This is the first half (roughly) of a fic written for the 2015 Tumblr Germanfest Secret Santa exchange. Second half to follow.
Warnings (for what is posted so far only): brief graphic descriptions of war violence/gore, mild swearing, historical references, pretentious literary quotes, and an attempt at a new writing style inspired by dense difficult books I haven't actually read.
All quotes come from Homer's Odyssey.
I should give credit to the sadly unfinished fic "Aus der Traum" by YoBeezy on this site, for providing the inspiration for this fic.
...
—Erster Gesang—
Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered
the hallowed heights of Troy.
Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds,
many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea,
fighting to save his life…
December 22, 1953
The photograph was faded; partially from the heat of the fire it had survived, partially from the slow march of years from the day it was taken. The corners were singed, but in the center the features of a face were still discernable. A young face, a handsome face above a stiff soldier's collar, gazing out from the borders of the portrait with eyes that at turns looked stern and proud, or resigned and weary. As if the subject could see the fate that awaited him on the distant horizon.
Large, blunt fingertips smoothed the photograph with surprising tenderness, tracing the features that each year grew more ghostly pale and threatened to disappear altogether.
—I'm glad you could make it.
The young man in the soldier's uniform didn't respond.
—I wasn't so sure, you know, what with the snow yesterday. It's going to be a bad winter.
A silent, steely gaze, unchanging.
—If your car needs some fixing after the ride up, I can take a look at it, no problem. Grandpa always said, if the Bolsheviks came and took the house and the inheritance, I could make my living as a mechanic. He showed me a trick or two. …Of course for free! If you think I'd charge my own brother for a simple tune-up job, and on Christmas, you've got another think coming, Gilbert Beilschmidt. Now, just sit yourself right here and make yourself at home. I'll go make some tea; you're probably freezing after the trip over, aren't you?
The man with the large hands set the photograph gently down on the mantelpiece between sprigs of evergreen. He turned and disappeared into the next room.
—Honey or lemon? he called back. His resonant baritone filled the room and spilled into the hall, reverberating off polished marble and wood so that the dog lounging on the divan perked up its ears anxiously. The house was not used to voices.
Gilbert Beilschmidt didn't answer.
…
—Good day, Herr Beilschmidt! What will it be for you?
The rotund shopkeeper wiped at his nose with a kerchief before stuffing it back in his breast pocket, and gave an ingratiating smile.
—A bottle of the Krug, 1947, please.
—A fine year. Are we celebrating, mein Herr?
—It's Christmas, Ludwig responded with a blank expression.
The shopkeeper's grin faltered.
—Oh, of course, I just meant—ah, never mind. One bottle of the Krug it is.
His shiny bald head descended the steps to the cellar.
A pretty girl, not more than nineteen, appeared from the back room. A bright flush colored her cheeks as she smiled timidly.
—Oh, hello Ludwig.
Ludwig Beilschmidt stiffened at the familiar address.
—Fräulein.
He nodded cordially to the girl. Her blush deepened with mortification.
—I—I thought it must be you, I was just in the back doing the ledgers and I heard your voice and—is there anything I can help you with?
Ludwig shook his head infinitesimally. Let her down easy, like always.
—Your father is already attending to me, thank you.
—Oh! Oh, of course he is. Well. Then, if you're sure you have everything you need…
Ludwig smiled politely.
—Quite sure, Fräulein.
The sound of the shopkeeper trudging up the squeaking cellar stairs alerted them to his return.
—Here we are, Herr Beilschmidt—ah, I hope my daughter's not been disturbing you?
The girl looked on the edge of tears; Ludwig pitied her.
—Not at all, he said with a small smile.
She gave him a grateful look: too admiring.
—Well. Belle, back to work, please, said the shopkeeper pointedly. The girl slipped away back the way she came.
The man wiped sweat from his brow and set about wrapping the bottle with meticulous care. He cleared his throat and glanced at his customer.
—Fine champagne like this, must be planning on sharing it with someone special, Herr Beilschmidt?
—Just an old friend, responded Ludwig vaguely.
—Oh? The shopkeeper's eyebrows rose up in interest. Spending the holiday up at the old house, is he?
Ludwig smiled mildly, eyes aloof: drop the subject.
The shopkeeper understood and set his mouth in a tight line. He finished the package with a neat bow and handed it over. Ludwig passed a couple crisp banknotes across the counter.
—A very good day to you, Herr Beilschmidt, and a merry Christmas!
—Likewise.
Ludwig headed for the door, bottle tucked under his arm.
