Disclaimer: I do not own this, everything belongs to someone else, even some of the made up stuff belongs to my friend Kate because she speaks German.
A/N: I've had this idea for a while now. Hasn't quite turned out like I expected…
****
Melchior hadn't planned to ever revisit his past. In the ten years since his world had fallen apart he had left Germany with the intention of never looking back. His mother had, for a time, written to him as he traveled first across Europe and then across America, but after a few years the pressures of keeping up with him became to much, and this last tie to his life before had been lost like so much else of his child hood had. Even when his name became, first, well known, and after that famous, there was still no word from his family, which lead him to believe that his mother must be dead. He didn't dwell on it long. Melchior was one of the few philosophers who didn't dwell on death at all. One of the few self-created men of the new century who spoke as if he had all the answers-save that one.
His companion had promised just one night in Berlin and, like a fool, Melchior had believed him. Three days later and Melchior was looking for his own way out of Germany once again. It had been a mistake to come back. He had refused to meet with anyone here and his companion, a literary mind from New York, had finally stopped asking him to accompany him around to all the great houses of the city. Melchior had at first hidden in his hotel room, refusing to leave except to take meals at odd times of the day, when he could eat in the back of the kitchen and not talk to anyone. This had quickly bored him, however, and he had begun to stroll among the markets of Berlin, never making eye contact with anyone or stopping at one stall for any amount of time. It was there that she saw him.
"Oh, dear me," Melchior heard a breathless airy voice and then felt a delicate hand on his arm, "You must be Melchior Gabor, here look me in the eyes." Before he could protest, the small hands had taken his chin and turned him to face the woman. A small frame and blond hair were the only two attractive features about the woman; her blue eyes seemed too cold to be considered beautiful. Melchior had never seen her before in his life.
His mistake had been to stop to look at some paintings. The sign had proclaimed them to be from Ilse's artist colony, of course it wasn't her colony, but that was the only way Melchior knew to think of it. The pictures had started to look a bit too much like home and had caused him to pause longer than he would have.
"It is you!" the lady proclaimed, "yes I thought it must, having seen your picture in the papers and the journals. I hadn't heard you were coming to Berlin though, from what they say, you avoid this place like the plague. No one should ever avoid their home like the plague though."
While she prattled on Melchior tried to think of the best way to extract himself from the death grip she had retaken on his arm without causing a scene but she had barely stopped for breath, much less let him get a word out.
"Of course you don't know me, how could you, with you being gone these ten years. And here she took a deep breath, drawing herself up to walk even straighter and with more pride, "Frau Henrietta Rillow, of course that still doesn't even begin to explain who I am. I believe you went to school with my husband, Herr Hanschen Rillow."
She evidently took Melchior's grunt of surprise as confirmation and began to drag him down the street with her.
"Oh yes, I knew he went to school with you even if he wouldn't quite say that he did, nor will he go visit there even though I've begged him to take me to his home so many times. What must have happened there to turn you boys from it so thoroughly, I just cannot imagine. You won't even enter the country, and Herr Rillow won't even talk to me about it, just says that there's nothing back there worth going for and to mind my own business, that I should be glad of what I have, and I am. Herr Rillow is the vice-president of one of the premier banks of Berlin; you must at least know that."
Here she stopped to smile for a second and Melchior took his chance.
"Mademoiselle," he began.
"Oh, French, how-" the young woman seemed to struggle to find a word to both flatter Melchior and convey a since of disdain for the French at the same time. "How foreign!" she finally settled on. But before he could try again, she had started re-talking.
"Of course you must join us for dinner tonight, Herr Gabor," she said, her grip tightening on his arm when he flinched at the name he used for his father, "And I of course will not take no for an answer. I'll come around your hotel and collect you, no matter what you say, so you might as well say yes."
"Yes," he said quickly, knowing it was the easiest way to shut her up.
"Oh good!" she said, turning to face him head on, "Now the carriage will be by to pick you up at quarter till six. Herr Rillow arrives home at six o'clock sharp, so you should be arriving at the same time. Should I assume you are staying at the Die Kleine Kirchen? Oh never mind, of course you are, where else would you be staying? Now, you will be there, or I shall come and fetch you, is that clear?"
