by Kitty Parker
"Definitely better than stand-up," Eden agreed.
"Glad I could entertain you," I scoffed. I was glad, however, that the conversation had shifted away from talk of Kurt's supposed sexual fantasies. I really didn't want to think about those, especially if there was even a remote possibility that they involved me.
"You guys ready to get out of here?" asked Jane.
Eden raised an eyebrow. "Getting antsy?"
"A bit, yeah," Jane admitted sheepishly.
"That's fine," I replied, picking myself up off of the sand and heading over to return my empty bottle to the bartender. "There's somewhere I'd like to visit anyway."
I led the way to the street, then hung a right and began to walk toward my intended destination. I had visited it many times as a child, and I could find my way there blindfolded. En route, I paused and ducked into a flower shop, purchasing a single yellow rose.
"Who's that for?" Eden inquired, cocking her head to one side in curiosity.
I ran a finger over the blossom's delicate petals. "My great-uncle."
My two companions shared a confused glance, shrugged, and followed me out of the shop and up the street toward what appeared to be a large park at the end. As we approached the wrought-iron gates, however, the carved stones dotting the grass became visible.
"Lotte," began Eden uncertainly. "Where are we?"
"Friedhof II der Sophiengemeinde," I answered, pushing open the gate. "Opa Karl's brother Alfons is buried here."
She nodded in understanding, and the three of us walked in silence through the ancient graves, some of which were crumbling and covered in moss and lichens. I finally stopped in front of a pale granite headstone, slightly weathered by the elements, but certainly not neglected, and wordlessly read the inscription:
Alfons Wilhelm Leisch
Geboren 11 Mai 1924
Gestorben 4 April 1945
Geliebter Sohn und Bruder
Schlaf in Gottes Armen
"What does it mean?" asked Eden gently.
I took a moment to breathe deeply before responding. "Alfons Wilhelm Leisch; born May eleventh, 1924; died April fourth, 1945; beloved son and brother; sleep in the arms of God."
Almost as one in a dream, I slowly sunk to my knees and placed the yellow rose upon the grave. I uttered a soft prayer, then remained staring at the headstone, lost in thought…
An enormous explosion shook the makeshift barricade as a bomb went off across the avenue. Eighteen year-old Karl Leisch ducked behind the pile of sandbags and threw his hands over his head, as if squashing his helmet against his skull would protect him from the onslaught. Clutching his pistol to his chest, he peeked out at the smoldering ruins of what had once been Friedrichstraße, one of the main roads through Berlin.
A young man clad in an S.S. uniform similar to Karl's ran out from behind the remains of a bakery and toward the spot where his comrade lay hidden.
"Die Russen kommen! (The Russians are coming!)" he shouted, waving his arms about frantically. "Sie werden uns alle töten! (They will kill us all!)"
His breath hitching in his throat, Karl quickly reached for the picture he always kept in his pocket. If he were doomed to die at the hands of Soviet soldiers, he needed to see the face of Irmgard, his sweetheart, one last time. He had hoped to marry her when they had saved enough money, but the plan had been interrupted when he was drafted. He honestly didn't understand what the war was all about. He'd been quite young when the National Socialist Party first came to power, and he'd only been a mere thirteen years of age when the fighting began. He hadn't wanted to get involved in the whole messy affair, but it wasn't as though he'd had much choice in the matter. Now that he was in the midst of battle, all he knew was that he wanted to protect his home and his family from whatever dangers came along. At the moment, the threat was the Red Army.
"Alfons!" he shouted toward another barricade some twenty feet away where his twenty year-old brother had taken refuge. "Komm mal, wir müssen unsere Heimat beschützen! (Come, we must protect our home!)"
Alfons cautiously crept out from behind his shelter and dashed to where his brother was crouching. "Karl," he began, staring down at his hands."Ich habe Angst. Normalerwiese wurde ich nie so was sagen, aber du bist mein Bruder, und ich muss ehrlich sprechen. (I'm afraid. Normally I would never say such a thing, but you're my Brother, and I must speak honestly.)" He slowly raised his head, the fear evident in his light blue eyes.
