was persistent, nagging and strong, so strong. To keep from crying, she drew in a deep breath, blew it out and inhaled deeply again, trying to concentrate on her breathing, her surroundings rather than feeling the lashing pain running through her body.
The room was small and rather sober, Liz noticed. Daylight, its rays weak, struggled to get through a smirched, dirty, little window. Tiny dust particles floated in the air, illuminated by the sunlight that formed a path between the window and a large, oaken desk. The beam of light gently brushed over a vase that stood on top of the desk, containing several flowers that had probably been beautiful once, a long time ago.
A small, dark wooden crucifix hung above the door. It tilted slightly and looked dangerously close to falling. The thorn-crowned head was stooped, deep lines of sadness engraved on Jesus’ face. A twinge of recognition flitted through her – Mr. Rendall’s classroom had sported a similar crucifix, just as dark and somber as this one.
Where was she?
Stirring lightly, she tried to get up so that she could take in more of her surroundings, but it hurt… it hurt so much. The ache residing inside of her, the ache that burned her insides with its scorching heat threatened to swallow her. The room disappeared momentarily, darkness replacing it. She closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath by inhaling slowly, ignoring her heart’s hammering cry for more oxygen, for a more rapid circulation of blood.
Hushed voices drifted by, fragments of conversations resonated through the door. People were walking through the hallway, laughing with each other.
Women.
All the voices she heard were high and feminine, they belonged to women.
She was just about to flip over onto her other side and bury her head into her pillow, willing for everything to go away – the pain, the voices, the confusion – when the sound of footsteps in the hallway became noticeably louder.
Holding her breath, she clutched the blankets tightly to her body – a nightgown was all she was wearing – and watched with a sense of anticipation and growing panic as the door opened.
A small woman walked into the room, a grayish habit cloaking her body. She was singing quietly to herself in a foreign language – Latin, Liz guessed – and after lightening a candle, she took the dried, withered flowers out of the vase on the desk and replaced them with fresh ones.
Liz nervously cleared her throat, unsure of what to do.
Twirling around, the woman’s eyes met hers in surprise, a smile hovering about her lips. She was wearing a familiar coif, and suddenly Liz could put the pieces together. Despite of the tired state of her mind, she concluded that she was in a monastery.
Of course, this made no sense. What was she doing in a cloister, surrounded by Christians?
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” the nun greeted her nicely, her smile reaching upwards, a hint of it touching her eyes. There was something familiar about those eyes, something Liz couldn’t quite lay her finger on. She’d seen them before, but couldn’t remember when or where.
Rearranging the flowers in the vase, the sister lifted the vase and inhaled deeply, taking in the flowers’ scent. “You look better than yesterday,” she said as she put the vase down again and walked towards Liz. “Are you hungry?”
Suddenly aware that she was gaping, Liz snapped her mouth shut and searched for something to say. There were so many questions tumbling inside of her mind though, and it was difficult to choose what to say and ask first.
Seeing the indecision flickering in Liz’s eyes, the nun sat down on the bed that sagged lightly under their joint weight. “I’m Sister Agnes,” she introduced herself, her hand brushing Liz’s hair off her forehead. “You’re at the Bebenhausen Kloster.”
“I…” Liz frowned, her head aching. Agnes’s warm hand stroking her forehead in a reassuring manner caused emotion to rise to her throat and she tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. “Why…?” Her frown grew deeper as she tried to give voice to all the questions inside her head. “Where’s my… my mother?”
Agnes smiled again, and it was only then that Liz noticed the weariness in her eyes. “Your mother is fine. She’s still with the Petersen family. They believed it would be better for you, however, if we would take charge of you. With what happened…” Agnes trailed off, obviously reluctant to bring that subject up.
Grateful for that, Liz nodded, fighting against the pain the simple movement brought upon her. “How long have I… been here?” The question bothered her, especially because Agnes seemed so familiar.
“For three days,” Agnes replied. “You were sleeping when George brought you, and haven’t been fully awake since. You may have opened your eyes once or twice when I made you drink some water. Those times, you were feverish, almost delirious.” Agnes laughed lightly, the rare sound of her laughter filling the room. “You were raving, going on and on about bears and frozen fishes. I couldn’t understand a single word you were saying.”
With her cheeks hot, Liz tried to sit up, glad when Agnes offered her a hand. “I lost it, didn’t I?” she asked with a significant glance at her stomach, already knowing the answer to her question. She just needed someone else to confirm it for her, to tell her that it was true.
Pity shimmered through in Agnes’s eyes. “Yes, you did. We prayed for you and your little one, but it didn’t make it.” She paused briefly as grief overshadowed her face. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”
Liz closed her eyes to fight off the dizziness, but it was in vain. Her stomach rumbled, hungrily demanding nourishment, and she clasped her hands over it, abashed.
Agnes caught the sound, however, and smiled knowingly. “Let me get you something to eat,” she said. “You haven’t eaten anything decent since you came here.”
After laying the back of her hand on Liz’s forehead to see if her temperature wasn’t too high, she stood up and walked towards the door. She was about to close it behind her when she obviously changed her mind and hastily kept it from falling shut.
“Our sleeping beauty woke up, Mother,” Liz heard her say, and a woman, much older than Agnes, entered the room.