Melchior only nodded; he didn't think he had ever been so passive in his whole life. There was no arguing with this woman, only escape.
It wasn't until she had turned the corner that Melchior had run.
****
The writer had found his hysteria very amusing, smoking his pipe as he watched Melchior fling his clothes into his suitcase.
"You don't understand what it was like," Melchior emphasized as he shoved his extra pair of pants into a side pocket, "she wouldn't let go of my arm. I have to get out of here; I told you that Germany was a mistake."
"I still don't understand why you don't go," his friend drawled, rolling his eyes and Melchior tried to unsuccessful close his suitcase by throwing all his weight on it, "It's just an old school chum"
"It is not an old school chum," Melchior insisted as he tried to rearrange his clothes, "Hanschen was the second best at every thing-after me. Once I left he became the best. He's now the...the...what'd she say, some kind leader, at some kind of bank. He's everything I was supposed to be. Perfect. Successful. And he never liked me."
"Oh boo hoo, someone didn't like Melchior Gabor."
"It's not...you don't know what happened at my village, okay. You don't know why I had to leave. Hanschen knows what happened and I'm not, I'm not ready to face that. I'm not ready to face what I should have been."
His friend was quiet for a moment before looking down into his pipe. Melchior had gotten his clothes into the suitcase and was now resting against it. He finally looked over to meet his friend's gaze.
"Of course he would be able to tell you about your mother."
****
In the end Melchior took a cab to Die Kleine Kirchen. Contrary to what Frau Rillow seemed to believe, being famous did not make you rich, and Melchior's writings on German politics certainly didn't let you into the fanciest hotels. His friend had shoved him in a cab, with the logic that he couldn't get lost if he took one. "Accidentally, of course," he said, rolling his eyes. It still wouldn't surprise him if Melchior ran. But at least now he didn't have his suitcase.
The carriage was already there, Melchior was running a few minutes late thanks to a "short cut" the cab man did not seem to know. On the way over Melchior had wondered how he would be able to tell the carriage apart but once he rolled up the hotel there was no mistaking the large carriage with the coat of arms of the Rillow family on the side. Tonight was going to be harder than he had thought.
He arrived at the gates of a large mansion in what was obviously the best section of Berlin. Melchior had a brief flash, that this is what could have been with Wendl, but he smothered that thought like he had smothered all the others. Obviously he was under dressed, even though he had put on the best jacket his friend had owned.
The door opened for him by the time he had reached the last step and the horrifying, smiling face of Frau Rillow met him.
"Melchior Gabor, you're two minutes late, I thought you weren't coming," was the greeting he received and the moment he stepped into the house she kissed his cheek. Melchior was used to this kind of greeting, and kissed her cheek back without thinking about it. He straightened up and was met with quite a shock. Settled among the ornate and ostentatious decorations that he had been expected was a large, gorgeous painting of a landscape that looked remarkably familiar.
"Is that?" was all he got out before Frau Rillow began to talk. He could get used to never having to say another word again.
"Oh yes, Herr Rillow choose that," she said, looking away from the painting, almost as if she couldn't bare the sight of it, "he thinks himself quite the collector I'm afraid. Although we both know it's nothing compared to the gems you've probably seen on your travels. Some local artist did this. I don't know why Herr Rillow thought to put it here, it doesn't quite go with this room."
Melchior let her words wash past him as he walked towards the painting. It was his church there was no question about it. The same church he had played pirates in the shade of as a young boy, the same church where he had listened to, and refuted silently in his own head, a countless number of sermons. The same church cemetery that now housed his childhood friends.
"Ugly thing," Frau Rillow was still saying, "don't know why you'd want to paint it really, it's too small to be of any real use as a church. Still, I guess it has its own charm. Come now, dinner is this way. I know Herr Rillow is anxious to see you."
Melchior tore his gaze away and began to follow the woman down the hall. She obviously didn't know much about Hanschen's home town even though she professed to wanting to visit. She couldn't even identify its church. And he couldn't imagine Hanschen being anxious about anything, much less seeing him.
