Thank you allydiaaustin for following!

An Eldian's Journal

Wartime Shenanigans

Chapter 27: A Journal

As one would expect after dropping a bombshell of a backstory, Mr. Kruger and I kept our mouths shut as we passed through the balding "Street of Embers." Even the mutt that walked beside us could sense the tension, and it kept its head low. We all held our heads low beneath the scrappy blanket of grumpy clouds in the sky.

Upon our arrival in section F, Mr. Kruger got out of the cart when we arrived at his residential trash can. The guitar peeked out from behind as if it was embarrassed to be seen with the wounded string latched on, begging for help. I dropped off the food cans, and Mr. Kruger hid them in a sac, most likely hiding them from other homeless people.

"Bye...Mr. Kruger..."

"Bye, H."

Like I mentioned so many chapters ago, Mr. Kruger was a candle that shed layers of wax every time I saw him. In the current point of the story, there are still some wax layers to be shown. And the intriguing part of it, I know all the layers while writing this journal. I could tell it to you all right here, but like Mr. Kruger did to me, I will withhold the facts from you. Sure, I may die before I can write it all down, but there are things that I need to mention before we are even prepared to bring up those secrets.

(Don't hold it against me.)

So, let's get back to some other devils. Mr. Kruger has hugged much of the spotlight recently. Let's hop on over to some people, probably around 1/5 of his age.

You know the drill:

"Hey, Heinrich."

"Heya, Ricky."

I did my best to avoid the cabbage man as I wheeled over to see the resident siblings.

"Wait, Heinrich, why do you have the cabbage man's cabbage cart?"

"Ummm..." You all know why. "I had to run an errand. I'm done now, so I need to go return it."

"Wait a second." Viktor scratched his chin as if he was churning an idea in that simple brain of his. "We could use it for something. Let's go to the basement."

After hearing one of the most depressing stories that my ears and eyes ever came across, I was open to some much-needed humor. "Hop in, Viktor." I pointed to the inside of the cart. "Before the cabbage sees."

"I'm not riding in that thing. I'm not a baby!"

We began on our short trek over to the basement with the boxing ring in it. As our devil claws scraped the ground, Viktor shot sideways glances at the cart as he cooked out miniature clouds of breath. With one final, boss-level cloud, Viktor said. "Fine, I'll get in." Viktor hopped in as I watched Lina say 'bye.' Her arms' energy contradicted the solemn, decaying look on her face.

As we walked about, the blanket in the sky that spawned earlier in the morning started shedding tidbits of cold, delicate fur. Snow. Each flake was unique—like humans. They had their individual strengths and weaknesses despite living such short lives.

Viktor held his tongue out and rubbed his hands together as the world reminded us that winter was impatiently waiting for its turn on the cruel hands of time. Autumn was packing its suitcases and making its final rounds and goodbyes.

The other gang members joined in with us as we got closer and closer to the house. They couldn't help but throw in their comments as usual. "Viktor's a baby." "Mama Heinrich and baby Viktor." "Who's the daddy?"

Eww.

Just eww.

When we arrived at the boxing ring basement, we all huddled together to brainstorm our adventures for that day. "Baby Viktor" got out of his "stroller," and his brain pondered while we first figured out where to keep the cabbage cart.

Viktor's innovative mind came up with a typical bizarre idea. He said with a bemused smile, "Let's break some lights."

The gang's face stayed flush as if they were used to ideas that the fighter would come up with.

My mind, still swimming around K's story, threw a logical thought into the conversation. "That sounds like vandalism."

Viktor threw in his reasoning and example. "When your leg is burning, do you think about the war over your head?" He reminded me of the melting wax on my leg, of course. Classic Viktor. "When you're busy worrying about one thing, you might not think about something else that could be worrying."

"You think that breaking lights would help people forgot about the war since they would have to focus on fixing them?" One of the gang members replied. "That would work in theory."

I retorted with. "In theory AND reality, it sounds like vandalism."

"Let's say we actually do this. What time would we do it? Committing crimes in the daylight is like asking to get shot by a Marleyan officer."

I watched as the gang members analyzed thoughtfully how they could carry out Viktor's idea. I thought for a second how this would finally be my chance to get thrown in jail, but once again, I was still entranced by Mr. Kruger's story.

"Let's meet up again at 9:00 PM. The officers start making rounds around 10:00PM."

