Chapter 7
SERGEI VOLKOV
12th February 1933
Dear Diary,
Recently, I’ve been losing hope in that revolution. It’s almost impossible to speak to anyone. Klaus brought Ida over once, I don’t think he will do that ever again. Erik is feeling better – only physically. He was able to walk on his own again yesterday, so we went to the market together! I think he’s still hoping that Klaus will change his mind on Ida, I don’t know what to tell him.
“What’s that thing you keep writing?” Klaus put down a cup of tea onto my desk, snatching up my diary with a chuckle, “Oh, a diary? Let’s read this, shall we?”
“Wait, Klaus, you really shouldn’t-!”
“What the hell is this about Erik? What does he have against Ida?” He flips back a few pages, raising an eyebrow, “You’ve been keeping all of this from me? You and Erik?”
“Well it’s not like we-”
“Ah! This explains it! You’re a Jew! I should’ve known. You tricked me into letting you stay here, huh? You thought I would never find out.”
“I didn’t do anything!” I backed up against a wall, where Klaus hit me swiftly across the face with my diary. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to write poetry!”
A hand crept around my throat with a grip of steel and suddenly I started to lose feeling in my limbs, the world around me becoming a blur, “Wait... Wait, I...” I spluttered and choked, as he let go and pushed me to the ground. His foot met my side and he stomped away, throwing the diary back at me.
It took many attempts to get my breath back, as if Klaus’ hand still lingered, to teach me a lesson. God really does have some strange tests of faith.
*~*
ERIK STERN
“Klaus, what was that sound?”
“Don’t talk to me, you homo. You can walk, so go home.”
The floor seemed to drop from below my feet and my stomach churned.
“W-what? What did you call me?”
Klaus shoved me away, narrowed eyes and clear look of disgust in his eyes, “You’re a homo. Get away from me. I’m not letting you kiss me.”
Sergei. That idiot. Why the hell did I trust him?
“So Sergei told you? Well he’s a J-!”
“I know he is. I think he’ll get the message to leave now as well. Unless he’s as much of an idiot as you are.”
“What? Wait, Klaus, tell me what happened! I swear, I don’t care that you and Ida are together!”
“That’s not what Sergei wrote in his diary. You’re in love with me, aren’t you? Why are you my friend? You know I don’t like your kind.”
“Because I do love you. Even if you believe in all that Nazi stuff... I know you don’t feel the same. I’ll accept that. Give me a chance... Please...”
Klaus shook his head and slammed the door behind him. I wanted to be sick, I don’t know when it started, but big, choking tears rolled down my face as I buried my face in his pillow, the comforting smell of his shampoo, of pine forests. I was the idiot.
“Erik?”
The fabric on my back shifted up and down, I turned to see Sergei frowning at me.
“Erik, will we be okay?”
A pulsing ache reawakened in my joints as I shifted myself to sit up.
“I don’t know. You should leave. Go home, while you still can. I’ll be okay, I don’t think he could ever physically hurt me.”
I turned away, I couldn’t bear to face the bruises on Sergei’s neck. Could Klaus hurt me? Whatever the answer was, Sergei didn’t need to know.
“You’re 13, for God’s sake. Go enjoy your childhood a little longer.”
“You’re only 2 years older than me, I want to fight. Klaus and for a proper German revolution!”
“In 2 years, you’ll have wished you could’ve made the most of being 13. Put all the politics to the side for a moment. Be a child, Sergei.”
Sergei’s mouth curled into a small smile, “You’re talking like you’re about to die...”
Maybe I was about to die. I’ve been about to die all my god damn life, It would do me some good, to have it all over with.
“I’m going to take a nap, please go home. I’m sure that little boyfriend of yours misses you.”
The soft pillow felt like heaven against my head as I slowly drifted off to sleep, yet I could still feel Sergei’s presence. He was persistent.
----------------------
Petals drop to the concrete floors,
Flowers bloom too soon,
Winter was not over and yet,
You were forced to believe a different tune.
Bloody, bruised flowers,
Thrown away from a bouquet,
For they must all be pretty to be sold,
Don’t you forget.