Chapter Text
Franz wakes up early in the morning — As in, notably early. Right at the end of night. It must have been no later than five AM when he felt the early warmth tickle his skin.
What surprises him almost instantly is the voices in the hallways outside of his door; mother and father. In the house beyond his bedroom their babbling can be heard in a hushed, whispered conversation, although the words themselves remain obscured by the thick wooden door which separates the two worlds.
He doesn’t get up, doesn’t roll over, doesn’t shrug the blanket off of his body. It’s too early.
But he does listen, even if that is all he does. He listens to the rising of his father’s voice, the high-pitched panic of his mother’s voice. Papa sounds angry— Angrier than he normally is.
His mother is crying, he realizes. Loudly. Yet his father still yells — Something about illness, something about the state of the house—
—Something about him.
“…He’s your son, this is your sin…” Says Hermann in a whisper-yell, which is met by a sharp sound of distress from mother.
There’s the spiking in his heart again. What sin? What sin? What had he done? What had she done?
What could they know?
The question repeats itself incessantly, while he lies stationary in bed with wide, panicked eyes and quick breaths.
Was it— Was it about Oskar? Could they know something? But— But still, what had he done?
He skims through the memories, his mind still delirious with sleep, and tries to find something— Anything incriminating.
But he hadn’t done anything, aside from last night, underneath the quiet blanket of night. And they couldn’t know about that. He was alone, was silent, was almost good.
He could almost deny whom he thought of, laid bare upon the bed.
“…He’s a good boy, Hermann, he—” Begins a protest from Franz’s mother.
“You coddled him too much!” Hermann interrupts in a hushed voice. A strangled, choked sound leaves his mother’s throat at that, more panicked than before. Her volume is picking up again.
“Coddled him?” She asks brokenly, her voice dripping with panic. “I was hardly there!” She cries.
Father responds with a scoff of disgust.
“And that’s your first confession!” He spits out, not even taking a second to collect himself before continuing. “You are an inadequate mother, Julie Löwy! You did not teach our boy the difference between right and wrong! You gave him over entirely to his own self indulgences!”
Franz can hardly keep himself breathing.
“I— I don’t understand—“ She sobs, stifled hiccups wracking her body. “I don’t understand what he did wrong!”
Another frustrated noise leaves Hermann’s throat as he continues in a raised whisper.
“He is an idle boy! He is lazy, and weak, and spends every waking moment of his life dreaming away the hours while he is fed and cared for by the fruits of my labor!”
”That’s not true!” She yells, her voice breaking violently. “That’s not true at all! He— He cooks, and he washes the dishes, he puts the girls to bed—“
“Yes, those insignificant things he does are the bare minimum of what ought to be expected, and they should not be commended! The boy could be working! He could be learning a trade, or pursuing a career that could bring him a modicum of success in life, but instead he is wasting my money, and sponging away the best years of his life with his nose buried in books!” He spits out, disgust evident in his voice.
Franz’s heart winds tighter at those words.
He had tried— Had tried to be good, had tended to the house, had taken the place of the father, to an extent— Had tried to be something admirable, something obedient.
But at least it wasn’t Oskar, he tells himself over and over again. At least it wasn’t the willow tree, the river, the fields, the barn. At least it wasn’t him.
“No, no, no—“ She cries helplessly. “He works at the shop when you are out! He— He is going to university for chemistry! He is going to be something great, he is going to make money!”
A sharp, sardonic laugh leaves Hermann as he responds.
“Chemist— Chemist! My boy with his ‘love’ for literature will be a chemist! He will go nowhere with that degree — Do you hear me, nowhere! I know it, and he knows it! The best he can hope for is for some meager job in an office, slaving his life away as a clerk! But at leas t that job could be respectable!”
“No, please, Hermann, he’s told me— He’s very smart— He’s going to take it seriously, please, please, I swear—“ She begs.
Franz sits up in his bed and lets his long legs come off the edge, his feet landing quietly on the hard wood floor.
“Yes, he is very smart, and he is wasting his mind on these foolish fictions that they call literature! That’s all he does with his time! And— And this obsession of his is not healthy, this is what I am saying, this is what you don’t understand! He is so immersed in these fantastical stories, he has no room for any real-world skills or knowledge!”
