Blue Glass

Adele

He has grown up.
That is the first thing she thinks to herself when she sees him, standing in her parlor in a field gray service uniform.
She remembers him when he—they—were young:blond and innocent in a sailor suit. Now he has grown into the very personification of modern manliness—muscular and strapping, with a finely chiseled face and striking blue eyes. Small wonder the public ate him up when he was first heralded as Germany's greatest hero. They had eaten Oswald Boelcke and Max Immelmann up as well, but not as thoroughly and wholeheartedly as they had Manfred.
The girls loved him.

Time and time again, I would hear his name falling from the lips of countless young Frauleins in the marketplace when I went grocery shopping. They collected his picture, wrote him letters, but only the most daring tried to see him in person.
I can't help but feel a twinge of pride whenever I hear them gossiping, all hoping to one day win his favor. I get to marry him one day, to have his children—and I don't even have to lift a finger.
My mother and his mother are friends, from what I hear. I've met his mother; she's nice enough, but there's a crafty, assessing look in her eyes that makes me feel more like a cabbage for sale at the greengrocers rather than her potential daughter in law.
She liked me—that is what my mother told me after she and her daughter, a tall, statuesque blonde named Ilse, had left. So much so, apparently, that three days later both my parents sat me down and informed me, barely hiding their apparent joy, that I was officially betrothed to the Richthofens' eldest son, Manfred.
I remembered Manfred from when we were children; he had always been a lot of fun, especially when he and his brother Lothar were together. He was quiet then around us girls as well; put together and reserved. He's the same way, only now his silence is attractive in a way only people our age can understand.
He is an awkward conversationalist. We talked the usual topics one talks about when initiating small talk—our families, the neighbors, the weather, goings on in town. He doesn't seem to mind that we end up repeating most of the same things we said in the last conversation in the next. Frankly, it doesn't bother me too much either.
But what bothers me is that I feel like he doesn't love me back. Yes, we barely know each other, except from our childhood and that doesn't even count because we only saw each other when his mother came to visit my mother, or the other way around. He has given me no reason to feel this way—during the times we've been together, he has been nothing but respectful and courteous towards me. But if he truly did love me...wouldn't I be able to see it in his eyes? All I see whenever he looks at me is just...nothing. Emptiness. He looks at me the same way he looks at the newspapers, at the crowds he signs autographs for. His eyes never light up the way the romance novels say they do when a person in love sees their significant other. His smile never reaches his eyes when he smiles at me. The gifts he's given me are all delivered through his mother or his sister; never by him personally. He has never stood behind me and clasped the necklace he's given me around my neck himself. He has never personally put a bracelet on me, the way they do in romance novels and silent films. He reacts appropriately when I thank him for the gifts, but...
I don't think he loves me.
Marriage isn't supposed to be about love: that's what my mother and my sisters tell me, at least. Marriage is about duty, about upholding the family bloodline: nothing more. If the two people involved end up falling in love with each other in the process; all well and good, but it wasn't expected to happen.
Still, it hurts to know that our marriage will be like so many others—bound by duty, not love.
I love him—why wouldn't I? He is handsome and gallant; everything I look for in a man.
I wouldn't dare to bring up the subject to him. He would get offended, and we haven't reached that point where either of us can talk with the other about anything. I assume most couples, in love or not, eventually reach that stage where they become so used to the other that pouring their heart out to them becomes second nature. I could well imagine myself talking to him in such a way, could imagine him listening attentively, nodding at all the right places—but I could never imagine quiet, aloof, emotionless Manfred reciprocating.

"It's been a while," he says once the two of them are seated across from each other. "How have you been?"
"Surprisingly well, despite the war," she replies. "I hear such interesting stories about your exploits from the newspapers."
His cheeks tinge pink. "It's nothing, really. I'm no different from the soldiers in the trenches; I see no reason for all the fuss being made about me."
Typical of him.
"I've read your book," she says, her gaze drawn to the hand he has loosely dangling over the edge of the armrest of his chair, his fingers discreetly clenching and unclenching. "I must say, I didn't know you were a man of words as well as a man of war."
He smirks. "It was ghostwritten. I had to dictate to a stenographer who then typed it up and sent it back to the publishing company."
She knew that already, but for the sake of continuing the barely buoyant conversation afloat, she played dumb.
He was talking about the publishing process, about how painters and photographers came to take pictures of him. All she could think about was how detached from the whole topic he seemed, how aloof and unaffected he was by it. Fame was a nuisance, could be a nuisance—but could he at least talk about it like he was actually talking about something and not reading off of a newspaper?
She realizes, as he shakes her hand and bows slightly to her in farewell, that she is no different from any of those frauleins in the marketplace, collecting his picture and discussing him with theatrical sighs. She has put him on a pedestal and has had him on it for too long—maybe that's why she is so disappointed now, she thinks as she watches him leave. He isn't all she assumed he'd be: romantic and attentive, and maybe that's the cause for her unhappiness.