A/N: I'm sorry! I wasn't dead, I just had a ton of homework (Subject Test SAT, Finals, homework... I take a long time) Anyways... enjoy! (One more thing: the narrator is the granddaughter of Gilbert (OC) and is somewhat based off of my friend. That being said, I dedicate this story to my friend for being one of the greatest friends I could ever have and for just being plain AWESOME!)

My grandfather was a strong man.

A man born during the 1950's, he lived twenty years of his life under the Soviet Union's occupation of East Germany. His family was split apart when he was ten. His mother, very pregnant with his younger brother, Ludwig, safe in West Berlin, while his father and he were stuck on the east side, separated by the Berlin Wall.

But that was more than fifty years ago; it's 2012 now. It seemed like a long time for me, an adolescent, but for Grandpa, it was not too long ago.

By no means, was my grandfather a grouchy old geezer; no, he claimed himself to be too awesome for that and I agree with him. He was far from that stereotype. He was obnoxious, I could tell you that. He referred to himself as the 'Awesome Me' and when I was younger; according to my Filipino mother, he managed to persuade me to call him 'Ore-sama'. Don't ask where he learned that name.

Although Grandfather was more than sixty years old, he certainly didn't act like it. His spirit was still youthful, full of life, his red eyes still brimming with energy. Time had no effect on his soul. He was just as fiery as he was fifty years ago.

He always acted upbeat about everything whenever I saw him. Actually, that was a lie. If there was anything that could shake him to the very core, it was his past.

His body was decorated with scars, wounds afflicted by so called Soviet Union 'police officers' for merely protesting against the government. If you asked him about any of them, he would tell you their story, but only up to a certain point. Though he spoke of them with evident pride and lightheartedness, the both of us knew better. In the middle of the night, whenever I stayed over, I could hear him scream in cold blood, the memories haunting his dreams. He even admitted once that sometimes his scars ached, a harsh reminder of his past.

But while his past held many totally unawesome experiences for him, Grandpa also told me it also kept many jewels that he didn't want to forget. I didn't understand what he meant until that day.

That day, we were cleaning his attic, fighting through cobwebs and dust clouds, when we came across a door, which of course, led to a room with a huge bookcase at each wall. It turns out Grandpa used that space to keep his collection of diaries (journals, he insisted), starting from when he turned five to now, as 72 year old. I initially found it strange; I never thought of him as a journal keeper, but hey, this was my Grandpa I was talking about. He was always full of surprises.

For the next few days, I spent my time with him, reading his journals (he gave me permission), under the dim light provided. Each entry, one for every day, was one page long and always started with either this: 'I'm so cool.' or this: 'I was so cool today.' But from there, he gave a full explanation of his day with great detail. The first entries, which I assumed were from a very young Grandpa, were… carefree, like he was naïve of the Soviet Union's rule. Most of them were about his 'adventures' with my grandmother, Elizabeta. For example, back in their day, my grandparents used to have contests to see who could climb up the Berlin Wall faster. Of course that ended when a particularly mean soldier named Ivan caught them in the act.

As I read more and more of the entries, I noticed they became… darker in a way. Grandpa was probably becoming aware of the political tyranny he lived under. He began to write of his frustrations about the government, his fears of starvation and the upcoming winters, and even about his scars. Although I've heard those stories, the journals gave even more detail about them than the writer ever did.

Slamming journal number 178 shut, I got up from my spot on the floor to place the diary back in its spot on the bookshelf. By this time, I was more than done reading for today. Staying cooped up in the attic was not how I intended to spend my week with Grandpa and Grandma.

But just as I shelved journal 178, a sheet of paper, folded into quarters, plopped out of Grandpa's memoir, landing soundlessly on the wooden floor. Curious, I picked it up, inspecting the contents.

It was a picture. A portrait, to be exact, of a girl.

I didn't mention this, before, did I? Grandpa, although he didn't look like it, was an excellent artist. His son once told me I inherited his artistic abilities.

