Blue Glass

Lucid Daydreams

June, 1917

"I'll see you later, Lea." Svetlana embraced me for the hundredth time that day, her eyes moist. "Take care of yourself."
"I will. Keep your chin up," I said encouragingly, patting her shoulder. "Take care of Mama."
"I'll try my best. I doubt she'll be as cooperative when I go home."
I sighed. "She doesn't understand that these trips are imperative to me getting my salary."
Svetlana rolled her eyes. My mother hasn't exactly taken the news of my business trip to Germany well—typical whenever she heard I was traveling, but for some reason hearing the news of my upcoming trip the day before sent her into a paroxysm of rage.

"What do you mean, a business trip??"my mother bellowed, slamming her spoon down. "You can't go anywhere with me like this!! How dare you—"she broke off with a wild fit of coughing. Svetlana, ever the dutiful housekeeper, stepped forward and proceeded to vigorously pound her back.
"You're just like your father, girl," she croaked when her coughs finally subsided. "Leaving those you're supposed to care for in favor of some trivial matter or other."
"This isn't a trivial matter, you—" I was preparing to launch a volley of insults at her when I caught Svetlana's eye from across the table. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, her eyes going wide.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But there's no other way around it. I'm leaving tomorrow morning."
I pushed my chair back and Svetlana stepped forward to clear the table.
"You're just like your father, girl." My mother repeated as she threw me the dirtiest of dirty looks, slamming her fist down when Svetlana reached halfheartedly for her plate. "And I hope you end up with someone who can set you straight—the hard way."

"Forget about that old drunk." Svetlana patted my shoulder. "She'll lose herself in her usual haze of alcohol and drugs and forget you're even gone."
I sighed. "I hope you're right, Svetlana. Forgive me. I've been such a bother to you lately."
"You're my friend." Svetlana's gaze softened. "I don't hold anything against you."
We embraced one last time. I picked my suitcase up, and with a final wave at Svetlana, I hopped onto the train and proceeded to make my way to the utmost back of the first class cabin, where most of the buyers from Sonnemann Wines were sitting.
Seeing as there were no empty cars available, I slid into one occupied by a nice enough colleague of mine, Arthur Just.
"They let you go, too?"he asked, incredulity tinging his voice.
"Yes, Arthur, they did." I folded my hands in my lap and busied myself with smoothing my crumpled train ticket out on my thigh.
The train screeched as it pulled out of the station. Since Arthur had the window seat, pressing my face to the glass and watching the scenery go by like I usually did whenever I took the train wasn't a option. Instead, I pulled a worn romance novel that Svetlana had taken from my mother's room out of my handbag and turned to the page I had marked in it. And all the while, I tried to convince myself that I was just excited to be traveling to Germany and not excited at the prospect of possibly seeing Manfred again.

The trip to Berlin was mercifully short—we arrived there at about 5 in the evening. I was in the middle of reading a sex scene between the main character—einen Deutsches mann, the point of which the book placed considerable emphasis on—and a Herero woman, a neger, when the train screeched to a halt, and the roar of voices talking at once inside the cavernous train station in Berlin engulfed the once silent car.
I politely tapped Arthur awake as I stashed my novel haphazardly into my handbag and swung my sparsely packed suitcase down from the luggage rack. I thankfully made it to the door as everyone was still rousing themselves from their seats or being tapped awake by the people next to them. Spare me the arduous walk with everyone else; I preferred to get to the Hotel Continental on my own terms—that is, after I had done a bit of sightseeing.
As I wriggled through the throngs of people on the platform, curbing the urge to power my way through the crowd using my suitcase as a club, I saw a souvenir stand set up at the entrance. My first instinct was to ignore it and press on out of the station and to the hotel, but a stack of books being sold with a red triplane emblazoned on the front of each pulled me up short. Maybe it was the color; maybe it was the fact that the thought of Manfred was too omnipotent in my mind and had led me to jump at anything having to do with planes or aviation. At any rate, I slowed and made my way back to the stand, where I nodded amicably to the man standing behind the table and picked up a copy of the book, squinting at the cover.
Der Rote Kampfflieger—Manfred von Richthofen.
I immediately tore my gaze from the cover and forced myself to look at the rest of the contents on the table. Everything else was pretty much "bah, humbug", except for a stack of Sanke cards at the end of the lineup of merchandise. My heart began to race and flutter against my ribs as I picked up a card and stared at it.
Was it...? With his hooded eyes, picture perfect mouth, and chiseled jaw...yes it was. It had to be.
My suspicions were confirmed by the tiny type at the bottom of the card.
Unser erfolgreicher kampfflieger, Rittmeister Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen.
"May I have these two?" I asked the salesman, who was now looking at me warily.
"Of course," he said. I handed him the cash and he counted it and waved me off without so much as a "good day."
I waited until I was safely out of the station to lean against the nearest street lamp post to feast my eyes on the Sanke card of Manfred in my hand.
If he was beautiful in real life, the photographer who had taken his picture in this particular photo really had a knack for playing with light. Manfred looked every bit the resolute warrior dedicating his life to the Fatherland in what I assumed was most likely a royal blue dress uniform worn to display the wide array of medals and awards suspended from the front of his tunic. I stared at the picture for what seemed like hours—it wasn't like I could do so when he was in front of me.
I would settle for looking at the picture all the way to the hotel, I thought as I hurried down the sidewalk. The book can wait for later.

