Broken Wings

The Swastika

No matter how hard she tried, the swastika would not disappear.

She saw it on her brother's arm.

Across the street.

Just outside her own kitchen window.

She even saw it in her parents' eyes. The propaganda was everywhere; the swastika on the flags was a blatant reminder of Hitler and his words. Else merely wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and let it all disappear. She wanted the swastika in her parents' eyes to disappear. She wanted the innocence in Maximilian's eyes to disappear. Maybe then she wouldn't have to choose. Maybe she wouldn't have to choose between her Jewish brother and an anti-Semitic society.

But then again, the swastika was innocent as well, right? Sure, it brought along a hint of war. But wars are necessary to create peace. I cannot say that Else didn't see the trail of horrors that would soon befall her. Yet the answers weren't exactly in front of her, either.

The door to the kitchen creaked open, bringing sounds of heavy footsteps and shrieks of joy to Else's ears. Aromas of broth and bread filled her nostrils. Her back started to ache from leaning back in a cold, wooden chair for so long, waiting with her parents for dinner. She felt Maximilian's warm, wide arms draping around her, finally returning home from work.

And when she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw were his eyes, flecked with hazel-brown specks. Flecked with love. Flecked with innocence.

"Hallo, sweet pea." Smiling, he tweaked her chin and rushed to sit across from her. Josef sauntered in after him, the swastika staining his arm, covering up all the innocence Else saw in Max's eyes.

He brushed past Maximilian, averting his eyes and looking out the window towards the few people bustling on the streets. His bright blue eyes pierced through Else's, holding a sort of significance that she couldn't place her finger on.

"How are my sons? It has been quite some time since we have all eaten together," Mama said, setting a bowl full of stew before them. Her smile was bright and wide, filled with content and warmth.

Ah, the joy of a reunited family. Else could not help but feel her heart being lifted, ever so slightly. I would like to say that her family would always dine together, brought together by the promise of stew and compassion.

Yet the swastika always seemed to come between them.

A Nazi and a Jew. An Aryan family and an orphaned boy, adopted into the family years ago.

"Good as we can be." A smile spread across Maximilian's face; one that reminded Else of a crescent moon. Freckles glimmered across his face like stars.

Father fixed his gaze on Josef. "How has work been?"

"Good as always. The Führer is a wonderful man. Takes care of those pesky Jew--" Josef stopped mid-sentence, returning to his stew. The words had bled out of his mouth like red paint dripping on a canvas. Else gazed at Maximilian, who was looking down at his feet. She saw the timid little boy once again, the boy who hid in his room for months after becoming a member of the Schüffen household.

I never understood how propaganda could be so overpowering.

Then again, neither did Else.

I guess it's a matter of seeing the truth. The innocence that reflected in Maximilian's eyes.

Excusing herself from the dinner table, Else allowed her feet to carry her to the depths of the attic, where her bed and paintings awaited her. She longed to hide up there all day and brush her paints against blank canvasses, creating pictures that would haunt her mind forever.

Grasping the paintbrush in her hand, she attempted to paint away all her emotions. Else squeezed her eyes shut, allowing the red and black paint to smear across the canvas. But she also painted white, painting over the colors of red and black, the colors on the Nazis' armband. White: symbolizing innocence.

Yet she could not help but think about the white on the flags.

She studied the streaks of paint, filled with purity and obliviousness to the world. They seemed distracted, somehow, not unlike myself.

Many times do I get distracted, distracted from my work. Little things never fail to fascinate me, and often times I feel the sudden urge to record it, to allow the words flow down onto the paper. Especially people. I feel it my job to write of these people. As for me? I am unimportant. I am only your narrator, a simple writer with a fascination for two people. A girl and a Jew.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs, soft, gentle ones that could only belong to Maximilian. Else spun around, her mouth curved downward in a frown. The incident at dinner would not leave her mind.

"Else?" His tender voice broke her thoughts. Else swore she heard gunshots ringing outside, like knives through the air. Surely she was just imagining it. Maybe someone was just messing around.

Because surely no one would want to harm someone as innocent as Maximilian.

"Ja, Max?"

"Would you like to go for a walk? We still have a bit before curfew." Else nodded eagerly, following him into the cool, pre-winter air. The sky had begun to turn a dark, deep blue, clouds covering constellations of stars. Maximilian grasped Else's hand, swinging her arm back and forth as they made their way down Fünfte Strasse. The swastika. It was here too, imprinting blood-red flags that stained nearly every house on the street.

It was never going to disappear.

Else gazed affectionately up at her brother. "I love you, Maximilian." It came out as a whisper, weaker than she'd hoped.

"I love you too, my dear."

"Are all Jews bad, Max? Or just some?" The words nearly swallowed themselves, yet Else forced them out. They had to be said. Maximilian stopped mid-stride, his frozen breath escaping in wisps.

"Else, we've had this--"

"Maximilian, please, please just tell me," Else pleaded, gazing up at his thoughtful eyes. A passerby strode past them, glaring at the yellow star tainting Maximilian's chest. Max merely smiled. A smile returned with a frown.

Finally he opened his mouth to speak. "I don't know Else. I don't know. Think about all the Jews you know. Do you think they're bad?" Else made a slight whimper, trying to form the words from her mouth.

"Well...no. But then why does Hitler hate them? Why does Josef hate you? The Führer is always right. Isn't he?" By now, Else was shouting the words, allowing them to echo across the streets. Fünfte Strasse seemed distant and lost; lost in a pool of words. Maximilian gazed up at the sky, biting his lip as if contemplating what to say.

"Josef doesn't hate me," he whispered, "You believe what you want to believe, Else. Do you think I am bad?"

"Of course not."

"Then that is all that matters for now. Do not worry about the others, you will never see them."

Else wanted to collapse to the ground. She wanted to cry out and scream and fall asleep and not wake up until it was all over. Her heart felt torn, two sides fighting like the war that raged around them. It was only the beginning. The beginning of a war that would rage inside her soul and in her family.

Her eyes gradually began to droop, and Maximilian whisked her off the ground and into his arms, making his way back home. "Don't wake me until it's all over," she mumbled in a sleepy trance.

If it ever was over. Wars cannot last forever. But they do leave a scar.

A scar that lasts on one's heart for the remainder of their life.