Anyways, it was a picture of a girl. A beautiful one too. She could've matched my grandmother's looks as a young lady. With long curly hair tied in pigtails, she wore a beret on top, all while resting her head on her arms. Her arm covered her mouth, but her eyes told me her feelings: sleepy, waiting for something to happen, yet serene, like looking out the window on a clear day.

I kept the drawing and later asked Grandpa about it: "Grandpa, I found this in one of your journals," I started, showing him the girl, "Who is she? Your first love?"

My first guess made him laugh, "Kesese! Of course not, Birdie (my nickname)!" He slapped me on the back hard.

'Liar.' I thought; he was blushing.

He was seventeen when he met the girl in the drawing. It had been during some of the darkest times of his life. A year before, he got in trouble with the authorities for protesting against them by punching a 'police officer' in the face. That police officer was harassing Elizabeta and though he didn't know why, but Grandpa still slugged him in the face for messing with Grandma in the first place. He then proceeded to scream out in the open, 'Your government is UNAWESOME! Suck my awesome 5 meters!'

The day after the government released him was also the day he saw her, looking over the Berlin Wall from the west. He sat against the wall that day, waiting for his brother to come, so he could tell Ludwig the good news.

She, on the other hand, stood on a lower wall, high enough for her to comfortably lay her head on her arms. It was a cloudy day as she stared drowsily out in the distance, the criss-cross wire fence in front of her being her only obstacle.

My grandpa just couldn't help himself drawing her. He had this sudden urge to draw and it just so happened she was there and Grandpa didn't want to sketch anything else. Only when he was getting the finer details on paper did she notice he was watching her.

She jumped involuntarily, making Grandpa blink a couple of times. "H-hello." She stuttered a greeting, her cheeks on fire.

He raised an eyebrow, looking up at her, "Yo. What are you doing here?" He suddenly asked.

"Ah, I was j-just admiring the view. It's a beautiful day today. Reminds me of home; just without the snow." She smiled softly at the thought.

"Makes no difference to me, it's the same weather day after day." He sourly replies, closing his journal, "You're lucky that you can think that."

"Eh? I'm going to take that as a compliment." She declared, still confused, "Then what are you doing here?"

He took a deep breath, mist wheezing out his nostrils. Damn, he was acting totally unawesome to her, "I'm waiting for my brother, Ludwig, to tell him some good news."

"Good news?" Her fingers wrapped around the fence, pressing her face against it, to get a better look at Grandpa, violet eyes widen with interest, "What would that be?"

"That I just got out of jail yesterday."

"Eh? Jail? Why would you be in jail?"

"Because that goddamn commie soldier!" He cussed out, "He just loves getting me in trouble."

"What did he do?"

"He was messing with my best friend. So I slugged him in the face and I guess he just couldn't deal with the Awesome."

"Awesome?"

"Me."

"…Oh. I see." They sat in silence, the girl perched on top of the Berlin Wall, gazing at him. She leaned again the fence, "I think it's pretty brave of you to do that." She unexpectedly said after a while, piercing the stillness.

"Huh?"

"Er… I mean, well," She turned pink, her bangs quickly hiding her, "standing up for your friend and all."

Grandpa snorted, "Funny. You're the first person to think that. Vati thought it was reckless and stupid. West thought the same too." He added. A breeze of wind passed them, the girl's pigtails swaying along. He threw his head back. "Maybe I really am stupid-"

"No!" She insisted harshly, her voice suddenly softening, "What you did was not stupid! You were standing for what you thought was right!" Her breath came out in short puffs as she composed herself.

"You know, y-you remind me of my brother in that way. He's obnoxious and crazy, like you," He frowned at her. Crazy and obnoxious? He preferred to think of himself as just plain awesome, "Ah! I d-didn't mean it like that! But when Al thought something wasn't right, he never hesitated to speak up. That's how governments like yours happen; when people don't speak up." Her voice was melodious, soft like a wind chime.

"Ah!" She exclaimed, "I'm sorry; I must be boring you. What I mean to say is d-don't stop protesting; your voice is your strongest weapon."