“No, he’s out all day! He’s out all day! At— At the shop, with his friends— The writing is only a hobby, Hermann, it’s only a hobby… He writes wonderful stories…”
Franz thinks again that she sounds weak, and then thinks that she sounds just like him, or rather that he sounds just like her. Helpless, cowering.
“A hobby! A hobby! The time he spends scribbling out those pointless, ridiculous stories would be better spent on real education! And as for friends, I don’t doubt that his days are spent cavorting about town with that little degenerate that he calls a friend!”
With shaking hands and weak legs, Franz walks over to the door. Ever so slowly, ever so slowly, with such quiet feet, such heavy breathing. He can’t think anymore. Not about anything. All he has is the overpowering feeling that this will all end in death.
“Degenerate?” She gasps in horror. “The Pollaks are a very respectable family!”
A sound of bitter scorn leaves Hermann’s throat. “The Pollaks! Hah! The Pollaks! Respectable! ” He scoffs. “Well you know what I’ve heard about their ‘Respectable family?”
Julie is quiet, staring at her husband with watery, searching eyes.
Franz is even quieter when he cracks the door open and peers out into the hallway.
He doesn’t even make a sound when he sees the bright red mark on his mother’s cheek.
Doesn’t even make a sound when he remembers the first time it happened like this.
He wishes he had woken up earlier.
“I’ve heard…” He begins, and paces back and forth through the hallway with heavy, slow steps. “That the other son…”
Its all quiet for a moment, all quiet aside from the heavy breathing.
“ …Was a faggot. ”
Franz can feel his head begin to spin with those whispered words, those venomous words— Had he held his feet still? Had the ground fallen from beneath his feet? Had his heart finally stopped? He wouldn’t know.
He can’t think of anything, anything at all, aside from that word. Faggot.
“…That’s— That’s not true— Franz’s friend… Oskar… He’s the only boy— The only boy the Pollak’s have—“ His mother stammers helplessly, her eyes wide as cherry pies. “He doesn’t have a brother.”
Hermann gives two barks of harsh laughter at that.
“Then you have been lied to. I have had eyes and ears all those years, my dear.”
He moves closer to his wife, leaning down beside her as he puts a hand on her cheek.
“They won’t talk about the older boy because they are ashamed of him. He’s gone to Greenland , don’t you know, to be alone with his faggotry?”
“No.” She says firmly, and flinches away from her husband’s callous hand. “No, that’s not true.”
Hermann’s face twists upwards into an angry sneer with those words, reaching down and grabbing her wrist, his grip tight, bruising.
“I would be more careful of your tone if I were you, my woman. You do not get to contradict your husband. I have told you of the Pollaks, and I have never been one to lie to my family. Their older son is a deviant. A sinner. A sick, twisted, vile creature.“
It all goes quiet again.
“…If the older son was a faggot, what do you suppose Oskar could be?”
“Nothing.” She whispers. “He’s nothing. He’s a good boy, like our own… He’s going to university with Franz, he’s not anything like that…”
“A good boy,” He scoffs. How laughable it all is. He lets go of her wrist, bringing his hand to snatch a fistful of her hair instead. He yanks her head backwards, forcing her eyes to look up to his own.
His eyes, which hold such anger and such violence and such love. With all of it, there is love. Such a deep love, she thinks, that she could almost stand his hand in her hair like that.
But still, she moans in pain when the beast grabs her long hair, unkempt from sleep. Oh, her husband, man and beast. How could he, she wants to say. How could he? How could you?
“Are you so sure that he isn’t anything like that? That he doesn’t take part in all the same things that his sick older brother did? You wouldn’t know if he did, now would you?”
“No, don’t touch me, not like that…” She begs. “Please, please, he’s not like that, he’s Franz’s friend…”
She couldn’t have made herself be calm, couldn’t have made herself think that she wanted it, not even if she tried.
He scoffs again, tightening his grip on her hair and pulling her closer.
“Of course he’s Franz’s friend, and that’s the entire problem!” He yells, his volume rising again. “That boy has been filling your son's head with all sorts of nonsense! All sorts of depraved nonsense, and this writing of his — I wouldn’t be surprised if he picked the hobby up from the boy! It’s all just part of his perversion, I know it is!”
Behind the slightly cracked door, Franz’s heart cannot sink any more. It can only throb in the dark. Not even his mother, he knows, could see him, could still love him, could still touch him if she knew.
