Florian (Augarten Book 4)

by Charlie Godwyne

  "I love you, babe," I said to the silence. "But I can't do this. There's knives in the kitchen. As soon as I get up, I'm going to slit my wrists. Then you can take responsibility, because you knew you would die, but you didn't prevent it, and you know what? Fuck you, Michel, for devastating me. My death will be on your hands."

  Even before I got the last of those words out, tears finally burned my eyes. I choked on my sobs and squeezed the box tight. "No, I don't mean that. I'm sorry, honey. I love you so. I don't hate you. I could never hate you. I just don't want you to leave me. Are you here? Is your ghost here? Please tell me what to do because I can't handle this. Please, babe. I can't do this without you."

  Then my mood switched again and I grabbed the box so I could look at it, giggling like a child on a playground. "Hah. I'll bleed out onto the ashes, mix them all up into some kind of sludge. Marital muck. That's pretty rich. Then they'll have to cremate your ashes along with my body when I've died. You'll be cremated again, like twice-baked ham."

  I wondered if I'd ever be hungry again after thinking something like that. Then flickering on the box caught my eye. In shock, I watched as letters wrote themselves onto the lid in cursive. The letters materialized in the same high-quality black ink Michi used when he copied manuscripts. This was Michel's handwriting, and yet something was off about it. It was too neat and orderly, like a strict schoolteacher trying to imitate my husband's handwriting.

  Flor

  I gasped. "Michi? Are you writing to me?"

  A long moment passed after the ink of my name faded and I sat up with bated breath. Then the same black ink swirled, as if pulling letters together out of silty smoke.

  Pray

  I sighed. Of course Michi would contact me from beyond the veil to tell me to go spiritual. Some occultists never changed. "Did you forget I don't believe in anything?"

  I was too afraid to close my eyes.

  So I kept them open, on the box just in case anything else showed up. But I couldn't deny the supernatural anymore now that I had seen those angels in the café.

  "How can I pray to the Archangel Michael when he's the one who took you away? I'll just beg him to bring you back."

  An indeterminate amount of time passed before black ink swirled on the box again.

  Talk to them.

  "The gods?"

  No response.

  "Fine. I'll do it, Michel."

  For the first time, I closed my eyes and spoke to my husband's gods.

  "Um, hallo, my name is Florian. I have been through…quite an ordeal. I have survived a terrorist attack and lost my husband in the last twenty-four hours. I don't know what to do. I'm sorry that I have never prayed directly to you, but I am in deep trouble."

  Chapter Nine

  Tears streamed from my eyes onto the hardwood floor. "Michi. I know you're there. Please speak to me. Are you a ghost? Michi…Michi…"

  No response. Not from the gods, not from my husband, not from anyone.

  In my exhaustion, I must have drifted off, or had something of a daydream or hallucination, but all I recalled was waking with every bone of my body in pain, lying on the floor, hugging the box of ashes. I knew I had not done things properly with the prayer. I had instead fallen asleep. Yet somehow that felt safe, like no one could find me, like I was somehow closer to Michel inside the mental confines of a prayer to the gods he had worshipped.

  Through my closed eyelids I could feel the noonday sun coming in through the window. A smell of fresh cloves and something soft filtered into my consciousness, maybe juniper with a hint of rose petals. I sniffed, confused because I didn't have anything like that in the apartment. Michel was adamantly against perfumes, so our home simply smelled like a library.

  I blinked my eyes open and my confusion mounted. Right in front of me was dark blue cloth. Actual cloth, folded around something. The cloth had pleats, like the thick garments elderly Orthodox Jewish women walking down Taborstraße would wear. Then my mind traced the shape and recognized it: cloth enveloping knees, like someone was kneeling on the floor very close to me.

