Blue Glass

Manfred's Letter

June, 1917

I forgot all about Manfred von Richthofen until after I came home from visiting my mother in the hospital.
Svetlana had driven me over to see her, and to put it frankly, it hadn't been pretty. Klothilde Schwarz wasn't the nicest person on the block, even when she was in a hospital bed recovering from a near fatal cocaine overdose. Svetlana always used to say that she was glad I only took after her in looks, but I got my personality from my father. That wasn't a good thing, in my opinion, but it was much better than my mother.

"How are you feeling, Mama?" I asked as I approached the bag of skin and bones lying amid snow white sheets on the metal-frame hospital bed.
She turned to look at me—well, not turned,more like slid her narrowed eyes to one side to look at me warily.
"Are you still able to pay the bills?"she asked in her gravelly smoker's voice, completely ignoring my question.
I snorted. That's all you care about, huh.
"Thankfully, yes," I said coolly. "Any idea as to when you'll be able to go home?"
"Beats me." My mother scowled at me as she reached for the grainy glass of water on her bedside table. "They told me I would have died had the Russian not found me."
I bristled. "Her name's Svetlana, Mama, and if that's the case then she saved your life. You should at least show respect towards her if gratitude is nonexistent in your heart."
"Watch your tongue, girl." She threw me a spiteful glare, noisily sipping her water. "You're just like your father, always asserting your unwanted opinions."
If I was like my father you would be in the street whoring yourself out to random men for a pittance, I thought to myself.
"Heinrich and Uncle Reinhard send their regards," I said after a palpable silence. "I was at a party of theirs in East Prussia a few days ago."
"Hmph. That bastard Reinhard has done nothing to help me like he said he would. Sitting on his ass in Germany married to that woman and rearing that overweight son of a bitch he calls—"
"Enough!" I had raised my voice enough for it to bounce off the whitewashed walls.
My mother gaped at me, half in shock, half in defiance as I stood, my hands balled into fists at my sides.
"You can talk trash about me and Father and Svetlana, but Heinrich and his father have been nothing but nice to us ever since Father left. No wonder your life is in tatters—you're too bitter to appreciate the kindnesses you don't deserve that people have done for you." I picked my handbag up off the floor and started for the door.
"Rot in hell, you insolent wench," I heard her mutter from where she lay.
I wanted to fire back with a scathing string of curses that would shock even the most seasoned sailor into silence. I could even imagine myself sucker punching her in her gaunt, hollow cheeked face, envisioning the bones giving way beneath my fist.
Instead, I swallowed my pride and shut the door behind me.

"Do you know an 'M.v. Richthofen'?" Svetlana asked the moment I walked in the door.
The name came as a surprise to me. "Richthofen...?"
"Yes, you have a letter from him...or her." The look she gave me told me she expected me to tell her.
"Let me read the letter and I'll tell you everything," I promised her, taking the crisp white envelope she handed me and taking the stairs by twos to my room.
I vaguely remembered the conversation I had had with Manfred Von Richthofen, Germany's highest scoring ace. I never imagined, however, that he would bother getting my address. From whom, I had no way of knowing, but I honestly didn't mind.
I carefully slit the envelope and unfurled a piece of paper, neatly folded into a rectangle.

(After many crossed out starts) Lea,
Your uncle gave me your address; that's how I know it. (Series Of crossed out words) I feel like our conversation at your uncle's party was too short for my liking.
If you should know, Heinrich is going back to the Front with me tomorrow; he sends his regards.
I would advise you, if you do reply to this, that you send it to "Rittm. Von Richthofen, Western Front;" I'll be more likely to see it then.
Manfred

He sounded so sincere it just about melted my heart.
I read the letter over about five times for good measure before going to my bedside table and taking out a single sheet of paper and a fountain pen from the drawer.

Manfred,
Many thanks for the letter. To tell you the truth, I too wish we had gotten properly acquainted with each other at my uncle's party. I hope you continue to be successful in everything you do for your country in these times.
Lea S.