And who’s fault is that? It is not hers. It is his and his alone. Father isn’t right— Not about this, at least; It was not his mothers’ sin, not Oskar’s sin.
He had bore his own sin, had nurtured it and neglected it and raised it and had almost killed it.
Couldn’t he still kill it?
Couldn’t there still be time?
Wouldn’t it all be over by the end of summer?
Watching through that dark sliver, he sees Julie throw her head back from her husband’s grip, stepping away, cradling her head in her shaking hands.
“No! No, don’t you say that! Not Franz! Not my boy, you don’t understand, you don’t know him like I do…” She cries, her shoulders heaving with her heavy sobs.
Hermann gives another disgusted scoff, watching his wife’s desperate form with a vile look.
“And how well do you know him, my dear? What is it that you know? That he writes? That he studies? That he’s always out?”
He moves closer to the weeping woman again, bringing a hand up as if to hit her.
“No!” She begs urgently. “No, no, no, not again!”
Franz is stricken by the urgency of her words, the fear, the pleading. She wants help, he knows. Wants help from someone who is not there.
But he is there, isn’t he, cowering behind the door? Couldn’t he do something?
But still he keeps his feet planted on the hardwood floor.
“…Not again, you can’t hurt me… ”
One of Hermann’s eyebrows raise at her words, the side of his lip quirking up into something malicious.
“Oh! I can’t, can I? I can’t hurt you?” He asks, yanking her up by her hair even further, forcing her onto her tippy-toes. “Perhaps I should remind you who is the woman, and who is the man in this house?”
“Please, please don’t…”
“Say it! Say who is the man, and who is the woman in this house!”
He pulls her head back sharply.
“You are the man!” She shrieks. “You are the man in this house! I am the woman! I am the woman!” She screeches the words out like she were repenting, Franz thinks. Repenting, or admitting her sins at the confession booth like a shameful catholic.
Holding his breath high up in his chest, he imagines his mother as something beyond human. A wonderful creature with leopard’s spots and yellow fur, barefooted and naked. But the creature is tamed by the hunter, sleeps at the foot of his bed like a domestic woman. Doesn’t she want to run?
Hermann sneers in self-approval at her words, and then quickly releases her hair from his iron fist, sending her stumbling back into a large armchair. The leather creaks as she lands on it, her body crumpling into a heap on the seat.
He looks down at her expressionlessly, watching her quivering form. He takes a deep breath.
“Is it not your job as my wife to obey me?” He asks, his voice breaking a little.
“Yes, yes, my job… That is my job…” She says in between sobs, holding her head in her hands, cowering. “I am sorry…” She whispers. “Just don’t hit me, please don’t hit me… That’s all I ask…”
Franz watches quietly. He wonders how often this happens in these early mornings, while he is still asleep. Wonders how much he doesn’t know. Wonders how often he hurts her.
Hermann gives her a huff at that, moving closer to the chair. He crouches down beside her, placing one of his hands on her shaking knee.
“Ah, I won’t, I won’t now my dear…” He whispers, almost soothingly. “But I could have, couldn’t I? That is how you take care of a disobedient wife.”
Julie doesn’t say anything, flinching a little when he reaches out to touch her knee, still hunched over and sobbing.
It is her own fault, she is reminded, for not being obedient. Other husbands hit their wives, but hers has only hit her twice. He is a good husband. He spares her. How often has he spared her? Far too often. She takes and takes and whines when she gets what was coming for her. Time and time again, over and over, it doesn’t end. She takes, she is punished, she cries, she takes, she is punished, she cries.
But like a little girl she wants to run to her husband’s shoulder and bury her face in the crook of her neck and let the tears stain the fabric of his nightshirt just as she had done with her father, wants to curl up underneath the blanket again and fall back asleep.
And more than anything else she wants to be able to wake up and let her face be touched, let it be held by quiet, firm hands which nurture and do not punish.
“I’m sorry…” She whispers again. “I am so sorry…”
Franz has to stop himself from crying out with her.
The wild woman who was tamed, who sleeps at the foot of the hunter’s bed. The domestic woman who was once wild.
The hunter says he’ll chase her down and poach her if she runs.
He lets out a creaky sigh.
Hermann gives a soft hum, looking over his wife’s quivering form and giving a slight shake of his head.
“No, no, my beautiful dear, you don’t need to be sorry… You are my wife, and my wife needs a firm hand…” He says, running a hand up her shaking leg and up to her shoulder, where he squeezes it soothingly.
