It's late when she calls, almost 3 in the morning. He can't remember the last time it was like this. She only did this, this weeping call to him, when she could no longer bear the burdens that the world expected her to. He opens the window while on his cell she unleashes these whispering wails. This is the way it has always been between them, she as the quiet (unacknowledged) victim, he the jaded (public casualty) adult, and together they will survive in this world.
"Meine Liebe, willst du mich hören?"
She speaks German during these calls as a way to protect privacy (hers) and invoke familial memories and duties (his). He relaxes at the nickname she gave him, long before they knew what it meant; back when it was just a phrase that got them indulgent smiles from the adults who knew and who felt that the next generation would be able to be peaceful (& so it is safe to dream of a strange reality for them)
"Nicht ich immer zu hören?"
He replies as (their) tradition dictates. They started this at 9(her) & 10(him), and have found these whispers ever more necessary as they grow more aware (weary) of the world and its people. The calls have tapered off recently, now that he can sleep without dreaming of his father. During that time the calls were like rain in April, constant, unrelentingly desired, and unpredictable in the harshness that they bring.
"Versprechen Sie mir zwei Dinge? Du wirst nicht wütend auf mich und du wirst nicht sagen Opa?"
It's truly serious, if she makes a point of asking for his (trademark) silence. He breathes in and tells her….
"Wann habe ich jemals bekommen böse? Einfach weitermachen und mir sagen, was nervt Sie."
He opens the window further, and soon he is glad he did as what she tells him would bring a sadist to their knees at the pain in her voice. It takes time ( infinity it seems), and when the barrage stops all he can hear is her breathing. Ragged, sharp, wild, and so very young. She comes to him with this and all he can do is listen, for now. In the morning the ideas will come, he will find out what is needed from the official, and fix it all for her. But for this endless night he sings to her, to give what comfort he can. It is a lullaby, as old as his family's German heritage, and as recognizable to them as the sound of a stake in flesh with none of the cruelty and complications a stake brings.
Even as her breathes shallow and become regular, he continues to sing this simple melody to guarantee her good dreams while her reality is so hostile and carelessly determined by the bigotry of the people who should have her best interests at heart.
He keeps doing the little he can until he too sleeps. He dreams of a girl and a family where he could bring her to them without any comments about her heritage.
She dreams of a boy, and a chance to make all the men she loves happy while maintaining her own joy.
They dream, to prevent reality from overwhelming them, to be allowed to breathe with ease.