They said nothing after that, staring up at the sky wordlessly until the girl had leave.

"MADDIE!" An earsplitting voice with an American accent shouted from over the western side of the wall, "Let's go home already! I'm freezing my balls out here!"

"Okay, okay! Coming Al!" She glanced back down at Grandpa, shade of pink at her cheeks, "B-bye." was her short farewell with a polite smile. The last thing he saw of her was her golden pigtails, flying in the air.

That was the first and last time Grandpa ever saw that girl. Opening his journal again, his albino eyes glanced over his most recent drawing.

"D-don't stop protesting."

"Your voice is your strongest weapon."

"My voice, huh?"

From then on, wherever Grandpa went, the picture went too. Shoved in his pocket, carried by Grandpa's awesome chick, Gilbird, in his hand; it didn't matter, just as long as it was with Grandpa. He kept on protesting too, walking down a long wounding road of prison sentences, torture, and heavy fines.

No one, not even Grandma, knew why he kept that sketch, let alone did they even know it was a drawing. Sometimes, when the Soviet soldiers came to his tiny village near the wall, they'd beat him, teasing him for 'worshipping a piece paper.'

But in all honesty, Grandfather could've cared less. He merely brushed the snide comments aside, like they were nothing more than a speck of dust. Besides, that picture gave him hope, a reminder of her words. A constant reminder to speak up. A reminder to never be silenced. He clung to those words desperately, like a child to his mother.

The girl became an angel to him, a saint. A little light, though tiny, that lit his dark world, controlled by the Soviets. Hope, she gave him, a resolute belief in the strength of humanity against cruelty.

However, as he got older though, he began to need the drawing less and less, starting from when he married Grandma in 1971. He forgot it for the first time, when he was at his wedding reception with Grandma. He left it in his dressing room. Ashamed at first, he soon forgot about it when Grandma kissed him on the lips. He didn't need hope anymore from the mysterious girl; Grandma already did that for him. Grandma, a woman who stood by his side through thick and thin, gave him the strength to be one of the first to start chipping away at the Berlin Wall, a role model for the other East Germans to follow on that glorious day, November 9, 1989, to join their brothers and sisters. Eventually, he tucked the picture away into his journal, where it stayed in the attic, hidden from the light.

But he never truly forgot about the girl. She still crossed his mind every now and then. Though he loved Grandmother dearly, his heart didn't fully belong to her because the girl unknowingly took a piece of his heart with her, when she left him at the wall. None of this, Grandma ever knew and Grandpa preferred it that way.

The next time I saw the picture, was six years down the road, a few days after Grandpa died. He died a quick and painless death in his sleep, much to my relief. He had suffered more than enough in the past.

The last thing I heard from him was his hearty signature laugh: 'Kesesese', after telling him how my friends and I managed to spook the pizza man into thinking we were a group of hookers (We're not really, but…). Most of the planning was thanks to yours truly.

Grandmother already passed into the next world a few years back, so after Grandpa's death, the family had no choice but to sell the place. I was cleaning-up the attic, in the midst of that, packing his journals into cardboard boxes. The picture, this time, tumbled out of journal 178, when I plucked the diary out of the shelf. It fell out, shockwaves of dust crashing out down below.

The girl looked the same, just as angelic as ever. Strange, now that I think about it, whatever happened to girl after she left Grandpa? It was a question to be left unanswered, though Grandpa always wanted to know. He assumed she got married, much to his (not) pleasure. Although that her husband would probably not be as awesome as Grandpa. I'm only wishing that Grandpa will meet her up there in heaven. Actually, I'm praying that he will. He better, to be honest.

Anyways, I noticed there was writing on the back of the sketch. With Grandfather's handwriting. Flipping the drawing around, two words were written at the bottom with great delicacy:

Mein Engel

-Gilbert Beilschmidt

A/N: God, why are my stories always melodic? WHY? On another note, wouldn't Prussia (as a human) make an AWESOME Grandpa? You know he would!