The Darling of Dachau
At the beginning
Before my heart warmed,
Before my voice boomed, before I learned to think for myself and be my own person… This was the beginning.
Before I barricaded my every instinct and stayed firm, rooted to soil. Before I resisted the temptation to ride upstream, before my oar snapped in two and I was left drowning in a sea of enemies.
Before all said, I was not a likely hero. I was not a likely anything because I was as good as invisible to anyone who was anyone.
Before I worked and then shined in a beacon of light, before I knew how my emotions would run cold again. Before my time was up and I withered away with my thoughts and rolled down from my high like dew drops on a dying leaf.
The beginning was simple and quaint and nice for some time. That all would change, you know. Stories have to change. Otherwise they would all just be beginnings.
My beginning started with a man.
His figure was thick and his lip was stern. The coarse black jacket he wore matched his hard expression. The bulk of his muscles were hidden under loose dress pants, but I could still see that he was strong. It was the way he carried himself: the way his square shoulders stayed firm when his arms swung like pendulums at his sides. The way the chandelier’s light darkened his lower lip and made his eyes shadowed and seem mean. The way his brow creased when he walked and how his eyes saw through any deception among his fellow men.
He wove through the rounds of familiar faces, or rather, they wove around him. His step was rhythmic and solid, seeming to be set at a drumbeat. I knew then that he was a soldier. I knew that he was strong. I knew that one day he could protect me. I knew… it seemed everyone knew.
My eyes were glued to the motion of his body. His thigh effortlessly rose as he began his lengthened march, stride extensive and confident. His eyes searched along the eastern wall and locked, seemingly set on the vast painting beside me. For half a second his gaze relocated to a scrawny servant who had shuffled one step too far back and was now in front of him. My hand leapt my heart. His stern stare was like daggers to whoever crossed his path. His eyes- I realized now as the servant jumped out of the way and he marched ever closer- were blue and tiny like the tinted pearl necklace grand-mère had forced around my neck earlier this morning. They narrowed.
My heart galloped and my pulse raced. My mind pleaded my body to move over, to disappear like I normally would. My instinct yearned for grand-mère to come over and through her hawk eyes and vice-like grip pull me away to fraternize with the men and women of whatever providence! It didn’t matter! I needed to go, to go far, far away. My mind sent sharp orders to my body when I choked on breath.
I couldn't move.
He walked closer and closer until there was only a few feet of space separating us. I looked down, feeling my cheeks burn as he looked at me. I watched his feet, his shiny shoe tap once and then turn.
He walked away.
My head snapped to see him offer an arm to a woman with a thick brown wig. Her white gloved fingers touched her red lips in mid-laugh and they parted from this side to mingle in the center. The woman looked back as they walked and whispered something to the soldier- something I couldn’t catch or read when the words were released from her berry-stained lips.
I blushed furiously when I saw her eyes examine me. My dress was white and lacy and childish, and squeezed the breath from my lungs. Grand-mère had scoffed to anyone who would listen that it had been made with the lasts of Paris’ rationed fabrics. She claimed it would someday be an antique. If it weren’t for her knowing every word I said, I would have claimed that being spoiled and being talked about was embarrassing. Grand-mère had spent a fortune in my upbringing and tried to do me favors: taking me to this party, for example was her way of saying “Relax.” Fitting me with the finest jewels and most precious laces was a way of saying “Be confident.” And scoping the palaces and monuments we visited- not for her, but to find a man for me- was her way of saying “I love you.”
I exhaled a short sigh when, with a flick of her hair, the woman turned her attention back to where her feet brought her. Thank goodness.
And then he turned. And I felt like melting on spot. His ashen blond hair was thick and the side of his face showed as he caught my eye. I was shocked when he turned once more and started conversation with another couple. He acted like nothing was wrong, but that look he gave to an unmarried woman being me… that was wrong. More importantly I was shocked because on his lips splayed the last remains of a very small smile. I would not forget this soldier for as long as I lived- whether he was promoted or laid off or two thousand miles away…
At our wedding, grand-mère made sure of it.
