Blue Glass

Manfred

Do you want to sleep with her?
Three days after that conversation, and the closing line still rings in my head. I chose not to answer that question because I knew that even if i gave the appropriate answer, my sister would always know that I meant otherwise.
I wonder if Lea has been more successful at keeping our relationship under the table than I have. Something tells me she hasn't. Her letters have been more strained, with undertones of worry and stress in the lines she pens to me, and just recently they've stopped altogether.
One thing keeps repeating itself in all her letters, though: We need to see each other again.
I couldn't agree more. Although I'd never admit it to anyone, I need a break from being a celebrity. Suddenly, the idea of signing one more Sanke card, of shaking one more hand, of accepting one more bouquet of flowers from one more starry eyed girl is suddenly abhorrent to me. Suddenly, the only person I want to see is Lea.
She's nine years younger than you...
Although she probably hadn't noticed herself, Ilse had said it with a touch of condescension, as if  she were indirectly chiding me for depending on a girl who, to my sister and I was barely a child, to make me happy.
I don't have very many days left of my leave. Already I know that I won't be able to come back to spend Christmas in Schweidnitz. And although I don't allow myself to dwell on it too much, it might be my last leave ever.
The last time Lea and I were together comes to my mind, a welcome and unwelcome memory at the same time. I remember how close I had been to spiraling out of control, to crossing the thin line between the soldier I was supposed to be and the man I wanted to be—and would be, given the freedom. I wanted nothing more than to kiss her until I ran out of breath, and then fill my lungs with air and kiss her all over again. The intensity of the feeling surprised and terrified me all at once, but the only thing that truly put the brakes on the whole thing was the idea that maybe she doesn't want you like you want her; maybe you'll only embarrass yourself; what if she doesn't feel as strongly for you as you feel for her? creeping into my head. That was what brought me up short: the fact that rejection was on the table and may as well be a possibility.
I suddenly felt like a try-hard, like an overzealous fan writing fan mail to a celebrity—and I had never felt that way in my entire life. Maybe that was why, more than anything else, I had torn my head away from hers, breaking the kiss. She had looked at me with a mix of confusion and disappointment, as if we had been on the same page; we had both wanted the same thing.
I was certain about one thing: I wanted to see her again. I could only hope she felt the same way about me. I wanted to have at least one happy memory to take back with me to the front, to keep me company in the darkness of my quarters, to sit next to me in the cockpit of my Fokker as I took to the skies to do what I had been trained to do my whole life: risk my life for the Fatherland.
I find that I miss my comrades from Jasta 11. I miss the long talks we used to have by the fireplace in our quarters, reminiscing about long and forever gone comrades, bringing their faces back to life as the flames danced and cast long shadows on the walls. I miss Moritz, my brindled Great Dane, who had been my sole companion before that party in the Black Forest, before Heinrich Schwarz unknowingly introduced me to his cousin, the only person that could ever supplant Moritz in my heart.
I only take Heinrich under my wing because if there's anything I can do for Lea in her absence, it's keep an eye out for those close to her. Her uncle is a Major in the German Air Service doing groundwork, while his son drifted around in various Jadgstaffels until he ended up in mine.
He's a mediocre pilot, and is the epitome of the coddled upperclass heir, fat and terribly out of shape, with a penchant for going out of his way for the sake of good food, but he's far from arrogant and entitled. The opposite, in fact. I often catch him sitting around when he's not flying, furiously writing letter after letter, his oily black hair falling in his face. He'll grow up to be a family man, I assume—when he does have a family of his own.
Lea has never once questioned me about my role in this war. I don't know what I will say if she does. I can imagine how disgusted she would be if I told her the truth; that I don't think about the person in the plane as much as I think of the plane as simply another obstacle I have to eliminate; another victory on my belt; another cup on my mantel. She would be absolutely horrified if I told her that I can't help but feel a savage rush of elation when I see the plane in my sights catch fire and go spiraling down. She will never understand how contradictory those feelings become when later on, I sit at the table and eat, and contend with the realization that somewhere out there lie another pair of charred corpses, felled by my bullets.
The opening notes of a military marching tune breaks the silence of this Sunday afternoon. I stifle a groan and part the curtains to see what I should have expected to see: a military band with bouquet after bouquet of Marshall Neil roses, coming to sing my praises. It seems that my dislike of being feted by people who don't even know me is just one of many other things I must keep to myself.
One thing is clear, though, as I straighten my uniform in the mirror and head downstairs to meet the delegation: I will go to Vienna.
I yank the door open a bit more forcefully than usual, whether from excitement at my decision or irritation at having to sign cards, shake hands, and smile at people once again. My mother comes to stand beside me, the Heldenmutter in all her stoic, silently proud glory, and as I plaster a smile on my face and shake the hand of the foremost man who I'm sure is responsible for all of this, I have never been more certain of a decision in my life.
Yes, I will go to Vienna.