“I love you.” He whispers. “It’s all because I love you. I want to see you behave.”
She shakes her head gently in return, still cradling herself in between her fingers.
She does not respond to his touch. She sits there quietly, almost dead, in a way. Crying.
The earth is quiet, oh, so quiet, so quiet…
On that quiet earth, Franz takes a step back into his room.
The floorboards creek loudly, as if even they were crying with the tragedy of woman.
Hermann’s head turns quickly at the sound, and for a moment his hand stills on Julie’s shoulder. There is a long, silent moment, where he stares at where the noise had come from…
He pushes himself up from the floor, and then crosses the hallway to stand in front of Franz’s bedroom door. He halts so quietly, one of his broad palms leaning against the doorframe.
“…Franz?”
His heart goes still. Not a violent dropping, but a quiet ceasing.
The silent earth stops spinning for a moment, just as it had done for him many times before.
He doesn’t say anything for a second, staring into his father’s eyes in the early morning light. The eyes of the beast, the beast who nurtures.
“You didn’t come home last night.” He whispers.
Hermann’s eyebrows furrow a bit at that, and he takes a step into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He stands silently for a moment, looking over Franz’s form. His boy’s nightclothes, his messy hair, his eyes still sleepy.
“No,” He says after a moment. “No, I didn’t, did I?”
His breath comes heavy and slow.
“I had to make dinner.” Says Franz.
Hermann’s expression hardens at that, and he takes another few steps closer to the son, only stopping when he’s directly in front of him.
“Did you? Why couldn’t your mother?” He asks, his voice quiet, as if to keep the woman outside the room from hearing.
“She’s sick.” He says flatly. But father knew that already, didn’t he? He had been taking care of her before. Had stood by her side like a watchdog. Had loved her. Had been gentle.
That’s right, father had been gentle. He had been gentle because he had that gentleness in him. Time and time again he was gentle, time and time again, just a little bit of kindness here and there, just a little bit of softness. Crumbs to keep him biting, licking at the plate and begging for more. But the plate is only empty because he had already eaten the meal, isn’t it? How greedy it is to want more.
But he’s not full.
Another brief silence from the man, as he stands there towering over his son, staring down wordlessly at him. He doesn't look angry; he just looks quiet.
He reaches up a hand, as if to touch him, as if to cradle his face. But he stops.
“…You’re a man, aren’t you?” He mutters.
Franz looks up at the hand which reaches for him with large, scared eyes. Eyes which plead ‘don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me. Only hold me.’
But he has not been held for a long time. Couldn’t he still be held? Isn’t he still young? He is not a man. He is still a boy.
“I saw you grab her hair.” He says, ignoring the question.
Hermann’s hand freezes again, and for a moment, is taken off guard by those words. He stares at his own hand, the hand which had held the boy when he was only a baby.
He glances back up at his son, and he stands there, silent, for almost a moment too long.
"I did," He answers quietly. His voice is strange, "I did grab her hair, Franz."
Franz’s face twists into something odd and distasteful, almost disgusted.
“She was screaming.”
Hermann’s eyes flicker again at those words, and his jaw clenches tight as his hands curl into fists at his sides. He doesn't say anything for another long, strained moment, as if he were trying to control some kind of wild animal.
"She doesn't scream, anymore… she doesn't ever scream anymore."
“But she was screaming.” He says quickly. “She was screaming while you were holding her hair. And— And it’s not right, and I can’t listen to it—“
"Enough." Hermann's voice snaps like a whip.
He reaches out and grabs Franz by the upper arm, lifting it up so that the boy is eye to eye with him. His grip is tight and uncomfortable, like he were trying to crush the bones. "You will not talk as if you know anything. You will be quiet, boy. You will shut your damn mouth on the matter of my wife."
“Don’t touch me.” The son snaps, and yanks his boney arm roughly away from his father’s heavy hand, glaring at him with fiery brown eyes.
“And now you have the gall to be insolent to your father?"
Hermann's eyes narrow to a glare, and his hand clenches into a tight, steel-hard fist.
"Who do you think you're talking to, boy?" He spits.
“Get off of me!” He whisper-yells, and tries to pull away once more. But his father’s ruling fist had taken hold even of him. “You don’t touch me like that!”
