Damnatio Memoriae
Even if we hugged each other,
To the limits of pain,
We could never become one.
Choosing warmth over affection,
Every touch we share
Is nothing but pain.
(Free translation and adaptation from"Michiyuki" by Kaori Hikita)
There was something magical and yet disturbing in the dusty halo that surrounded every landing aircraft as it touched the undignified patch of bare land right outside of the hangar.
Like a knife ripping a wound open, they grazed the soil, harshly and mercilessly, with that unique touch of grace and boldness that could be gained only by roaming the skies times and again.
Feliciano Vargas felt very much like that dull portion of battered ground he stared at day after day.
He served a purpose, like a sharp tool in flesh and bones meticulously integrated into the perfect engine of the Luftkreis V command of the Luftwaffe. He served a purpose and nothing else, like a hammer or a screwdriver.
He had earned the nickname of "Verdi" - quite unusually for a tool.
Even Generalfeldmarschall Göring himself had praised his work on a routine inspection.
"You can make any engine sing in tune, boy" he had said "You're our little musician."
Ironic, wasn't it?
From violinist to mechanic, his ears accustomed to Paganini's virtuosity were now humiliated by the metallic rustle of gears and screws; his swift fingertips, once dancing from chord to chord, now tapped and prodded the guts of Nazi aircrafts.
He might have been the Luftkreis V's Verdi.
But he was just a tool, an object made of practicality, luck and need, bound to stay on Earth, mentally and physically, like the grains of dust every airplane he nursed back into health raised with every little movement.
And dust was the first thing he had noticed, on that hot July day of 1943, spiraling in puffy clouds around a pair of polished, black, leathery boots.
Hauptgefreiter Ludwig Weilschmidt.
Senior Aircraftman and protagonist of many a successful military operation, his austere and yet gentle figure glowed in an aura of respect and admiration. The eagle sewed on his chest sparkled in the sun of that summer afternoon, as fierce as a pair of blue eyes that scrutinized the area.
His heavy steps crashed in waves of soil and dirt – yet, he stayed clean and pure, as if any mortal matter couldn't touch someone used to fly and soar.
Feliciano didn't remember much of that day.
He didn't remember what important task Hauptgefreiter Weilschmidt was supposed to carry out in their Munich division. He didn't even remember the weather – he just assumed it was hot, maybe windy, like most July days.
But – isn't human memory so bizarre and flimsy? - the image of himself staring at his grease-stained hands as soon as that sparkling, imposing figure had entered his field of vision had been carved into his brain forever.
He had never felt dirtier in his entire existence.
Hauptgefreiter Weilschmidt had turned out to be much less intimidating that his colleagues and he had envisioned.
Reserved but polite, he made sure to always thank everyone for their "precious hard work" - unlike many other pilots, whose egos were ignited and bursted with every enemy target they could successfully hit.
Feliciano could recognize him from the distance, boots shiny even in mud and rain, always prim and almost untouchable. He used to ran a hand through his unruly hair every time he got off his Hs-123, combing them back so naturally and yet precisely, to an almost obsessive degree.
His every movement radiated order and discipline, and still, there was something about his demeanor, his words, his vague and swift smiles that suggested a deeper layer of gentleness and calmness.
He didn't know how it happened and why.
Like an aria full of different rhythms, Feliciano found himself listening with his eyes and soul, even more than his ears, to this unusual music.
Hauptgefreiter Weilschmidt liked Bach, Mozart and Liszt.
Hauptgefreiter Weilschmidt was born in Berlin.
Hauptgefreiter Weilschmidt had studied piano and theory of music for two years, before being called for his military service.
They shared their first kiss between two Messerschmitt Bf-109.
There is nothing human in war.
And there was nothing human in war back then either.
The back-breaking routine was maddening for Feliciano's free spirit, even more so as the conflict steadily reached its point of no return.
In an existence bathed in death, blood and stench of burnt and hot metal, those clean, leather boots and combed-back hair were a mouthful of oxygen.
And, in mouthfuls, they consumed the ardor of their passion, laced with the toxic scents of worry and desperation.
In 1944, war didn't exist in the spare parts warehouse of Luftkreis V.
Nothing existed in that dim-lit barrack, nothing but hysterical laughs coupled with tear-filled eyes, and fear, and need.
They wanted each other.
They craved each other.
Or, maybe, they just dangerously caved in to the most readily available source of solace, in that grim desert of painful screams, yelled orders and muffled bombings echoing in the distance.
They played Liszt's "La Campanella", tapping on the cold metal surrounding them, to cover up the sounds coming from the real world, the one with the war, the fear, the panic.
They made love as if tomorrow would never come – and tomorrow never came.
Feliciano Vargas decided to stay in Germany even after the war was over.
This time, there was no semblance of secure job he cherished only to stay away from the battlefield, no – he just wanted to resume his life from where he had left it ten years before.
He wanted it all back.
His music, his youth, his dreams, his hopes.
Feliciano Vargas never played the violin again.
Every time a tune made its way into his head, the deafening sound of music tapped against metal sheets echoed in his head like a thunder, bringing tears to his eyes and crushing in heart into a bleeding clench.
War makes the laws of peace useless and risible.
There's no forgiveness for war, and the only possible epilogue is in the dark pit of oblivion.
There's a grave in the south wing of Waldfriedhof cemetery. It's a simple tombstone hidden in shame under a willow tree, cracked by weeds and neglect.
He still visits it every year.
In so many years, he's never seen a flower, a candle, a token.
There's no glory of the heroes who happened to be on the wrong side of history.
No shiny parades, no mention on history books. Just a chipped stone in ruins hastily thrown under a willow tree. A stone whose letters, after seven decades, are barely readable under the layer of musk.
Hauptgefreiter L. Weilschmidt
1920-1945
The End