All of us shivered, not from the planned vandalism, but from the matter that the initial seeds of winter planted themselves in the basement walls. The room grew a considerate cold; it was like a warning sign for us. The weather can often be more merciful and forgiving than people themselves.

After a chilly bout of fighting, the boys and I all headed back to our respective homes. As I approached mine, I was relieved by the fact that I hadn't encountered the cabbage man ever since I stole the cart, but it was slashed when I realized I had to get through my parents.

I knocked on the door, and as usual, mama opened it with a peeved looked. It became calm when she noticed me, but it grew peeved again when she saw the cart. The stout woman asked, "Where'd you get the cart from?"

"It's from—"

"Oh wait, don't tell me. I can guess it myself." She gazed at the wounds on the cart and the remnants of abuse from unruly cabbages. "It's the cabbage man's."

"Yup." I was expecting her to tell me to return it.

"You know what? Bring it in. That clown deserves to be stolen from."

So, I did as the woman told me, and I pushed the cabbage cart through the door. Of course, we had to put up a fight since it didn't want to go in immediately. Luckily, the iron woman used her strength to complete the job. Thankfully, her muscles were perfectly honed through the advanced art of scraping grime off house dishes.

Later that day, around 9 PM, I looked through my broken window to see children hopping about on blanketed streets. Bicycle peddlers didn't know where the sidewalk began, and the road ended. In the snow, I noticed some scoops here and there as if children came by to eat it like ice cream. Instead of eating it, they threw it at each other.

How could we carry out Viktor's moronic plan with all the children out there? Also, the houses were already vandalized for us; dresses crafted from the clouds' cold dandruff masked the swollen bricks. (So much for weather being merciful.) The clouds must have overheard our plans, and just to spite us, they threw down their melting skin. It was better than bombs, I guess.

Things never go the way we expect them to, do they?

After my parents forced me to wear extra layers, I walked out of my home wearing more layers than pages in this damn journal. (I'm exaggerating. You know me.) I found Viktor moping around outside. He must have anticipated heavily for a night full of vandalism that he felt was justified, but it was crushed when he learned how snow works.

Through a clenched jaw and a tapping foot, he asked. "So, what are we going to do now?"

"I don't know."

It was then that something hit my back. I turned around to see the 'warhammer' and the boys behind him. I looked at the ground to see the carcass of a snowball that must have hit me.

"I guess breaking lights can wait for another day," the 'warhammer' said, stating the obvious as usual.

Viktor, the boys, and I glanced around each other as if we were hoping that at least one of us would have an idea of what to do. Alas, the 'warhammer' gave up and turned away. "I'm going home."

"Wait! I have an idea!" Viktor's idea arrived in the form of a snowball on the face of the 'warhammer.' He contorted reflexively to the harsh cold on his devil skin. "That's cold!"

***AN IDEA***
 Snowball fight

Fred took some snow and shoved it in the back of the 'warhammer's' coat. As a reaction, he tried shoving the snow out, but it looked more or less like he was dancing to summon a creature.

I then felt a sharp jab to my stomach. "Dammit, Viktor! That was a piece of ice!"

I chased after the idiot, but the fresh snow grabbed my feet, and I fell. I was reintroduced to my troubled, abusive relationship with the ground. Even though it wore a new set of makeup, I still couldn't find hitting it appealing no matter the numerous times I slammed into it that month.

I couldn't stay angry for long. I turned onto my back, and I got a glimpse of that ominous brick wall that never took breaks from caging us. Then I felt the snow landing on my face. The ground hugged me from the back for a few seconds of embracing—unrequited, one-sided love. The dots of white sank to my face through the dark brought by nighttime and the cloaked moon.

I closed my eyes and embraced the nuggets of cold. It felt sensational until a big handful of snow was dumped onto my face, and my nose/mouth was forced to be refrigerated for a few seconds.

Now, why did I just tell you a story about a snowball fight? It's simple.

We don't experience joy that often. So, I like to talk about it when we do.

XXX

The following day, I heard a knock on the door. I was expecting a "Hey, Heinrich." But instead, I got a "Heya, Ricky."

"Good morning, L-Lina."

"Viktor told me that you have the cabbage man's cart. I thought maybe you could help me out with some of my work."

I had the newspaper route to go to, and as always, the boss was a prick forcing me to compete with other newspaper stands. However, Lina's demeanor was softened. Instead of seeing open and confident body language, I saw some limbs piled on top of each other, thrown out of the home, and placed in front of me. Her face looked morose—maybe that was just a morning face.