  I gasped and lurched back, then slowly pushed to a seated position. Before me sat a young woman of maybe sixteen, her legs folded under her. She indeed wore a long navy blue pleated skirt, and a lighter blue blouse buttoned up to her collar, the sleeves long and cuffs buttoned at her wrists. At her collar she wore a dark blue bowtie that matched her skirt. She wore her hair down, with a headband covered in white cloth roses keeping her front locks out of her face. Her outfit reminded me of the uniform the Jewish girls would wear to school in the second district, but the style was distinctly different. Older.

  Next I noticed her bright red hair, a smattering of freckles and kind pale green eyes. My first thought was that she must be Irish, but my next thought connected to some of the Ashkenazi Jews back home who could have such bright red hair. Though humble, she was beautiful.

  Then she flickered ever so slightly, and I knew I was looking at a spirit, or a ghost.

  Even still, though startled, I was not afraid. She sat so close to me as to be within reach. She existed within a protective barrier of an apartment in which I had prayed to Michel's gods. Michi had told me on many occasions that the spirit that answers your prayers depends on the spiritual state of the person praying. If you are seeking to harm someone, and your heart is ugly, then you will resonate on a lower plane, and it could very well be that the person claiming to be the god or goddess you are calling is actually a demon. But if the person praying resonates on as high a level as they can manage, with intentions pure and with proper banishing ritual work, then the people listening are more likely to be angels or gods. I myself had just prayed for the first time and promptly fallen asleep.

  My emotional state was certainly a wreck, but that did not mean I was vulnerable to a demonic attack. Our living room was a heavily cleansed space, and although I knew I would certainly be angry later about everything that had happened last night, at the moment I was simply hurt. Broken. Crushed. I had to believe I would not be attacked by a demon the morning after losing my husband. The universe simply could not be that cruel.

  "Bonjour," I said politely.

  She blinked and looked around a bit, scanning me, as if she were trying to establish a video connection but wasn't sure if she was getting through. Then her eyes locked with mine and she really saw me. In doing so, her image sharpened further. "Hallo, Florian. You can speak German with me, though you should learn Yiddish."

  My breath stilled. "You know my name."

  She smiled bashfully. "Of course I do."

  She held her hands out, motioning to me. "You are the spitting image of your mother, and she is the spitting image of her father."

  That didn't make sense. "I'm sorry, but my mother doesn't know her parents. She was left at Saint Stephen's during the war and grew up in an orphanage."

  The young woman nodded sadly and returned her hands to her lap. "It was that, or risk having her with me when they came for us." Then she smiled up at me, and I forgot how to breathe. Her smile was grim, like she was trying to remember why she needed to be joyful in such a painful time, but the cute little dimples that framed her smile caught my eyes and held my attention. Those dimples were my mother's.

  Time slowed to a halt. "Are you my grandmother?"

  Those dimples deepened with her smile. Then she nodded, and I could feel her radiate joy.

  I sat up properly and mimicked her posture, folding my legs underneath me so that we sat knee to knee. I was taller than her, plus she seemed so young. "May I ask your name?"

  She reached toward me, and her image flickered just a moment. Then she clasped my hands in hers. It was not the touch of human hands, but rather an energy not unlike warmth, like if an emotion had a tactile quality to it. I could tell I was touching her, even though it felt very different from anything I had ever experienced.

  "My name is Emilia," she said.

  I repeated her name, my heart filled with wonder. "Emilia
."

  She giggled, and that made her feel so very young. I wondered how old she had been when she died, when she had become a mother.

  "You're right to wonder," she answered my thoughts. "I am sixteen in this image because I could visualize my school uniform much more clearly than anything else. I got married at twenty and became a mother that year. Unfortunately, your mother was only seven months old when I had to leave her."

  "I'm sorry for making you explain." I didn't know what else to say.

  Her eyes widened. "No, Florian, this is why I am here. I have been waiting for this moment for your entire life."

  I frowned. "What do you mean?"

  Emilia let go of my hands and sat back. She seemed to collect herself to tell a story, so I waited, transfixed by her ghost form and the fact that I was talking to the grandmother I had never met.

  "Adonai is merciful, Florian," she began softly.