It wasn’t her wrinkles or her age that compelled respect from Liz. It was the woman’s eyes – the wisdom, the faith and the love that danced around behind them, the vivid spirit that shone through - that made Liz instantly admire her.
She bowed her head slightly in what she hoped was a grateful manner.
The abbess closed the door behind her and smiled. Her face became even more wrinkled and crooked because of this, but it earned another pang of respect and admiration from Liz.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” the abbess said and crossed the small room. “I trust it that Agnes took good care of you?”
Liz nodded, unsure what else to do. Everything was so… strange, rather ironic, actually. Here she was, a Jewish girl in a Christian monastery, in a room where Christ looked down upon her and where she was praying to her own God, wishing for Him to save her, to take her into His arms.
It didn't seem to make any sense.
<center>***</center>
Germany, April 1943
She bit on her lip to keep from wincing when Agnes’s fingers ran through her hair and got tangled up in it.
“Careful, careful,” Mother Veronica, the cloister’s abbess, admonished Agnes, her voice light. With a gentle smile upon her lips, she studied the sister’s work. “Don’t forget the strands in front of her face, dear.”
Agnes nodded quietly, rubbing more of the hair dye in Liz’s hair. She smiled down at Liz, who was still biting on her lower lip, half expecting for Agnes’s fingers to get tangled up in her hair again. “Your hair is beautiful, Elizabeth,” Agnes said with a slight sigh of admiration. “So long and shiny. Covering it with a coif is a shame.”
Liz smiled weakly, some of the tension leaving her. “Thank you.”
“You look better as a brunette, though,” Agnes laughed, shaking her head lightly. “Now close your eyes, darling.”
Obeying immediately, Liz let her eyes flutter closed, enabling Agnes to rub some hair dye into her eyebrows.
“All right. Done,” Agnes finally said, and got up, admiring her handiwork. “Not bad, huh?”
Liz hesitantly opened her eyes and looked into the mirror Mother Veronica handed her. Looking back at her was a complete stranger, but it wasn’t the color of the hair that made her seem so different from the girl she’d been before.
Something else had changed, and it went a lot deeper than something as superficial as the color of her hair.
<center>***</center>
Last edited by Anais Nin on Tue May 04, 2004 4:04 am, edited 6 times in total.
<center>...endless so far in myself, follow me...
</center>
</center>
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Anais Nin
- Enthusiastic Roswellian
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2003 12:15 am
- Location: The Netherlands
<center>Chapter 41</center>
Poland, April 1943
“Who is she?”
Reluctantly, Max opened his eyes, immediately losing his grip on the reality he had made up for himself. With his eyes still adjusting to the lack of light in the cabin, he peered through the darkness, finding Trevor staring at him. “Who’s who?” he asked, acting as if he had no clue what Trevor meant.
Trevor grunted a quiet laugh and rolled onto his side, laying his head upon his lower arm. “The girl you keep fantasizing about, of course. It is a girl, right?”
Letting out a soft laugh – despite of the pain it inflicted on his empty stomach – Max gave his head a light nod. He didn’t tell Trevor what he wanted to know, though, and rested his head on his arms as well, imitating him. Whispered murmurs filled the room; obviously, not only they were still awake. Today had been a relatively quiet day, and people weren’t as exhausted as usual.
When Max didn’t reply, Trevor frowned and lifted his head. He was lying on top of the bunk bed next to Max’s and when he moved, his bed creaked loudly. The guy lying on the bed below him groaned and Max could vaguely make out his form as he turned around.
“So… won’t you tell me her name?” Trevor asked, more tentatively than before. The white of his eyes glistened weakly in the meager light the large room held.
Max stared at the ceiling – just several inches away from his face – and let out a nearly inaudible sigh. The familiar stains and blots didn’t bring him the comfort they usually brought, and he felt abandoned. “Liz,” he finally admitted with reluctance. “Her name is Liz.”
Trevor didn’t seem to sense that he wasn’t too willing to share information about her, for he smiled and nodded self-complacent. “I knew it,” he said, “I knew there was a girl.” He was quiet for a while, without a doubt congratulating himself with his right assumption. “Does she…” he waved his hand and paused, momentarily searching for her name and continuing when he remembered, “Liz, does she know you’re here?”
Stiffening lightly, Max tried to decipher the blots on the ceiling, tried to find a pattern, some logic. “I don’t know,” he replied at last, the pain evident in his voice. “She’s captured as well, I guess.”
Taking this in, Trevor stared at him, his eyes shrouded with unreadable emotions as a contemplative silence enveloped him. “I’m sorry,” he then said, and rolled over onto his back.
Max, who assumed the conversation was over, switched sides, his tensed muscles relaxing in relief. He’d rather fantasize about Liz, dream about her, than discuss her and his situation.
Trevor, however, hadn’t planned on their talk to end yet. “Why?” he asked. When it took Max too long to reply, he elucidated his question. “I mean… why did they take her? What did she do?”
Tensing up again, Max suppressed a shiver, his fingers fumbling with the corner of his thin blanket. Overnight, it was unbelievably cold in the cabin. It had been worse the first days Max had spent at the camp. Now, in the middle of April, it still was icy cold at times, but his fingers no longer were blue and the cold didn’t prevent him from getting any sleep. Max sighed and turned to look at Trevor. “She was a Jewess,” he said evenly, as if that explained everything.