"S-Sure, I can help."

"Wait. Don't you have your newspaper route to go on?"

"Not today."

After putting on a few layers, we walked out onto the street with the cabbage cart as our prisoner. As we walked, the cart's wheels drew fat, uneven lines on the ground. Lina threw in the washed clothing she had to deliver to the few people that still hired her. We plodded down hell street to find a middle-aged man tearing down a poster.

***PROPAGANDA POSTER***
 "Wipe the sins of your ancestors by joining the Marleyan military.
 We need you."

Lina took a break from her somber look to ask the man, "Why are you taking down the recruiting posters?"

The man turned towards us and answered through his yellow teeth. "Well, missy, the military stopped doing voluntary recruiting recently, so I have to take the posters down. They started mandatory conscriptions today." Lina stayed quiet, and the man continued. "If you ask me, it's about damn time. It's been nearly a month since that declaration of war, and barely any official moves have been made yet."

The man focused on something in the distance. "Huh, perfect timing." I turned around to see two men. One dressed in a long beige uniform with a tie and the other wearing the standard military uniform with a baton. They didn't hide their status in front of anyone. "Oh boy, I'm glad I'm 50 years old now. I feel bad for all those young people that's gonna be thrown in the trenches."

Lina grabbed my arm and pulled me away as if she didn't want me to notice them any longer. She acted like a mom that morning; her bun hairstyle definitely didn't help her look any younger.

She led me to a different street and pointed to a house on the side of it. "An old lady lives there and binds books. She can rarely pay me cash, though. Instead, she just gives me a few cigarettes."

"Cigarettes are currency nowadays, aren't they?"

"Thanks to this war, yup…."

We plodded over to the old lady's house. Lina knocked on the crusty wooden door, and it opened shortly after. A bathrobe with floating eyes peeked through. "Good morning, Lina."

"Good morning, ma'am."

With a voice that sounded like pillows, she looked over at me and asked Lina, "You have an assistant today, huh?"

"Yes."

"Are you paying him cigarettes too?"

"He's a volunteer." She looked over at me, and a smile accidentally slipped on her face. "His lungs are too innocent for cigarettes." The old lady let out a muddled laugh, and Lina went to pick some clothes from the cart. She then passed it to the old lady who received them and walked into her home. She came back out with something that turned Lina off immediately.

The old lady's fluffy face sank as she counted the cigarettes. "I'm sorry, honey. I know you need some actual money to feed yourself and that little brother of yours. But there's not much I can do."

Lina took the cigarettes and turned her back towards the lady. "Don't worry, ma'am. I'll forget about it when I actually light one of these up."

We walked away without a single "bye" exchanged. I had one on my tongue, but I refrained from rolling it out since Lina didn't say one. She then attempted to light one of the cigarettes. Still, the match slipped out of her hands and the flame suffocated from the leftover snow that was receding into the ground. She observed her fingers quivering. "Shit."

She glanced over at me. "Ricky, I think I'm going to take you up on your offer."

"Which one?"

"Don't make me spell it out…." She grimaced. "Can your mama cook for Viktor and me?"

"Of course."

Lina let out a disturbing sigh and kept walking about delivering washed clothes and picking up some unwashed ones to be cleaned later. The interactions varied in length—some were longer than others. But the result was the same: Lina was compensated somehow, and I was there to push the cart around. Fortunately for us, the snow from the day before must have just been an appetizer rather than a full-blown beginning for winter. It made pushing the cart around much more manageable.

I asked. "Lina, has anyone ever bugged you about what your opinions on the islanders are? At least, during this little job."

She took a successfully lit cigarette out of her mouth and let out a cloud of smoke. It appeared more malevolent than usual, thanks to the less than warm air. "They don't care what I think. I'm just the laundry girl to them." She then turned towards me. "That's why I like talking to you, Ricky. You at least ask what I think. You play your little word games with me. Those people just yell at me even when I get even a speck of mud on their clothes."

I was surprised that she liked the crossword since she yelled at me the last time I did it. "You liked the crossword puzzle?"

"No, it was boring...you aren't going to get far by asking a girl to play a crossword puzzle with you...but I understand what you were trying to do."