A loud sob from mother, who still sits hunched over in the living room chair.
Nobody comes to save her.
And Franz wants Hermann to hit him. Wants him to take that calloused hand and send it flying right across his face, wants it to leave a mark, wants him to be angry , wants this to be the end. He wants to be hit, he wants to be hit, he wants to be hit, he wants to scream, wants to fight and run and be hurt.
“You know how I deal with boys who act this way, don't you?"
Hermann's voice is hard as rock. His hand tightens on Franz's arm to the point of redness.
"You've been taught how to behave, boy. You've been raised to-"
Another sharp, strangled cry comes from the woman outside. Hermann's head turns quickly to look at the closed bedroom door. Then he looks back down at his son.
“I haven’t been raised to do anything at all!” He yells, angry tears beginning to well up in his eyes. They are not pitiful tears, not sobbing tears, not hiccuping tears— They are defiant tears.
The sound of his mother’s crying is nothing new. He’s heard it plenty of times before, from the safe haven of his room, sometimes with an audience consisting solely of his baby sisters, gathered around him while he feverishly read to them some fable while their parents fought outside.
"I don't—“ Hermann cuts himself off and his jaw clenches tight, as if he were struggling to get those words out.
Then it comes back to him.
“You know what that makes you, boy?" He growls instead. That anger and frustration inside of him is growing bigger and bigger by the second. "You know how the rest of the town would describe a boy like you?"
”What would they call me?” Franz spits loudly, his voice venom-filled and shaky. “What am I?”
“A bastard ." Hermann hisses. "They'd call you a bastard. " His eyes are still hard and narrow. "They'd laugh ." He grits out.
“Let them laugh, father.” He hisses. “Let them laugh, goddammit! Who’s fault is that? Who would make me into a bastard?”
The fire which brews in his heart, the defiant spirit, the cry of ‘I am not dying today’, still dressed in his nightclothes, still sleepy-eyed, still filled with shame from last night.
Again and again, he wants Hermann to hit him.
"You will respect me.” Hermann's eyes narrow again, as he takes another step towards Franz and leans down over him. His face is just inches away, and Franz can smell the sweat on his skin. He's struggling for control, struggling to keep his anger from exploding as he glares the boy down.
"You don't talk back to me , boy. You do not talk back to me."
He grabs Franz by his hair and yanks him forward until their faces are only inches apart.
Franz says nothing more.
He looks up to his father, his overlord, his God — He looks up to him with tears streaming down his anger-flushed cheeks, his brows knitted together, venom hot on his tongue.
Its dead silent for a moment.
Then there’s a loud smack.
It sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. Hermann's hand had whipped up and out like a riding crop, and a moment later his open palm had landed across the side of Franz's face. Hard. As if he were trying to knock the teeth out of him.
His head snaps back into place, a hot red mark highlighting his gaunt right cheek.
He doesn’t say anything.
The tears still stream down his face.
The anger brews, the indignation— It all simmers in his pot, bubbles up, threatens to spill out, threatens to make itself known—
The silence is heavy.
Hermann slowly straightens up, taking a deep breath, and lets go of Franz's arm. He lets his hand drop to the side.
His mouth opens as if to speak, the words catching and dying in his throat. All that comes out is a long, strained breath. His jaw clenches tight, he looks away, he crosses his arms. His head turns to stare out the boy’s bedroom window.
"…That’s it…" He mutters, his voice strange and hoarse. “…That’s it.”
There's another beat of silence, before Franz says in a whisper; ”How dare you.”
Hermann stands there, staring at the window, out at the street. He doesn't turn around, not even when he replies.
"I dare because I'm your father." He says coldly.
“No.” He says with a tight jaw, and shakes his head. “No, how dare you. ”
Hermann's eyes flicker toward Franz, the defiance of his eldest child igniting something within him— Something cruel, crueler than before. But he still doesn't turn around.
He lets out a deep, frustrated sigh, and his arms clench up in fists against his sides.
"I dare to make a man of you." He retorts.
“I didn’t ask what you dare to make of me,” Franz begins. “I said how dare you. ”
This morning he has a fire in his eyes. A fire which, in itself, dares to consume him and everything around him, flesh and skin and bone and fat. A fire which dares to ask for more, which dares to ask for fuel, which dares to let itself grow larger and larger and larger, so large that it devours even the sky.
“You’ve made nothing of me.”