Karl swallowed the lump that had begun to rise up in his throat. "Ich habe auch Angst (I'm also afraid)," he admitted, taking his brother's hand in what he hoped was a supportive gesture. "Aber wir müssen nicht um uns selber sorgen. (But we mustn't worry about ourselves.) Denk mal an unsere Familie, an Mutti und Papa, an unsere Schwestern... (Think of our family, of Mom and Dad, of our sisters...)"
Und an Irmgard, he added silently.
Alfons took a deep breath and appeared to square himself to face battle. He nodded determinedly to his brother, and the two of them came out from behind the barricade, joining the assorted groups of soldiers and armed civilians already making their way forward to meet the enemy. They were a ragtag, unorganized collection of men, worn out from years of war, halfheartedly attempting to push back the invading forces and thereby retain at least a shred of their dignity. The battle of Berlin had become something of a free-for-all, people running every which way with whatever weapons they could get their hands on, simply trying not to be killed. The highest-ranking commanding officers had hidden themselves like cowards in a fortified bunker with Hitler, forcing the "common people" to face the perils of battle alone. Karl couldn't help but despise them.
Suddenly, he spotted a group of Russian soldiers charging from a side-street, guns at the ready. "VORSICHT! (LOOK OUT!)" he roared.
Seeing the enemy bearing down on them, the mix of soldiers and civilians scattered, taking refuge behind anything available. They were met with a hail of Soviet bullets, followed by the horrific screams of those who'd been hit.
Karl dived behind a partially-destroyed car, narrowly dodging what would surely have been a fatal shot. He quickly raised the barrel of his gun above the top of his shelter and fired a few bullets in what he believed to be the general direction of the Soviet troops. He had no idea if he hit anyone or not, but he had no desire to risk putting his head in the range of Russian infantrymen just to sneak a peek.
A piercing pain suddenly shot through his leg. A bullet had found its way under the car. He let out an anguished groan and glanced down at his injured limb. It didn't appear too horrible, having just grazed his calf. Although the wound stung, Karl considered himself lucky that the bullet hadn't lodged itself in his flesh. He pressed a fingertip to the gash, causing a stinging sensation to overtake his leg. He cursed loudly.
"KARL?" came a panicked cry from behind a nearby pile of scrap metal. "Was ist passiert!? (What happened!?)"
"Ich wurde geschossen, Alfons, (I was shot, Alfons)," he moaned.
"Ich komme, kleiner Bruder! (I'm coming, little brother!)" Alfons bellowed. "Ich komme! (I'm coming!)" He leapt out from his hiding place and began to run to where his brother lay. He had almost reached the relative safety of the old car when a Soviet gun unleashed the bullet that would end his life.
"Alfons!" Karl shouted as his brother clutched his side and collapsed. "ALFONS!"
Alfons reached out his left arm weakly. "Bruder…(Brother…)" he wheezed.
Ignoring the shooting pain in his leg and gathering every ounce of strength in his body, Karl got to his feet and limped as quickly as he could toward the pool of blood beginning to gather around his brother. He looped his arms underneath Alfons's arms and, dodging three shots, dragged him behind the barricade.
As Alfons lay dying, Karl cradled him in his lap, attempting to soothe him by humming the soft, mournful lullaby that their mother had sung to them as children.
"Warum? (Why?)" Alfons whimpered, his breathing becoming shallow and staggered.
Karl shook his he
ad forlornly. "Ich weiß nicht…ich weiß nicht…(I don't know...I don't know...)"
Alfons's breath hitched, signaling that death had at last arrived on his doorstep. "Auf Wiedersehen, Karl, (Until I see you again, Karl)," he whispered. With his final words, his heartbeat ceased and his body fell limp in his brother's arms.
"Auf Wiedersehen," Karl choked out, tears beginning to blur his vision. The sound of gunshots had migrated further down the street, and he chanced emerging from his hiding place, Alfons's body clutched tightly to his chest. He could see the battle continuing about seventy feet away, so he limped off in the opposite direction, finally taking refuge inside of a dilapidated church. He set his precious cargo at the foot of the altar and uttered every prayer he knew, begging the Lord to end the horrendous slaughter…
A solitary tear made its way down my cheek, and I felt Eden rest her hand on my shoulder. I placed mine over hers and gave it a small squeeze.