I felt a slight warmth through the coat of cold that wrapped me ever so tightly. Lina's decaying, depressed face grew back slightly, and I was able to see a slight characteristic shine. She then took her veil off and let her raven hair free from the constraints of the bun. "This is the last house for the morning." I noticed that Lina threw the unwashed clothes on top of the washed ones in the cart. She practiced a smile as she dug some of the washed ones out and knocked on the wooden door.

Knock

Knock

Knock

"Hello, Lina."

Attached to the "Hello, Lina." was not some wrinkly crone or old man halfway in the grave but insteadwas a young guy with hair so greasy that it could have been a mirror. He was clean-shaven, and his features glimmered below the blotches of black dust on his face. His eyes laid as a sensuous brown above hand-crafted cheekbones; it was alluring even for me as a straight male.

I looked over at Lina, who was nibbling slightly at her lip. She forgot to look like she was decaying.

Dammit. This devil definitely had a subtle seductiveness to him.

As you could assume, my brain-less teenage hormones grew jealous of the handmade masculinity standing in front of me. You know what was even better? He actually handed Lina cash rather than some cigarettes.

"T-Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Lina handed over the clothes. He looked over at me and asked Lina, "Who's this?"

Before I could assert my dominance and give my answer, a voice arrived behind me.

***THE VOICE***
 "F-0265-9256"

I turned around to see the two military men with coats and ties standing over me like bad omens. That's what Marleyans are to us Eldians, bad omens; actually, all military people are. Whenever one of them gets near us, our legs prepare for running, our skin prepares to get beaten. It's like we were conditioned to become animals, lesser humans in front of them. We justify the devil branding right before their eyes. "You have been conscripted."

The men listed out an Eldian ID number; it belonged to the guy with slicked hair. He yelled. "Yes!"

Lina and I were expecting agony and sobs, but we immediately looked at each other and exchanged unsaid words.

"My parents didn't allow me to volunteer for the military at first, but now they can't say no."

The guy's response went against everything I had assumed. I'm sure no one would like to be distinguished by some numbers, but there he was reveling in the chance to get shot. Did the brainwashing run that deep for some people? Either way, Lina was having none of it. Her face had awakened from her slump, and before I could reach over and cover her mouth, she blurted. "Why are you happy?! Are you crazy?!"

Mistake.

One of the military men, with a gaze piercing her like an icicle, approached and asked. "Do you dislike the Marleyan military, Eldian?"

Lina, still a slave to her emotions, replied definitively. "Yes."

The soldier handed over a baton to the one in the long coat. He hit her in the back. I heard the thud of a sniveling rod on devil flesh.

"Repeat it, Eldian."

Instead of answering, Lina yelped in pain.

He then slammed her in the head, and she fell to the white ground. Dots of blood drizzled slightly from the back of her head. He then shifted his icicle gaze over to me and raised the baton. "You better keep this bitch on a leash." He hit me in the back as well, and my protests were coughed right out of me. Without sparing a second, I saw the hungry baton dance swiftly through the air and land on my forehead. My eyes caught a glimpse of early midnight.

Oppression is an art that requires craftsmanship to squeeze out all the trauma from an individual's bones. Those men's skills must have been honed with every jab they threw out, and their skills constantly accrued.

XXX

When I awoke, the sky was still above me; the ground was still uncomfortable, and there was a pain at the back of my head that I was all too familiar with. Next to me was the cigarette-wielder sitting in a fetal position, not even minding that the leftover snow was getting in her long skirt. I saw a dash of malevolent maroon dried up and crusted on the back of her head.

I put my newsboy hat on and stood up ever so slowly. My numerous experiences with falls and head bashings prepared me well for that moment. I went to grab the cart but then noticed that Lina was still sitting on the ground. Assorted humans were staring at us with their soldered gazes as they walked past. The attractive dude was nowhere to be seen.

I pulled Lina's arm, and the rest of the limbs held together by nature's glue eventually came up with her. She reflexively reached to her pocket to pull out her nicotine. She lit up the cigarette and took one long drag on it without any breaks. A coughing fit followed as she traded the smoke in her lungs with the pathetic section F air.

With a slight rasp, she uttered. "Coughing makes me feel alive again."

No words were exchanged about what happened, only "oohs" and "ahhs" from the pains on the back of our heads. We walked about aimlessly through section F despite having completed the morning's washing delivery duties. We knew that if we went home, we would have to waste time explaining what happened directly to my parents.

