Broken Wings

A Moment of Inspiration

Munich, Germany: 1945

One can never forget the Jew that Else's paintings touched the most. It was a single Jew, a middle-aged man who had lost everything. His entire family murdered before him. His eyes were a pool of tears, his throat a pile of empty sobs. A smile hadn't crossed his face since the beginning of Hitler. That is, until two strangers showed up at his door, with a diminishing pile of paintings stacked in their arms. The woman smiled, her hair blowing gently in the wind. Her husband opened his mouth to speak, explaining the pile of paintings.

They were painted by a dead girl.

"It's for you to take," he said, holding out a painting in front of him.

It was the eyes that got him. Eyes filled with hurt, just like his, so beautifully painted. And then the wings, curving upward with beauty, scars sewn together once again, but still visible. And then the quote at the bottom.

Sometimes, in order to survive, we must repair our broken wings and learned to fly.

Tears formed in his eyes just looking at it. It haunted his soul, making him cringe slightly. Yet he still took it, his hands shaking violently as it slipped into them. He set  it in the house, still watching the hurt eyes staring up at him. The man and the woman smiled half-heartedly, tears forming in their eyes. And then the man spun around, pacing into the house madly. Glances of confusion were exchanged.

And then he emerged with a coat and some leather shoes on.

"Come, I have something." His feet quickened across the snow, his hands painting the sky. Ansel and Johann followed, pulling their coats tighter against the wind. Footsteps patterned across the ground, numerous times before the Jew finally came to a stop. In front of a shop, one presumably owned by him. It was filled with instruments, violins and guitars and cellos all sitting precariously in the window. He swung open the door, motioning for them to wait. His fingers searched the counter for a single item, feeling the glossy surface for a rough object.

He emerged with a book in his hand, leather bound just like Max's.

"In honor of the girl who paints," he whispered, setting the book in Johann's palms. Mama broke out in tears, flipping through the book. It was empty. Like an empty canvas. The man nodded, turning on his heels and disappearing into the distance. Like everyone else seemed to.

He left them standing in the street, staring at his shadow in awe, words begging to be written on paper.

❀❀❀

They had all affected so many in so many ways.

Maximilian with his words. Else with her paintbrush. Mama and Father with their good hearts. Josef with his bullets. Hershel with his music. And Rosalinde with her bread. All bringing comfort, and, in Josef's case, loss, to those who were touched by their ways.

Rosalinde curled up with a woolen blanket in her bed, recalling all of the events which had struck her heart over the past year. Her mind flooded with images of her family, death buried in their eyes, driving away in a cattle train to their graveyard. She imagined the Jew, and the night she first danced with him. His look of fear, and of shock, and his trembling cheeks that struck the floor with such gusto that it must have bruised the wood. She imagined his pale face, overcome with sickness, and the flames that bled down his cheeks.

She imagined the girl, whose paintings changed her life forever. The girl with questions and doubts, the girl who's heart was broken. The girl who gnawed on a loaf of bread every time she came to visit her brother.

Piercing eyes stared down at her, chilling her spine with each minute. But it brought her comfort, too. More comfort than one would have thought, just to have a reminder of her struggles. And of Maximilian, and of Else. She longed to reach out and feel it, to feel its grooves and textures, to feel Else again. Her spirit was in every bump and cranny, with each line and figure. She fell into a cloud of dreams, with the face of the Jew and the girl in every one. And of a violinist, his fingers soaring across the fingerboard.

The violinist. His dreams didn't come that night. Instead, he fought them away, allowing the wave of music to wash over him. His hands shook to a slow vibrato, the bow bowing gently over the strings. The song cried out in pain, its tune cutting through the air in a mournful cry. The painting lay fresh in his mind, pouring out into the music. He played for the girl, the painter and the listener, whom he prayed was listening above. Moonlight streamed in through the window, casting the shadows of figures outside. His eyes gazed at it, indulging in its beauty. The music kept on playing, until the moonlight shadows disappeared, replaced by sunrise ones.

And then we come to Else's parents. Their hearts were so broken, torn apart by war. And it all started with adopting a Jew. Their dead daughter, their dead son, and their missing boy, who was nowhere to be found. They had only kept a single painting, one that Else had never even shown them. One of everyone, the whole family, each one laughing and smiling. Josef's and Max's hands were locked tightly together.

It remained with them until their eyes shut for the final time. As did the words, and the bread, and the bullets, and the smiles.

The Jews and the Germans together have suffered. Suffered through betrayal and loss, through hatred and confusion, and through fire and war. Together it formed a story. A story never forgotten in the minds of millions.

Our story ends with

some words,
some paintings,
and some scars.

All left behind by
a Jew,     
a girl,
and some broken glass.