Chapter 8
ERIK STERN
13th February 1933
Thank God Sergei listened.
I laid in the bed Sergei had stayed in before, to not bother Klaus even more. Last night, I found some of Sergei’s writings abandoned behind the desk. Some beautiful love poems, some horrifying violent poems. He was creative and clearly pained – or perhaps he was creative because he was clearly pained.
Sunlight streamed in from the window, rays of golden hope peeking through the glass panes. I sat up and attempted to stretch, the familiar ache returning.
Should I just end it here? End my story?
I had only just realised I had been staring at my scarf, then slowly picked it up, wrapped it around my neck and pulled. Pulled hard. Yet my body seemed to want to be saved, as no matter how hard I pulled, held my breath and hoped, I couldn’t die. I stumbled into the bathroom, almost tripping over every few steps, before rummaging through the drawers. Something here must be sharp.
“What are you doing, Erik?”
The whole world froze, or it kept moving, but I was unable to. My hand was placed on a razor in the drawer. But my eyes met Klaus’. I couldn’t let him see this. Even if he wanted to watch me die.
“Leave me alone, Klaus...”
“What are you doing with my razor? I’m not leaving you alone in my house. I know you didn’t run to the bathroom for an ‘emergency shave’. What are you planning?”
“Nothing.”
I closed the drawers and pulled myself to my feet, stumbling back down to the floor, until I managed to pick myself up again.
Klaus shut the door to the bathroom and turned the lock. He kept a strong position, blocking me from my escape.
“What were you planning, Erik? Talk.”
“Please don’t worry... I’m just... sick in the head, like you say.”
“Were you going to kill yourself, or me? That’s what I want to know.”
“Myself. Please, Klaus, don’t worry. Don’t... I’m okay. I won’t do it...”
“Why?”
“Huh?... Why won’t I do it? Because I-”
“Why do you want to kill yourself?”
My stomach shifted, wanting to leave this conversation without me. Heart beating out of my chest.
I muttered, “I don’t see a point anymore. I’m sick. I’m forever sick, I’m usually bedridden, I can’t walk without help, I’m suffering every day... And the only love I’ve ever experienced is a love I’ll never have. I was created to suffer. And I’ve had enough of suffering. I wanted to join the Hitlerjugend to be with you. I don’t care for politics one bit, and I can’t even make it there, let alone do any of the training. So, what purpose do I have? To be a nuisance to you?”
“You’re not a nuisance. You’re sick. Sick in many ways. Sickness can be cured.”
“Not mine.”
“Whatever. I’ll let you hang around, you’re fun to talk to. Just no tricks.”
My eyes stared blankly at the floor, “So I’m just entertainment?”
“Erik, just shut up and get up. I’ll take you outside.”
*~*
SERGEI VOLKOV
“As promised! I wrote many poems, solnyshko*! I’m not sure where half of them went though...” I exclaimed, entering Andrzej’s room. He sat on the rug, assembling a small model, “What’s that?”
“Well... Soon to be European Bee-Eater. Not sure if I’ll have enough feathers to finish it yet though. I’ve been collecting them ever since I spotted a nest nearby. But continue, I want to hear your poems.”
The small wooden model indeed looked quite bare, but consisted of a few blues and greens on its belly.
“Well... uh...” I stared at my notebook, the words of the poem staring back up at me.
“Thunder, lighting
reluctantly calls,
for the new future is frightening...
and... uh... and...”
I stared at my notebook. And the words taunted me, danced around the page, blurred and jumbled.
“Sergei? And what?” His soft eyes guided me away from the words and to his comforting arms.
“Sorry... I can’t...”
Andrzej nodded and pulled me closer, one hand idly working its way through my curls, “Something happened? I told you it wasn’t safe.”
“It’s fine... It was fine, mostly... It was just one guy. I’m okay. I’m worried about his friend.”
----------------------
A quiet melody from the town square,
Quiet – for nobody is there.
No one to here, no one to play
The quiet melodies get louder today.
Whistling winds send off a bullet.
Too much power – in one man’s hand
Now there’s a no-man’s-land.
----------------------
*solnyshko – sunshine