—Enjoy the Krug! And do be careful out, Herr Beilschmidt—with all this snow on the roads…
The shopkeeper's voice dwindled into the tinkling of the bell above the door as Ludwig pushed out into the cold. He tucked his head against the wind and trudged on, through the snow that had yet to be cleared.
Why don't you buy yourself a car, Herr Beilschmidt? They ask me that all the time. Everybody expects a man like me to drive a shiny new BMW 502 or the likes—don't need one. Never have. Never will, I suspect.
The streets were empty, silent, muffled in a layer of white. Ludwig walked alone under a low, gray sky. Oppressive. The brisk air nipped at his cheeks. Mama would have said: Father Frost has been pinching your cheeks! and she would insist he and his brother wrap yet another scarf around their flushed faces before they could go back out to play in the snow. Gilbert would never comply without a grumble.
The first snowfalls always brought back memories. Winter is the season for remembering, Mama always said. The rest of the year you can go out and make new memories, but winter is for staying by he warmth of your fire and thinking back on the old.
The town was so quiet and still, it could have been frozen in time. Crossing of Frankfurter Straße and Kaiserbrücke. Remember us tumbling in the snow here? Eleven years ago, now. The last time we were here together.
Christmas at Grandfather's house, every other year. The old house at the top of the hill, the house of the family that had once owned everything as far as you could see from its windows. That house was another world, far grander than the flat in Berlin where Ludwig and Gilbert grew up. There, they were princes, rather than the decidedly middle class city brats they usually were. Their grandfather was rich, but that didn't mean that their parents were. To their young minds, Grandfather's house was a magical, fantastical palace: their castle, their fortress.
Now more like a prison.
Much too large for only one person, even with the dogs besides. Should just sell it. Don't know why I haven't. The upkeep will eat up all the money eventually.
Ludwig kept all but three rooms sealed off; the sitting room, kitchen, and one bedroom—one of the smaller ones—were enough for him. Too much space: insufferable. Empty rooms and blank windows: spaces where other people ought to be. Even if his grandfather had grown old and died, as people do; even if his parents had been killed—in the various ways that people can be killed—in Berlin in '45; even if his brother had been taken by the Russian bear (though he didn't know how, exactly); there should have been others. Friends perhaps, or at least neighbors on friendly terms. Perhaps a wife.
They all wonder why I'm not married yet. They all hope, maybe their daughter… or entertain hopes themselves. Like Belle. Too young. Maybe only five years—that's not such a difference. Mother was ten years younger than Father. But still, too young for me. She is pretty, in a way. Or at least the postman probably thinks so. But he looks at all the girls.
Women found him attractive, Ludwig knew that much. Sometimes, when he was alone—which was practically always (except the dogs), but truly alone, not just solitary but truly feeling his solitude in that large house on top of the hill—he would try to imagine the delight of a woman that all other men seemed to crave so much: the softness of their breasts and thighs, their warmth against and around him. But it didn't bring much comfort. It felt too much like work, trying to imagine all that, and he was left frustrated and confused, because he knew there was something in his flesh and bones that itched and ached for physical companionship, just as his mind yearned for a an understanding partner in conversation. It seemed hopeless that he'd find the fulfillment of either desire in any person, let alone both united in one; he'd never felt the spark that poets spoke of when he'd laid eyes on a woman, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd exchanged words with someone who had genuinely engaged him. More often than not social interaction—the necessary kind, like at the shop—brought him an even physical sort of pain.
Ludwig had no friends. He was quite sure no one in this town could be his friend—or if they could, he was too tired to try to find them.
But something bound him there. Something kept him in that house year after year. Ghosts of the past. Perhaps it's because it's the last place I saw you truly happy. Our last Christmas, just before you turned 18, just before you were old enough for them to take you away. Swept up in something so much larger than either of us could comprehend.
—Merry Christmas, Lutz.
You flash a grin of white teeth. I look at what you hold out to me in your hand.
—You can't give that to me, I complain.
—Sure I can. It's Christmas, I can give my Brüderchen anything I want!
—But it's yours. It's your favorite.
—It is my favorite, but now it's yours. You gotta keep it safe for me. Till I get back.
You hang the whistle around my neck. I turn it over in my hands, feel the rough wood. It is carved to look like a little bird, painted yellow. I stroke its head.
—But you haven't even gone yet…
—Then call this practice. You can get used to taking care of him before I go.
I turn hard eyes on you.
—Why do you do that?
—Do what? You raise an eyebrow. A silver arch, like a crescent moon.
—Pretend like you don't care anymore.
You fall silent, frowning at the fire that roars cozily on the hearth.
