Warning - Suicide references, themes of death, blood

November, 1921

Thirty years following the death of Wendla Bergmann

None but a waistcoat torn around its edges; exceedingly large trousers that had to be kept up by suspenders; flats ripped at their seams that allowed the penetration of mud, weaving around both feet; a limp hand; a satchel. The night was remarkably chilled, cold enough for the deaf to interpret the screeches of snowflakes that drizzled above my head. Not a flurry - thank the night for that. I would only be further blinded to my trail; the path (-who was to say that there was any path at all?-) was one that I had ne'er ventured. I could be struck by another man who had lost his way with ease or tormented by the flakes that nuzzled against my eyelashes. Yes - in either scenario, I would be led to my demise. It was a hellish night indeed.

I kept my hope, by God I did, that I would be met with a miracle sent by the heavens. If only Moritz Stiefel, that poor sod from school who ended himself, would send some kind of sign - is this what he felt in his final moments? Perhaps it was true, I was dying, and just like him, my soulless remains would not be discovered until the morn. Perhaps the snow would form a porcelain burrow around my body that a child or a dog would stumble upon, or perhaps I would become one with the earth. To Hell with it! - I deserved to rot with the weeds. If young Hanschen Rilow saw the man that he was inevitably bound to become, he would throw that noose around his neck without hesitation. He would rather join Herr Stiefel than be here. We could wander this mortal world, and whilst I would find no joy in doing so, I would be free of the suffering I would endure.

I whisked my still-working left-hand above my eyes and peered outwards. Nothing, I tell you - a tsunami of white. I was the inferior, and yet I was the living. I carried myself along, my agitation proliferating with the mud that squelched about in my shoes, twisting and contorting itself around my toes as though it were a mime trying to rip the money from my pocket simply by pestering. I lashed, striking the ground with my foot but making my situation all the worse. I could feel it splatter against my leg this time and I groaned. The streams would be frozen in this weather, so there would be no way to wash this off unless I found a building. Preferably a stable - I could nestle beneath the hay whilst the horses admired my ability to survive. To them, I would be a knight - a prince, even, and I would ride one back to the city once the sun rose and my energy had returned.

In the moment that I released my anger upon nature, I gazed out, finding a perceivable home of some sort. It seemed that my prayers had proved me well. At once, I seized at it, hogging at my satchel with my right-hand flailing about in the wind. I could sneak myself inside and not a peep would be heard of me. I would snatch up whatever valuables and treasures were lurking, wrestle what I could into the satchel and keep myself hidden. There was no possibility that I would be going back outside, not even for the chance of becoming a millionaire and finally making my fortune.

Alas, I stumbled over a sort of boulder in the ground, only enhancing my cold. I groaned as my face hit, the snow doing me barely any comfort. The adrenaline was enough to make the pain I felt diminish almost instantaneously, and I again got to my feet and strode for the building. As I neared, it seemed to me to be a parsonage, encouraging me to go into a jog. The valuables, oh, the treasures! I sang in my mind for the Almighty Lord to forgive me for what I would do to his precious worshipping, vowing to him that I would carry on his praise in my name. There was no other choice than this. Germany was meeting its end. But the riches, oh!

I sprung to the doorstep at once, peering around through the windows of the parsonage to detect any movement or light source: none. I removed my shoes - the parson couldn't know that I had stepped foot on holy ground without his consent, nor that I was the one who stole the belongings of the Church. I had carried out the same procedure many times before, enough to know that most homes had a lock on their front doors at night; however, this one not quite so. Abruptly, so abrupt that I pounced back slightly, it opened with a gentle flick at the handle. Grasping both shoes with one hand, I wandered inside, quickly taking note of my new surroundings as my eyes adapted. Tapestry was lined across every wall, predominantly consisting of the Virgin Mary and the Lord tending to cattle. A single Persian rug was matted across the floorboards, a crucifix hung beside the staircase just beyond the entrance and there was a large cabinet directed to my left.

