Beauty and the Beast

Day 29

Today is the last day before I get to go back to screwing the Czech girl. Between you and I, it'll be just like old times, no?
I can only imagine what our married life would be like if I had married you instead of Lina. For one thing, I know I would never have left the navy. Maybe we would have settled in Kiel, and you would give me those twins we talked about. I would come see you on the weekends and while I was off duty, and possibly when I would be on vacation you would leave our children with your mother and we would go while the days away in Berlin or Munich or any other big city.
I remember you telling me once, "Everyone thinks that Silke Weber is such a sweet, innocent virgin girl, when in reality her lover spends his vacations defiling her in her father's bed."
We had had a good laugh over that, do you remember?
The Czech girl will most likely let me do as I wish with her. I'm going to imagine that I'm 25 and not 38. I'm going to imagine that I am back at your house, in your father's bed, with you underneath me. I'm going to look into her face and see yours instead, your cheeks flushed, your lips parted, your eyes wide. Your blonde hair, wound in a thick braid. I'm going to block out her protests and imagine that they are your sentiments, your salacious words of encouragement which you only dared say whenever we made love in the dark.
I'm going to run my hands all over her and imagine your fingers in my hair, your legs around my waist, your hips flush against mine.
Because once upon a time, we existed, Silke. It was just the two of us, Silke and Reinhard. I loved you, and you loved me, and for two years, no one could take that away from us. And no one did—our undoing was all because of ourselves.
Maybe if I had remained faithful to you, it would say "Silke geb. Weber" above the door to my house beside my name instead of "Lina geb. Von Osten." Maybe if you hadn't told your father, I would eventually have had the peace of mind to call off the engagement and go back to you.
So you see, we are both duly responsible for the fact that we are now worlds apart.
I love you, Silke. More than anything else, I love you. I would do anything to see you again, and although I have the means to, I cannot bring myself to raise a hand against you.
I have two photos of us left from my extensive collection—at the last moment, I spared them. It was my favorite one of us—a friend of mine took it of us in Kiel when we were spending time with him and a few others.
We stand together, facing the camera. I am wearing my navy uniform; you are wearing a white dress with multicolored flowers at the hem that I gifted to you the day you arrived at Kiel. I have my arm around you, my fingers curled around your elbow, holding you to me discreetly. The other one is it the two of us at the bar where we first met, also taken by another friend of mine who knew about our relationship. I am wearing civilian clothes this time. The two of us sit at a table in the back, a foaming mug of beer between us. I am staring at the camera, whereas you either don't seem to notice that you're being photographed or you're too preoccupied to care. Your lips are glued to my cheek, your hands clasp mine. You're sitting on my lap, despite that there are plenty of chairs.
"Reinhard is the best chair I could ever ask for," you said jokingly after my friend lowered the camera. "The others are all uncomfortable."
As the years have passed, my need for you has only grown, never lessened. The void in my heart that remained after you took that piece with you has become a wound that will not scar over. I suppose it's fair to say that when I lost you, I lost a part of myself as well.
I love you, always and forever. Never forget that. And know that I will always be there for you, in light, in shadow. You can make the whole world your enemy, and I would still open my arms to you with all my heart.
Come back to me one of these days; it has always been so painful without you, and thinking of you has only intensified it.
Until then, goodbye, Silke.
Reinhard Heydrich