A/N: Here's the next chapter, peoples! I'm borrowing a leaf out of many people's books, and doing it mutli-part (Thankyou to whoever invented this!) Anyways, hope you read, review and enjoy!
Disclaimer: Characters and the future of this story are property of the Unquestionable, Unconquerable, Secret Ruler of the Lost City of Write-Antis (aka James Patterson). I only own this back-story, Walter Janssen, Anna Schulte and Heinrich Meyer.
CHAPTER 1: DREAM OF DEATH (PART 1)
Death. An entire person's life, scores of the years of experience and vitality, wiped out in a heartbeat. Destruction is so much simpler than creation. My life crosses into both. I am the creator and the destroyer, the saviour and the devil. Which depends on whose story you're listening to.
Oftentimes, it is a person's death that determines how they are remembered, no matter how they lived their life. One man's death can have an impact upon the living that determines the fate of the world.
Have you will ever felt as if you have lost everything in your life, as if all that you have lived for has ceased to exist? As if you're rock, your only constant, has vanished without a trace?
I have. More than once. However, it is often the first time that leaves you at your weakest, at the bottom of a pit of emotions that threaten to drown you. Especially if there is no one there to guide you through.
It began like any other day. Dad came home from work, a weary frown upon his face as he glanced at me sitting in my chair. Knitting, like any other 'good girl' of my age should be doing. The same way that no 'good girl' would ever want to learn the skills of running a business. What use would it ever be to them, whether or not they knew how to buy and sell, to barter, to inspire loyalty or increase productivity? They were never going to be doing anything anywhere near that complex, not with their feeble minds and bodies. Pah. Nooo, we were expected to sit home and knit. To clean the house, like nobodies, our one true role caring for our husbands. What a classic load of shit.
Thankfully, something has changed in this past century. But more on that later.
So there I was, learning to knit under the watchful tutelage of Mrs Schulte, when he comes home, finally, his day at work over.
Thankfully my father didn't believe in those unwritten rules that seemed to permeate the town of Lendeheim, although he made it seem to outsiders that he obeyed them. So, to spare him the embarrassment of having a 'rebel' for a daughter, I was forced to 'volunteer' for this charade. Ah, well. It was worth it. I owed him that much, at the least.
As the manager of his own business, he knew more about the marvellous world of trade and industry than anyone else near here. Well, that's what I think. Others may not believe it, but they can keep their opinions to themselves.
So, whilst the majority of other girls awaited their fate, calmly knitting and cleaning away their life, I got the finest education around. Not that I didn't have to knit or clean - I did - but I had other things to do to occupy my time. Of course, most of the cleaning (until a few months ago when I had come of age – another stupid ritual meaning that I need to do more house-work) had been done by Mrs Schulte, who had also served as a nanny during my younger years (Mum had...passed away shortly after my birth. I can't remember much, but I was told that she was a great women – though, like me, a little against the norm), but I still had my share to do.
"Afternoon, Marian," he greeted me, mindful of maintaining 'proper etiquette' whilst Mrs Schulte was still here. A lovely lady, with a heart of pure gold, she was still too set up in the old ways to accept what my father and I had. So, we had to keep her out of the loop. "Anna. I trust that she hasn't been too hard to handle this time," he continued with a chuckle. A laugh? Out of Dad? In front of others? I would have though the Sun would turn green before that happened. Obviously I was wrong. Either he'd finally started listening to what I'd told him (fine, nagged him about), or something was up. Yes, I know, laughter always makes a good mask - unless it's unatural for you. Nevertheless, I needed to stifle the laugh that grew within me. Our private little joke – don't bother asking.
Mrs Schulte actually giggled out loud. "No, not a problem, Walter. She's been a dear all afternoon." Yep , you heard right. An entire afternoon of sewing, and knitting, and cleaning, and – you get the picture. Thank God it was finally over for the day. Not long from now, Dad and I would be sitting at the table, him speaking, me listening, as we analysed the deals that he had made today, the theories and secrets that made up trade and commerce, in its complex form. It was that Golden Time for which I lived for. The thoughts of Dad's unwarrented chuckle soon fled my mind.
Sometimes, he gave me a challenge to work on during the day – one that takes hours of concentration to work out. In hindsight, the answers are always obvious, but the challenge of the unsolved mystery – of the competition with myself – was amazing.
After a little more small talk, he finally persuaded her to leave. Promising she'd come back tomorrow, she gathered her small bag of sewing materials and tools and left, leaving me and my father alone.
The moment he heard her slam shut the front door, he wrapped me in his monstrous embrace. Like a bear he surrounded me, threatening almost to crack my ribs.
"Dad," I cried, "What's wrong?"
It was so unlike him. Normally, he was Mr Cool, Calm and Collected, often with an air of knowledge about him, and on rare occasions a sense of humour. But now he seemed to be on the verge of breaking down. He'd only just walked through the door minutes ago! I couldn't think about what had done this to him.
"It's over," he all but sobbed. It was like he was reaching for me for support, to his only daughter to strengthen him, the foundation of our small family. "The War. It's over. They're coming for us."
The War? I looked up in surprise. Certainly, this was bad – if the Government didn't surrender soon, we could all be left to rot – but that couldn't be the reason Dad had almost fallen to pieces. We knew the danger, the threat to us was remote at best – and we'd have weeks of warning if we needed to evacuate. There was something deeper buried here
"Dad," I probed, guiding him to the couch, "What's wrong? Tell me, has-"
"Heinrich!" he interrupted, crying out. "He's dead! When the Allies broke through the trenches, they slaughtered everyone in the nearest border town."
I was shocked to the core. Heinrich Meyer, my Dad's closest childhood – and adulthood – friend had been a solid rock throughout both our lives. Never seen without a smile on his face, the differences between him and my stern father hadn't dented their friendship in the least. His buoyant, bubbling laughter had brought Dad out of despair when Mum died, and he'd been like an uncle to me when I was growing up. He still visited every other weekend. The fact that he was gone was like an assault on my person.
"Oh, Dad." I cried. No longer holding back the tears. I could not tell you how long we wept in each other's arms, but when our grief finally ran dry, we sat there still, not wanting to move for fear that the newly-opened wound would break.
But the sorrow and death did not end there.
A/N: Hope you liked it! PPPPLLLEEEAAASSSEEE REVIEW! I would love to see at least one, hopefully two before I post the next half of this chapter. Ah, well. We don't always get what we want. But still...