The accordion man sat in his chair, he heaved and stared at the ground. His tired eyes had rings of sleep around them. He blinked away the exhaustion just enough to lift his head and peer up at his wife, who stood above him shouting obscenities.
Rosa Hubermann's face looked near explosive, it was a deep red, like sunburnt sand. In her hand, she clutched a shoe, her finger was poking through a worn spot in the sole. "What did you do, Saukerl?" she shouted, "Walk miles and miles for a week?"
The shoe was cast aside and landed with a thump, stopping at the feet of the blonde twelve year old, who stood in the doorway. She chewed her lip.
Hans gave a shrug, leaning forward in his chair. "I walk, it happens."
With a huff and a throw of her hands, Rosa marched from the room. A string of curses - Saukerl and Arschloch to name a few - followed her.
Hans closed his eyes and leaned his head back, looking ancient in that cold room.
The twelve year old crept across the wood floor and climbed into the armchair next to her Papa. She opened her mouth and whispered: "Papa," she reached out a hand and touched his old soft cheek.
One eye opened. "Mm?"
"Did Mama ever love you?" she asked.
A huge breath entered his mouth and then wheedled out. The other eye opened and both turned on Liesel. "Yes," Papa said, a train of memories ran through his mind.
***Hans Hubermann's Memories***
It had been a warm humid morning in an orange grove in Munich. The cool wind ruffled the hair of the workers, giving them all a mad look. The grove was located next to a small university, where students between the ages of 13-18 were permitted to work in the grove to make a bit of money.
One of these students, a young man, stood next to a particularly small tree. He was tall in an awkward sort of way and his knees knocked together, he looked a foal, fresh in the world and still learning how to stand. He was thin in every area, but his arms were still lean enough to be considered muscle. He held a basket in one hand and collected oranges with the other, being so tall he seemed like a giant next to the tree.
The sun was like a master standing over the working Germans, cracking a whip down on their bare skin, burning them. Exposed necks, shoulders and arms were doomed to be scorched by the end of the day.
Shouts and calls rang through the rows of trees, "More water!" or "Another basket!" were most common. But every now and then, on a particular hot day, the dreaded call of "Man down!" might come.
But back to our tall young friend. His name was Hans and his neck was burned. It was nearing the end of his shift and he'd been in the sun for four hours, picking fruit, carrying baskets, holding ladders still. Any number of job fell on him.
Right now however, something else would fall on him. He filled his basket the rest of the way and turned to take it back to the truck. But a bellow reached his ears, it came from above. He peered up, squinting against the sun and saw an object falling. Assuming it was a person he prepared himself to catch them.
Then he realized it was several objects, but that was too late. Hard unripe oranges rained down and battered his head, like angry birds. A hollow thunk sound came from a particularly hard one, that felt like a rock.
Hans grimaced and rubbed at his sore head. A loud snort came from the picker next to him, an older man with wiry hair and few teeth. The old man slapped his knee as he laughed. "I always knew you had a hollow noggin'!"
A ladder was propped against the tree next to him, no doubt where the bombardment of oranges had come from. Down the ladder came a short girl who couldn't have been anymore than 16, two years younger than Hans himself. She was a squat young lady, round faced and widely built, her shoulders resembled that of a mans. But unfortunately she was no lady.
"You stupid fool!" she shrieked at Hans. "You upset my ladder," she had such ferocity in her eyes that he expected a growl to follow every sentence. Her hands came to rest on her hips and she stomped a foot as a string of oh-so pleasant words flew out of her mouth. "Stay out of the way."
Hans looked behind her to see a 10 year old boy creeping away, a wicked grin on his face suggested that he had been the one to shove the ladder. The injustice of the situation made a bubble of frustration begin in Hans' stomach, but he burst it and gave the girl an apologetic look.
"I apologize, I'm too tall for my own good," he said, bouncing his foot. "I'll pick them up," he knelt on the ground and started grabbing up oranges from the ground.
"You're right, you will," the girl grumbled, marching towards a stack of baskets and throwing an empty one at him.
He picked one after the other up, humming to himself, just a little tune really. By the time he finished his hands had become stiff and his knuckles popped as he folded his fingers in.
Rising to his feet he carried the large basket to the truck, out of the corner of his eye he saw the young woman. He walked up behind her, somehow feeling brave and tapped her on the shoulder.
She slowly turned, her mousy hair hanging in fringe by her jaw. She opened her mouth, no doubt to say something rude, but Hans interrupted.
"Anything else, m'lady?" he asked, bowing low.
She must have never been bowed to because a great laugh like a charging buffalo burst out of her mouth and when he straightened she slammed her fist into his shoulder, doubling over with snorts and giggles.
He stumbled backwards and rubbed his shoulder, it hurt far more than it should have.
When she was done, she looked at him and stretched out her hand. "Rosa."
"Hans," he took her hand and she gave it a shake that nearly pulled his arm off. The young woman's strength both impressed and frightened him. He gave her a tight lipped smile and pulled his hand away quickly. Frankly, the girl scared him.
Hans wasn't a cowardly young man, he was just shy enough that it didn't take much to scare him, when it came to people anyways, he was scared of how people might affect him and what they'd do. It always came as a shock when someone was kind to him or showed any interest in knowing him.
