Broken Wings

Loss and Desperation

Else Schüffen-   Munich, Germany 1942

His black boots cast a shadow across the kitchen floor. Else stared at it, unfazed, gazing down from the kitchen table. Josef was home. He hadn't appeared in the kitchen doorway for quite some time now. Else was somewhat glad of it. Ansel and Johann, however, were not.

"Josef! I didn't know you were coming home today!" Mama yelled, greeting him at the doorway. Josef nodded, his cold eyes glaring at the floor. The news bulged in his throat. It had to be spoken.

"Mama, I need to speak to you and Father. Alone." Mama studied his concerned face, nodding. Else was ushered up the stairs. But the words got the better of her. It was something she had to hear.

And hear she did.

The hushed voices weren't hushed enough.

"He's at Mauthausen."

"Max? He is at Mauthausen?" She could hear her Mama gasp, tinted with joy and a tinge of sorrow. Else breathed silently behind the bars. He is at Mauthausen.

Correction: was.

"Well, he-he was. Was at Mauthausen."

Silence.

"Und... he isn't anymore?" Father asked, breaking the silence.

"Nein," Josef breathed in, choosing his words carefully, "he's dead. I watched him die." Blood stained his words. Silent tears fell downstairs. Loud ones poured down upstairs.

No. No. No. The words screamed themselves.

"Max! Max!" Her screams pierced the silent air, her feet falling across the floor. Josef's voice replayed itself in her head.

"Oh no. Else! Else, come down here!"

He was gone. Now, he was forever.

She buried her head in the flattened pillow, letting her tears soak the fabric. She fingered Myna's present, Max's picture, going over each and every curve and cut.

"Max."

The word was uttered countless times, spoken into the pillow. The pillow listened, allowing each tear to fall gently on its skin. She felt his gentle hand caress her hair one more time, his eyes sparkling with compassion. She felt her cheek nestled against his woolen sweater, his heart beating gently like the wings of a swallow.

Sometimes, in order to fly, we have to repair our broken wings, and learn to fly again.

Don't you forget that Else.

Fly.

"They've broken your wings, Maximilian."

Or had they?

❀❀❀

The sky cried loud tears, flooding the streets with sadness. Everyone was feeling the effect.

"Else, what's wrong?" The question asked by Myna hung in the air, unanswered. "Else? It's Max, isn't it?"

Else nodded. Myna stared at the ground in silence. She knew what had happened just then. It needn't be spoken aloud.

"Does Rosalinde know?"

"Nein."

Myna nodded sullenly. There was no avoiding it. Rosalinde had to be told. Else had been avoiding the subject matter for as long as possible, but she knew it had to be done sometime. That sometime happened to be now. Rosalinde answered the door right away as usual, her face glowing with content. Else's stomach twisted with dread, her throat cracking with words that couldn't escape.

"Come in." 

The two girls stood at the doorway, waiting for the words to explode. "Rosalinde?" Myna started, staring hopefully at her friend for assistance. None seemed to come.

"Ja, Myna?"

"They killed him," Else cried, the sobs escaping before she could hide them. Rosalinde's glowing face dimmed, the tears bubbling in her eyes. It wasn't long before Myna joined them. They clung to each other in a circle of tears.

The words soaked into Rosalinde's skin. Maximilian was dead.

❀❀❀

Their whispers could not be ignored.

Else spied from her usual hiding place, her face pressed against the wooden bars of the railing. The smell of arguing bubbled up throughout the air. Else cringed at the stench.

"He was a Jew, Mama; we cannot feel pity for them!"

"He was my son! I don't care what he was; he was my son. This isn't right," Mama yelled, her fist pounding on the table.

"Mama, he was Jewish."

"He was our son!"

The door slammed shut, resonating throughout the kitchen. It stung in Else's ears. Why? Why was everything so complicated?

Else gazed up at the ceiling as her mother sobbed downstairs, comforted by her father.

"Will you help us, Maximilian?" The air stirred, but no reply was given. She stared at the ceiling in desolation, begging for an answer, or at least some comfort. None came. Finally, Else crept to her room in the attic, curling up in a ball in front of her canvas. A single red line curved across the top, dripping like blood to the bottom. It hungered to become something more. And something more it became.

She absorbed herself in the dripping paint. This is what Maximilian would want me to do. Else slid the brush over the canvas, allowing her wrist to flit back and forth like a robin. With each stroke, the emptiness in her heart became more apparent, reflecting onto the painting. The canvas and her breathed silently together. They remained like this for several hours.

Until Mama came up.

"Else, I've been a horrible mother." That was how the conversation started, the words unfolding before her bed. Else stared at her mother, studying the softness in her eyes, a single tear forming in the corner of Ansel's eye.

"Mama." Only one word needed to be spoken. Ansel gazed into her daughter's eyes, realizing one thing. She had grown. Little ten-year-old Else suddenly seemed more like a fifteen-year-old. The war had changed her. Her pale blue eyes had seen more than Ansel had ever seen in her entire life.

And it all started with an orphaned Jew.

"Mama." It was spoken again, this time with Else pressing a photo with jagged edges into the palms of her mother's hand. It had been yellowed and wrinkled over time, but the image still remained clear. Ansel allowed the sobs to escape from her throat, fingering the outline of her son.

"Turn it over." The words poured into her heart as she read them. They filled her soul with words that she had been deprived of before.

"Max."

The words of Maximilian lived inside their hearts. Forever.