Closing the door, my instincts led me immediately to the cabinet. I faced my shoes heel-up on top whilst I knelt and opened it. Inside was a variety of silver cutlery: platters, chalices, knives, forks. A smile widened across my face, as though I were a mother seeing her new-born for the first time, and I lunged for the items. They glistened with my familiarity, a look that I in no way envied until now. What a prince I would be, yes, stallions would bow to me, wives would kiss their husbands goodbye before intertwining their arms with mine. I could be a noble, or the one to save Germany from this mess. Yes... Citizens would rejoice the name of the historic Rilow; my name would be honoured to all descending generations.

Where my fantasy would lead me in fact took quite the opposing turn, as one of the platters slipped from those nimble fingers of mine when I attempted forcing it into the satchel. It clattered against those dreaded floorboards, and I made every effort to grab it again, forcing the cabinet to a close and making my way to the supposed dining room. There, I found a grand table, seemingly where the cutlery was - or would have - been set out. With the tablecloth hung over its edges, sheltering anything concealed beneath it, I tossed my satchel through and followed behind on all fours. I hadn't to know if anyone had heard, but if I were to take my chances, I would bet that they most definitely had.

My theory had proven correct when I heard the footsteps of multiple individuals above the room, a clattering of bare feet that tormented my thieving ears. I drew my legs into my breast and awaited the coming of my captors. There had to be at least three, with two bounding lightly down those stairs in anticipation whilst the third tread carefully along. The light of their candle shone through the fabric like that supposed "light at the end of the tunnel" that was fabled amongst the dying. How treacherous of me, treacherous, indeed; though I wouldn't stop. I searched for the pocketknife I had often equipped with me (it had yet to be cleansed) but alas found none but emptiness. Damn this... It must have fell victim to that snow, the unholy ghost.

The most unusual sound was what came next for me, a sniffling of sorts. Following the removal of my hand from my pocket, a peculiar... thing protruded from outside of the confinements of the tablecloth. The darkness that engulfed me made me unable to identify what this was, and though I was anxious in doing so, I touched it. A wet sensation met my hand and I briskly collected it back upon my lap. Then came a face - a slim face, with ebony eyes that blended with the darkness yet revealed a spark of curiosity. A hound, it had to be. Not three individuals, but two, one of which was my newfound companion. I ushered it away as it tried to gouge its snout into my ear, taking the collar wrapped around its neck and propelling it from the table.

Unfortunately, my efforts only brought me misery, and I hadn't noticed that the other was closing in. A man, to be exact - this one was bare-footed wearing a nightgown that reached down to his ankles. I was grateful for the hound's inability to wail for its master, something that would only induce panic into me, and could only use its heightened senses to detect intruders. Nevertheless, all the while the man took the tablecloth to uncover what was beneath, I crawled to the opposing end of the table, and that damned dog followed.

At last prepared to make my escape by force, I ducked my head out from my confinement, unaware that my first obstacle to overcome would be a wooden chair. I let out a screech as I accidentally knocked my head against it, full throttle, with the willingness to flee. The man - who I assumed by now was the parson - winced, but the dog remained unchanged and pounded its forelegs suddenly onto my back.

'Leave me, you filthy mutt!' I howled, sliding through the chair legs. I stumbled to my feet, driving the now excitable dog away with my fist.

'Lotti, here!' The parson beckoned the dog by his side. 'I hope she didn't frighten you -'

'It could have killed me, that thing!' The candlelight allowed me to easily discern the features of this man: a slim old fellow, wizened, I could say roughly the same age as I, forties. Jet black hair and a complexion that told me that he felt genuine concern. His voice was soft, as though I'd heard it before. I desired to feel reassured in it, yet I simply could not. In his hands, he carried my shoes. Of course: I had left them atop the cabinet. What a fool I was.

'Killed you? I could hardly believe it!' He chuckled to himself, patting the head of the dog. Before I could make my move to push past him and escape back to the night (spare me of my humiliation), he continued. 'Oh, what terrible weather. Is it refuge that you seek?'

