The Wolf Ballet || WW2

29. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Hallo, Wie geht es Ihnen?"

"Freut mich, Sie kennenzulernen,"

"Ich heiße...Katrina Haas,"

Ophelia found herself staring directly into the overshadowed figure of trees as the rope of the wooden plank swing circled and untwined. Looping around as she lifted her bare feet off the ground, she straightened out her toes and lined her legs as she leaned away.

"Ha—llo, Wie—geht es Ihn—en?" She repeated from the beginning.

During her stay in the German capital, Ophelia found it was harder to learn a new language as an adult as opposed to learning one when she was ten. Polish came easy as she was still a kid developing skills, but now adopting a foreign tongue seemed merely impossible to a grown French woman.

Emmeline had stepped out earlier that morning, stating she had a few errands to run. The German socialite seemed nervous about leaving Ophelia, but the twenty-one-year-old assured her that everything would be alright—she'd have Leonard and Savannah, the butler and maid to keep her company.

Ophelia stressed as she felt the day of the summit had come in a spew moment. She wondered why Ivan waited so long to tell her about it, five days to learn about the wolves and their ambitions hardly seemed possible. Nevertheless, Ophelia figured it must have come as to surprise to him as well. Neither Ivan nor Emmeline seemed fully prepared, yet it was an occurrence that would have surely come eventually.

The wolves, the thought of the silly little name she gave them had Opehlia chuckle humorlessly into the heightening breeze.

Ophelia sat up, feeling the thick ropes of the swings press against her shoulders as she thought long about the predators that preyed on her even in her worst dreams. Still unable to forget all the travesties and malice that she has caught sight of.

Ophelia stared down at the cushioned sprout of green grass, enjoying the feeling of the freshly watered green between her toes. Pressing down on her big toe, she bent her knee and arched her foot. She then tried it with her left—her midfoot nearly turning into a perfectly lined "U".

Ophelia puffed out a relieving sigh, unaware how uncomfortable it would be to point her toes after so long. Standing up, she stepped away from the swing and waited. Staring down at her bandaged feet she extended her right leg, remembering her teacher's once-spoken words,

"Keep your lines straight, my girl,"

Madame's voice carried out to her as if she was speaking to her from within the tree.

Ophelia took a breath and focused, making sure her not to turn her foot into the thereby of her ankle as she winged her foot.

"Think of yourself like a feather pen about to be used to write an exemplary story—a pen whose lines are so never unruly nor weak. Whose soft feathers are although shaped and stiffly conjoined, also flutter freely once embraced by the wind.

Let it write your story,"

Ophelia shuddered, the hairs on her neck raising as the cold gust of air swallowed her whole. The cold temperatures of those days in Warsaw suddenly came back to her, and Ophelia could finally see the saga that wanted to compose itself into the grassy field.

She kept her arms and fingers aligned as she began moving with a croise devant. One arm rounded near her hip as the other crowned her head. Stepping forward she swayed freely on demi pointe. In her mind, she began playing out the image of a girl dancing freely in a place long before home.