"I have made something of you."
Hermann's voice is hard again, but there's something underneath his words. A slight waver, a hint of a crack in that wall, that façade which he clutches like a rifle. His shoulders tense, yet still he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the window.
"I'm the reason you survived."
“Why don’t you let me live?” The son whispers, and for the first time this morning, his words sound not only defiant but pained.
It just hardly shows itself.
Just in the corner of the room.
Just in the early morning light.
Just alone.
Alone with father.
Hermann turns around to face his son. Finally, finally, God, finally he faces him. Finally he faces him and looks at his red cheek and the tears streaming down his face, finally he begins to feel how even his own cheeks are a little wet. Had he been crying? Had the tears already snuck out? Could he stop it now? Could he stop the violent hand? Those violent hands are curled tight, almost to the point of whiteness.
"I want you to be somebody." He sneers, and steps towards Franz.
“I am somebody!” Franz yells, the words coming off of his tongue like hot lava.
Hermann’s eyes narrow, and then widen in anger.
“You're not! You're nothing! You haven't done anything! You've read , and you've written , and you've thought , but you haven't lived ."
“You don’t know that!” The son spits. “You don’t know anything about how I’ve lived!”
And the words, this time, feel like some of the truest words he’s ever said. Almost as true as ‘I love you’ whispered beneath the quiet shield of night. What did he know? What could he know? He couldn’t know about the fields or the river or the willow tree, not the barn or the bed, not the city of the heart.
Hermann's jaw clenches tight.
"What have I not known!?" He roars. "Have I not raised you? Have I not fed you? Have I not given you everything, and have you never appreciated—" He breaks off, his mouth snapping shut with a clink as the words dry up. He’s tongue tied again.
But Franz feels his own words still heavy upon his jaw, everything that he would say.
“Did I ever ask about you?” He hisses, gesturing wildly with his thin hands, getting closer and closer to his father’s face. “All I hear is about you! Everything that you say! Me, me, me, look at what I’ve done for you, why don’t you thank me— I’m done with it! I don’t want to hear about you!”
Hermann's blood is up now.
“This house is my house! This family is my family and you have a responsibility that you're going to fulfill! Do you really not see yourself at all?! Do you think that you can just take your heart and go off to the countryside and live out your life and forget your father, and your family, and this home—"
“Get out of my room!” He interrupts, practically bristling with frustration and fear. “I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want to hear it, no more, no more, no more—“
Franz stares at his father, at the veins in his neck and arms which bulge out from under the skin...
"You don't ever talk to me like that!" The man snaps. "Not when I've given you everything! Not when I've fed you and put a roof over your head and clothed you all these years and—"
“Get out!” Franz yells again, turning away and covering his ears with his palms, his fingers working to practically tear his own hair out.
Outside of the room, in the chair at the end of the hallway, mother still cries. Her hair is still matted and tangled, her face still red, her eyes still tired.
It all goes quiet for the hundredth time this morning.
Hermann still stands in the doorway for another few seconds. His body is still tense, his eyes still narrowed...
But then he's gone. He takes one last glare at Franz, and then his feet pound the floor as he stomps down the stairs and disappears. The door crashes loudly when it is closed behind him.
What happens next, not even he can put together, make sense of, understand.
He stares at the wall. He doesn’t think, doesn’t move, just stares with heaving shoulders and weeping eyes.
The bluebirds whistle their songs like a lullaby outside, telling him to curl back up in bed, go back to sleep, gain back the rest he had missed—
—Its the blue hour. The entire sky showers the land and the city in its ocean color. And that sky whispers to him that he must leave.
…Without even realizing it, he is undressing from his nightclothes and putting on his day clothes.
He can hear very faintly from outside the pleas of his mother to his father; ‘Oh, don’t hit him, why did you have to hit him, not Franz…’ and his quiet consolations of ‘Its alright. It’s alright, let’s come back to bed.’
But he can’t think about it, can hardly understand it, can hardly form an opinion— His steps and thoughts are all discordant and out of tune— So again, without realizing it, in the silence of the early morning when mother and father have retired once more, he walks bloodlessly from his bedroom, down the hallway, through the living room, to the door.
But he pauses there. He pauses when he hears Ottla’s little whimper of “Franz?”
He looks back to her, her sleepy tear-stricken face. “Ottla.”
