Broken Wings

The Nazi Soldier and the Jew

Maximilian Schüffen- Munich, Germany 1941

The sky was always sunny to Maximilian. I'd like to say he was always joyful and loving, even when he was being beaten, starved, and shot. But one cannot really expect him to be that strong. In fact, one cannot expect anyone to be that strong. However, I will say this: he always saw the sun when everybody else could only see clouds.

"All right, Maximilian, you are dismissed," Herr Daschen said, his gentle, singing voice not at all reflecting his rugged beard and stern eyes. Maximilian nodded gratefully, sweeping the last of the dust from the floor. Sighing, he followed his employer out the door, allowing the few stars scattered across the night sky to fall upon his eyes.

A lovely night to end a stressful day.

Two customers had commented on his star today, sewn tightly to his chest. Each and every day he felt his cheeks redden in embarrassment and his hands burning through his pant pockets. He longed to quit, to quit and live his life pouring words onto yellowed sheets of paper. Yet the job gave him money. That, and an apartment above the store.

As he strolled through the cobblestone streets, more and more lights flickered off, resembling little fireflies that buzzed around in the darkness. Nazi flags waved lazily in the distance. Tall black boots greeted him at the corner of Fünfte Strasse. Josef.

"I cannot believe I am meeting a Jew," Josef said, pacing the curb back and forth. Maximilian shrugged, warily eyeing the swastika on his brother's arm. Some things would never be the same. As I watched his sorrowful face, I often wished they were, for Maximilian's sake.

"I may be a Jew, but I am still your brother."

Josef nodded, a half-smile seemingly forced upon his face. He took his brother's arm, and together they walked home in silent unison, admiring the thousands of stars above them that illuminated the streets. Maximilian sighed, taking in the splendor of the evening. If it weren't for the swastika, the picture would be almost perfect.

It was a joyous reunion when Maximilian and Josef returned home, for both had little time to visit. Mama rushed right into their arms, shrieking with joy and laughter. Little nine-year-old Else remained at the dinner table with her legs dangling from the chair and her eyes closed in deep thought. Max wrapped his arms around her, breathing in the smell of her hair.

"Hallo, sweet pea," he murmured once her eyes had fluttered open.

Mama rushed the pot of stew over to the table, words escaping her mouth that Maximilian only faintly heard. He too was absorbed in thought, trying to capture this moment forever.

His family was all together. Smiling.

Yet, he did hear his brother's words, loud and clear. The room seemed to freeze in silence, hanging on to Josef's every word.

"How has work been?" Father asked.

"Good, as always. The Führer is a wonderful man. Takes care of those pesky Jew--" Josef stopped mid-sentence, returning back to his food as though nothing had happened. Max's cheeks burned red, and he stared down at his feet, the feeling of embarrassment and betrayal flooding his soul. He breathed deeply, allowing the anxiety to escape from his mouth. They were family. Something that had been foreign to Max for several years since his parents passed away.

Surely, they wouldn't hurt him.

Mama offered Maximilian a comforting glance, then took another bite of stew. Everyone else was silent. Even Else seemed reserved, contrary to her usual behavior whenever Maximilian would visit.

It was then he knew: nothing would ever stay the same. The moment he had captured so beautifully in his mind had disappeared.

Replaced instead was a feeling of emptiness.

❀❀❀

Perfect rows of Nazi soldiers, clothed in red with their famous swastika, marched through the streets in Munich, acting so formal and so authoritative, some as young as Max. Shuddering, he bent down to find some tea, covering his yellow star. The star that marked him as a Jew.

"Maximilian?" Herr Daschen called. Maximilian straightened up so quickly he nearly knocked his head on the counter. His arms rested over his star. Anything to cover it up.

Herr Daschen cleared his throat in anticipation. "You have been an excellent employee, Maximilian, and you know I really appreciate your help and such, but times have changed. I'm afraid I cannot afford to lose any more customers because I have a Jew working for me..." he trailed off.

Maximilian felt his cheeks redden, hues of anguish and disappointment coloring his skin. All these days of embarrassment and monotonic work only to be fired before he earned any real savings.

"Ja. I understand. Danke for everything, Herr Daschen." He nodded, grabbing his coat and walking out the door. He felt defeated; his throat was dry, and his heart full of disappointment. The streets were abandoned by now, with only a few stragglers wandering about. Curfew came in an hour, and no one wanted to be caught out too late.

It is then that Max realized,

Where was he going to live?

It seemed he didn't belong anywhere.

Several minutes later, when he finally reached the familiar bend in the road where Fünfte Strasse began, Mama was standing out front, waiting for him.

"Oh Max, I'm sorry." She reached her arms out and gave him a comforting squeeze. Maximilian allowed himself to be buried in her soothing hold, to feel for once in his life that he was wanted, that someone cared.

"How did you find out?" he asked.

"Herr Daschen called. He said you forgot your belongings in the apartment and that we could pick them up tomorrow."

Maximilian nodded, biting his lip. Else waved at him through the window, bouncing up and down in excitement.

Her jubilance had returned.

It was if she had forgotten everything that had happened in the past week. Dinner, their stroll, the subtle hints. How could he tell her he had been fired? The last thing she needed was a hatred for Hitler and his propaganda.

"Maximilian! You're home!" Her feet danced across the floor and she jumped into his wide arms. Suddenly, everything was forgotten, at least for now.

"I am! Und I'm spending the night," he said, sinking into the cushions of the couch. Else's eyes twinkled with imagination the way they always did when she wanted him to tell a story.

And so he did. He told her of the wondrous stories he wrote, he told her stories distantly related to his past. Yet Max never could bring himself to outright tell her of his childhood. He didn't know what it was, and yet every time the words attempted to escape his mouth, they couldn't.

Maybe it was the fear of reoccurrence. Maybe it was the fear that if he told her, he'd lose this family too.

Not from death, but from hate.