I stopped. 'Yes.'

'What shall I call you?'

'The bluster of snow out there, it was awfully dreadful, I could hardly breathe in it -'

'What is your name?'

Exhaling at once, I bowed my head and chose to lie to the man. 'Moritz Stiefel.'

The parson gasped. Had he heard the name? 'I - this - it cannot be! You come from the dead?'

I squinted, making my way slowly across to him. He backed away. 'You know of the name?'

'Why, yes! You were my schoolfriend, Herr Stiefel!'

'What is your name?'

'By God, you know that!'

'I do not recall.'

'Ernst Robel! Oh, the terrible things I did, if only I were to fail instead of you!'

'Ernst Robel?' The man was in a pit of sobs beside his dog. Nonetheless, the name was one that I hadn't ever forgotten. Ernst, yes - I dreamt of him fondly in my youth, especially following our time in the vineyard, eating grapes, and - Oh, Lord... Lord, deliver me to salvation. What a sin it was, but how beautiful a day. I wanted so to play with his luscious hair, enthralled by his body as I was with that sorceress Desdemona, except - far more enchanting. I had been with both men and women in my time that had passed, and in all my experience, nothing could compare to Ernst Robel. He had grown a fantasy, a mythical creature of some sort that lingered in the depths of my mind. He had left school in the hopes of achieving his dreams, defying every wish of his late father, and I supposed that I admired him. I had not been so fortunate in my achievements. I was sent to a college by my parents, reluctant in each way, and the hopes of establishing my dreams diminished. Childish, yes. And each day, my want for him grew larger until the moment that it burst into a dozen flames that faded in time.

'Yes,' he responded, 'Moritz, do you remember me, old friend?'

'I lie; I lie to you!' I pointed to myself. 'My name is Hanschen! Hanschen Rilow!'

'...Hanschen?'

'Yes, yes!' I hurriedly came to his side. 'Truly, is it you, Ernst?'

He presented a face of utter benevolence yet astonishment. 'I thought - perhaps - you had -'

'I live, see?' I took Ernst's hand into mine. That tender feeling had not altered itself. 'I breathe.'

'Oh!' He turned to inspect the side of my head. 'Hanschen, you are wounded!'

'Wounded?' I pressed my fingers up against the side of my head - indeed, a crimson stain. Only at that moment did it begin to sting with intensity. Still, my heart thrived. The Lord really had sent me a miracle, salvation from my sin.

'Sit, at once!' Ernst motioned me down upon a chair: my latest enemy. The mutt, who I had almost forgotten for its whisper of a noise, rolled lazily about the floor, and with a kick of its hind legs wildly into the air stuck its tongue out towards me. I scoffed - damn thing. 'I shall fetch a wet cloth.'

I admired him as he went, and I felt no such shame in doing so. It was a wave of ecstasy that I hadn't felt for anyone in these thirty years. There was something ever so peculiar about the way that his nightgown brushed against his legs, or the way that he held up the candle into a position that would allow wax to drip upon his head. I envied that candle - by God I did - and I yearned to be held as closely and securely to him as he did the light that guided his way. And when he turned the corner, I could hardly resist a smile; I swiftly covered my mouth with my hand and that metallic stench of the blood penetrated through my senses. What was I to care? Perhaps it was the epitome of unfeigned endearment and devotion, the red of my heart that beat to the tranquil melody of intimacy. The love that I had hidden for so long squirmed from its cage, and should it be cleansed, I may abandon every emotion. No - how childish of me, once again. The tempter led me to seduction and sin without any intention of doing so - in fact, it came to no surprise that I was the corrupt one. A house of God, too: I had ought to make a plea for my forgiveness.

Ernst re-appeared, carrying with him a wooden bucket filled to the brim with water. Not a droplet fell, and he kept remarkable balance. I drew my hand from my face, holding both in my lap.