“Oh,” Trevor replied, naturally accepting that explanation.
It was strange how much the society’s opinion had integrated in their own unconsciousness. Being Jewish was enough reason to get arrested, as was being homosexual, being a gypsy, being a communist…
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Trevor asked after comprehending everything. He brushed his hand over his bald head as he nodded, then scratched his dark eyebrows, confident that he was right. “You helped her.”
Max lightly, nearly indiscernibly, shook his head in denial. He hadn’t been able to help her. His interference might have prevented her from getting arrested some months ago, but not in the end, his help had proven to be rather useless. “But I tried to,” he answered, a morose tone edging his voice as he weakly tried to defend himself. “I tried to.”
Trevor nodded again, as if he knew what Max was talking about, as if he understood his history. Bitter thoughts welled up in Max’s mind, but he suppressed them roughly. Trevor was the only person he knew, the only person he could have a normal conversation with. He didn’t want to lose his only friend in this place.
“Was she worth it?”
This time, not only the muscles of his arms and legs stiffened, but his heart constricted painfully as well. “I’d die for her,” he said, and meant it. He’d die for her.
A weak smile of admiration slipped upon Trevor’s lips, whose eyes seemed to smile as well. “I envy you, Max,” he spoke, sincerity dominating the sadness in his voice. “I really do.”
Max didn’t really know what to say to that, so he simply nodded his head in agreement and folded his hands, laying them under his head. “And why are you here?” he asked after a short silence, slanting a sideward glance at Trevor.
Trevor gave a little snort, forcing the air in his lungs out of his body with one swift, deprecating exhale through his nose. “They caught me spreading communistic pamphlets, and added slander to the charges. I think they were tipped, though.” A pensive gleam shone in his eyes and he shot a hesitant look towards Max. “The day before they arrested me, I met this woman. She was beautiful… Long, flowing hair, sparkling green eyes… She flung some insults in Hitler’s direction, and I…” Trevor paused, a bitter smile flitting over his face, “I… was stupid enough to agree with her.”
Max frowned lightly. “A provocateur?” He had heard of them before, but had never really believed the rumors to be true.
“I’m not sure,” Trevor shrugged, his eyes seemingly uncaring, “but I think so, yes.”
A bit unsure how to formulate his question, Max hesitantly spoke up. “How long…”
“Five months? Six?” Trevor answered before Max had finished his question, his eyebrows raised in contemplative wondering. “I don’t know. Seems as if I’ve been here forever.”
Max gave him a sad smile. The whispers around them had died down; most men were already asleep. Growing aware of his own fatigue, Max stifled a yawn and rubbed his hand over his bald head. It was hard to get used to the lack of hairs, and when sharp, chilly winds blew, his head was no kept warm, no longer protected. “Night, Trevor,” he whispered, another yawn intruding upon him.
He heard Trevor turning in his bed. “Good night,” Trevor said, his words barely audible, muffled by his blanket.
Conjuring up Liz’s face – the way she smelled, the way she laughed – Max crept further underneath his covers and closed his eyes, praying he’d wake up in another place, in another time.
<center>***</center>
Germany, April 1943
Her hands pulled out the weeds inexpertly, unlike Agnes’s, who knew what she was doing. Sighing, she jerked firmly at a wild plant and threw it over her shoulder. Her fingers were cold and numb, and alarmingly yellow. She briefly inspected the strip of earth she’d worked on and decided that her job was done, that she could move on. Standing up, she felt a tingling sensation in her right foot and she shook it lightly, slightly annoyed that it was asleep – again. She struggled with her habit, and though it was itchy and heavy, she liked how warm it kept her, and the feeling of safety it offered her.
When the church bells rang, most nuns stood up and started their daily way towards the church to say their afternoon prayers.
Agnes scrambled to her feet as well, a light smile on her face. “Are you coming, Elizabeth?”
Shaking her head, Liz wiped her hands off on her habit, pretending that she wasn’t seeing Agnes’s disapproving stare. “I’ll be right there,” she promised. “I just… need some time alone. Can you tell Mother Veronica?”
Agnes frowned slightly, questioningly raising one eyebrow. “Of course. I don’t think she’ll be pleased, though.”
Pursing her lips together, feeling guilty, Liz tried to come up with a valid excuse, but couldn’t find one. “Please tell her I’m sorry?”
Smiling weakly, Agnes nodded. “I will,” she said, and with that, she turned on her heels, gathered the material of her habit in her hand and ran – in a very un-nunlike way – after the other sisters.
Not knowing what to do, Liz clasped her hands together, her fingers weaving through each other, and then unclasped her hands again, letting them slide down to her sides. She wandered around aimlessly, glad to have some time for herself, but still searching for a way to spend it. Branches of a large oak tree hung above her head, and she stooped unconsciously when she walked underneath them. Sitting down with her back against the tree’s trunk, she laid her head in her neck and stared up; through the entwined branches, at the blue sky above her. Few clouds drifted on the wind and yet, they managed to cover the sun completely.
She sat there for a long time – she wasn’t sure exactly how long – and by the time that the cold and damp of the earth had seeped through her habit, the sun was still veiled by thick, gray clouds. She didn’t bother standing up before the church bells rang again and indicated that the prayers were said.
