Broken Wings

From Dawn to Dusk

Maximilian Schüffen-   Linz, Austria 1942

Voices stirred above him, dancing around like autumn leaves. He opened his eyes halfway, studying the blur of movement around the room. The kind man stood above him, a shadow of genuine concern.

"Maximilian? Are you ill?" he asked, glancing around the room.

"Nein, I'll be fine." Maximilian rose slowly from the bunk, stretching out his sore ankle. Pain pierced through his head, causing him to stumble backwards into the bunk.

I can tell you that Maximilian was still very ill.

"No, you won't," the kind man said, frowning. He reached out to steady Max. The least thing one wants is to find their friend on the floor with blood pooling by their head.

The kind man shuddered at the thought.

"If I don't go to work, they'll get rid of me. I would be of no use to them." A devastating notion. Steadying himself, Maximilian marched weakly, yet proudly, to the door, smiling at his fellow prisoners. Sun finally streamed in through the dusty windows, warming his face and his heart. Everything will be okay. God is with us. As his face greeted the mild spring air, everything turned into a shaky blur. His whole body felt faint, like it could be swept away by a breeze.

And then his face met the melting snow, slamming him into the frozen ground. And then came the darkness.

❀❀❀

Piercing light shone directly onto his pale face, faint dots flecking the room. White. The color seemed to be everywhere. The room itself was dull and empty, merely a blank space of white.

"I see you're awake. How does your ankle feel? And your head?" a man said, clothed in an armor of white cloth, jotting something down on a sheet of paper. Prisoners groaned around him, desolation apparent on their faces. They knew. They knew what fate would befall them, it seemed. Tears grew in Maximilian's eyes. Partially from the blinding light, and partially of the thought of death. Maximilian himself didn't fear death, at least not anymore. No, death was nothing to be afraid of. Yet he did fear other people dying. Of other people leaving him.

"They feel like they did this morning," he said, squinting in the rays of light. They certainly weren't helping his headache.

"Hm. I'm trying to reduce the swelling on your ankle, and as for your head, you will need plenty of water." The doctor turned his head around, studying the red swell on Max's ankle. He was a stout looking man, with a face that was wrinkled like birch bark and eyes that slanted drastically. Despite his questionable appearance, however, he seemed decently kind. Maximilian wondered if he was a Jew, too. But the question would not escape his lips. The man had darker hair, and bushy eyebrows that curved when he spoke, yet no prominent Jewish features seemed visible.

"Two weeks. And if the swelling is down and you are able to see properly, you will be dismissed."

"Two weeks? I can't stay here that long, I haven't even gotten a taste of the camp yet! Please," Maximilian pleaded, glancing around at the crestfallen faces. Some stared back apologetically. The weak were not tolerated.

"We shall see how you are in a week."

The door was shut abruptly behind, leaving Maximilian behind with his thoughts.

Oh, how his thoughts taunted him.

The image still remained vivid in Maximilian's head, painting a picture in his dreams.

"Hallo, Max." She sat on his bedside, kicking the floor gently as if it were a soccer ball.

"Hallo." His eyes disclosed a pool of defeat, trying to hide behind his eyelids so they wouldn't be noticed.

But the little girl noticed everything.

"Something's the matter. Please tell me."

"Nein, Else," he said, turning away from her glowing face. He felt her stern eyes turn to ones of concern, noticing the look of hurt written across his face.

"Max. What did they do?" Maximilian slowly lifted up his shirt, revealing six slashes that swam across his back. He cringed, quickly allowing the shirt to fall back down. It wasn't just his back that was hurt.

It was his heart too.

"Josef was there," he whispered.

"He did this to you?"

"Nein. He just stood and watched."

"But why did they do this? Why?" Tears fell to the floor. Why?

"I accidentally walked on the sidewalk."

Maximilian recalled the incident perfectly. The black, braided rope, curving across his back like a serpent. The shouts.

They called him a filthy pig.

"I'm sorry, Max. You don't deserve to be treated like that. No one does."

"I'm a Jew, Else. I'm a Jew," he murmured, unable to hold it back any longer. Else patted his arm, her eyes a glossy shade of light blue.

"Everything will be okay, I promise."

❀❀❀

A dull pain was still prominent around his ankle, but it was vastly better than before.

But it wasn't quick enough for Maximilian.

Every hour he would sit up, panting, as he scanned the room for the kind man. He was not to be found. The doctor was concerned of his mental stability. Yet who could blame him? Maximilian had been through too much to gather. Finally, after several minutes of staring and hoping at the door, it swung open, and in it walked the doctor.

"Hallo, Maximilian. Are you feeling better?" the doctor asked.

"Ja, my ankle hurts a little, but I think I can walk on it."

"Good, good." He then proceeded to have Maximilian stand up and walk around the room, checking his heart rate and breathing. Most of the shakiness had disappeared, but his vision was still blurry.

He decided not to inform the doctor of this.

"You're free to go in the morning," the doctor said bluntly, writing on a little slip of paper.

Maximilian had done it. He was free to go.

He would not be murdered. At least not for his weakness.