The appartment was cold and small. The furnishing was simple. But for Ludwig it was enough because he got away from where he'd been and that meant the chance to find peace after all.
There was nothing that would hold him now, so he just did all those little things that made him happy and helped him to forget. Every day, waiting for somthing to happen, he was perfectly fine.
He put everything he had bought away, except for a book of Italian Renesance novellas. This morning he'd walked past a store of antiques and other old stuff. It was laid out in the window, the red leather cover with the golden font was eye-catching. It was probably just meant to be decoration but Ludwig had loved it anyways and ran into the shop with a bag of vegetables in his arm to buy it from the startled old man who just seemed happy to get something sold. Now, that he was finally home he felt the cover, listened to the creaking sound it made when he opened it, smelt the old pages and admired the old font style. Every lover in the stories seemed light and beautiful, like a never ending summer night. The delicate composing of words was a blessing and Ludwig could hear the sounds of voices singing them more than speaking while his eyes were following them and he became one with this distant world.
It was already noon when Ludwig realised how hungry he was after finishing another chapter and thinking about how the writers could have such power over their chose of words. He wanted to try cooking Italian food after recipe, using the tomatoes he'd bought this morning. The kitchen was almost one with the living and dinning room, only seperated by an old shelf wich Ludwig had found on a flew market. He countinued to fill it with novels and recipe books, like the one he took now. A clinking noise caught his attention. He couldn't see what had caused it, so he looked under the shelf. He found a small, shiny object that must have fallen down when he took the book. Without thinking about what it could be he grabbed it. When the cool metal touched his skin and the sharp nooks stung into his palm he realised what it was immediately: His iron cross, the first thing he'd but on the shelf with the hope that he wouldn't have to see it again as soon as it was burried. He used to never take it off his neck, show it to the world as a symbol of all the pride he used to have in his country. He run his fingers over the white border, drowning in his thought. Would the day when he'd wear it again ever come? It was a feeling as if cold hands grabbed his neck, the cold days of a war that distroied his life were hunting him even now when it was supposed to be forgotten.
Ludwig shook his head, as if he could shake the pain off. This thing had to disappear so he wouldn't find it again. Its only place used to be on his skin. Now he couldn't get it far enough away from himself. A few days ago he'd noticed that one of the floor's boards was loose. The beloved cross would always be wraped in a handkerchief and hidden underneath it from now on. He turned back to his cooking and tried to mind other things, like the disaster from this morning, but his mind was stuck. The two man still seemed strange to him. But all Italians were strange! How could they celabrate when the man they'd obeyed for years lost his position and then suddenly brake their bound- No. They'd been smarter than the Germans, they were given a chance to brake with fascism and they took it wich was probably better for everyone. While Germany had led itself into bitterness, refusing to wake up from a selfish dream. He was one of those who had to suffer as a payment for those mistakes. At least he survived and was lucky enough to be able to leave the country but sometimes the regret overcame him with bitter tears. In those moments he wished he had died so he wouldn't have to wake up from nightmares to realise they'd been reality just a few years ago.
The image of the young man from this morning snapped in his mind. What did he have to go through over the years? He didn't seem like the type that'd join the army out of patriotism, but even as a civilist he could have learned the pain of war. A family member that had fallen in battle, the rareness of groceries, the things that happened in the streets - Feliciano, it was likely that he wasn't the same as he used to be. More pain overcame Ludwig. The feeling of suddenly feeling related to a stranger because you just had one thing in common, just because both of you shared a single feeling in a place that killed even more hearts than living beeings was strangely familiar to him.
With a sigh he stired in the boiler.