Letting her hand slide over the rough texture of the tree’s trunk, she adjusted her clothing and tucked some stray strands of hair back under her coif. Her eyes briefly swept over the ground until they noticed a stone: a large, white one, shining dimly in the weak light that managed to get through the heavy April clouds. Picking it up, she saw that light, gray lines crossed the stone, circled around it several times. For some reason, she did not let it drop or laid it back, but rubbed it clean, turned it in her hands and finally let it slide into her habit’s pocket.
<center>***</center>
Poland, April 1943
“Who is she?”
Reluctantly, Max opened his eyes, immediately losing his grip on the reality he had made up for himself. With his eyes still adjusting to the lack of light in the cabin, he peered through the darkness, finding Trevor staring at him. “Who’s who?” he asked, acting as if he had no clue what Trevor meant.
Trevor grunted a quiet laugh and rolled onto his side, laying his head upon his lower arm. “The girl you keep fantasizing about, of course. It is a girl, right?”
Letting out a soft laugh – despite of the pain it inflicted on his empty stomach – Max gave his head a light nod. He didn’t tell Trevor what he wanted to know, though, and rested his head on his arms as well, imitating him. Whispered murmurs filled the room; obviously, not only they were still awake. Today had been a relatively quiet day, and people weren’t as exhausted as usual.
When Max didn’t reply, Trevor frowned and lifted his head. He was lying on top of the bunk bed next to Max’s and when he moved, his bed creaked loudly. The guy lying on the bed below him groaned and Max could vaguely make out his form as he turned around.
“So… won’t you tell me her name?” Trevor asked, more tentatively than before. The white of his eyes glistened weakly in the meager light the large room held.
Max stared at the ceiling – just several inches away from his face – and let out a nearly inaudible sigh. The familiar stains and blots didn’t bring him the comfort they usually brought, and he felt abandoned. “Liz,” he finally admitted with reluctance. “Her name is Liz.”
Trevor didn’t seem to sense that he wasn’t too willing to share information about her, for he smiled and nodded self-complacent. “I knew it,” he said, “I knew there was a girl.” He was quiet for a while, without a doubt congratulating himself with his right assumption. “Does she…” he waved his hand and paused, momentarily searching for her name and continuing when he remembered, “Liz, does she know you’re here?”
Stiffening lightly, Max tried to decipher the blots on the ceiling, tried to find a pattern, some logic. “I don’t know,” he replied at last, the pain evident in his voice. “She’s captured as well, I guess.”
Taking this in, Trevor stared at him, his eyes shrouded with unreadable emotions as a contemplative silence enveloped him. “I’m sorry,” he then said, and rolled over onto his back.
Max, who assumed the conversation was over, switched sides, his tensed muscles relaxing in relief. He’d rather fantasize about Liz, dream about her, than discuss her and his situation.
Trevor, however, hadn’t planned on their talk to end yet. “Why?” he asked. When it took Max too long to reply, he elucidated his question. “I mean… why did they take her? What did she do?”
Tensing up again, Max suppressed a shiver, his fingers fumbling with the corner of his thin blanket. Overnight, it was unbelievably cold in the cabin. It had been worse the first days Max had spent at the camp. Now, in the middle of April, it still was icy cold at times, but his fingers no longer were blue and the cold didn’t prevent him from getting any sleep. Max sighed and turned to look at Trevor. “She was a Jewess,” he said evenly, as if that explained everything.
“Oh,” Trevor replied, naturally accepting that explanation.
It was strange how much the society’s opinion had integrated in their own unconsciousness. Being Jewish was enough reason to get arrested, as was being homosexual, being a gypsy, being a communist…
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Trevor asked after comprehending everything. He brushed his hand over his bald head as he nodded, then scratched his dark eyebrows, confident that he was right. “You helped her.”
Max lightly, nearly indiscernibly, shook his head in denial. He hadn’t been able to help her. His interference might have prevented her from getting arrested some months ago, but not in the end, his help had proven to be rather useless. “But I tried to,” he answered, a morose tone edging his voice as he weakly tried to defend himself. “I tried to.”
Trevor nodded again, as if he knew what Max was talking about, as if he understood his history. Bitter thoughts welled up in Max’s mind, but he suppressed them roughly. Trevor was the only person he knew, the only person he could have a normal conversation with. He didn’t want to lose his only friend in this place.
“Was she worth it?”
This time, not only the muscles of his arms and legs stiffened, but his heart constricted painfully as well. “I’d die for her,” he said, and meant it. He’d die for her.
A weak smile of admiration slipped upon Trevor’s lips, whose eyes seemed to smile as well. “I envy you, Max,” he spoke, sincerity dominating the sadness in his voice. “I really do.”
Max didn’t really know what to say to that, so he simply nodded his head in agreement and folded his hands, laying them under his head. “And why are you here?” he asked after a short silence, slanting a sideward glance at Trevor.
Trevor gave a little snort, forcing the air in his lungs out of his body with one swift, deprecating exhale through his nose. “They caught me spreading communistic pamphlets, and added slander to the charges. I think they were tipped, though.” A pensive gleam shone in his eyes and he shot a hesitant look towards Max. “The day before they arrested me, I met this woman. She was beautiful… Long, flowing hair, sparkling green eyes… She flung some insults in Hitler’s direction, and I…” Trevor paused, a bitter smile flitting over his face, “I… was stupid enough to agree with her.”