The dining room was done in the same bizarre fashion as the foyer, with gold trimmings and the Rillow coat of arms peeking out everywhere, and among it all, another out of place painting. This one was another landscape, familiar but harder to place this time.
And standing there with his hand touching the corner of the painting was Hanschen Rillow.
The man who turned around as the door closed behind them was not quite the Hanschen Rillow that Melchior remembered. He might not have recognized him at all, had Hanschen not stared at him in that same critical way that he had done when they were children and Melchior had bested him once again.
"You've gotten fat during your travels," he said, his hand dropping down behind his back.
"Herr Rillow!" Frau Rillow scolded, looking shocked and angry at this rare sentence from her husband.
"And you've gotten quite bald in your old age," Melchior parried back. Whatever had had expected, it had not been this, nor the smile that Hanschen then threw his way.
"It's good to see you Melchior."
"And you Hansy."
Again, another smile at something that once would've only provoked irritation.
"Dinner might actually be interesting tonight."
****
Dinner was much more interesting than Melchior had expected. Now that they weren't competing against one another for a teacher's attention, Melchior could actually appreciate how smart Hanschen really was. He was able to steer the conversation away from his wife, no matter how many times the woman would ask probing questions about their childhood together or where they came from.
"How did Frau Rillow cook her strudel?" the current Frau Rillow asked, pushing the pork chop around on her plate.
"In an oven," Hanschen answered, then turn back to Melchior, "I suppose you've heard what the British Prime Minister has had to say."
"On the record, or off?" Melchior asked with a smile, "You forget, I know the man."
"Is he anything like the papers make him out to be?"
"Worse. Most conservative man in Europe."
"I suppose you studied the same subjects in school."
"The same as everyone in Germany, Frau Rillow. Well he sounds like a damn fool if I've ever heard of one."
"Rumor is it he's planning on stepping down in the next year or so."
"Another election?"
"Yes but it'd be pointless. His nephew is being primed to take his place."
"Typical British politics."
"Was Hanschen's hair always blond?"
"Like the golden sun," Melchior managed to say with a straight face. Hanschen smiled into his plate before taking a long sip of wine.
"I believe we are finished here," he said standing up and gesturing to Melchior to do the same. Lifting his glass of wine to take with him, Melchior stood as the chair was pulled back for him by a servant. Frau Rillow stood up quickly too, obviously meaning to follow them but Hanschen was out the door before she could open her mouth, with Melchior quick behind him.
"We can retire to my study, she won't go in there," Hanschen muttered, hurrying along before a piercing sound of, "Herr Rillow! Telegram!" sounded out through the air.
"Damn," he muttered, "third door down on the right, I'll escape as soon as possible. Don't worry, you'll be safe."
With a slight chuckle Melchior slipped into the room Hanschen had indicated. Looking around the room he drew in a deep breath.
Unlike the rest of the house which was decorated in gold and red, with each room housing a landscape painting, this room was bare wood with nothing but those paintings on the walls. Melchior began to look around in amazement until his gaze settled on the largest painting in the room, set between two windows on the far side of where he had entered. Obviously this was meant to be the focal point of the room as every chair in the room was turned towards this painting. There was no way to avoid it.
It was the old vineyard that had lined the small village Melchior grew up in. The colors were vibrant and the entire picture spoke of an endless spring. There weren't the regular field workers or children playing to interrupt the beauty of the picture. Melchior put down his glass on the closest table and walked up to the painting, wanting to drink in every detail.
The painting was in the same style as the rest of them. Melchior fancied that if you put all of the paintings together you could walk through his village once again. His eyes scanned all over the painting, down to the bottom right hand corner. In a night of surprises, this was the biggest surprise of all.
Ernst Robel.
The name was scrawled across the bottom in a messy fashion, and as Melchior looked around he saw that all the other paintings had the same signature.
His mind went back to the last time he had seen that name. It was one of the few letters from his mother that had made it to America, before she had stopped writing. She had always filled her pages with the news of who she had considered his friends, and this letter was no different. Georg had asked Anna to marry him; Otto had been accepted to a music conservatory in Munich. Hanschen was moving to Berlin to begin a banking career.