"What are you doing here?" demanded a low, gruff voice, interrupting my moment of mourning.
I turned around and fixed Will Buckley with a glare as cold as liquid nitrogen. "Paying my respects. What business could you possibly have in this graveyard?"
Will shared a smirk with Seth Vernon and Carey Harris, his cronies, who had apparently come along for the ride. "We're paying our disrespects."
Seth and Carey laughed at the lame pun as though it were absolutely brilliant. I shifted my death-glare onto them, and they quickly sobered up. Stupid clods.
"Just what do you mean by that?" I asked in a dangerously soft voice, getting to my feet and starting to walk slowly toward the group of bone-headed miscreants.
Seth and Carey each took a nervous step back, but Will appeared unfazed. "There are Nazis buried here," he announced, a smug grin twisting his lips. "We're spitting on their graves."
The indicator on the Lotte Leisch Rage-O-Meter began to creep up toward the red level, which essentially translated as "Angry Rhino Mode - climb up a tree now and stay there or face my wrath."
"This is hallowed ground, you inconsiderate douche," I snarled, venom lacing my every word. "You have absolutely no right to profane the final resting place of these people with your germ-infested saliva. Get the fuck out of here. Now."
Completely ignoring me, Will gestured to the grave behind me. "Who's that, then?"
"My great-uncle," I replied, gritting my teeth in an attempt to control my temper.
Chuckling in a rather unsettling manner, he made his way over to the headstone. "Alfons Wilhelm Leisch," he read with a distinctly mocking tone. "Killed in the war. Oh my, my, my." He turned to face me, a nasty sneer firmly implanted on his lips. "The bastard doesn't deserve a decent burial. He should have been left out in the sun to rot."
If I had been a cartoon character, there would certainly have been steam shooting out of my ears at this point. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to tackle Will and pound him to a bloody pulp.
Must…control…fury…
Will apparently didn't recognize the warning signals that the bubbling volcano in front of him was about to erupt and bury him in an onslaught of lava and pumice. "Hey kraut," he taunted. "Yeah, you. How do you like this, kraut?" With that, he hocked a loogie that sailed through the air and landed on Alfons's headstone, directly in the middle of his name.
All those present stared at the glob of spit in shock until Eden grabbed a dead leaf from the ground and attempted to wipe it off.
Now, I was never much of a fan of violence. It took a lot to irk me to the point where I'd completely lose my cool. Insulting my family, though, was a surefire way to infuriate me and bring me to the boiling point in rather short period of time. It was a shame that Will had never learned this about me…well, a shame for him, that is.
Absolutely fuming, I clenched my right hand into a fist. Then, with all the strength I could muster, I let fly with a punch that knocked Will to the ground and would doubtlessly result in a nasty shiner. The asshole stared up at me in disbelief and made an effort to scoot backward across the ground like some sort of demented crab as I advanced on him, tears of rage streaming down my cheeks.
"You miserable son of a bitch!" I hollered, picking up a rock and chucking it at his head. Luckily for him, I missed. "You loathsome, despicable, vile little cockroach!" I aimed two swift kicks at his stomach and likely would have inflicted further damage had Eden and Jane not restrained me.
"He's not worth it, Lotte," Eden explained, trying desperately to calm me down.
"Yeah," Jane agreed. "He's just a stupid little loser who's pissed off because he can't get laid."
Will spluttered.
"Don't act like it's not true!" Jane snapped.
Normally, I would have found this hilarious. Under the circumstances, however, I'd had enough. I extracted myself from the arms of my friends and ran. I had no idea where I was going. All I knew was that I had to get away.
Chapter 14: Mach Die Augen Zu Und Kuss Mich
Vodka is lovely. Raspberry-flavored vodka is better. Cognac is even better than that! I would know, as after I ran away from the graveyard, tears still streaming down my face, marring my cheeks with streaks of mascara, I downed a fairly sizeable quantity of each. I'd never been one to drink away my problems, but the situation at hand fell more under the general category of "catastrophes," and I felt that I was somewhat entitled to a bit of inebriation.