  That threw me off guard. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, but I don't believe. I'm not really an atheist either. My husband prays to several Celtic gods. He's a polytheist who respects people of different religions. I haven't gotten much further than convincing myself to believe in angels because I saw them…"

  Emilia nodded slowly, as if processing that information. "Yes, I had gathered something like that. You can start with the angels and go from there. Just one day at a time, sweet grandson."

  I gasped, realizing only then that I had referenced my husband in the present tense. My chest clenched. "Will you…will you tell me about your life? I'll relay everything to Mum."

  Emilia jerked as if remembering something. "Florian! You have to call your mother. She is worried sick about you. Call her as soon as we're done, promise?"

  "Yes, of course," I vowed quickly. "I'm sorry. I've been out of my head. I'm not thinking clearly."

  Did that mean we would only get to talk this one time? I'd finally met her, and once we finished talking, I would be alone. My heart sank.

  Emilia smiled again, and I wondered whether all of her smiles were filled with such sadness. "It's all right, Florian. You're allowed to grieve. I've only been given one chance to talk with you like this, in this form. And the closer I get to human, the more I forget what I have always wanted to tell you."

  "Okay." I sat quietly, giving her space to collect her thoughts.

  Emilia examined her hands in her lap, as if trying to find her words again. "God is merciful," she repeated, then nodded, clearly catching the line of thought she needed.

  "When the Jews died in the Holocaust, Adonai and his angels were there to comfort us. Because God is gentle and kind, He offered us a choice of where we wanted to go, and what we wanted to do next, just for a while. Some Jews were filled with pain, anguish and anger, and they chose to spend a long time in Heaven with God to heal their hearts. Others asked to be reborn as the next generation of Jewish children, so they could work to rebuild their communities. Of course they would not remember the Holocaust, but children always bring hope for the future."

  I nodded. That was gracious of God, and made a lot of sense. "What did you choose?"

  Emilia took my hand and pulled it into her lap. I made sure to follow, since her form could only sort-of tug on me, not completely lift my hand. She rubbed the pad of her thumb across my knuckles, and I breathed deep for the first time since yesterday. I hadn't known how much I needed that comforting touch from someone close to me until I'd felt some of the weight lift from my shoulders.

  "Your grandfather and I chose what many Jews did: to watch over the family we had left behind. Not as guardian angels, per se. We are only human. Since the global human population is so high right now, the guardian angels have their hands full, so I think us pitching in for our families might have helped a bit."

  I was at a loss for words. "That's wonderful."

  She inclined her head. "Tobias—your grandfather—and I both watched your mother, and then when you were born, Tobias stayed with her, and I came to you."

  She beamed as tears burned my eyes. "Florian, you are such a strong young man. I know your heart is broken right now, but you must find the strength to move forward. This is what your husband would have wanted for you."

  I blinked the tears away quickly, devastated by her words and terrified she would disappear.

  Then she looked a bit unsure. "I must admit…it took some adjustment when you told your mother of your preferences. Tobias and I thought it was just a phase, but then you met Michel. Your grandfather and I witnessed how much you two loved each other. How could we not support you, when your love was so pure? We decided to live with that dichotomy for your sake. Although as Orthodox Jews, our values have always been traditional, we would not leave our family just because we could not understand some things. We wanted to stay with you, so we did."

  I swallowed down my distress. "Thank you."

  Emilia then squeezed my hands emphatically. "Since this is my only chance, I expect you to return to Vienna and find your community. You are an Ashkenazi Jew, except that father of yours. Get your genes tested, and start taking classes to learn what should have been your faith all along. Settle down with a good Jewish girl. Surround yourself with children, Florian. That will heal your broken heart forever."

  I held my breath and resisted the urge to pull my hands away. My cheeks burned, but if this was my only chance to speak with her, I wasn't going to burst her bubble and explain that I was gay, not just gay for Michel. Not only that, but I was some kind of agnostic who had married a serious occultist. I could not satisfy a single one of the expectations she had for me.