It was short, succinct, and to the point, and smacked of nothing but cordiality—all things I wanted my first letter to Manfred von Richthofen to be imbued with. I carefully folded the paper into a square and tucked it into an envelope at the back of my drawer. Sealing the envelope, I turned it over and carefully addressed it as Manfred had dictated in his letter: Rittm. Von Richthofen, Western Front.
"So who is this Richthofen?" Svetlana asked, breezing into the room with a basket of clean laundry. "Is it a man or a woman? What did they want with you?"
Come to think of it, I was surprised she hadn't jumped at the last name already, being the aviation fanatic that she was.
"It wasn't for me." The words tumbled out of my mouth faster than I thought they would. "I returned it to the sender."

Later on, as I walked to the imposing building of Sonnemann and Co., I wondered why on earth I had lied to Svetlana, whom I normally told everything to, over such a trivial matter. I didn't even know Manfred; there was no reason for me to be hiding anything from her.
Then why did I feel the urge to keep it a secret?
I flashed the guard at the gate a small smile in response to his lazy wave as I took the stairs to the double doors by twos.
My colleagues, Amalie and Luise, were loitering in the spacious hallway when I walked in; they both looked up when I entered.
"Guten Morgen, Lea," Amalie said. Luise, morose and brooding as ever, grunted in acknowledgment.
"Good morning." I looked around, expecting our taciturn supervisor, Helmuth Weber, to emerge from his office at any moment and chide us for not being productive.
"He's not here yet," Luise said, as if she had read my mind. "We're just waiting here for him."
I shrugged. "Is there coffee?"
"Ersatz coffee, yes." Amalie pointed down the hallway. "Help yourself."
I thanked the two of them and started down the hall at a brisk walk.
Even as I filled my ceramic mug with the bitter brown liquid, my thoughts continued to wander back to the blond Uhlan with the piercing blue eyes.
I had swung by the post office and mailed the letter on my way here. I wondered if he thought my letter was too short to be considered a decent conversation continuer. What if it didn't reach him? What if he had forgotten he even asked for my address? Despite the fact that we had barely spoken to each other, the thought of him not finding me interesting to talk to after this single letter exchange rankled me.
I took a sip of the bitter liquid and winced out of habit. We Austrians had been drinking ersatz coffee for far too long to care about the taste—and so had the Germans we were allied with, I supposed. The war was depleting us fast, literally forcing us to go to extremes to keep fighting, especially those on the home front, such as civilians like us.
"Schwarz!" A deep voice rumbled from behind me. "It takes that long to drink a cup of coffee?"
I jumped and turned around, dregs of dark liquids sloshing over the edge of the cup and onto the pristine white tabletop as I moved.
Helmuth Weber looked every bit the enigma in his black daytime suit and polished black dress shoes. He looked his hooked nose down at me from his wire rimmed spectacles.
"I'm sorry—" I began, but he held up a hand, effectively silencing me.
"Get to work. We're planning another out of the country tenure and if we're to get everything arranged in time the paperwork needs to be sent out immediately."
"Yes sir," I said as I headed past him to the small door on the left that led to my otherwise dismal workspace. Unlike Amalie or Luise, I didn't have pictures of my family—or, in Luise's case, my children—up on the walls or on the desk, just a plaque with a wilting lily engraved onto it that was supposed to be "aesthetically pleasing" according to the peddler that sold me it.
My tongue sore from the scalding sip of ersatz coffee I had taken, I sat down and, fountain pen in hand, hunched over the first set of papers on my desk.

A/N: Guten Morgen is "Good Morning" in German FYI
thanks so much for reading this far 💖
Also a special shoutout to 43Papyrus43 (they probably think I'm so clingy from all the shoutouts I'm giving them but IDC TBH u deserve it fam) thank u so much for your uplifting comments and support 💖