Berlin, Germany- 1942
The basement was not really an exciting place, lest one managed to set off one of the various-in-sundry booby-traps (which there were, admittedly, quite a few), in which case it could be very exciting. And also rather painful. And one could not overlook the odd amount of anti-tank weaponry, aircraft and factory designs, a few fancy-looking models of some sort of bazooka, and of course, an abundance of odd-looking octopi with skull heads.
Mina had eventually figured out the significance of that odd ornament that adorned her uncle's car. Speaking of whom, for once, was home. Johann spent so much time abroad now, and if ever he was home, he usually spent the time working. That he was choosing today to resume her training in swordplay made it a rather unusual occasion.
She sat at one of the metal worktables, listlessly doodling on a blank pad of paper, few of Johann's words penetrating her mind.
"Wilhelmina!"
A solid "thwack" resounded as he struck her head with the sharp edge of a ruler.
Vexed, she prodded at the growing lump on her crown. "Was that entirely necessary?" she snapped, her voice raising an octave.
"Yes." He answered simply, snatching the notebook from her hands and removing the scribbled-on piece of paper, tossing it into the broad furnace. He gestured for her to stand and retrieved a wide, black record disk from a cardboard case, inserting it delicately onto a rather ancient appearing turntable. He set the needle onto it gingerly. A mezzo-soprano voice began to softly croon, and the famous aria from the opera Carmen echoed.
"I thought I was to be working on my fencing technique." She pointed out dryly.
"You are." He selected a saber delicately and held it up, examining it in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Mina slipped off of the stool she had been sitting upon and selected her own saber, stifling a yawn. She abhorred fencing, but her uncle insisted she be skilled in all manner of self-defense. Needless to say, she rather preferred target-practice. Pulling a trigger was so much more effective than waving a blade around and performing, albeit impressive, meaningless footwork.
"Why the horrid choice of music?"
He fixed his azure-blue eyes onto hers in a disapproving glare. He sighed and turned back to his sword which he polished with a spare rag. "It is tragic, how uncultured this generation is. Children are no longer educated to appreciate the arts but to worship pin-up posters of glorified new Reichs and Aryan perfection."
She glanced up at him. "I thought you were close to the Fuhrer."
"Was." He answered coldly. "Much like the children of this generation, I allowed myself to be overwhelmed and outmatched by the Fuhrer's artificial bravado. But, once released from his power, I soon discovered my own."
He lifted up his sword delicately, stroking it with his thumb. "Enough questions, now. Let us begin your practice."
XXX
Johann eyed her carefully, watching her movements. They'd improved significantly from when she had first started – merely a snip of a girl back then, her movements were shaky and weak, her frail body barely able to support the weight of the saber. She'd filled out a little since coming here, no longer resembling a bony twig covered in thin film of pale flesh, bones protruding awkwardly, curling brown hair clinging to a gaunt skull. In fact, it hadn't been too terribly long ago.
XXX
Several Years Earlier…
"She'll need ice-baths on the hour if her fever is to rise. See to it that she only consumes liquids, hot broth and the like. Ah yes, and a dose of Codeine before bed."
The doctor put away the array of glass bottles lining his briefcase and tucked the stethoscope into the side compartment, turning to look at the patient's guardian.
"And if her condition is to worsen?" his voice was gruff and unforgiving, the cold glare set in his azure eyes rather unsettling the small, owlish physician. The man pushed his small spectacles back on his hooked nose.
"I recommend you take her to the emergency room if anything is to change drastically."
"Such as?"
"Yellowing of the skin and eyes, vomiting or coughing of blood, delirium, seizures, anything out of the ordinary among her current symptoms."
"And you are certain she will recover?"
The doctor sighed, cracking his knuckles against his case earnestly. "I am certain of nothing, Herr Schmidt. A girl with such a broad and complex medical history as this child? Anything could happen. The child has been through the ringer already, but I fear the worst is yet to come." He made for the door. "I will be on call for the remainder of the evening. Please alert me if she is to take a turn for the worse."
Johann said nothing; he merely probed at the seams of his mask, watching as a servant escorted the physician away.
Many a doctor had passed through the doorway of his home, and they all had said something akin to that. A girl like her, always ill, always weak, no telling if she'll live.
The words seemed to haunt him daily. He glanced downward at his watch. He was only mere hours away from his departure to Iceland and here his niece was deathly ill. Although it pained him to watch her suffer, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. The child was a constant roadblock, always sick, always weak, always breaking bones.
There hadn't been a single business trip where he hadn't been called home halfway into a vital project because no one could say for sure if the girl would make it through the night. And yet she always did.
It wasn't that he didn't have any affection for the child – he adored her charms, the hint of cockishness in her voice. Her personality was the feature that gave her frail, sickly-looking appearance life and color. But the overwhelming amount of care she required was…. Well, put delicately, her timing could use some minor improvements.
He crossed into the living room, eyeing the crackling fire in the hearth with some disgust.
"Sophia!"
His voice echoed sharply across the room, the little maid hurrying in, a silver tea-tray balance precariously in her arms.
"Ja, Mein Herr?" her voice barely above a whisper.
"Why is this here?" he answered pointedly, glaring at the fire.
"Fraulein Mina was cold, Mein Herr. I started a fire for her so that she might be warmed up. I can put it out if you like."
"See to it that it is done." He strode past the maid, barely acknowledging how she ducked aside in order to escape brushing against his shoulder, the tea-cups clinking together loudly.
He busied himself sorting through a stack of letters, but a small voice interrupted him.
"Why don't you like fires, Uncle?"
He glanced down to where she stood, swathed in heavy bath-robe, her grey eyes sunken in, her cheekbones gaunt and skin pale. Her brown curls were damp, pasted to her forehead.
"Why are you not in bed?" he answered flatly, his eyes once again on the letters.
She rubbed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but a loud and raspy cough instead rattled through her throat, causing her body to shudder with each gasp for air. He sighed and knelt down before her, taking her into his arms, his gloved fingers stroking at her tangled curls.
"I could not sleep." She struggled for air as she spoke. Instinctively he pulled her tighter, feeling her little body wriggling against him.
"Meine liebe," he started but her whimpering silenced him. He grasped her chin lightly with his thumb and forefinger and gazed into her now tear-filled eyes. She gazed back up at him, and struggled from his grip, burying her head in his chest.
"Please don't go, Uncle!" she moaned. "Please don't leave me all alone!"
For a moment he stared down at her head, a part of him aching to give in to her, to stay and comfort the poor dear. The more influential part nagged at him relentlessly. Everything you've worked for has been stalled repeatedly for this child. You cannot hold off any longer or else it will be too late.
He sighed and kissed her head. "I'll think about it."