Good ol' oppression.

I was so used to watching other people being oppressed for their blood, but it felt that much rawer when it actually happened to me.

Oppression is one thing you can always count on to ground you back in reality when you're soaring in the clouds, even for a moment.

After wandering about a few streets, we came across a replacement cabbage cart with withering cabbages inside. Withering next to the cart was the cabbage man, as you can expect; his face rose in anticipation when he saw us. He probably wanted to berate us for mishandling his cart, but he stopped halfway.

Even a man like him knew it wasn't the time to introduce his shenanigans. He walked over to us, took the cart from our grasp, took the unwashed clothes out, and walked away. It was like solemn respect to someone who had received a Marleyan's baton—whoever received it had enough pain for a day's worth.

"Tell me a story, Ricky. Anything to distract me from this annoying pain." If her brother was there walking with us, I'm sure he would tell her to embrace it or something idiotic like that.

I thought back to the street-dweller. "Well, I saw the homeless guy the other day..."

"Oh great, that's going to make me even more annoyed."

"I learned what his real name is. Walter Kruger."

"You say that name like it's special."

"I don't know. I thought maybe it was supposed to mean something."

"Sounds like a regular name to me."

We walked over to a bench that was sitting alone on the sidewalk underneath a tree. The cloud's cold dandruff was still sitting on the tree's fingers. We wiped some off the bench, but the wood stayed soaked.

"I remember those times when you used to ask me things a lot. Just last month even, you came to me and asked about the cabbage man and all that. You've always been curious about what I thought. But nowadays, you're talking to that homeless guy, and barely me anymore. I'm probably more boring than a homeless guy now, huh?"

I stayed silent. "..."

"Aren't you going to tell me that I'm not boring? That's how making someone feel better is supposed to work."

"You're boring."

"Hmph, no wonder you don't have a girlfriend."

Initially, Lina seemed like a mildly attractive neighbor that thought in ways others didn't. I looked up to her in a way since she always talked like she knew how people worked; I was curious about her hypocritical ways. However, my curiosity in her was trumped by someone else. When Mr. Kruger originally came along, I discovered a more complex and layered candle in him. Lina was relegated to just being the attractive neighbor as this war created money struggles. Her inquisitive brain was reduced to thinking about how best to keep food on the table—it was a pity, really.A waste of an intriguing mind.

Lina: "I asked you this a while ago already, but what does Mr. Kruger tell you?"

I went on to tell Lina what I could about Mr. Kruger. Her face moved along with the story's tragedies and all the verbal puzzle pieces that I had to recite to her.

I asked. "How can someone be like that? How can someone only understand and produce one emotion?"

"Uhhh...I don't know, Ricky."

That's another reason why I talked less and less, Lina. She didn't really know anything. Alas, I couldn't blame her. I didn't know much either.

"I want to know what he's hiding. But at the same time, I don't want to make him suffer just trying to retell it all."

Lina's eyebrows raised; it looked as if she came up with an idea. "Instead of making him retell it all, ask him to write it out."

"On what?"

*** LINA's IDEA***
 "Tell him to write in a diary...or... a journal."

"How am I going to get a journal?"

"That one lady we visited earlier today binds books, remember? I'm sure she has a journal."

The dull pain faded for a second, and a dash of energy reignited my face. "Really?!"

"As payback for you saying I'm boring, I'm not getting it to you for free."

My dash of energy crawled away and froze up in the snow around us. "You said you were boring as well!"

"I know, but you weren't supposed to agree with me." Lina reached into one of her coat pockets and unsurprisingly pulled out some wrappers and the evil plant, tobacco. "If you can roll 10 of these in three minutes, I'll bring them over to her, and we can get a book."

Three minutes is easy for a masterful pair of hands, but my hands were calloused and cold. They had experienced in the realm of rolling. Still, only so much—they were better at guitar strumming, but even that skill was diminished. Alas, I took the cigarette ingredients. Unfortunately, neither of us had a watch, so Lina decided that she would count down the seconds and minutes.

"1...2...3."

I protested. "You're going too fast!"

"You're just making them too slow...fine...one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand..."

As the seconds went on, Lina skipped some numbers and repeated others. I didn't care too much, for I was busy with the duty of rolling, wrapping, setting, and all its monotonous synonyms. I won't bore you with the details, so let's skip to when I finish.

"Time's up!"

I had only completed 7.