Setting my bottle of liquor down on the table next to my hotel-room bed, I stumbled over to my suitcase and whipped out a comfy pair of boxers and a white tank-top. Wiggling out of my jeans and shirt, I yanked them on, then fell back against the pillows, Dashboard Confessional's "The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most" blasting from my iPod speakers.
Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself
And covered with a perfect shell
Such a charming, beautiful exterior
Laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes
Perfect posture, but you're barely scraping by
But you're barely scraping by…
This bed is niiiice, I decided, grabbing my cognac and taking a swig, accidentally slopping some over onto my lips in the process. I licked the potent liquid off, relishing the hard taste and burning sensation as it traveled down my throat.
This is one time, this is one time
That you can't fake it hard enough to please everyone
Or anyone at all...or anyone at all
And the grave that you refuse to leave
The refuge that you've built to flee
The places that you've come to fear the most,
It's the place that you have come to fear the most…
"Yum!" I whooped in the vague direction of the ceiling lamp. "Cognac rocks, man!" Setting the bottle back down, I rolled over a few times on the bed. "Wheeeee!" My method of "fleeing the places I'd come to fear the most," as Chris Carrabba would have put it, was apparently by crawling inside of a liquor bottle…figuratively, of course. There's no waaaaay I'd fit through the little toppy thingy.
Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself
And hidden in the public eye
Such a stellar monument to loneliness
Laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes
Perfect make-up, but you're barely scraping by
But you're barely scraping by…
There was a loud knock on the door.
"Who is it?" I asked in a sing-song voice.
The knocks began again, this time turning into loud thumps, as though the person standing in the hall were absolutely desperate to get inside in order to get away from a machete-wielding maniac or something along those lines. Perhaps clowns. Or animatronic people. Those things were just creepy. The "It's a Small World After All" thing at Disney World was more or less hell on Earth for me. Unaware of the horrors that lurked inside of the deceptively cutesy ride, I'd gone on it with Hans during a family vacation when I was twelve. I'd flipped out, clung to my brother like a leech, squeezed my eyes shut
, and repeatedly recited the "Our Father" in German as loudly as I could. It had taken my parents hours to calm me down.
"Lotte? Is that you?" Thud! Thud! Thud!
"Mayyyyybe…" I teased. "But I just might be Attila the Hun, so you'd better watch out, or I'll kill you with my nunchucks!"
There was a pause. Ha, he's a scardy-cat! My nunchucks triumph again!
"Lotte, it's Kurt, and this is no time for fucking around! Let me in!"
"Okaaaay, Bossy McBossypants!" I retorted oh-so-intelligently, staggering over to the door and fumbling with the lock. It opened to reveal an incredibly frazzled-looking Kurt Matthews, light brown hair in disarray, hazel eyes wide as saucers, and panting excessively as though he'd just bolted up all eighty-six flights of stairs in the Empire State Building.
I hiccupped, then leaned casually against the doorframe. "Eh…What's up, Doc?" Laughing hysterically at my incredibly bad Bugs Bunny imitation, I fell forward into Kurt's arms.
"Oh, boy," he grunted. "How much have you had to drink, Lotte?"
I grinned as widely as possible. "I dunnoooooo…"
"That's too much," he declared, sweeping me off my feet and carrying me to the bed.
"Hehe," I giggled. "We went over the threshold. That means that we're married. Hehe. I doooooooo."
Shaking his head at my lunacy, Kurt gently placed me atop my pillows. He switched off my music, then commenced pacing back and forth across the room.
A thought suddenly popped up in my intoxicated cranium. "Why are you here?"
He must be Superman. He knew I was in trouble and came to save me! I'll bet I'm really Lois Lane. Mutti is so silly for never telling me that!
Superman, also known as Kurt, turned to stare at me with the utmost seriousness. "Eden and Jane are freaking out about you, Lotte! I ran into them at Potsdammer Platz, and they started going on about how you had gone on a bender. They're looking all over the city for you! You're just lucky I found you before you drank yourself into a coma."
I hiccupped.
Kurt ran his hands through his hair in an agitated manner. "God, do you have any idea how worried I was, Lotte? Ah, who am I kidding? You don't know. You'll never get it…" He threw up his hands in frustration. "I was terrified that something horrible had happened to you. And yet here you are, in your hotel room, drunker than Bluto Blutarsky at a fucking toga party!"