by MaeEadie
Apart from Rafael's strange looks, Florence had also noticed something else.
The girl.
Every time she visited, she would notice her. No matter what the weather was, she would always be there, watching from a distance. She had blue eyes and strawberry blond hair, unusual in a frescreet. Unconditionally, she was there with every visit, sitting and simply watching. Florence wasn't unsettled by her. Or worried. She just accepted her presence. Florence often contemplated walking over to her, talking to her, but she could never do it.
'Maybe she keeps her distance for a reason?' So Florence was resigned to simply watching this blue eyed frescreet from a distance, keeping quiet, contained.
After the first month or two of despising her purine role as protector, she had come to love her job. This secret community was like her second family. No, it was her second family. She had played with the children. She had helped the mothers. She had brought them blankets, foraged from her neighbourhood. She had her trust in these little creatures and they had theirs in her. Instead of dreading it, Florence looked forward to visiting the village. Sometimes she even longed to go.
One day, she was discussing the Führer with Rafael.
"Rafael, do you have a government? I mean in the community you left? Did they have a government?"
"Yes, Florence, but not like you know it."
"How do you mean?" After a moment of gathering his thoughts, he answered her this.
"You have a war on the way, recht?"
"Recht."
"And you don't want it, recht?"
"Recht."
"And you blame the politicians, recht?"
"Ja, recht."
"You see Florence, where your politicians fight and argue, ours, well... don't. Your governments oppose each other and fight each other with different ideas. That often result in war and conflict. The action is delayed. In my government, one person comes up with the idea and we all help to build that idea."
Florence thought about this for a moment. The frescreets seemed to live peacefully and happily whilst the humans lived lives of conflict and greed. Maybe the frescreet way was better?
But then why do humans live freely and frescreets hide away in the depths of the forest. It just doesn’t make sense.
"But, Herr Rafael… what if it’s a stupid idea? Won’t it be questioned?"
The corner of Rafael's mouth split. A grin crept across his face.
"We are the frescreets, Florence. We don't have stupid ideas."
The letter exchanging
15th December 1938
Ben knew what to do. His plan would work, it had to.
The idea came to him whilst standing two metres off the ground. Paint brush in hand, he had had to restrain himself from bursting out of the front doors and running home.
The rest of the day went painfully slow. When Herr Salzwedel finally let him go, he could barely contain himself. The paintbrush was shoved back into the cupboard, the ladder was hastily stacked away and the paint was left to dry. Benjamin grabbed his coat and pulled it on, stumbling through the thickening rain.
Eventually, he burst in through his front door, toes and fingers frozen.
"Hallo Mama. Verzeihen sie mir, but I have to do something." he said, already halfway up the stairs. In his small, bare room, he got to work. He scavenged his old school supplies, a pencil and paper. The only items he hadn't yet sold.
He knew what he was going to say. That part was easy. The hardest part was yet to come; bringing himself to post it to Florence.
Carefully, he put pen to paper, letting the words flow out of his brain, down his arm, through his hand and out through the pen. He wanted the words to make him shiver. He wanted the words to make him cry. He wanted the words to make him hurt.
He had to own the words, he had to make them right.
Liebe Flory...
When he had finished, he sat. He just sat and looked at the paper, stained with inky blots and words. Having read it over and over, he knew that he couldn't possibly write it any other way.
The light had faded and dark shadows were cast across the room. The moon was glowing, a beacon of light in the dark.
He knew the morning wouldn't come fast enough, the night ahead would be sleepless. But he was wrong. Within ten minutes, he had fallen asleep. His brown hair flopped onto the desk and his cheek lay on the envelope. He slept long and hard, his sleep dreamless.
The morning came, bright and white. Snow glistened on the grass, murky and brown on the road, already mud ridden.
Ben was out of his house and beside Florence's gate before the sun was fully up. Just as planned, he placed the letter in the centre of the mailbox and continued on past, as though nothing had happened.
Florence didn't find the letter until she returned from school. Her fingers were frozen, licked red raw by the icy breeze. With the envelope clutched in her hand, she escaped the cold, early snow stuck on her boots.
Heart in her mouth, she sat up in her room. Florence couldn't remember the last time she had received a letter. Her name was scrawled on the front of the envelope in dreadfully messy handwriting.
She recognised it immediately.
'What would Ben be writing to me for?'
Puzzled, she tore the envelope open and wiggled the letter out.
Liebe Flory,
As you know, I'm not a good writer, so please excuse my mistakes. I wish I was good writer though. Then I tell you what I really mean. How I really feel. What I really think.
But unfortunately, this is good as I can.
I'm writing because I miss you. I have not seen you for months. Not the you I known anyway.
The Florence I know is trusting. We close than family. We tell everything to each other. We never have any secrets.
Yes, I've noticed. You hiding something from me.
And I just want to tell you that I hate it. I hate that you are shut me out. I hate that I'm kept in the dark. I hate that we can't play and talk like we used to. I hate that you stopped trusted me.