Max frowned lightly. “A provocateur?” He had heard of them before, but had never really believed the rumors to be true.
“I’m not sure,” Trevor shrugged, his eyes seemingly uncaring, “but I think so, yes.”
A bit unsure how to formulate his question, Max hesitantly spoke up. “How long…”
“Five months? Six?” Trevor answered before Max had finished his question, his eyebrows raised in contemplative wondering. “I don’t know. Seems as if I’ve been here forever.”
Max gave him a sad smile. The whispers around them had died down; most men were already asleep. Growing aware of his own fatigue, Max stifled a yawn and rubbed his hand over his bald head. It was hard to get used to the lack of hairs, and when sharp, chilly winds blew, his head was no kept warm, no longer protected. “Night, Trevor,” he whispered, another yawn intruding upon him.
He heard Trevor turning in his bed. “Good night,” Trevor said, his words barely audible, muffled by his blanket.
Conjuring up Liz’s face – the way she smelled, the way she laughed – Max crept further underneath his covers and closed his eyes, praying he’d wake up in another place, in another time.
<center>***</center>
Germany, April 1943
Her hands pulled out the weeds inexpertly, unlike Agnes’s, who knew what she was doing. Sighing, she jerked firmly at a wild plant and threw it over her shoulder. Her fingers were cold and numb, and alarmingly yellow. She briefly inspected the strip of earth she’d worked on and decided that her job was done, that she could move on. Standing up, she felt a tingling sensation in her right foot and she shook it lightly, slightly annoyed that it was asleep – again. She struggled with her habit, and though it was itchy and heavy, she liked how warm it kept her, and the feeling of safety it offered her.
When the church bells rang, most nuns stood up and started their daily way towards the church to say their afternoon prayers.
Agnes scrambled to her feet as well, a light smile on her face. “Are you coming, Elizabeth?”
Shaking her head, Liz wiped her hands off on her habit, pretending that she wasn’t seeing Agnes’s disapproving stare. “I’ll be right there,” she promised. “I just… need some time alone. Can you tell Mother Veronica?”
Agnes frowned slightly, questioningly raising one eyebrow. “Of course. I don’t think she’ll be pleased, though.”
Pursing her lips together, feeling guilty, Liz tried to come up with a valid excuse, but couldn’t find one. “Please tell her I’m sorry?”
Smiling weakly, Agnes nodded. “I will,” she said, and with that, she turned on her heels, gathered the material of her habit in her hand and ran – in a very un-nunlike way – after the other sisters.
Not knowing what to do, Liz clasped her hands together, her fingers weaving through each other, and then unclasped her hands again, letting them slide down to her sides. She wandered around aimlessly, glad to have some time for herself, but still searching for a way to spend it. Branches of a large oak tree hung above her head, and she stooped unconsciously when she walked underneath them. Sitting down with her back against the tree’s trunk, she laid her head in her neck and stared up; through the entwined branches, at the blue sky above her. Few clouds drifted on the wind and yet, they managed to cover the sun completely.
She sat there for a long time – she wasn’t sure exactly how long – and by the time that the cold and damp of the earth had seeped through her habit, the sun was still veiled by thick, gray clouds. She didn’t bother standing up before the church bells rang again and indicated that the prayers were said.
Letting her hand slide over the rough texture of the tree’s trunk, she adjusted her clothing and tucked some stray strands of hair back under her coif. Her eyes briefly swept over the ground until they noticed a stone: a large, white one, shining dimly in the weak light that managed to get through the heavy April clouds. Picking it up, she saw that light, gray lines crossed the stone, circled around it several times. For some reason, she did not let it drop or laid it back, but rubbed it clean, turned it in her hands and finally let it slide into her habit’s pocket.
<center>***</center>
Last edited by Anais Nin on Tue May 04, 2004 4:03 am, edited 1 time in total.
<center>...endless so far in myself, follow me...
</center>
</center>
-
Anais Nin
- Enthusiastic Roswellian
- Posts: 72
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2003 12:15 am
- Location: The Netherlands
<center>Chapter 42</center>
Poland, April 1943
The smell of sweat thickened the air around him, but he was unable to notice; his breaths simply grew deeper. The uniforms of the other prisoners had become a blur of blue and gray stripes. For some reason, it was somewhat comforting to know that he wore the same uniform, that he was part of a larger being and not on his own. The bench work he had to do was monotone and simple, even dangerously so. Nicholai, a large Russian with thick eyebrows and light blue eyes, had already lost the top of his index finger when cleaning a milling machine they used to make parts for rifles. The tip had lied on the workbed of the machine as blood had flowed out of his wound. The Russian hadn't shed a tear.
Incidents like that happened often – nearly every day.
Max was rudely shaken out of his thoughts when Trevor’s gray uniform appeared next to his, the lighter stripes of blue covered with greasy oil. “You’ll never believe what I heard,” he started in a hissed whisper, making Max look up, interested.
After shooting a glance at the guards and noticing that they weren’t paying any attention to them, he turned to Trevor. “What did you hear?”
