Broken Wings

The End of the War

VE Day-   Munich, Germany: 1945

United States troops flooded the streets, like wild friendly beasts floating down the river of people. The day was sunny and cheerful, the sun warming the cheeks of those who inhabited Munich at the time. And for many Jews, it was the first time they had felt the sun sparkle on their faces. Not only were there U.S. troops flooding the streets, but tears too. Tears of reunion, and tears of loss. Rosalinde experienced both. Tears of loss for Else and of her family. Tears of joy for the Jew standing at her front door.

Hershel's feet paced back and forth with anticipation, fear rising in his heart. His violin case slapped at his thighs, begging to be played, to be bowed. A single question surged through his mind. What if she hadn't made it through the war?

Then he would be all alone.

His family was all dead, whisked away on Hitler's train. Rosalinde's family was all dead; although, she was currently unaware of it. But then the image of a sketch filled his mind. A sketch of a girl, a girl and a Jew, linking hands.

Else. He still had Else.

At least, that's what he thought.

The door swung open, a woman with dark curly hair standing behind it. Her mouth hung with surprise, tears smiling in her eyes.

"Is this Fräulein Rosalinde's house?" he said, a sly smile creeping on his face. Something seemed different about the Jew before him, something he couldn't place his finger on. And then it came to him.

The star. It was off of her chest, both literally and figuratively.

"Hershel. I... thought y-you died." She ushered him in, but for once it wasn't in fear. Sighing, he studied her new home. It smelled musty, somehow, though he couldn't place his finger on it.

Everything about her seemed different.

"It took me forever to find you. I had to ask so many different people." A chuckle arose from his throat, a deep one of pure content. He wouldn't be alone. Someone was still left. Rosalinde smiled, reaching out to hug him.

"I missed you," she whispered, "This house was so empty until Max came, bringing Else and Myna with him. And then he left..."

"Maximilian? Und Else? They were here? I still need to see her, but I--"

"She's dead, Hershel, they killed her. Just like Maximilian; they shot her," Rosalinde whispered, tears dripping like blood down her cheeks.

No. His mind would not accept it.

He was a Jew, the one who was supposed to die, not an innocent young German girl. His face twisted with confusion, tears filled with heartbreak flooding his eyes.

"Can we go to her house?"

Rosalinde nodded, the silence filling the air between them. The smell of fire, hatred, laughter and joy filled their noses, the spring air flushing their cheeks with color. Hershel stumbled across the streets with confusion, his mind only filled with one thought.

Else.

❀❀❀

They sat together in silence, huddled up before the fire. Glimmering stars began to show up in the sky, scattered about like sparkling dust. And the tears of those who gathered around them. Hershel arose from the carpet, grasping his violin case in his left hand. He set it down gently on the carpet, running his hands over the glossy scroll. It danced in his hand, held with grace and elegance.

"I have one last present for Else," he whispered, pulling the violin up to his shoulder. And then he played a symphony, a Mozart symphony. An Austrian composer. His fingers soared over the board like eagle's wings, just like Else had described. The melody rung in the air, bringing more tears to the eyes of those who heard it. His fingers didn't stop soaring; they couldn't, and flew over the fingerboard for almost an hour. He played the concerto over and over again, allowing the music to sink into his skin.

He finally ceased when he could no longer feel his fingers, nor his shoulders. Mama and Father smiled with content, the tears now flowing steadily out of their eyes. Their hearts were finally starting to heal from Else's death. But then came Josef.

He just disappeared. Along with many of his Nazi companions.

They were assumed to have been captured, and imprisoned in concentration camps not unlike the one Max suffered through. The pain returned, opening the scars on their hearts.

Mama opened her mouth to speak.

"Danke, Hershel. Else heard that." Rosalinde smiled, wiping away a tear from her olive skin. The silence remained between them until Father's voice broke through it.

"We haven't burned our Nazi flag yet." They all glanced at each other in delight, pure joy smacked on their lips. Now, they could indulge in the feeling of burning things. Now, it was their turn for revenge.

But in a harmless way, at least to the people; although, not for the swastika.

A torch burned wildly in Father's hand, crackling with a fiery wrath. They watched it shrivel before them, against the patterns of cobblestone. Slowly, the swastika disappeared, folding into the depths of the rest of the flag. This time, the tears came not from emotion, but rather the heat of the fire. It burned their eyes.

"God, please give us strength to forgive those who hated us, and please give them the strength to forgive themselves," Hershel whispered, gazing up at the evening sky.

Mama, Father, and Rosalinde all shouted an amen, watching the last flames simmer out, dying like the propaganda was, now. The concerto played through Hershel's mind for years after this day, his fingers still playing to the tune of Mozart. It remained buried beneath him forever, reminding him of the girl who loved the hated. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the overpowering aroma of smoke. It was over now. He was free. Hitler was dead.

But the damage Hitler caused on the hearts of Germans and Jews alike would never disappear.