Blue Glass

The Letter

May, 1917

I was tired.
Well,not just tired—exhausted was a more apt way to describe the weighty lethargy settling itself on my limbs. I no longer heard the clatter of the train's wheels on the metal tracks, no longer cared how many times the train stopped due to customary wartime security checks. I kept my ticket, now damp with moisture from being cocooned in my fist for the duration of the train ride, on the armrest of my chair to avoid being unceremoniously woken up by the portly ticket checker every now and then.
Beneath the tiredness, however, I was surprised to find a hint of joy. I had just come back from my most successful series of transactions yet, having bartered and haggled with some of the most prestigious wine companies in Switzerland. I had yielded Sonnemann and Co. a hefty sum, something I was sure to be commended for by my superiors. I was already held in high regard at the firm for being the youngest—and most successful—buyer they had, and this would only bolster my credibility in their eyes.
I could feel the train slowing down and sat slowly upright, my muscles shrieking in protest. The familiar train station of Vienna only reminded me of the arduous walk I had ahead of me to get to my house.
Even from where I was sitting, I could see Svetlana's ice blonde head at the forefront of the people waiting near the platform. I heaved my suitcase down from the luggage rack and merged into the sea of people now streaming from the train's doors.
"You don't look well," was the first thing out of Svetlana's mouth when I reached her.
"I imagine so," I replied, leaning heavily on her proffered arm. Then, before she could say anything else,"But wouldn't you prefer to continue this conversation at home?"
The streets of Vienna were mercifully empty. The war had turned the city to a virtual city of women, children, and elderly—most of the men had already been drafted.
"Mail from Heinrich arrived this morning," Svetlana said as we walked.
"Did you read it?"
"Heavens no. He's your cousin, not mine."
"Well, that's one thing to look forward to. How's mother? Drunk as ever, I suppose."
Svetlana sighed. "They took her to the hospital recently. An overdose on cocaine, I think it was."
I sighed. "More medical bills to pay, then?"
"Too many. You know, this would have never happened if your father would just be a man and—"
She cut her sentence short at the warning gaze I flashed her. My father was a sensitive topic for a good reason—even for my housekeeper. He had abandoned my mother and I after he met a woman on a business trip in Pomerania, and their affair had gone from platonic love letters to a physical affair faster than was possible, with secret rendezvouses taking place between the two both in Vienna and Pomerania. Eventually, it became too much for them to hide their "love" and they eloped. My father never told my mother why he was leaving or when he was coming back—she learned the true state of matters from a lady she once went to school with who lived in Pomerania with her husband. My mother had spiraled into a depression she had yet to come out of, suppressing all her anger and heartbreak with drugs and alcohol, abuses of which usually landed her in the hospital. I didn't have a problem with her detrimental habits—to each their own way—if it weren't for the fact that all her medical expenses came from my salary. That barely left anything for the cost of living, which continued to steadily rise as the war continued to drag on and on.
Svetlana and I passed a news kiosk with bold headlines screaming the latest changes, for better or for worse, in on the separate fronts of this war. As of now, the papers were mostly about Austrian and German aces that were distinguishing themselves in the skies above the bloodbaths in the trenches below.
We Austrians happily lauded our most successful fighter pilot yet, Godwin von Brumowski, while the Germans took pride in their ace of aces, Manfred von Richthofen.
Svetlana, being the zealot that she was, dutifully collected the pictures of Von Brumowski the government distributed, as well as ones of Von Richthofen whenever she accompanied me to Germany on one of my many business trips. I had looked through the pictures, square pieces of glossy paper known in Germany as Sanke cards, and noted with involuntary disdain that while Von Richthofen looked every bit a warrior, Von Brumowski looked more like he belonged on a pulpit or behind a schoolmaster's desk than in the cockpit of an Albatros.
Svetlana held the door to my house open for me. I ducked beneath her arm to enter and was greeted with the sickening stench of cleaning chemicals. I looked over my shoulder at her; she gave me an apologetic glance.
"I didn't want the first thing you smelled to be cigarette smoke."
I wrinkled my nose. "Your efforts are appreciated. You said there was a letter from Heinrich?"
"On the table." She heaved my suitcase off the floor and disappeared up the stairs.
I watched her go before sinking down onto the nearest upholstered chair, voraciously tearing through the worn envelope and unfurling the neatly folded paper inside. My cousin had, to my surprise, managed to retain his obsession with fastidiousness and cleanliness despite having to contend with surroundings that were the polar opposite.
Dear cousin,
I regret I wasn't able to stop by Vienna during my last leave and see you. I heard about what happened with Auntie lately from my father and I ought to have shouldered the burden with you. Nevertheless, I had a good excuse to be away at the time. I've been seconded to the German Air Service with Father and a few of his officers friends. I currently fly with Jasta 11, and me and some of my squadron members obtained leaves for ourselves not too long ago. Father is planning to host a grand party at his hunting lodge in East Prussia commemorating our move to the Luftstreitkrafte. He's hoping very much for you to be there, but as always, if you can't come, there won't be a problem.

I sat back into the chair and tipped my head back, staring up at the ceiling. I hadn't been to East Prussia in a long time, and the notion of a party sounded enticing compared to a dull few days' vigil by my mother's hospital bedside.
Suppressing the urge to yawn, I stood and went up the stairs to find Svetlana. She was in my room hanging the things in my suitcase up, and turned at the sound of my feet on the stairs.
"How is Heinrich?"she asked.
"He's going on leave," I said briskly, taking the blouse she had in her hands and proceeding to hang it up myself. "My uncle is throwing a party at one of his hunting lodges in East Prussia, and he wants me to come."
"Where in East Prussia?"
"He didn't specify. I can expect a telegram from him anytime soon, however."
I finished hanging the rest of my clothes. Svetlana heaved a sigh and got on her knees before my open suitcase.
"You aren't going to pack for East Prussia?"
I shook my head. "I won't need to. It's not that far, nor am I staying too long."
Or so I thought.

A/N: I'm going to use a lot of German vocabulary from the time in this story just to sort of build it up a little. They'll be underlined with their English equivalents at the bottom of the chapter. Luftstreitkrafte is German for the "German Air Force" which is what they called the fighter aviation wing of the German army in WWI.