But the last paragraph had been reserved entirely for Ernst Robel. The quiet boy that Melchior remembered had been caught in the vineyards with another male. The young Schneider girl had seen them and run home to tell her father. By the time he had gotten there the boys had wizened up and started running, but Ernst had never been very fast. "He wouldn't say who he was with," his mother had written and Melchior hadn't been able to tell if she was proud or ashamed of that fact. The Robel family had tried to send Ernst to the same reformatory that Melchior had been sent to, but Ernest had run off before they wrestled him onto the train.
"Last his poor mother heard he had joined that artist colony down in the valley. I sometimes wonder where we went so wrong with you boys. I remember holding you when you were young and vowing I wouldn't do to you what my mother did to me. But somehow I guess we all failed."
No, come to think of it, that was the last letter his mother had sent to him.
"You would think that once the bank was closed it wouldn't-" Hanschen stopped talking once he had fully entered the room and realized what Melchior was staring at.
"It was you, wasn't it?" Melchior asked without turning around. Hanschen didn't have to question what he meant.
"Stupid little fool couldn't run fast enough," Hanschen whispered, walking slowly over to where Melchior was standing, "He was the one who saw Elisa running home and knew what was happening. Made me grab my stuff too. While I was panicking he was clear headed enough to know what to do. I said to leave it but he pointed out that if they found just one paper from school that they'd know it was us. He gathered up more than I did. Told me the best bet was the run down the slope and into the trees. If we went down to the point with the little bridge we could make it across the river and up into that old barn, that no one would think we'd hide, they'd believe that we'd keep running. Turns out he was right, no one did think to look for me there. I spent the night under a hay stack anyways but no one even came close. When I got home the next morning I climbed through my window, cleaned up, and went into the kitchen. My father looked like he'd seen a ghost and demanded to know where I had been. My room, studying, I answered, didn't they know I was heading to Berlin in a month. Father simply nodded at me and said that he knew it couldn't have been me. It wasn't until the next Sunday at church I found out what had happened. Course by that point Ernst had run off. Everyone said it was Georg he had been with, maybe Marin. But Anna swore up and down that Georg had been with her that night and Marin was shunned but never condemned. No one even thought of me."
Hanschen was next to Melchior now, staring at the painting like it was a dream.
"I haven't seen him since. The only words I got from him was a note that Ilse dropped in my bag two weeks later that just said DON'T COME and two weeks after that I left for here. Father set up this marriage a year later, it made him happy. Good dowry and all that. I worked at the bank and climbed the ladders because I had nothing else. Henrietta is ignorant enough to wonder why we have no children but it's because I can't bring myself to touch her. She's built this whole house as a shrine to being Frau Rillow but if it went to court, it wouldn't pass as a marriage. Never consummated. I hated her so much and hated my life at the bank too. And then one day, when I had had enough, I walked out of the bank with every intent to go find him. I started walking through the markets looking for what I would need to survive at a damn artist colony when I saw that painting. The one in the front, of the old church. And I could hear his voice, clear as day, telling me how he wanted to join the church and be a priest. And I took that from him. I remembered his note, how could I not, it was still in my back pocket. So I bought the painting and I went home and the next day I went back to the bank. These paintings are something; these paintings are all I have."
"I'm sorry I brought all this back to you," Melchior said, his voice cracking after listening for so long.
"I live with it every day," Hanschen replied with a shrug, "there isn't a day that doesn't go by when I don't think of this and remember how unbearably beautiful it all was."
"I should go," Melchior muttered and turned towards the door. This was too much, these memories and this realization that Hanschen wasn't any better than he was. Before he walked out he turned around.
"Hanschen please, before I go. My mother-"
"She's alive. She doesn't consider you dead like your father does. But she's sick. If you're going to make your peace, I'd go."
"Thank you Hanschen." When he didn't respond, Melchior left him with his memories.
****
"I don't get it, first you don't want to come, then when we get here you only moan about when we can leave, and now you want to go visit the village you grew up in?" The writer didn't sound too impressed with Melchior's plan and was watching him hastily pack his suitcase once again.
"I told you, my mother is sick. If you're coming you had better pack."
"Alright, alright," he said, standing up.
"Melchior Gabor, going home. Never thought I'd see the day."