A twinkle brightly shone in Trevor’s eyes as he leaned back against the work table. Some weeks ago, Max had noticed that every time new prisoners arrived, Trevor was more excited than usual, because he would get an update about what was going on in the world. Never before though, had he seen his friend this excited. “There’s an uprising,” Trevor confided him, moving his hands lightly as he spoke. “The Jews in the Warsaw ghetto are fighting the krauts.” The insult flowed out of his mouth easily. It was a word he used often, regardless of the fact that he was a German himself.
Intrigued, Max leaned towards Trevor. “How many?”
“A little over a thousand Jews, I’ve heard,” Trevor said. “The Polish underground supplied them with some weapons. I don’t think they stand a chance, but it’s a beginning. If we could do the same here…” he trailed off, moving his hand suggestively while glancing around.
Max looked around as well, but – at noticing the machine guns the guards carried around – felt despair rudely suppressing his courage and hope. “It’d be suicide,” he said.
“Oh no. It doesn’t have to be,” Trevor protested. “In Warsaw they are fighting over two thousand heavily armed Germans.”
“They had some weapons,” Max countered weakly, but he brought up a valid point. “We have none.”
From the corner of his eye, Max saw the two guards that previously had been talking split up, and he straightened. “We’ll talk later,” he said, and Trevor nodded.
“Tonight,” he answered with a nod. “Tonight.”
<center>***</center>
Poland, May 1943
Of course, there had been rumors. Many of them. Some said that Nicholai had come up with the idea, while others alleged it had been Kain who had dragged the others down with him. In the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Kain, Petrovich and Nicholai were given an equal punishment: the much discussed Dunkelzellen, the dark cells. They'd been in the cells for weeks already, and it didn’t seem as if they were ever going to return.
“They’re dead,” Trevor whispered, looking up at the ceiling.
Though tired, Max did the same, unwilling to close his eyes. He didn’t agree, nor disagreed with Trevor. They all had heard stories about the dark cells. They were said to be small, very small, with little to no room for walking. There weren’t any windows, any holes, not even any cracks under the door through which daylight could slip. Rations were even poorer than the ones normal prisoners received: a thin, dry slice of bread each morning. Once every two days, the prisoners would get half a liter of soup that barely was anything more than water with a bit of cooked cabbage.
Would they have similar cells where Liz was being held? Would she ever have to experience the horror Nicholai and his friends were going through?
She was dead, Max knew, or captured.
Still, there was a small part of him, wishing, thinking, trusting her to be alive. That part kept him from giving up. She and their child – they needed him to be strong. And he would be strong. For her, for his child. For both of them.
“They’re dead,” Trevor whispered again, his voice empty, deflated.
Not knowing what to say, Max blew out an inaudible sigh and stared at the stained ceiling above him with unseeing eyes. Trevor had known Nicholai well. They’d never been able to have a real conversation due to language differences, but the uttered grunts, exchanged smiles and the fact that they had been in the camp longer than most of the other prisoners had created a unique friendship between the two of them. Max understood several words of Russian and Polish, and had often listened to their strange, barely comprehendible conversations. It was amazing how swiftly one picked up a language when needed.
He could hear Trevor turning in his bed, the familiar rustling of his blanket. Max, too, turned so that he could face Trevor. What he saw surprised him. Trevor was crying. Silent, shiny tears rolled down his cheeks, dampening his blanket. His body shook lightly, and the bunk shook with him. “They’re dead,” Trevor croaked, his voice breaking. “He’s dead.”
Reaching out, Max laid his hand upon Trevor’s shoulder, still unable to speak. What was there to be said? Squeezing Trevor’s shoulder gently, Max held his hand there until Trevor’s sobs had died down and the man had fallen asleep, wet tears still on his cheeks.
Hesitantly pulling his hand back, Max turned in his bed, hoping he wasn’t waking up the person that lied below him. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes, praying for a way to escape the camp, a way to escape life. Then his thoughts went back to her, his harbor. She was there for him, waiting for him. She always was, and always would be. She was safe in his imagination. He heard her voice in his ear when he fell asleep and felt her hands on his cheeks.
He’d make it through.
<center>***</center>
Poland, June 1943
Silence, heavy and thick, hung over the field. There were some early summer birds whistling in the distance, but the serenity of their melody was lost on the group of prisoners. Before them stood three gallows, their ropes swinging back and forth lightly, carried by a gentle breeze. They all knew what was going to happen.
Swallowing was difficult. Breathing was, too. Trevor’s eyes were averted, his gaze downcast. Though the sun was trying to warm them, Max shivered, feeling coldness sweeping through him, the hair on his arm risen. They had been lined up, together with the prisoners from block A and block C. Soldier from the Waffen-SS sat on the back of horses, carrying large machine guns, supervising the field as the prisoners were led before them.
No one spoke, no one protested.
The weeks in the Dunkelzellen had been hard on Nicholai and his friends. Lines of grief, of age – of insanity? – were carved on their faces, and even from far away, the haunting void in their eyes managed to scare Max. It seemed as if they’d accepted their fate, as if they were glad that their lives were going to be ended, that their salvation was awaiting them. Nicholai, the large, invincible Russian now walked with a bend back, his head slightly stooped. His muscular, static form was gone and had been replaced by a meager shade of how he had used to look. A mere heap of bones and pale skin were the residues of the man he'd once been.