'I have not seen you since - since we were boys!' he exclaimed. Pulling out the chair beside me, he placed the bucket onto the floor and clutched the cloth that I could now discern inside. Two hands twisting in opposing directions, he rinsed out the moisture. 'I could say that you have hardly changed. A couple of wrinkles, perhaps, and lines of age, but alas: I would never have recognised your face had you not told me. Why, I could have fell dead if you persisted with your "Moritz Stiefel" identity! You could have killed me!'

I shook my head. 'Please, you are being theatrical!' I reached out to seize the cloth from his grasp, yet he pulled back at once.

'Allow me, I insist.'

'You think that I am not capable of clearing away a small cut? You may have to bathe me, too, if you cannot believe that I am a man who can cleanse himself!'

'Please!' Ernst persisted, smacking the cloth to my head with the impertinence that I hadn't expected from him. I winced at the searing pain that shot suddenly through my temples. 'What a man you are, indeed, your tolerance of pain is nil.'

'You are a parson, are you not?'

He smirked. 'That is correct.'

'I have been led to believe that parsons - men of God, for that matter - were kind and tender. You are most certainly not the schoolboy that I remember.'

'And neither you.' Prevailing over my weakness, he dabbed the blood away. 'I remember a young man of wit and charm, almost cunning.'

'And I remember a boy wanting nonother than to grow old too quickly and still desire to frolic through fields.'

'You cannot deny that you acted the same, Hanschen!' He chuckled to himself and laid the cloth back down into the bucket. 'And now look at you, blood seeping from your brow! How did you come to it?'

'It must have been my fall.' I had stood my hand erect to feel my injury and again Ernst swept himself in-between me and my motives. He thieved my hand away with his, the pressure that he applied fading with the seconds that our skins touched. He took a glimpse into my eyes, then suddenly away; in the moment or so that I had crossed them, I saw young Robel in that vineyard once more, that look of frightful incomprehension that he gave me as I drifted myself forth to press our lips together. What senseless intoxication, a forbidden enactment of which an urge returned the more I fantasized and a thrill that drove me towards madness. I stripped him from my sight, and I daresay that I feared looking back much more.

'What a fall - to break it upon a cushion of snow and yet still uncover the blood secreted, why, how unlucky can one get!' said he. 'Why were you out there, on this late night of all?'

'An evening stroll,' I joked in avoidance of my true reasoning.

'Amidst a storm?'

'I am bold! Audacious!'

'A walking corpse is what you are - and your hand! Oh, watch, it is dripping on the floor! And here, under the table - skims of red! Rear it: Lotti will take her chances of licking it up!'

The hand in Ernst's referencing was immovable; I could feel no such thing from it, so to find that that too was slit from the edge of the thumb to the wrist was no spectacle. With the other, I clutched my right arm and set it upon my lap. I witnessed with my eyes cast to his torso (I could not look upon him any further) a slight jest towards me, as though he were observing.

'Your hand, there, is it limp?' A hint of gloom seeped through his voice.

I nodded once. 'Yes - I lost feeling of it in the war.'

Ernst shifted against his seat. 'You were a soldier?'

Again, I directed my head up and down.

'Thank you kindly for your service. Is there a sort of title of command that I should -'

'Don't you thank me, and - no. I am more than ashamed of my participation.' - During my explanation, he brought the cloth out to wipe down my hand - 'I sought an adventure from the Great War, an escape from this vile way that I had been living. I hadn't a care for my opponents, nor the sides that we fought. We were mere pieces in a nationwide game of chess, played only by those too valuable to risk their own lives. What nonsense is that, Ernst, you tell me? When you abandoned your schooling to take on your role as a parson, I was left with nothing but myself. I thrived in college, indeed, but I fled within months and the man that I became would be a sin to the likes of you. With the war, an opportunity was right there, bait attached to a lone fishing hook for the foolish and ill-minded to take. I fought on 'till I was struck, and even then, I made my plea to go on and was instead dismissed from my duty. Could you ever comprehend what I endured? I would have got myself shot and killed before I could come back to this miserable place that I must call home. What is a home? It is not only that I am ashamed for the failure of my country, Robel, but furthermore, I am ashamed of my inability to rid my purge of dishonour and ungodliness from this world.'

