The first Delia sees of him are his boots: black and shiny, like wet river rocks. Then his legs, covered in a green uniform she has come to fear…come to hate. Delia jerks to her feet and half slams back against the wall. Her heart nearly beats out of her chest and her breathing is erratic. She does not risk looking at his face. She shakes all over, trying to control the sobs that are threatening to come out of her agape mouth. She's going to die. That's it, this is the end of it: she's going to die. Just a few moments ago she was looking for more food. Then, he found her and asked her what she was doing here, his hand on the butt of his gun. Fear takes seed in her belly, churning the acid, threatening to spill it all.
"What is your name?" his voice is smooth and a medium pitch. When she doesn't answer he comes in closer and asks again, "What is your name?"
"D-Delia…My name is Delia Ozera," she shakes inside the dress that is too big for her as she answers him. Her body looks like that of an eight year old rather than the sixteen year old she is. Is she still sixteen? The thoughts raced inside her mind. Why couldn't she remember her age? It's so hard to remember when she hasn't celebrated a birthday since this war.
"Delia…Are you hiding here Delia?" He tilts his head at her. Slowly, he looks around at the broken out windows and the falling down walls and ceiling.
Delia nods and finally gets the courage to look up at him. His eyes startle her. She has never seen eyes that color. They're like pomegranate red and his hair looks like silver. Her mother would have warned her about a boy like him. She would have warned her just from seeing the uniform.
"Show me," he commands Delia in a military tone that has her jumping out of her skin. He was in charge, it was clear to see that. She doesn't have to look at the decorations on his uniform to know that he is high in the chain of command.
Slowly, she shows him the attic where she's staying. A pile of cardboard is in the corner where she sleeps. An oil lap sits to the far left of it. The lamp ran out of oil two weeks ago, taking with it heat and light. She hasn't been able to find any more oil. Delia hasn't been able to find anything. The last of her food went four days ago. Not that there was much of it. Delia tried to catch the rats, but they proved to be quicker than her. Her reflexes are wasting away with the rest of her.
"How long have you been here?" he nudges her bed with his foot and continues to look around the partially destroyed room. Little flakes of snow drop through the broken ceiling. Delia won't survive here much longer. He knows that, he also knows she won't survive much longer regardless of the weather; the military is taking over this house to use as a base.
Delia pauses before she answers, "I don't know," she has trouble finding what little voice she has left. "A month? Maybe two…What month is it?" She honestly can't remember. Was it November? There was snow on the ground, but then it could be March even. It's so easy to lose track of time when one is concerned with one's survival. When one's next meal is going to be. If one's next breath will be their last, if one will freeze to death during the night. Delia has been so cold lately.
He looks at her with what might be sadness. "Do you have any food?" he asks surveying her body. It's painfully clear that she doesn't and hasn't for sometime.
Delia shakes her head and the man crooks his finger for her to follow him. She follows behind him slowly, careful not to let her bare feet step on glass. Street urchins stole her shoes a month ago. Delia is lucky they didn't kill her and eat her for food. Delia lets out a hiss of pain when a piece of glass lodges itself in the ball of her foot. The man turns around and looks at her and the blood coming from her feet.
"You have no shoes either?" When she shakes her head, he walks over to her and picks her up. Delia can tell he's trying not to wrinkle his nose at her smell. She doesn't know how long it's been since she's had a shower. "Don't move, don't make a sound. I can get in a world of trouble for this. Act dead," not that that would be hard, he thinks to himself. She's skin and bones. The breasts Delia was once so proud of are flat and sunken to match her ribs. Delia's mother once told her, she had child baring hips, those too are now gone. She's a fraction of the girl she was before the war started.
She closes her eyes and lets her head drop back. The cold stings against her flesh and she tries to hide her shudders. With difficulty she focuses on something else. He smells nice, Delia only notices because it's been so long since she's smelled anything clean, since she's smelled anything nice. His arms feel muscular beneath her.
"Beilschmidt! What the hell is that fucking smell coming from you? What….Is that a girl?" a voice unknown to her shouts out to him.
"Ja, I'm going to bury her so the Allies don't find her when they invade. One less body to pin on us, ja? Also, I don't think you boys want a dead body stinking up the place. " He sets her gently down in the back of something.
"Why don't you let me do that sir? You shouldn't have to bother yourself," a squeaky voice shouts out. Delia imagines a young boy with brown hair trying to impress the higher ups.
"No, that's okay. I know a place where she won't be found. Besides, I thought I told you to start digging that trench?" There's a quiet 'yes sir' and some laughing.
Delia hears a door shut and an engine roar to life. When the Allies invade? Are they gaining ground? The last Delia heard Germany had invaded France and was trying to gain more ground in Russia. Slowly she opens her eyes and looks about. Berlin looks dead, there's no life on the street; it's grey and white, no color. She remembers Berlin looking happy and alive, pulsing with life like a heart. People rushed in and out like blood keeping the city alive. Now, it's lost its blood and lays dormant like a corpse in a cold and lonely grave, waiting to be reincarnated.