"To be honest, Ricky, I only need 5 cigarettes. I said 10 since the higher the goal, the harder you try to get closer to it. The extras are for me now!

The deception was uncalled for, but it made sense—she was definitely Viktor's sister.

We headed over to the old lady's home and proceeded with our business. Lina bartered, and despite the old lady's gentle demeanor, she snapped back with her offers. In the end, the old lady broke and said she would take the cigarettes in return for the book.

The bathrobe went into her shoebox home and came out with an empty book. Lina took it and then handed it over to me.

I observed the woman's handy work. The cover was a blue edging onto a garbage green. The pages were feeble, so much so there was no weight to them when I tried flipping. One can see the grains of compressed wood making up the pages. Each page looked alone despite them all being crammed together like a pile of decrepit bodies. It was old and retired as if it never received the love of words in its entire life.

Who knew I could feel pity for such a tragic book?

Lina tried giving the book back and asking for a better one to no avail. Eventually, she gave up, and I told her the book was actually the perfect match.

Lina: "Are you sure?"

I replied. "Yes, this is perfect for Mr. Kruger."

XXX

Lina and I walked a little farther until we decided to part ways. After giving me advice on what to tell Mr. Kruger to get him to write in the book (I guess she was helpful after all), she waved with leftover red in one hand and unwashed clothes she needed to deal with in her other. As she turned around, I noticed the crusty, maroon blood still clinging to the back of her head, but she sharply covered it with her veil.

I went on the search for Mr. Kruger as usual, and I found him scrounging about near the regular trashcan. The guitar still stood wounded next to him, and the dog was sleeping as always. A bag laid next to him with some food cans and old newspapers.

"Hello, H."

"Hi, Mr. Kruger." I sat next to him and held the book in my hand while feeling the ridges.

"No newspaper today?" He asked.

"I didn't go on my newspaper route today. I did some other things instead." I felt a pang of pain from the back of my head. Mr. Kruger then looked at the slight wound and then the book.

"Did you get hit while trying to steal that book?"

"No. I earned it fair and square... It's actually for you." I handed him the book. "Consider it a birthday gift."

"My birthday already passed." He opened the book and squinted after opening it. "There's nothing inside."

"That's because you're going to fill it."

Mr. Kruger closed the book and let out a sigh. "I told you already, H, that I can't tell you the rest of what happened after Eren left."

"Why not?!"

"Emotions are confusing, but in the part of my life that followed, there was a time when it all made sense...I could feel one emotion the strongest...it was the most painful time." The man who quarreled with the lack of emotions his entire life wanted to understand them. Still, at the same time, he didn't want to feel them again after experiencing one so clearly.

No wonder he considered himself dead.

Dead people don't feel emotions, do they?

I retorted what Lina said. "Someone told me that writing out what happened in a journal can help make it feel better."

"Why is that?"

"You can separate what you felt from what actually happened to look at it more objectively."

He took out a pencil from his coat and opened the book to the first page. His face stayed level, but his hand trembled with the pencil in it. When it reached the feeble page, he scribbled a few letters. His face shuffled like a deck of cards, exhibiting various expressions that I couldn't comprehend until it grew into full-on wailing. He threw the book down and covered his face with thin fingers—it was like a jail cell door. Through the door, I could see the bulbous eyes and rotten teeth all uncovered. It was a display of crude malice.

***THE SCRIBBLES***
 The letters formed a name:
 Grisha

After a few minutes of deep breaths, the skeleton face slowly retreated to normal. "I'm sorry, H."

"I'll take the book back." When I attempted to reach out for the book, Mr. Kruger pulled it back.

"I'll try it again. For you, H." His voice carried no compassion despite his words conveying it. The irony of the man was something that I could always count on.

A smile uncaged itself from my face. "My birthday is coming soon. Maybe the story can be a gift."

"This story isn't a gift to anyone."

I left the street-dweller to himself and walked back home, trudging through the decreasing snow. When I arrived home, I caught a glimpse of my mama cooking some lunch in the kitchen. She was baking bread; it wasn't the most luxurious food, but those were poverty-stricken times. We were doing our best.

The Dassler siblings came knocking at the door. Viktor was standing out first, with Lina huddling behind him. She must not have been comfortable asking for food from her neighbors. Either way, they came in and appreciated a few minutes of sustenance.

Too bad recruiters showed up at my door the next day.