Broken Wings

Grief

Munich,  Germany: 1943

The only thing that comforted the parents of Else Schüffen was the fact that she would be with Maximilian once again. They could only imagine the joy on her face when they met. Their faces were overcome with grief, a dark shadow present under their eyes. Friends and neighbors brought bread and coffee, a sympathizing smile spread across their face. Nobody deserved to have their child taken away from them at such a young age. And Else hadn't even been a Jew.

But she did sympathize with them.

The sobs had finally slowed down, occurring less and less. Ansel wrapped herself in memories, memories of her daughter, and memories of her son. She remained on the couch, filling her mind with these memories.

After all, it's all she had left of her daughter.

Josef finally came to visit on Saturday, his face stricken with grief. So much of him wanted to quit his job, to hide in his parents' home. He was a murderer. And it haunted him forever. Yet he couldn't stop serving the Führer. Hitler may have killed his brother and sister, but sacrifices must be made in order to save our country. Right?

That's for you to decide.

The Nazi stood outside the door of his parents' home. Rain poured on his head, crying in pain with each drop. Crying for the Jews. For the dead. And he was the murderer.

"Come in, Josef," Father said, his voice tight and choppy. Josef nodded solemnly. He wasn't even sure if his mother would want to see him. He had already killed Maximilian. And, in some small way, he felt he had killed Else too.

And it tore him apart.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral." It was a whisper, snaking across the room. Mama jerked her head, gazing at her son. Her mouth opened to speak, silence and air filling it. Finally, the words escaped.

"I hate Hitler." The words bled out of her mouth, staining Josef's ears. He could barely take it. Especially since it came from the mouth of his own mother.

"Mother, don't say that. Hitler didn't kill Else, a--" he started, searching for the right words to say.

"Nein, Josef, it was Hitler who killed our daughter. It was Hitler. I forgive him. Und I can only pray that God gives him the strength to realize his wrong doing."

Forgiveness. Something more powerful than loss and hatred.

❀❀❀

They sat on a marble fountain, surrounded by petals of love and hope, and a few sparse spring flurries. A Jewish woman and a German girl, brought closer by grief. The girl's face was colored red, a blotchy red scarring her face. There was only one thing on her mind: Else.

"I miss her," Myna whispered, her pale hand placed on top of the olive colored ones, belonging to the Jew beside her. The silky feel soothed her heart. Rosalinde squeezed her hand tighter, her only reply to Myna's statement. Their world seemed like a blur just then, a blur that they seemingly would never be able to figure out.

"If anyone should have died, it should have been me. I'm a Jew." Rosalinde blinked back the tears, forming in her eyes like bubbles that a child would blow. She felt guilt. Rosalinde felt guilt, too.

It seemed everyone felt guilt in the war.

"Nein, Rosalinde, no one deserves to die. Not like Else did."

Rosalinde nodded, forcing a smile. And then she remembered something.

Some bread, a gun, and a Jew. And a girl.

Her feet raced across the fields, Myna's stumbling after her. Purple and white flowers fluttered by them, suffocating to death beneath their powerful footsteps. The breeze caressed their hair, adding color to their pale and splotchy faces. Faces now filled with hope and determination. Myna felt the red splotches on her cheeks slowly disappear, replaced with a rosy color of the wind. Rosalinde's house waited for them, the sun setting gently on its side. The smell of bread drifted out of an agape window, enticing all who passed by.

There's one thing that we can always be sure about Rosalinde's house. There is always bread fresh in the oven. It's a miracle how she is able to afford that.

The bread practically leaped into Myna's fingers. It was whisked out of the oven in an instant. Unlike Else's bread, however, it did not crumble in her hands, instead remaining soft and moist, and scorching hot. A smile passed between the Jew and the German, for just one second, before they thrust themselves out in the thawing air once more.

"Where should we go?" Myna asked, her hands scorching by now. The breeze cooled it slightly, but they still burned horribly.

Rosalinde was just about to open her mouth to give an answer, but someone, or rather something, answered it for her. An elderly Jew crept across the street, carrying three bags of groceries. Her eyes were sick with sadness. Both Myna and Rosalinde saw it, and instantly made up their minds. The bread lay vulnerable in her reddened hands, stretched out before the Jew. Her eyes squinted in confusion, glancing up from the bread to its owners. And then she took it, feeling the light crispy texture in her own hands.

With such pleasure did she take a bite.

"God bless you," she whispered, her eyes smiling, for her mouth was too busy to do so.

And only then, did Rosalinde feel the weight of guilt lift off her chest. For being considered a noble Jew, and living in complete comfort while her companions starved out here. For being spared, while a perfect young Aryan girl had been shot. It didn't make sense, and it never will. Sometimes, things are never meant to be understood. And sometimes, we just have to accept that.

Myna. She felt a weight being lifted off of her chest too, yet of a different kind. She felt she had done her friend justice, and then Else hadn't died in vain.

"I feel better now," she whispered, her fingers intertwined with Rosalinde's.

"Me too."