Max didn’t fail to notice Trevor’s sharp intake of air, nor did he miss the hurt that flitted through his friend’s eyes. The ordeal was executed swiftly. Most of them fixed their eyes on a spot right next to the gallows, just so that they could avoid seeing the looks of pain and - finally - relief crossing the faces of Nicholai, Kain and Petrovich.
Later, all Max could remember was the strong desire to be one of the men hanging there.
<center>***</center>
Germany, June 1943
The clattering of cutlery and the scraping of spoons over the bottom of dishes were the only sounds ringing through the dinner room. No one talked.
No one ever talked during dinner.
They would say their prayers, and after that, silence would fill the tiny room. Liz had learned the prayers quickly enough – after all, she’d heard them before, at school – and Agnes was now going through the New Testament with her.
She worked a lot, and when she wasn’t doing any chores, she studied. The monastery’s library had several books – mostly written by Christian monks – and Mother Veronica had allowed her to read some of them. Agnes helped her with them, and over the weeks, she and Liz had developed a tender, breakable but honest friendship.
Agnes was the one who’d come up with the idea of naming Liz’s unborn baby. It would be easier to digest the sadness and the feeling of loss, she’d alleged. Liz had agreed and, remembering Max’s words, had called her baby Robin. She still couldn't picture her baby - would it have been a boy, or a girl? - but at least, it had a name, an identity.
Robin was in heaven now, for a soul so pure, so untouched, couldn’t possibly end up in another place.
Robin was in a better place, a place nearby, but so far away.
Robin was better off not having lived at all.
It was what she told herself, and there were moments when she actually believed her own words. She cherished those moments, treasured them, for only at those moments, those split seconds, she felt at peace with herself.
She got through the days with feigned ease. She stood up before the sun had started to rise for the morning prayers to a God she didn’t believe in, worked in the gardens of His house, cooked meals for His followers.
But she lived; she had survived.
She lived, but not truly.
<center>***</center>
Poland, April 1943
The smell of sweat thickened the air around him, but he was unable to notice; his breaths simply grew deeper. The uniforms of the other prisoners had become a blur of blue and gray stripes. For some reason, it was somewhat comforting to know that he wore the same uniform, that he was part of a larger being and not on his own. The bench work he had to do was monotone and simple, even dangerously so. Nicholai, a large Russian with thick eyebrows and light blue eyes, had already lost the top of his index finger when cleaning a milling machine they used to make parts for rifles. The tip had lied on the workbed of the machine as blood had flowed out of his wound. The Russian hadn't shed a tear.
Incidents like that happened often – nearly every day.
Max was rudely shaken out of his thoughts when Trevor’s gray uniform appeared next to his, the lighter stripes of blue covered with greasy oil. “You’ll never believe what I heard,” he started in a hissed whisper, making Max look up, interested.
After shooting a glance at the guards and noticing that they weren’t paying any attention to them, he turned to Trevor. “What did you hear?”
A twinkle brightly shone in Trevor’s eyes as he leaned back against the work table. Some weeks ago, Max had noticed that every time new prisoners arrived, Trevor was more excited than usual, because he would get an update about what was going on in the world. Never before though, had he seen his friend this excited. “There’s an uprising,” Trevor confided him, moving his hands lightly as he spoke. “The Jews in the Warsaw ghetto are fighting the krauts.” The insult flowed out of his mouth easily. It was a word he used often, regardless of the fact that he was a German himself.
Intrigued, Max leaned towards Trevor. “How many?”
“A little over a thousand Jews, I’ve heard,” Trevor said. “The Polish underground supplied them with some weapons. I don’t think they stand a chance, but it’s a beginning. If we could do the same here…” he trailed off, moving his hand suggestively while glancing around.
Max looked around as well, but – at noticing the machine guns the guards carried around – felt despair rudely suppressing his courage and hope. “It’d be suicide,” he said.
“Oh no. It doesn’t have to be,” Trevor protested. “In Warsaw they are fighting over two thousand heavily armed Germans.”
“They had some weapons,” Max countered weakly, but he brought up a valid point. “We have none.”
From the corner of his eye, Max saw the two guards that previously had been talking split up, and he straightened. “We’ll talk later,” he said, and Trevor nodded.
“Tonight,” he answered with a nod. “Tonight.”
<center>***</center>
Poland, May 1943
Of course, there had been rumors. Many of them. Some said that Nicholai had come up with the idea, while others alleged it had been Kain who had dragged the others down with him. In the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Kain, Petrovich and Nicholai were given an equal punishment: the much discussed Dunkelzellen, the dark cells. They'd been in the cells for weeks already, and it didn’t seem as if they were ever going to return.
“They’re dead,” Trevor whispered, looking up at the ceiling.
Though tired, Max did the same, unwilling to close his eyes. He didn’t agree, nor disagreed with Trevor. They all had heard stories about the dark cells. They were said to be small, very small, with little to no room for walking. There weren’t any windows, any holes, not even any cracks under the door through which daylight could slip. Rations were even poorer than the ones normal prisoners received: a thin, dry slice of bread each morning. Once every two days, the prisoners would get half a liter of soup that barely was anything more than water with a bit of cooked cabbage.