  "Is that…what you've been wanting to say to me?" Had she really been waiting all these years just to tell me to go straight and become a Jew?

  Emilia seemed to ponder this. "We were told that we could stay with you and your mother until a certain moment in your lives wherein you would truly need us. I believe that moment has come."

  I sincerely hoped I would never have more trying moments in my life than this.

  "Florian, are you suicidal?"

  "Yes," I said immediately. A voice in my head kept whispering that if I died, I could see my husband again. I could simply follow him to where he had gone.

  Emilia lifted my hand up to her nose and held it as if in prayer. She closed her eyes. "This is the moment then, Florian. This is why I am here. I don't think you'll be able to see me after this, but I will ask to be allowed to stay with you until you aren't suicidal anymore. I'll still be able to hear you. Do you promise you'll talk with me?"

  "I promise, Emilia."

  "Do not disappoint your grandmother, Florian. Don't you dare. If you take your life and end up here, I'll find you and you cannot imagine how angry I'll be with you."

  Oh dear. I didn't know what to do with all that. "Okay."

  She rose up and patted my head. I felt her touch, like warm sunshine on my hair. "Good boy. That's my grandson. You're going to be fine, just allow time to pass and listen to your Oma."

  "Yes ma'am."

  I closed my eyes and reveled in her touch, soaking it in. She petted my head like I was five rather than nearly thirty, but I guessed she considered this making up for lost time.

  "What happened to you?" I asked softly.

  Emilia let out a sigh, but didn't stop stroking my hair. "They took us away, the morning after we'd dropped off your mother at Stephansdom. I'm sure you can imagine what happened, considering I am this way now instead of your ancient grandmother, all wrinkly and white-haired."

  My heart ached. "I wish you were. I'd take care of you."

  "I know you would have, my grandson."

  I waited patiently for her to gather her thoughts. She finally sat back and I missed her warmth.

  "They took us to a camp, but we did not stay. It was maybe three or four days after I was separated from your grandfather that they killed us."

  I clenched my jaw, now unsure I really wanted to hear this information. I was so raw already.

  Emilia clasped her hands in he
r lap and looked up as if she could see something I couldn't. "Even on the train to the camp, we were filled with such despair. We knew what would happen. I remembered lamenting having left my child, that I was so young, so in love with my husband, and I wouldn't get to experience it. I wouldn't get to live my life. It was over."

  I scrubbed my eyes and urged myself to keep listening.

  "Those days, I prayed in the back of my mind constantly. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't have any hope left, but I knew I was supposed to look to God in times of despair, so I kept praying. The tyrants cannot get inside your mind unless you let them in, Florian. Demons cannot enter a room unless they are invited, and the same is true for your mind."

  "I understand, Oma."

  She opened her hands and gazed above me, looking into the past with pain in her eyes. "When they herded us into the chamber, everyone around me was so scared, but in that moment, I received an answer to my prayers."

  "What was it?" I asked when she paused as if reliving the moment, her expression turning to awe.

  "I could see them, Florian," Emilia said. "I could see the angels who had come for us. The gas chamber was so crowded with angels that their wings filled the entire ceiling, feathers everywhere."

  Tears streamed down my cheeks, and in that moment I felt the strangest thing. In my grandmother's eyes I saw the angels in the chamber, saw them swooping and holding people in their arms. Pulled out of my own agony and into my grandmother's story, my heart took that moment of separation to patch up a bit of its injury and strengthen itself to endure this incredible pain from losing Michel.

  Emilia blinked, and the image of the angels disappeared, but I took a deep breath and felt myself grow just a tiny bit stronger.

  One short moment of relief, but then my grandmother's image flickered.

  She smiled sadly, the tears pooling in her beautiful green eyes. "My time in this form is over, it seems. But I will remain with you, just not visually. You'll have to work to hear me, if you're not used to hearing anyone respond to your prayers. Listen closely and know that I will stay with you. I will be sure to tell you if I am leaving, but I think heaven will allow me to stay with you during your suffering."