Broken Wings

Found Paintings

Munich,  Germany: 1945

They waited in the attic like a pile of forgotten clothes, dust collecting over the glossy paint. Her room remained untouched, as did Max's, merely a room full of memories now. But someone had to trespass eventually.

And that someone happened to be Mama.

She ventured into Maximilian's room first, collapsing on his dusted, frigid bed. It still smelled of him, like musty soap and cinnamon. Her fingers disturbed the covers, wrinkling it here and there. And that's when she discovered the corner of a book. She pulled it out from under the pillow, studying the indented leather. Slowly the pages turned, revealing the brilliant work of Maximilian Schüffen. His words leaped into her soul, her mind engulfed in his descriptions. Ansel smiled, flipping the pages back and forth.

For several minutes, her eyes scanned over the words. She laughed at his humor, teared up at his struggles, and smiled at his recollections. While Else painted, Max wrote.

Ansel smiled at the thought.

Sighing, she slipped the book in her apron pocket, heading towards her daughter's room. Dusty sunlight streamed in through the window, blinding her blue eyes as she strode in through the door. Else's room brought back memories, memories of a gentle little girl, who always had a paintbrush in her hand. Her bed was still unmade, the covers scrunched up and wrinkled, concealing the pile of filled canvases.

The paintings.

Mama crept toward the bed, hunching over besides it. A splash of red caught her eyes, luring her to the stack of paintings. She dragged them out from under the blankets, dust filling her nose. Emotion filled her heart, her fingers tracing the outline of Maximilian.

"You sure did miss him," she whispered, a laugh sputtering out. And then an idea came to her mind.

"Johann!" she called, still studying the shadows and textures of her daughter's art. Father stood in the doorway, his shadow cast against the dusty floor. His eyes softened with a realization. The paintings. He held his hand up to his nose, preventing it from running. He couldn't cry. Not now. Mama motioned for him to come beside the bed. Her eyes were lit up, glowing with pride and ambition. An image of two Jews lay buried in her mind, uncovered by the recent discovery of paintings. Two Jews, covered in tears and loss, standing in the middle of the road as they clung to each other in remorse. Remorse for not doing more to save their loved ones.

They had lost a daughter, and a father.

"I want to help. I want to help the people like Rosalinde and Hershel. They lost everything," Mama whispered, gazing up into her husband's eyes. He nodded, the words stuck in his mouth. But what? What could they do?

And then he found his answer. The paintings. Mama knew it too. They would help with the paintings.

They would never forget the Holocaust.

❀❀❀

A stack of paintings was cloaked in their arms.

The chilling winter air bit their cheeks.

They decided that it would be best to visit Rosalinde's home first, and then ask for the address of Hershel. The door creaked open before them, exposing a huge grin and a lock of curly hair.

"Hallo, Frau Schüffen und Herr Schüffen," she said, allowing them to escape the chilly air. Ansel draped her coat in the crook of her arm, Else's paintings outstretched in her hand. The one of a Jew cowering in darkness lay on top. Her hand flew up to her mouth, shock seizing her.

"Else would want you to have it."

Rosalinde nodded in thanks, her hand grasping the painting. It brought back memories of Maximilian and Else, both. She had a sudden urge to bake some bread. For Else.

"Danke. For everything," she whispered, setting the painting gently on the couch to be hung up later. Ansel and Johann smiled, swinging their coats upon their backs.

"Oh, und can you give this one to Hershel?" She handed over the one of the burning shop, swastikas engraved in the flames. Rosalinde nodded, setting it next to her own painting. And then they were thrust back into the cold, with Rosalinde waving in the distance, thrust back on their journey. Their journey of helping. The thought of it made their hearts pound faster. They were making a difference. Ansel and Johann strolled across the cobblestone, paintings stacked in their arms, the clouds dancing behind them. Their shadows led them to a home not far from theirs, to where a Jew had been hiding a couple of years ago. The Jew who had so graciously received bread, given by two Germans: a girl and a woman.

And they stood there now, with a German man instead of a girl, with a stack of paintings instead of a loaf of bread. Her knuckles cut against the doorway, sending a freezing chill up her fingers.

"Hallo?" a voice answered, smiling and cheery. Her face contorted with confusion, staring at the stack of paintings. Mama opened her mouth to explain, the words flowing out in a gentle manner.

"I came here with my daughter a while back, to give the Jew some bread..." she started, Father slipping a painting from the top.

The woman's eyes lit up with heartbreak, mixed with joy.

They walked away, their hearts filled. The frigid breeze played with their golden hair, as if it was congratulating them. Ansel felt her daughter's smile kiss her cheeks, her timid, lovely voice filling her ears. The clouds seemed to part, revealing the heavenly glow of the sun. A single store caught her eyes, it's brand new glass window sparkling in the light.

It was a Jewish store.

"Let's go there," Ansel whispered.

They handed the owner a painting, one of Max marching to his death. He broke out in sobs, muttering a series of thank you's under his breath. And then they moved on: to neighbors, and passersby, and friends.

Touching their hearts with a bit of paint and some passion.