The Wolf Ballet || WW2

32. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Thirty-Two

He did it again—he intervened despite every rational notion in his mind beseeched him to stop. To turn away, and let it go. If the anyone were to bring attention to the incident, especially to the Führer and his disciples there was no doubt Ophelia would become an ever-greater spectacle. It was apparent that surely now, the French refugee's presence would not go unnoticed. Practically breaking through the double doors that led to the widely vast gardens of the chancellery, Arthur slumped himself against the rough texture pillar of the terrace. Pulling his lighter out from his pant pocket he fiddled with the silver switch as he dangled a loose cigarette between his lips. Unable to get a light, Arthur eventually gave up and tossed the useless Reemtsma onto the soiled floor.

"Stupid girl" he muttered, rolling his eyes as he turned to lean his back on the concrete collum. Arthur felt he did the girl a favor in ignoring as he entered the ballroom. Of course he saw her, it was hard to miss those big wide eyes gawking at him, like a holland bunny hovering in the corner. Nevertheless, he was surprised to see her, after watching her leave the camp, Arthur assumed Ivan Haas would have had her hidden away until the war was over. Yet, it seems the girl did not wish to simply sit and wait. Arthur theorized that perhaps she had motive to move herself along the Nazis.

'Did she have family waiting on her? a lover or husband?'

She was young but old enough to marry. Women at this age only seem to want just that—at least the ones who can afford to love. Arthur had his fair share of lovers but never anything serious. nearly thirty, his reluctance to take a wife had raised the eyes of many of his father's coterie. Before any war, Arthur was too busy with his studies and his art. He often regretting not living as freely as his mother had hoped he would, but emotional romance was hardly his fortay.

None of that mattered now though, at least to him. As cynical as any sinful man can be, Arthur believed that finding love during a war was pointless. The chances of one or both lovers dying was always probable. There was no purity, no guarantee or rationality in putting yourself through the dread. Why take such a large risk when death reigns over you every day, waiting to carry your soul from the shaking ground. Arthur would not have it, especially when he knew in the end—he may not be so deserving of such a natural phenomenon. Thinking back on the night in the infirmary, Arthur squeezed his eyes and frowned. Locking his jaw as he was repulsed by the reflection that he saw of himself. The look in Ophelia's eyes as she cursed him, a mixture of brokenness and spite. Arthur, who before that night, believed that if he did not level his eyes to them, and refused to look at them--that they weren't there. The lives he was destroying and the hope he was reaping. His eyes looked at Ophelia that night and he tried to help but nothing he could do--no wound he may clean, would ever take back all the evil doings that were afflicted on Opehlia, and all other lives that were being destroyed.

Remembering the gravitational awe of her smile, the way she pranced around minutes before a show because she was nervous, collecting and accepting every stemmed rose from the crowd as they seemed to be her favorite. These were the moments Arthur had gathered from the films that he uncovered from the theatre. An Ophelia that was nothing like the girl who he dug out from the snow, who against his large chest was like a wilted rose, losing its petals with every touch. Even in the verge of death, Ophelia clung to him. Her unsteady and shaking breath brushing against his neck as he lifted her out of the ditch. It rattled Arthur once he realized her heart thumped to the beat of his. Her calm and accepting pulse had calmed his, at the time, accelerating heart. For awhile, it left him confused and angry with the world, he knew it was unfair which is why he took his place as the bad man, but even till now he could not rest. Not now that it was becoming more and more undeniable.