Broken Wings

The German Artist and the Jewish Violinist

Else Schüffen-   Munich, Germany 1942

Anticipation filled her stomach with each footstep on the ground. The image of the fallen Jew still remained in her, haunting her as she stood before the house where Hershel was hiding.

It took a solid three minutes for her to work up the guts to knock.

"Hallo? Oh Else, come in," the lady said, ushering Else in. She nodded graciously, gulping. What if he wasn't here? What if the Jew on the steps was him? After all, it would be one thing to have one neighbor hiding a Jew. But to have two? Especially on a German-loving street.

"He's down the stairs."

A breath escaped her mouth.

He was still here.

Else clutched her bag, feeling the textured canvas against her stomach. It itched horribly, but she welcomed it. Somehow, in some way, it gave her a little bit of comfort. "Hershel?"

The Jew emerged from the dark, his pale olive face gleaming in the dim light. "I heard you coming," he whispered, his voice resonating throughout the room. Else smiled, curling up on a pile of sheets beside him. Carefully, she pulled a stack of canvases from the depths of her bag. They waited patiently on the floor, waiting to be picked up.

We are always waiting, you see. Always waiting for something.

"Are these your...?" Hershel trailed off.

Else nodded, pushing them towards him. Hershel gently lifted one from the pile of sheets, the splash of colors hitting him in the face.

What he saw shocked him.

Blood and fire and swastikas, all haunting his brain as they jumped out at him. First, he saw a Jew, in a situation not unlike his.

And then a store, burning in hate.

A Jew, marching to his death.
            
A Nazi, a gun shaking violently in his hand.
            
And then a man, disappearing into the depths of the street.

Hershel stopped there, allowing the paintings to soak in. Could a little girl really have seen all of this?

Oh, but she did. She saw it with her own eyes.

The thought of that still haunts him.

"They're all so... real."

"I know. They scare me."

"Come, I want you to hear something," Hershel said, disappearing into the depths of the shadows. Before Else could grasp what he was saying, he returned, a violin case clutched firmly in his hand. He set it down gently on the floor, unbuckling the leather case. A beautiful instrument emerged, its reddish wood sparkling in Else's eyes. The bow was equally as stunning, the frog coated in glinting marble.

And oh, words cannot describe the sound that came out of that instrument.

He held it so beautifully, the instrument snug against his chin and shoulder. His face was held in pure concentration as the notes soared over his head. The sound vibrated throughout the basement, resonating in Else's ears. His bow would soar over the strings, like an eagle flying over the clouds. Else stared at him in awe. He continued playing for endless minutes, allowing the music to soak into her skin. Finally, when his bow flew off the strings, words were spoken.

"It's... beautiful."

Indeed, it was.

❀❀❀

Rosalinde.

They hadn't visited her in weeks.

"What should we do today?" The question came out of Myna's lips, as usual.

"We haven't visited Rosalinde in a while." It was decided. They would visit Rosalinde.

She answered the door right away like always, her hair worn in a curly brunette braid. Little curls fell to her neck, framing her face. "Girls. Come in."

Else breathed in, taking in the musty smell of her new home. She longed to step foot in Rosalinde's old home, to indulge in its grandeur. Before the Nazis burned it down.

"What did the Nazis do when they burned down the house near theirs? Did they choke on the smoke?" Myna blurted out, a smirk spreading across her face.

"I don't know. You'd have to ask them." Rosalinde smiled, the curve spreading across her face. She quickly ushered the girls to the kitchen, bread emerging from the oven.

The wonders of Rosalinde.

"So tell me, how have you two been?" she asked.

Else blurted out everything, the thoughts pouring out of her mouth. She spoke of her father, of her memories, and of her paintings. And of course, she spoke of Hershel. Myna nodded along, patiently waiting for her turn.

At the mention of Hershel, Rosalinde gripped her chair, her face covered in shock. "Hershel? The violinist? Dark hair, olive skin?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly.

"Rosalinde. Most Jews have dark hair and olive skin," Myna pointed out.

"Ja, that's him. Why? Do you know him?"

"He's still alive. I thought he-he... died. We knew his family, quite well actually. And then they took his family away. Just like mine." Tears came to her eyes, clearly visible in the light. Myna and Else sat in silence, bread waiting before them. Finally, Myna reached over the table, tearing a chunk off. She chewed on it like a quiet little mouse who had forgotten how to squeak. It was Else who eventually spoke.

"You knew Hershel?"

Rosalinde nodded.

"I can bring you to him."

"Nein, people would get suspicious. After the war, if he lives, I'll see him then." She smiled solemnly, passing the plate of bread closer to the girls. The taste filled Else's mouth, its spongy texture almost melting on her tongue. She thought of the first time they had bread at Rosalinde's house. The bread was much better then, especially after coming straight from the oven. And then she thought of the first meal with Maximilian. His chair was always across hers, then and now. The plate of food lay before him, the steam no longer flowing from it. It remained untouched, not a single disturbance visible in it. His eyes were filled with fear, fear and loss, staring down at the plate of food. It was then that Else wondered: what had this boy been through?

Her question was never really answered.

The memories seemed so real, as if they occurred yesterday. If only they occurred yesterday.

Then maybe things wouldn't have been so hard today.