Would they have similar cells where Liz was being held? Would she ever have to experience the horror Nicholai and his friends were going through?
She was dead, Max knew, or captured.
Still, there was a small part of him, wishing, thinking, trusting her to be alive. That part kept him from giving up. She and their child – they needed him to be strong. And he would be strong. For her, for his child. For both of them.
“They’re dead,” Trevor whispered again, his voice empty, deflated.
Not knowing what to say, Max blew out an inaudible sigh and stared at the stained ceiling above him with unseeing eyes. Trevor had known Nicholai well. They’d never been able to have a real conversation due to language differences, but the uttered grunts, exchanged smiles and the fact that they had been in the camp longer than most of the other prisoners had created a unique friendship between the two of them. Max understood several words of Russian and Polish, and had often listened to their strange, barely comprehendible conversations. It was amazing how swiftly one picked up a language when needed.
He could hear Trevor turning in his bed, the familiar rustling of his blanket. Max, too, turned so that he could face Trevor. What he saw surprised him. Trevor was crying. Silent, shiny tears rolled down his cheeks, dampening his blanket. His body shook lightly, and the bunk shook with him. “They’re dead,” Trevor croaked, his voice breaking. “He’s dead.”
Reaching out, Max laid his hand upon Trevor’s shoulder, still unable to speak. What was there to be said? Squeezing Trevor’s shoulder gently, Max held his hand there until Trevor’s sobs had died down and the man had fallen asleep, wet tears still on his cheeks.
Hesitantly pulling his hand back, Max turned in his bed, hoping he wasn’t waking up the person that lied below him. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes, praying for a way to escape the camp, a way to escape life. Then his thoughts went back to her, his harbor. She was there for him, waiting for him. She always was, and always would be. She was safe in his imagination. He heard her voice in his ear when he fell asleep and felt her hands on his cheeks.
He’d make it through.
<center>***</center>
Poland, June 1943
Silence, heavy and thick, hung over the field. There were some early summer birds whistling in the distance, but the serenity of their melody was lost on the group of prisoners. Before them stood three gallows, their ropes swinging back and forth lightly, carried by a gentle breeze. They all knew what was going to happen.
Swallowing was difficult. Breathing was, too. Trevor’s eyes were averted, his gaze downcast. Though the sun was trying to warm them, Max shivered, feeling coldness sweeping through him, the hair on his arm risen. They had been lined up, together with the prisoners from block A and block C. Soldier from the Waffen-SS sat on the back of horses, carrying large machine guns, supervising the field as the prisoners were led before them.
No one spoke, no one protested.
The weeks in the Dunkelzellen had been hard on Nicholai and his friends. Lines of grief, of age – of insanity? – were carved on their faces, and even from far away, the haunting void in their eyes managed to scare Max. It seemed as if they’d accepted their fate, as if they were glad that their lives were going to be ended, that their salvation was awaiting them. Nicholai, the large, invincible Russian now walked with a bend back, his head slightly stooped. His muscular, static form was gone and had been replaced by a meager shade of how he had used to look. A mere heap of bones and pale skin were the residues of the man he'd once been.
Max didn’t fail to notice Trevor’s sharp intake of air, nor did he miss the hurt that flitted through his friend’s eyes. The ordeal was executed swiftly. Most of them fixed their eyes on a spot right next to the gallows, just so that they could avoid seeing the looks of pain and - finally - relief crossing the faces of Nicholai, Kain and Petrovich.
Later, all Max could remember was the strong desire to be one of the men hanging there.
<center>***</center>
Germany, June 1943
The clattering of cutlery and the scraping of spoons over the bottom of dishes were the only sounds ringing through the dinner room. No one talked.
No one ever talked during dinner.
They would say their prayers, and after that, silence would fill the tiny room. Liz had learned the prayers quickly enough – after all, she’d heard them before, at school – and Agnes was now going through the New Testament with her.
She worked a lot, and when she wasn’t doing any chores, she studied. The monastery’s library had several books – mostly written by Christian monks – and Mother Veronica had allowed her to read some of them. Agnes helped her with them, and over the weeks, she and Liz had developed a tender, breakable but honest friendship.
Agnes was the one who’d come up with the idea of naming Liz’s unborn baby. It would be easier to digest the sadness and the feeling of loss, she’d alleged. Liz had agreed and, remembering Max’s words, had called her baby Robin. She still couldn't picture her baby - would it have been a boy, or a girl? - but at least, it had a name, an identity.
Robin was in heaven now, for a soul so pure, so untouched, couldn’t possibly end up in another place.
Robin was in a better place, a place nearby, but so far away.
Robin was better off not having lived at all.
It was what she told herself, and there were moments when she actually believed her own words. She cherished those moments, treasured them, for only at those moments, those split seconds, she felt at peace with herself.
She got through the days with feigned ease. She stood up before the sun had started to rise for the morning prayers to a God she didn’t believe in, worked in the gardens of His house, cooked meals for His followers.
But she lived; she had survived.
She lived, but not truly.
<center>***</center>
Last edited by Anais Nin on Tue May 04, 2004 4:03 am, edited 1 time in total.
<center>...endless so far in myself, follow me...
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