—Why can't you be as clueless as every other twelve-year-old I know, you grumble.
—How many other twelve-year-olds do you know? I question dubiously.
You roll your eyes.
—Okay you got me. But seriously, where do you get off being so smart, huh? Don't get it from me, that's for sure.
You reach out to ruffle my hair.
—Don't say that. You are smart. Well, sometimes.
You laugh, a single, harsh bark.
—And he's ruthlessly honest too!
—You're avoiding the question, I accuse.
You sigh.
—Look, Lutz, it's not that I don't care, okay? It's just… it's the way it is, so we've gotta deal with it. No use moping and being all serious all the time just because they're gonna ship me off in a few months.
Something clenches tight in my chest. You're too callous, too honest. A few months. That's all we have. Why haven't I treasured the time more, how have I let is slip away so quickly when I've known for years this time would come? From the day the war started, even earlier—whenever Father would talk about what a fine soldier you'd make, how you'd do us all proud. Of course there was always hope—it'll be a short war, it'll be over before he turns eighteen—but time is running out and the war is in full swing. But surely if I'd only tried harder, I could have wrung more out of every moment, every hour, every day, filled the months so full each one would feel more like a year, postponed the day of your leaving just a little further—
—Hey, Lutz, cut it out. You look like the dog just died. I'm still here, okay? We've got time. You smile at me, but I can see that the smile doesn't reach your eyes.
We have time—a few weeks, maybe a month. But the thing about time is it passes so quickly, and then is gone.
…
Ludwig set the package down on the kitchen table and shuffled off his coat. He arranged his boots by the stove to dry and placed the bottle of Krug in the icebox. For later.
The dogs gathered around him eagerly, tails wagging in expectation of treats or a good scratching. Ludwig indulged them in the latter, but showed them that his pockets were empty. He would give them their strips of dried pork tomorrow, for Christmas Eve.
Still they followed hopefully as he made his way to the sitting room and started a fire going to try and chase the cold from the corners of the room where it had seeped in through the bricks and wood. Then back into the kitchen, where the dogs looked on with open, salivating mouths as Ludwig carved himself some slices of Wurst, cheese, and bread for a simple dinner.
He sat with his plate at the kitchen table in silence, save for his own chewing and the soft pant, pant, of the dogs at his feet. When he was finished he tossed them the rinds of his sausage, washed his plate, and retired to the sitting room with a cup of coffee.
He poked at the fire to enliven its spark, and settled himself down on the divan. The dogs came sniffing in search of more scraps, but when it became clear their master was paying them no heed they curled up on the hearth rug, still fixing the human with doleful eyes in vain hope.
But Ludwig's mind was elsewhere. His gaze was fixed on the soft blanket of white outside the window, now glowing with the rising moon. Glowing, like his pale skin had, on nights when the silver discus peeked in through the window at two boys huddled together under blankets that couldn't keep out the winter chill.
Your skin was always pale. It will help me blend in with the Russian snow! you laughed. And then I had nightmares that I was searching for you in the snow and couldn't find you, I kept digging and digging till my hands were numb with cold because I knew you were in there somewhere, but I never found you. Lost in a vast expanse of white.
You were always at home in the snow. Your element, so to speak. You taught me how to build the best fortresses and pack a good snowball; a consummate soldier. Father would smile, proud and brash, ruffle your hair. 'Deutschland's little hero.' Mama's lips would tighten, her eyes shine with a worry I didn't quite understand back then. When you were still young you were pleased at Father's words, but then as you got older your jaw would set, your expression harden, when you heard them. 'Deutschland's little hero' turned from praise to burden, a title you were duty-bound to carry on your bony shoulders; it only grew heavier when Father dropped the 'little.' You were to be a hero for Germany, as Father had been before you, in the Great War, the war they would have won had it not been for the Socialist conspiracy (according to him). Hypocrite.
At first I didn't understand why you would fall silent when Father started speaking of glory, honor, and the Fatherland. I remember such envy, watching the Hitler Jugend in their pristine uniforms practicing their drills in the Lustgarten, all precise, firm lines and swift, strong movement under the shining sun. My eyes lingered on them even as Mama tugged me away. And the boys in the classes ahead of me at school, the ones old enough to be in the Deutsches Jungvolk, talked with such excitement in their eyes, almost a fever, of the glorious deeds of soldiers, and of how quick they would be sign up when the day came—for we knew it was inevitable, with all the worldly wisdom of ten-year-olds—that the Bolshevik hordes invaded. I couldn't understand why you'd hesitate to take part; and you looked so impressive in your DJV uniform, too. Made me swell with pride that that handsome, strong youth (I never did notice how lanky you were, all wiry muscle), worthy of any DJV or even HJ poster, was my very own brother, filled me with such intense longing to be just as perfect, down to the last button. The sight made Father boastful and beaming, and it made Mama tremble like a leaf in autumn.