I slipped past my colleagues amid their questions of "where were you" and "what took you so long" and climbed the stairs to the second floor, where my hotel room was—I was in Room 146.
I turned the key in the lock of the door once I found it and shut it behind me, taking in my surroundings.
The room was sparsely furnished yet opulently so. The bed on one side of the room had the most ornately carved bed frame I had ever seen; the mirror on the wall was also framed with an ornate strip of wooden flowers and vines. The room even had its own bathroom. Smiling to myself, I set my suitcase down and took a look at myself in the mirror.
I looked slightly travel weary, but not so much that I looked unkempt. The braid Svetlana had done my hair in had frayed a bit, and the minimal makeup she had applied to my face was either gone or smudged. I tossed my hat to the floor and threw myself onto the upholstered chair next to the bed, taking the Sanke card of Manfred out of my pocket.
I'm not in love with him...am I? This is all temporary infatuation, right? He can never look at me; he's a nobleman and I'm just a working class girl. There's no way...
But the longer I stared at the picture, the more...the more I felt that yes, I really did love Manfred Von Richthofen, regardless of whether it was one sided love, or whether it was unheard of in the social circles within which he moved.
I lightly traced the lines of his mouth in the picture, suddenly overwhelmed by thoughts of what it would be like to kiss him.
We would both be standing against the railing of a bridge, looking out at scenery. He would tell me he loved me and that he didn't want to be with anyone else. I would stand on the toes of his boots to give myself some added height...
I shook my head. No, this wasn't happening. I couldn't possibly be thinking this way.
Still...
...he would place his hands on the back of my head, tilting my face at an angle. I would grip his shoulders and look deep into his eyes. Then he would lean forward, coming closer and closer until his perfect features blurred and my eyelids fell shut...
No. No. Fucking no.
I leaped off the bed and shoved the book beneath my pillow, followed by the postcard.
I didn't love Manfred. He was nothing but a friend to me, and possibly even less than that.
His lips were like liquid fire against mine, the torrent of sensations sweeping me off the floor and tossing me about like a shipwrecked sailor. Shocked, I pulled away only for him to lean after me and kiss me even harder and more passionately than before. There was a metal railing behind us; he began walking backwards until I was pressed against it.
The entire inside of my body was on fire, like there were a million butterflies loose inside me. I clung to him harder and harder as his tongue entered my mouth. I tasted his tongue, his lips, his saliva, letting my jaw drop further....
"Manfred," I whispered to the empty room. "Manfred—"
We fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs, his weight alarmingly sensual as it pinned me to the cement. He continued to kiss me, and I him, until my body was no longer made of flesh and blood, but burning hot fire and excruciating desire for him—
A loud knocking at the door to the room snapped me out of my...dark thoughts. Shaking myself, I sprinted to the door and shoved it open.
"You're not coming to dinner with the rest of us?" Arthur sounded worried. "It's going to be served in ten minutes."
"Oh, yes—dinner." I managed a flustered laugh. "Right. I'll be down in a second."
He shut the door behind him and I shook my head once more;stuffed the Sanke card beneath my pillow, and went to wash my face.
I told myself I would never look at it again;never allow such erotic daydreams to star Manfred. I might love him, might lust after him, but he would never and could never return the feeling.
A/N: einen Deutsches Mann (A German man)
Neger: Negro
Unser Erfolgreicher Kampfflieger: our most successful fighter pilot
Der Rote Kampfflieger: The Red Battle Flier
***the Red Battle Flier was a book that the German publishing company Verlag Ullstein commissioned MvR to write detailing his childhood and his experiences during the war. He originally began working on the book after this point in time during the story but for the sake of the plot I had him already have finished it.