There would be times, in privacy of course, where he would have the child laid out on his stomach, fast asleep right by him. They lay together, his son's little head nestled neatly under his chin, so he could listen to the child's soft breathing matching his perfectly, and feel his strong heart strumming to the same beat of his own.
He never felt as large and clumsy as he did with his child near him. Never felt as useless or as scared with the bundle of warm young life clinging to him. It was as if the boy's smallness was playing some subtle magic on his own perception, making Germania tremble with awareness of his own strength. It made his throat dry with knowledge of the vulnerability of the soft toddler resting on his rising chest, and his stomach tight with responsibility to keep the boy safe.
It was here, in the empty corner of his home against the wall, surrounded by nothing but earth stained wood on top of a bed of fragrant hay that Germania felt safest. For once left alone and abandoned by the world with no visitors and no intruders besides rays of quiet sunlight filtering in gently through slight gaps of brick and wood, as if seeking acquiescence of the morning.
Here, with mild awe and curiosity, safe from the eyes of others, Germania would marvel at the child in his arms for hours. As the skies teased dawn into morning and the last stars slipped out of view, He would run his calloused hand through the boy's wispy lambwool hair and count his perfect pale fingers again and again.