Lazarus's Tomb

6

Esteban stops reading. He thinks for a moment what it all means, is this real? He stands up, the chair creaking back, and heads out from the office. He checks on his daughter, who is still sleeping, but he notices that she tosses and turns a lot. Three times, he counts in his head in one minute. Maybe she is hot? He opens the window to let some air in and kisses her forehead. Facing her door, about to open it, he hears a low growl. He snaps around, only to find nothing there. He shakes his head. He really needs to sleep. If he doesn't, he is sure to collapse. But he can't stop thinking about the journal, who is this L.Z? What is he? What is his obsession with blood? What did he mean when he mentioned King Louis of France? Did he mean King Louis the Beloved? All these questions made him light-headed.

After drinking a glass of water, Esteban heads upstairs to his office. The journal is there; face open, the lamp's light flickering, and the laptop dead. There seems to be something off however, something a little different about the room. He shivers. It's cold, he realises. He closes the window, then sits at his desk, and begins reading the book. He doesn't notice that closing the window did nothing, while being transfixed on the journal; he fails to hear the creak of the window opening up all on its own.

1941, Berlin

It seemed like I was in that godforsaken shelter with those animals as long as I have been alive! Soon after the girl had stopped singing, the lights went out permanently. Everyone was scared and hungry and alone. In the early hours of the morning we heard movement; rocks and debris being moved above us. Civilians and wehrmacht were helping us, as during the night, during the bombings, a library fell on us, trapping us inside.

There was a hole full of light and a single hand peered through, I grabbed it. The man it belonged to pulled me through and I was hit by the brightness, not from the sun, but the light. Everywhere I looked, it hurt my eyes. It took me a while to adjust to how bright everything was. I saw the man who helped me from that cave with those animals. He was tall, remarkable handsome and was in a Nazi uniform, his swastika visible on his left armband. He was shouting in German, I'm not sure to whom, he was helping the others. I shook his hands; he looked at me with the same strangeness as the girl from the shelter did. But his focus, and mine, was distracted by the blast of a single gunshot. I turned around and found another wehrmacht aiming his Mauser at a dead man, smoke lifting out of the barrel. The dead man, I noticed, was a German. As much as I respected the Nazi Party and Hitler, even I felt a little uneasy in their presence. The wehrmacht I shook hands with was helping someone else through the hole in the rubble. I snapped my head again once I heard another gunshot. It's the same wehrmacht as before who killed that man. He had shot another person - an elderly woman. Were they saving them, or murdering them? I didn't want to find out. I sneaked away, moving as fast as I could without drawing too much attention to me. I eschewed the Nazis.

My sight began to adjust. I went down a street, and I saw the same fucking thing again and again. Death and destruction; people helping each other, the wehrmacht killing the weak, some crying, their arms held out wide, asking God why did He do this? Cars were on fire, buildings nothing more than a shell, an exoskeleton of their former self. And the smell of ash and death and smoke, I couldn't escape it, no matter how many streets I went down. The smell of black smoke was suffocating. I went down an alleyway; my feet and body unable to go on any further. I felt like I was about to die. I could feel death's grip on me, tightening its fingers around my neck, squeezing. But I was not scared. I closed my eyes and thought of Isolet one last time. I pictured myself cradling her in my arms, as I sat in a chair, encircled by the blood of my enemies – Russia, British, and the dirty French. After what they did to me, and their beloved king, I disown the French. I still speak their language and write in it, but that is the only ties I will ever have with them.

"Hilfe!"

It was a faint cry from a girl; the cry snapped me into the present. And the smell hit me. I was alone, no one looking for me, not even Isolet. I should've died in that alleyway but I didn't, my body carrying me away to the afterlife. I heard a rat squeaking. I looked down at my boots, and saw a fucking vermin chewing at my boots. I grabbed it by the neck and squeezed The more I squeezed the more the rat struggled in my hands, the more it panicked.

"Hilfe!"

The voice was closer now. Around the corner, my best guess was. I threw the rat against the brick wall, its head shattering; blood staining the wall, its body lying lifelessly near my feet, his dead eyes looking at me, brain matter everywhere.

Then I saw her.

"Kannst du mir helfen?" a young girl asked hoarsely, like she was a smoker; she was wearing nothing but a white rag, blackened by soot; her skeleton was visible, her lips chapped and her hair falling out. I moved towards her and then I saw it - a single yellow star pinned to her chest. A fucking polluted, unclean, ignoble, traitorous Jew! I spat on her, the spit landing straight on her nose, running down. She didn't flinch or care. She was used to the abuse her people did to her. She must have been wandering the streets for months now, every since the Nazis came and took her family away. She must have hid somewhere or someone helped her. But now she was alone, with me.

"Hilfe." She took a step forward, her skinny legs wobbling underneath her weight. I stepped back. She was not afraid of me, or my eyes. Maybe she thought I was some sort of angel that will end her suffering - now that I could be. I pushed her to the ground and lay on top of her, fear were in her eyes but there was no fight in her. I pushed her head away from her left shoulder, making her neck visible, and then I bit down, hard.

Her blood will not last long, I needed more. But it will do, for now. The girl was dead now. I pulled her head from her neck, with a small quick snap, it came loose. I removed the jaw and pulled the skin off and removed the eyes. Till in the end in my hands was now a skull, not my first child either. With my pointed nails, I carve the Star of David onto her forehead, reminding her she cannot escape being the dirt that she will always be.