Blue Glass

Master of Death

"...150,000 marks on the table by next week, Lea. Is that clear?"
Her words bounced off of me like water off a windowpane. I knew it, i thought. I knew you would say that.
I stared at her blankly, squinting through the haze of sickly sweet cigarette smoke at her, a wizened, shriveled figure wearing a plum peg noir. I took in her heavily made-up face, at her curled hair—a far, far cry from the shoddy, shabby creature she had once been, dressed in faded house dresses and clomping around in ratty house shoes. She was decadently smoking a cigarette out of a long, onyx black holder, her pinky finger coquettishly raised like a seductress at a bar. In her other hand she clutched a bottle of expensive French brandy, clearly bought off the black market. Come to think of it, nearly everything she had bought with the 150,000 marks she had amassed over these two weeks most likely came from the black market. It was the most logical explanation as to why she was now down to a piddly 500 marks—and it hadn't even been two weeks yet.
Her half-lidded dark eyes suddenly popped open. Pupils dilated and slightly unfocused, she fixed me with an irritated stare.
"What are you doing still standing here? Your boyfriend won't send the money on his own. Go call him! Now!"
It dawned on me as I made my way out of the parlor exactly what I had to do to end this all. I should have known my mother had no intention of ever giving me back my letters the day she took them.
I wasn't going to give her another penny. I couldn't bear the thought of picking up the phone and calling Heinrich. I had lied to him and deceived him twice; I couldn't do it a third time. Even if I did, i knew it wouldn't stop there. I would have to keep calling and calling, until Heinrich ran out of money and his entire family went to pieces. The idea of my mother ever getting tired of amassing money and material comforts was too far fetched to be a possibility.
I took my hat off the hook near the door and put it on my head, and draped my cloak over my shoulders. Svetlana came up behind me as I was pulling my shoes on; I noticed with a pang as I laced them up that their soles were getting thinner and thinner every day.
"Where are you going?"she asked.
"I'm off to do some shopping," I said—a white lie, if anything. Yes, I was going shopping, but today's shopping trip wasn't your ordinary excursion. I had a job to do; I had business to take care of. And I was doing it in the name of love and for the sake of a innocent man's honor.
Svetlana shrugged. "Do bring back some coal if  you find any. Three bags will do."
"If I find any." I stashed my hands in my pockets as I shouldered the door open, knowing full well that coal was the last thing on my mind. "I'll see you later, Svetlana."
The door squealed and hissed shut behind me, drowning out her response. I squared my shoulders and stepped off the porch and onto the footpath.

It was dusk by the time I returned home with two bursting paper bags clutched tightly to my chest, and an even heavier weight resting at the bottom of my heart, threatening to pull it down into my shoes.
I had deliberated over this option ever since the day I called Heinrich about the 100,000 marks. My mother's heartlessness, as well as her snotty extravagance, her made the course of action I was about to take all the more palatable the more I thought of it. Now I was finally following through with it, and so far I hadn't wavered.
So far.
This was the easy part, however—the preparation. Carrying out the rest of the plan, all alone and without any Plan B...that would be the real test of nerves for me.

Svetlana was on the phone when I returned, chatting amiably with someone in rapid fire Russian. She looked up as I entered and jumped to her feet, seemingly about to come over and help me. I vehemently shook my head and made a beeline for the stairs.

Premeditate: to think out or plan (an action, especially a crime) beforehand.

I carefully, quietly emptied the contents of the two bags onto my mattress, pocketing some items and shoving the rest beneath my bed. I methodically removed my coat and hat and laid them on the mattress. With my fingers protectively curled around the items in my pockets, I made my way out of my room.
Down the hallway, I could hear the faint sound of a scratchy gramophone recording blaring from behind my mother's door. My ears caught snippets of the song being played as I went for the stairs.
Wenn Dernburg als Repräsentant nach Afrika hin fährt...
I bit my lip, suppressing a snide laugh. My mother was listening to a wartime ditty, the kind that smacked of the prewar songs played at bars and casinos. The music was playing so loud I could still hear it as I went down the stairs.
...dann wird das Deutsche Vaterland dort nicht genug geehrt...
I reached the bottom of the stairs; Svetlana was nowhere in sight. I heaved a shaky sigh of relief and hurried into the kitchen, pulling open the creaky wooden door that led to the wine cellar.
A blast of frigid air hit me, and I gritted my teeth against the cold that seemingly chilled me to the marrow and rushed down the squeaky flight of stairs to the shelves of wine that lined the walls of the cellar.
Most of them were empty, wooden skeletons now—my mother's drinking problem had taken care of that.