“Franz, where are you going?” She asks, her voice tiny and shaky. She stands far away from him. She does not come closer.
He shakes his head softly.
“I’m sorry.”
Its not an answer, he knows.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll be back. I’ll be back, Ottla.”
She just stares at him. The expression, that soft, sweet look in her eyes that's just begging him to come closer and hold her. Hold her.
But she stays still, and so does he.
"Where will you be going?" She asks, quieter this time.
“I can’t tell you.” He whispers, and looks away. The truth is that he doesn’t know where he is going, only that he is going and that he will not come back today.
“I’m sorry.”
She was awoken by the screaming from mother and father, he knows, and even his own screaming. He knows that she is afraid.
“I’m sorry. I know. I know.”
"But—" She says, stepping towards him a few inches. Her tiny hand reaches out and tries to grab his, but he slips away.
"Where will I find you when I want to play?" She asks, quiet still.
He shakes his head softly. He can’t look at her. He can’t.
“I don’t know.” He whispers. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
"But I'll miss you." She says, her voice as soft as a mouse.
“I know.”
She looks up at him, and for a moment she lets a smile touch her face, before it falls with the tears.
"Promise you'll come back."
“I’ll come back. I swear. God, I swear, Ottla…” He says, his voice breaking and getting quieter with each word. It all sounds like a plea, more than a promise. “And— and you tell your sisters that I said they have to play with you today, yes? Because big brother says so. They’ll play with you… They’ll play with you…”
”Yes." She says. She does not sound convinced, not one little bit, but she nods nonetheless, accepting his word.
She watches him for a moment. Her eyes are sad, filled with quiet tears.
"And you love me, right?" She asks, her chin quivering.
“Yes.” He whispers, the word so quiet and so shaky that she can hardly hear it. “Yes, I love you. I love you more than anyone else.” He cries softly.
“I have to go.”
"Stay a while longer?" She begs, and reaches for him once more. She grabs at his hand gently. "Just a little longer?" She asks, more demanding this time. She wants— needs him to be there with her.
"Please."
“I can’t.” He breathes out, and does not grab her hand in return. “I’m sorry.”
He stares down at her baby face for a second— just a second, tears still streaming down his face— just a second—
And slips out the door.
Like that, he is gone.
She stands there for a moment, looking after his retreating form, and for a second she feels like she might cry out.
…But she does not cry out. The tears are silent. They are fat droplets, they stream down her cheeks and make her loose brown hair stick to her face.
She stares at the empty place by the door where he used to be.
She doesn’t wake anyone up.
—And by the time golden hour strikes, Franz is already sitting underneath the gnarled old willow tree, just as he had done all of those times before.
Only this time, he is alone. He had been led to the tree as though by an invisible leash held by God, walking him away from war like an animal.
He had hardly thought of anything at all while he walked quietly into the morning, good and true. Had thought only of how Ottla must have stood there by the door, must have weeped loudly (or maybe she was very quiet, he thinks, and she was very quiet), must have wondered why he couldn’t stay— Why he couldn’t ever stay, why he couldn’t play with her anymore—
—He had stopped outside of the old synagogue on the way. Had stood by its grand doors just like Ottla in the living room, staring at the place where something had once been and where something could still be, but nevertheless is not there. Stared at the synagogue doors as though he were staring at God himself, as though the sight alone could save him.
He he had not gone into the synagogue. Had not even stood on the first step.
Here he is at the tree, now. Still. And he stays here for a long, long time. Not sleeping, not standing. He only sits at the trunk and watches the running stream, watches as the sun rises above the endless fields, and waits. Waits for Oskar. Oskar, who just yesterday had crouched behind him, nearly naked, running his rough hands along his wet spine. Oskar, who had been so good and so loyal to him. Oskar, who certainly hadn’t ever stared at him with hungry eyes, hadn’t wished that his hands could explore the quiet places of his body. Oskar, who had been with him yesterday and the day before, and who could still be with him again today.
Oskar hadn’t told him anything about meeting again today; but Franz knew. He knew that he would come to the oak tree, just as he had for the past two years. He would come just as he had sworn that day by the river. Franz remembers the words. He whispers them to himself like a prayer underneath the soft glow of the sunrise; “At the willow tree. Always, if you want it to be so. I’ll see you tomorrow, and every day after that, if you wish it.”
The early morning is warm, but Franz has a feeling that the days following will only be colder.