But then I began to understand. I began to understand when Mama looked at me with the same concern that was usually reserved for you, whenever Father brought home issues of Der Pimpf and I stared for hours at the vivid covers and photographs inside. I remember after reading one of the articles, I refused the piece of buttered bread Mama offered me for breakfast, because I didn't want to be a "mama's boy"—the article had warned against that type, that let their mother butter their bread—and Mama looked so shocked and hurt I almost took it back. But I didn't, and on the way to school you pulled me aside and boxed my ears and yelled at me for hurting Mama like that, because she worked so hard and saved every last scrap just so I could have any butter at all and how would I like to eat my bread dry for the next month if I was really as good as all that. I cried and cried, blubbering that I read it in Der Pimpf, and you told me Der Pimpf was full of lies only people too dumb or too young would ever fall for. And that was that.
I understood a little more on the night a year later when we woke up to a commotion outside; we went to the living room to look out the front windows, but Mama and Father were already there in their nightclothes, peering out through cracks in the drawn curtains. I remember Mama's tear-streaked face as she told us to go back to bed, and even Father's mouth was a grim line. Through the night the noise only grew more terrible and I huddled closer to you and your warmth under the covers, plugging my ears from all the yelling and the crashing of breaking windows and the crackling of fire that sounded much too close. The next day you took me out for errands and there was glass all over the sidewalk and the building down the street that had always looked so beautiful wasn't beautiful any more; the door was in splinters, the stone was blackened, and the colorful windows were shattered. I asked why. You told me it was a synagogue, where Jews worshipped, and if I heard the boys at school saying bad things about Jews—which I did hear, often enough—I wasn't to listen to a word of it, because hate and ignorance were the defenses of the weak and stupid. I thought you sounded so grown-up when you said that. I tried repeating it to my classmates the next week, when they were talking mean about a Jewish classmate who hadn't come to school since the night they made the synagogue not-beautiful, and I got beaten up the worst I've ever been. The school nurse had to call Mama to come take me home, and she fussed over my scraped elbows and swollen nose with shining eyes and told me in a hushed voice that I must be careful what I say. But wasn't it true, what you had said? And she told me that it was true, but people didn't always like to hear the truth. I sat on the edge of the bathtub for so long and Mama worked on me with the patient focus of a nun in prayer, and the rays of the lamp overhead caught her hair and she looked for a moment like one of those paintings in the Catholic cathedral Grandpa took us to Christmastimes, like an angel or the Virgin Mary stoically bearing the burden of her only son's dead body, his ribs like mountain ranges and deep shadowed valleys between, skin the pale green-gray that Grandmama's had been before she died, such a distant memory, but that pale green-gray sticks tenaciously in the brain, the color of sickness and death, and the Holy Virgin's face was almost the same pale shade as she turned her eyes upward in an expression I could never understand, back then. Mama's expression often reminded me of that, years later whenever we received your treasured letters from the front, those treasured few we received… And when you came home and saw my bandaged elbows and swollen nose and asked me what happened I was embarrassed, thought you'd be angry, or worse laugh at me, but instead you looked so proud it made all the pain go away, my head was floating I was so pleased by the way you smiled at me. That little grin, barely a smile really, but your eyes were full of admiration—admiration for me—and I could see it and it made me want to pick fights with those boys every damn day and I might have if it hadn't been for Mama and how concerned she looked. And you used all your allowance that week to buy me chocolates.
I understood even more on the day early the next year—1939—when you joined the Hitler Jugend, since the law required it by then—though Father would have made you sign up anyway. The rumblings of war were everywhere that spring, and when you first walked into the living room in your brand new uniform—a man's uniform, it seemed to me—there was something different in you eyes, a dawning realization that this was not a game anymore, like you used to imagine while out running training maneuvers on the green with your DJV Jungenschaft. And that night when I crawled into bed with you—already eight-and-a-half years old and I still hadn't broken the habit—I could hear you sniffling into the pillow. I thought you were getting sick at first, but no, you were crying. You insisted you weren't, but I could tell, and I asked why, and finally you told me you didn't want to die and I'd never been so scared as that night when you cried into my shoulder, more scared than the night all those windows were broken, but also I'd never felt so grown-up, giving you comfort, protecting you I fancied, instead of the other way around for once.
But I couldn't protect you. Not from what was to come.