So Florence, what I'm getting at is you can trust me. You can tell in me. You can take the weight off your shoulders, or whatever you want to call it. What I'm saying is, please don't shut me out!
Flory, we is a scarf. For years it stays strong, all the wool knitted together. But after a time, it begins to fail. One of the stitches is worn away. It snaps and the scarf begin to come undone. From here, there are two options. If the owner of the scarf want to save the scarf, they fix it. But they could also let it unravel.
Please Florence, I know you can sew.
The place to start is kill all our secrets.
I'm sorry Flory, but this secret is going to be the death of our friendship.
Es tut mir leid.
Ben.
A single tear trickled down Florence's cheek, landing on the letter. The ink bled, spreading veins of black. As the months had marched by, the depth of Ben's misery had become more and more obvious to Florence. Seeing him suffer was almost as painful for her as it was for him.
Yet, she couldn't do it. She couldn't 'kill the secret'. Right at the beginning of all this, she had decided that protecting the frescreets was more important than her relationships. Even though she knew the people she loved would get hurt. She had believed that then and she believed it now.
Florence lived in two very different worlds and to keep them both alive, she must keep them that way. Separate.
Regretfully, Florence began what she knew she had to do.
*
When Ben returned home from Herr Salzwedel's mansion that evening, he had an envelope waiting for him on his bed.
Ben stared at it, searching for more.
'Surely this isn't it?!' But it was. In the centre of the page, in slanted script, written was this;
I'm sorry Ben.
I can't do that.
Christmas
25th December 1938
It was that time of year again, Christmas.
The snow was falling thick and the temperature was sitting comfortably several degrees below zero.
Rolling around in the whitish snow with rosy cheeks and frozen toes were Florence, Ben and Lisette. A little way off was Ollie and the rest of the Seelenfreund children. A snowball fight was in preparation.
Florence smiled at Ben, her teeth pearly between her icy-blue lips. Since the letter exchanging, she had changed. Florence opened her eyes. She didn't shut her friends and family out. She didn't avoid contact with Ben, it was the least she could do. Making the extra effort to find time for Ben had seemed to take effect. The neglect and loneliness had begun to fade from his eyes. A little bit of extra love and care really does work wonders. Florence just wished she could do more, that there was something else she could do to steal back any hurt or sorrow embedded in her friend.
It had been her pain in the beginning. Now it was Ben's.
But as long as Florence kept her secret, there would always be a streak of pain, sitting at the bottom of Ben's heart. The last drops in a teacup. The last puddle after rain. The last leaf left on the tree. The last bit of hurt unhealed.
The first ball snow was thrown, hurled from the open palm of Lisette. And what a throw it was, exploding and showering Vinzent in small white flecks. There was no time for cheering, as Lisette found out when a rock hard lump of white ice ricocheted off her and Florence.
"Right! That's it!" Florence shouted, hurling two fistfuls of snow.
Their cries and shouts could be heard streets away, a snowy battle in full swing. Not a face was left without a smile. Cheers and laughter erupted every few moments, lost in the frenzy of snow balls that filled the air.
Lisette had never felt better. She had never had so much fun in her life before. This new found freedom in Switzerland left her with no regrets. No regrets for leaving France, no regrets for leaving her friends. Since leaving Orléans, Lisette had woken up. Life was no longer a game of hide and seek and she could look beyond her home. Beyond her school. Beyond her town and the big brick walls that blinded her. The door to living had been opened and she was lucky enough to fall through it.
Amidst the frenzy, a cease fire was called. No one protested.
No one ever protested against food.
Florence dropped her hand full of snow and gladly wandered inside, the smell of pastete filled her nose, making her mouth water.
Christmas dinner consisted of much eating, much talking and much laughing. Lisette and Ben sat either side of Florence, all intently filling their bellies.
All were merry in the Mele household. Homemade gifts made with sticks and other nice things were shared with love, wrapped in old newspaper cuttings. People shared jokes and innuendoes across the table, spitting the words out between unstoppable giggling. The fresh Christmas tree sat cheerfully in the room's corner, filling the house with the widely loved Christmas scent. Its needles a rich green colour, hand harvested only a few days before.
It was then that he realised. Sitting in front of the Christmas tree, watching Florence glow, Ben realised that he didn't care about Florence's secret. Now he also had Lisette. She had grown on him like a flower, their friendship now blooming. He loved her dearly, just like Florence. Since the letters, Flory had been more of her old self than in six months. As long as he had his best friend back, he hadn't a care in the world about her secret.
*
If only that realisation had been true.
Only a few days later,
when Ben wasn't giddy with Christmas merriment did he notice.
That little bit of pain Florence couldn't reach to heal would spread,
like blood from an open wound.
*
The daylight hours of Christmas ended with two very tired children. Ben's youngest brother Erik and Lisette's baby brother Gaël fell asleep in front of the dying fire. Their infant snores unheard over the crackling embers.