'What stupidity you must obtain to speak like that!' he exclaimed, removing the cloth for a final time (unless there be yet another undiscovered graze). 'What could you have possibly become to think that of yourself, Hanschen!'

'What do you know of me?' I growled.

'Fourteen years of forty-four! I must know, I beg!'

'How ridiculous you sound, begging of the tale of my life, like - like you were some stray pussy cat -!'

I stopped, and so did he.

A sigh, and I commenced, 'If you must know. I was a radical. My life of business contorted itself into a horrendous wreckage and I fell into a dastardly state of turmoil. I drank, and I shared a bed with every woman, every man who so much as glanced at me in a means of flirtation. I tossed my time to the dogs, and when I got my hands on a blade, I seized with what accomplices I had and I -'

Ernst interrupted, 'You were on the run.'

'What did you expect of me to become? Do you think that I wanted this?'

Barely visible, though quite the expert of detail, Ernst's hands shook over his knees. His fingers tensed, and he tried to regain his breath. 'Hanschen, this isn't the right path -'

'Then what is?'

'Salvation!' His voice broke upon his exclamation; he withdrew one of his hands to the belly of the mutt that came and landed on its side at the foot of his chair. With the other hand, he took mine. 'You could stay here. You could reform.'

'I do not come to seek reformation, I wish to walk with Moritz, six feet under -'

'You will wish no such thing! I live here alone, haven't a wife to care for; I go out to greet the school children half a mile from here every morning with Lotti, and girls in satin frocks deliver baskets of fruits and bread each noon. Often on summer nights, I will sit by the lake and pray, or I will read a chapter of a story with my feet dipped beneath the shores. How you would love it here, Hanschen, how peaceful it would be! I trust that you would find inner peace! But perhaps not live, no, you could not spend a lifetime here. But for a short time, until you found yourself as most charitable and good -'

The restraint was cast away, and with the unconscious attempt of doing so, I thrust myself forward to meet Ernst's lips. He was taken aback, releasing my hand and twisting himself away following countless seconds that we reconnected. I myself could not fathom that I had committed to such an action; it came as unexpected to me as it had to Ernst. What a cruel moment to allow a love of three decades past possess me.

'Oh, God,' stammered Ernst. He scrunched his eyes shut and took hold of the back of the chair.

I momentarily recollected myself. 'I know.'

'Hanschen, we cannot, we are not boys anymore -'

'Who says that we cannot?' I asked. 'Societal construct?'

'Yes! It is unconventional!'

'You certainly did not think so when we met together that day at the vineyard.'

Ernst said nothing. He pursed his lips, as though about to, but then retracted. I made minor advances towards him but halted when he looked back.

'It was thirty years ago,' he said. 'The dusk was setting. We ate grapes from the branches above us. A-and, truly, truly... That night was -'

'Unbelievably beautiful?' I finished for him, smirking. 'Wasn't it so?'

'Why, yes,' he came to confess. 'But Hanschen, it could not work, not now, when we have been driven so far astray -'

I raised my brows. 'You seek my redemption, yes? Well - what if it began again with this? Think of how content we once were in ourselves. Perhaps this is God's final task, for us both: and nobody need know of it. Solidarity in what we have now, greeting school children by the morn and reciting fictional verse at the lake by night, is there much more that either of us require? We sought companionship, and here it is; why refuse it? To Hell with what is thought of it! Someday, life will not pain those in need of their dreams. For now, we can live a secret, Ernst. A beautiful one of that.'

This time, Ernst made his move and leant forward, but shortly stopped himself, staring. 'And... in the meantime?'

I smiled. 'Why not?'