Before my voice boomed, before I learned to think for myself and be my own person… This was the beginning.
Before I barricaded my every instinct and stayed firm, rooted to soil. Before I resisted the temptation to ride upstream, before my oar snapped in two and I was left drowning in a sea of enemies.
Before all said, I was not a likely hero. I was not a likely anything because I was as good as invisible to anyone who was anyone.
Before I worked and then shined in a beacon of light, before I knew how my emotions would run cold again. Before my time was up and I withered away with my thoughts and rolled down from my high like dew drops on a dying leaf.
The beginning was simple and quaint and nice for some time. That all would change, you know. Stories have to change. Otherwise they would all just be beginnings.
My beginning started with a man.
His figure was thick and his lip was stern. The coarse black jacket he wore matched his hard expression. The bulk of his muscles were hidden under loose dress pants, but I could still see that he was strong. It was the way he carried himself: the way his square shoulders stayed firm when his arms swung like pendulums at his sides. The way the chandelier’s light darkened his lower lip and made his eyes shadowed and seem mean. The way his brow creased when he walked and how his eyes saw through any deception among his fellow men.
He wove through the rounds of familiar faces, or rather, they wove around him. His step was rhythmic and solid, seeming to be set at a drumbeat. I knew then that he was a soldier. I knew that he was strong. I knew that one day he could protect me. I knew… it seemed everyone knew.
My eyes were glued to the motion of his body. His thigh effortlessly rose as he began his lengthened march, stride extensive and confident. His eyes searched along the eastern wall and locked, seemingly set on the vast painting beside me. For half a second his gaze relocated to a scrawny servant who had shuffled one step too far back and was now in front of him. My hand leapt my heart. His stern stare was like daggers to whoever crossed his path. His eyes- I realized now as the servant jumped out of the way and he marched ever closer- were blue and tiny like the tinted pearl necklace grand-mère had forced around my neck earlier this morning. They narrowed.
My heart galloped and my pulse raced. My mind pleaded my body to move over, to disappear like I normally would. My instinct yearned for grand-mère to come over and through her hawk eyes and vice-like grip pull me away to fraternize with the men and women of whatever providence! It didn’t matter! I needed to go, to go far, far away. My mind sent sharp orders to my body when I choked on breath.
I couldn't move.
He walked closer and closer until there was only a few feet of space separating us. I looked down, feeling my cheeks burn as he looked at me. I watched his feet, his shiny shoe tap once and then turn.
He walked away.
My head snapped to see him offer an arm to a woman with a thick brown wig. Her white gloved fingers touched her red lips in mid-laugh and they parted from this side to mingle in the center. The woman looked back as they walked and whispered something to the soldier- something I couldn’t catch or read when the words were released from her berry-stained lips.
I blushed furiously when I saw her eyes examine me. My dress was white and lacy and childish, and squeezed the breath from my lungs. Grand-mère had scoffed to anyone who would listen that it had been made with the lasts of Paris’ rationed fabrics. She claimed it would someday be an antique. If it weren’t for her knowing every word I said, I would have claimed that being spoiled and being talked about was embarrassing. Grand-mère had spent a fortune in my upbringing and tried to do me favors: taking me to this party, for example was her way of saying “Relax.” Fitting me with the finest jewels and most precious laces was a way of saying “Be confident.” And scoping the palaces and monuments we visited- not for her, but to find a man for me- was her way of saying “I love you.”
I exhaled a short sigh when, with a flick of her hair, the woman turned her attention back to where her feet brought her. Thank goodness.
And then he turned. And I felt like melting on spot. His ashen blond hair was thick and the side of his face showed as he caught my eye. I was shocked when he turned once more and started conversation with another couple. He acted like nothing was wrong, but that look he gave to an unmarried woman being me… that was wrong. More importantly I was shocked because on his lips splayed the last remains of a very small smile. I would not forget this soldier for as long as I lived- whether he was promoted or laid off or two thousand miles away…
At our wedding, grand-mère made sure of it.