Broken Wings

Dark Paintings

Else Schüffen-   Munich, Germany 1942

Else basically lived in the attic for the remainder of that week, only to emerge when forced to and to visit Myna.

Her parents were getting worried.

"Do you think it's Max?" Mama whispered, pacing back and forth in the kitchen. The aroma of vegetable stew filled the air, simmering on the stove.

"Most likely." Papa sighed, choosing his words carefully. "You know it's been hard on all of us, Ansel. But we can't just go around sobbing and moping, or else people with think..." he trailed off.

Mama brushed a tear from her eyes. "I know. I know. I was hoping she would have at least accepted it by now, and learned how to cope."

The door swung open, and through it came shiny, black boots, stomping their way into the kitchen.

"Josef!" Mama greeted her son, squeezing him tight. Josef patted her back before walking away to search the kitchen for some warm stew.

"It's on the stove. Only one scoop, Else still hasn't eaten yet."

"How is she doing?" he asked, pouring the soup into a clean, ceramic bowl.

"Okay, I suppose. She's been in her room for most of the week."

"I'll talk to her. Somebody's got to set her mind straight."

The thing every child dreads: a nice, thought-out lecture coming from the mouth of their brother.

The dark, smooth brushstroke formed images of a little Jewish boy. A little Jewish boy who was afraid of his own shadow. Else stood back to admire her own work, or criticize it, as we humans often do.

"Max." She felt his gentle soul, caressing her hair, telling about all of his stories. His laugh reverberated throughout the air, spreading to Mama, and Father, and, eventually, her. Else felt tranquility wash over her, mixed with sorrow and a pang of emptiness.

"Else? May I come in?"

Interrupted. Else sighed, creaking open the door.

"Hallo, Josef."

"Is there something that is bothering you?" he asked, as gentle as he could muster, perching himself on her bed.

"Ja, Josef."

"Und what is that?"

"You wouldn't understand." Else set down her brush, and took her finished masterpiece off the easel. Tears flooded her eyes, overflowing onto her cheeks. She still couldn't believe that he was gone.

"Well, I'll try my best to if you'll just tell me. May I see your paintings?" Else hesitated, grasping the canvas tightly in her hands. He did say he would do the best he could to understand. Ah, the beauty of last minute decisions. Yet, often they are not the well thought-out, considerate decisions that is the typically wanted outcome. And often times, they are wrong decisions.

"They aren't very good." Else handed over the canvas and watched her brother study it, his eyebrows deeply furrowed.

And then his expression suddenly changed.

"What is this--" He stopped mid-sentence, remembering his language.

"Josef?"

"If the Führer ever saw this, ever, we would all be killed. You are showing sympathy to the enemy, Else. Is this what they teach you in school? Have you not learned anything? It's Max, isn't it? Isn't it!" His cheeks turned bright red, soaked in fury. Breathing deeply, Josef tried to calm himself, yet the painting continued to stare up at him, the face of a Jew, provoking a whole other emotion.

"I'm sorry, Josef! I'm sorry. Maximilian never hurt anyone. He always cared about me. He always helped others. All you do is kill them!" Tears stung her eyes. What even made her think that he would understand? She knew she shouldn't have said it, but it had been burning up inside her for months now.

It couldn't stay in there forever.

"You must burn this, Else. It can't stay here. Jews are the enemy, understand?" Josef said, calming himself.

"Ja."

The painting was thrown in the fire that night.

Else watched it slowly blacken, shriveling up slowly in the midst of the flames. The last thing she saw was the eyes of the Jew.

Of Maximilian.

❀❀❀

Rosalinde.

A symbol of hope; someone who would truly understand the disappearance of Maximilian.

"Myna?"

"Ja, Else?"

The two girls sat on the front steps of Myna's porch, debating on the most popular topic of childhood: what to do when one is bored.

"Do you want to see Rosalinde?"

The decision was made. They had settled on visiting Rosalinde. You can imagine the joy on her face when she saw Else and Myna standing on her front steps.

"Else, Myna," she cried, ushering them in. The house smelled musty, musty and empty. Empty of Maximilian.

"Will you ever be able to move back into your old house?" Else asked, making herself comfortable on Rosalinde's sofa. The lampshade still hung askew, as if someone hadn't the time to fix it, yet, otherwise all reminders of the Nazi's stampede were gone.

"I don't know. I haven't been back there. I don't want to go back there." Else nodded solemnly, her heart fluttering at the thought of Nazis setting fire to her home.

"Have you heard anything about your brother?" Rosalinde asked.

"Nein, I don't know where he is." The sobs came back, coming abruptly from the pit of her stomach. Myna rubbed her thigh; a useless attempt.

"I'm sorry, Else," Rosalinde whispered.

"I know. Me too."

"Rosalinde, may I ask you something?" Myna asked, scooting towards the edge of the couch.

"Ja, Myna, what is it?"

"Where is your family?"

Rosalinde's family. There could be a whole novel written on them. But I will attempt to write it in one paragraph.

Their names were Kaija and Hahn.

They had two children, Rosalinde and Lajos.

They were Jewish.

It was an eerily dark night when they were taken. First, they took the child, and then the parents. But one was left behind.

Rosalinde.

She watched them thrust into a train car, half beaten to death, their sorrowful faces that looked as if death had overtaken them. Guilt gnawed at her gut. The tiny hiding place hidden underneath the false flooring could only fit one person, and that person had been Rosalinde. The Nazi had forgotten to search for the second child the first time, returning later with a cigar between his lips and determination in his eyes. Yet, it was too late. Rosalinde was gone, seeking a safer place to hide.

She had watched them ride away into the night, cowering behind a strange old man at the train station, watching them travel to a far away place. Just like Maximilian.

She finished the story defiant and strong. Crying wasn't going to get them back. Strength would.

"I'm sorry, Rosalinde. I didn't know-" Myna started.

"It's okay, my child. Don't cry. Crying won't get them back."

Crying wouldn't get Maximilian back, either.