The three families went their separate ways. Lisette's family down the road. Ben's family a few houses away. Florence's family up to bed.
All were asleep soon, bellies full and heads swimming in sweet dreams. All except Florence.
With a bag full of food and a mountain of clothes on, Florence braved the freezing cold and left for the forest.
Shivering from head to toe, Florence waded through the snow and in between the trees.
"Verdammt!" she grunted, pulling her boots back on every few steps.
Never had it been so hard to get to the village as it was that night. Grunting and swearing under her breath all the way, she came out looking worse for wear.
As usual, it was just Rafael waiting for her and, of course, the blue eyed onlooker.
The bag of food was thrust into Rafael's arms.
"I hope you know what I went through to give you that!" she gasped, a little more harshly than intended.
"I'm sure it will be greatly appreciated. Danke." he said gratefully, unmoved by Florence's annoyance. "And a very merry Christmas to you my child!"
"Danke schön." Florence replied. Even though the frescreets didn't celebrate Christmas, Rafael wished her well, regardless.
Later that night, or rather, the very early hours of the next morning, Florence finally settled down into bed. As she drifted off to sleep, listening to the rhythmical breathing of her brother, she couldn't help but think.
That was the best Christmas she had ever had.
That time the year before, there had still been a world for her to discover. A role for her to take. A promise for her to make.
The last New Year
4th January 1939
*
It was a new year.
It was to be a year of change.
A year of war.
A year of fear.
A year of death.
For some people,
this year was the begging of a time of horror.
For others,
this year was the end.
Let's just hope that the New Year was widely enjoyed,
because millions never saw another.
*
It had been a quiet start to the year. Florence had been snowed in since the New Year, stuck inside reading and playing dominoes. Having had to jump out her window, trudge through the snow and brave the cold to visit Rafael, Florence was quite happy to spend a few days inside.
News of the forthcoming war came thicker and faster. Stories of refuge seekers were told everywhere, each time growing further from the truth.
Lisette had stopped hearing from some of her French friends. Pride seemed to be worth more than friendship.
Christmas had taken its toll. Pockets were empty, as were cupboards. Florence and Oliver went to school every day with unsatisfied stomachs and empty lunch tins. The little money that was made just wasn't enough.
It was never enough.
Florence found it was best not to think about her empty belly. It only made her hungrier. Unfortunately, this was a particularly hard feat, stuck inside all day with a limited supply of distractions.
With barely two coins to rub together, the Meles were in a desperate situation. Both Florence and Gabriel's employers hadn't needed their services for several weeks and there were no other jobs around. Florence had tried nearly all of the shop owners in town, none wanted a poor, sixteen year old school girl getting in their way and taking part of the earnings. She tried Herr Salzwedel, Ben looking hopeful, standing behind his employer, but she was yet again rejected. When she got desperate, she tried stealing. But after only one expedition the guilt got to her. She had turned around, ashamed and ears ablaze. She set the food back on her neighbour's front doorstep. On a page of her school workbook, she had hastily scribbled a note.
Herr Pawlitzki,
I am very sorry for the apples,
there won't be any future theft.
A very guilty apple thief.
The note was left on the pile of stolen apples and Florence quickly evacuated her neighbour's property. The idea of him
catching her stealing his apples again wasn't an inviting prospect.
In the end, Florence had to resign to simply scouring the snow-filled gutters for dropped coins. On the odd occasion when the sun shone down on the shiny metal, Florence would snatch it up and guard it with her life. This infrequent income of little coins barely paid for one person's food for the day.
As they say, desperate times call for desperate measures, and these certainly were desperate times.
The master manipulator
30th January 1939
Every day, trillions of words are heard around the world. Most of these words are forgotten within the next sentence. Yet, every once in a while, there are a few said, or even written words that are never to be forgotten. January 30th 1939 was one of those once-in-a-while exceptions.
It's all about the arrangement of them. One person can use a set of words and it will never be remembered. While another person can use the same words, but change the world. Humans have the power to manipulate. We can change and rebuild things to suit ourselves. Words included.
Words can build an empire.
And words can destroy one.
The Führer was a master manipulator.
On this day, words were his weapons.
His words united a nation.
His words destroyed the world.
His skilfully arranged words were put into good use.
*
When I say good,
I mean horrific,
dreadful,
vulgar and unjust.
*
The Führer gloated. The Nazis cheered. The Jews trembled.
He shouted about his ideals, a land of 'pure German' blood and blue eyes with swastika pupils.
“Jewry must adapt itself to respectable constructive work, as other peoples do, or it will sooner or later succumb to a crisis of unimaginable proportions.”
And so it did.
That day the Führer was the master manipulator he became known to be. Why did he have to be so convincing?
The words poured out, scorching his moustache, burning the air he breathed and setting fire to the people in front of him. The smouldering words were applauded, cheered, respected.
The people decided to ignore the fact that the Führer was setting them alight, instead believing he was giving them warmth.