The Darling of Dachau

They say

The lonely one offers his hand too quickly to whomever he encounters. [Friedrich Nietzsche]

I have lived the life of the lonely one and let me be frank: it is not quite so. There are so few that touch the lonely with their presence. There are even fewer that touch us with their words. There are so little that the lonely will remember on the day they die. But those who manage to break our shell and see the soul within- they are the ones that have enchanted us from the beginning, from the moment we laid eyes on their souls, so free and nurturing and willing to give. They are the ones we will always remember.

I was always the quiet one. One to be seen vaguely then disappear. One to go where I was needed, but never overstay my welcome. One to roam the halls. One to let my fingertips slide along the banister, one to look at the rotating stair steps that dropped six floors and sigh. One to never have the heart to slide all the way down.

Or at least, that’s what I thought of myself. That was me before my wedding.

Life back then had been simple enough for me. It was even simpler now. I will forever be lost in thought.

Then it had been “speak only when spoken to.” I was a mannequin for grand-mère to fondle and dress up and play with and envy. I lived the life she wanted me to, the life she wished she could have had. I was a Marionette puppet to her hand. I convinced myself time and time again that what she did was because she loved me. She did love me deep down, I knew.

Now there was no one to do so. My soldier husband was gone in his travels. We had no children and I was increasingly lonely.

I lowered the tea cup to the table, saucer and china clinking loudly. The sound of my exhale made Gleeson’s eyes refocus. He cleared his throat as his feet shuffled on the marble floor. His broad shoulders and large oval head towered over me and the table. The table and two chairs were the only set furniture in the large room. I tilted my head upward so I could just see Gleeson’s tongue lick his thin lips.

“You can tell me now, Gleeson.” My tone was far from showing any interest.

“Very well,” he mumbled and rotated his position. He faced away from me now, body alert and square to the door as if someone would barge in any second. My fingers picked apart a sugar cube, thoughts elsewhere when he began.

“A document arrived earlier this morning with a young man delivering it. He asked to see you personally and I told him you were busy-”

“Busy elsewhere.” I nodded. After being disrupted in my thoughts many times before, my instruction to Gleeson had become clear. Shoo off any visitors. I sighed, “Go on.”

“Yes. Well, Ma’am, he insisted on speaking with you. He said it was of the utmost importance-”

“And you told him I was busy?” My brow rose.

“Yes Ma’am.” he answered curtly.

“Very well… and where is this ‘young man’ now?”

“He refused on leaving, Ma’am. He has been waiting in the foyer.”

There was silence for a few seconds as my lips parted and pulled together. “Bring him in.” I instructed.

“Ma’am-” he hesitated when I turned to face him. “Yes Ma’am.” he said quickly. When I heard his footsteps turn the corner, I sighed and placed my arm on the table. My head sunk and rested on it. My forehead was pounding.

Gleeson’s long stride looked annoyed as he parted to the other side of the room. He was still when the tip-tapping of loose shoes came through the hallway and into the room. I didn’t turn although I knew the visitor had arrived. I sipped my tea. I felt the man’s hot breath on my shoulders and suppressed the urge to turn and slap him.

“Good evening.” He shuffled around the table so my view of Gleeson was blocked with his short, stocky, suited body. The man tipped his hat, eyes peering down to me. Aside from noticing the fact he looked much like a gopher, he also looked surprised when I didn’t offer a seat.

“Yes,” he started, “Well, I am a good friend of Petronella. I assume you know her, I mean after all,” a small laugh escaped from his short white teeth, “she was-”

“Dirk’s wife.” I cut in with a mocking smile. My voice was drawn out and dripping with sweetness as I recalled the familiar wigged lady. “Was his wife, yes. Have a seat Mister-”

“Oh, it’s Nicholas Bartlet, Ma’am. But you can call me Claus or Nicky whatever you li-”

I raised a hand for him to stop. “Mr. Bartlet.” I addressed, tone engaging. My voice showed off the charm grand-mère knew I had inherited from her and her acting career. I had only used it for special occasions and after picking up on what Gleeson had hinted about this man (he carried something for me), I knew now was one of them.

“I have a lot of things I need to take care of, naturally, and I think it would all be best if we skipped the introductions and tea moved onto more important matters.” I spoke sharply and quickly, some agitation seeping through to my tone. To silence myself, I raised the china to my lips, eyes wide and hiding behind the blue and white patterns on baked clay. Mr. Bartlet removed his hat and started playing with it at his side.

“I assume you are, err Mrs. Hanna Blaisdale?”

My mind seemed to whir softly, teeming with thought. I hadn’t been called by my maiden name since, well, since I hadn’t been married. After the commitment, I was Mrs. Dirk Leven. Always Mrs. Dirk Leven.

“Yes.” I said, fingers straying as I brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. It felt like my voice barely carried past my tongue.

“My condolences, Hanna.” he squeaked, “Your grandmother-”

“Grand-mère.” I nodded, voice weak. I had already taken the punch to the gut. I knew what was coming.

“I assume you know now,” his voice lowered, “The reason I am here.”

I drew in breath. “Yes. Of course, I mean,” I brushed back my blond hair to hide my eyes for a second, “She was old.” I stated, in trying to believe it as I said it, “She wasn’t going to exactly last f-forever. And it was her time to go, so it seems.”

There was a stretch of silence where Gleeson took the saucer and disappeared down the hallway. My eyes followed him longingly until Mr. Bartlet’s rodent-like eyes widened. My gaze snapped back to his stance.

“Sit.” I murmured. My fingers squeezed the edge of my seat, thoughts away from the place where Mr. Bartlet slid onto the red cushion, facing opposite of me.

“Hanna,” he began and for a moment I forgot who was speaking. It was his words that touched me. “Your grandmother seemed to have lived a great, wonderful life. If you are her grandchild, her only living relative… she might have left you something.”

“Yes, well that was grand-mère.” The laugh that followed was shrill. Gleeson peered in and walked with a tea tray on his arm. To calm your nerves I thought I heard him say. The two cups seemed to slide from his arm into the center of the table. The tea sloshed at the sides, small ripples forming in the silence as Gleeson walked away.

“Hanna, we have Felicie Blaisdale’s last testament here, if you’d like to see-”

“No.” I murmured, head shaking slowly. “No, I think… if there are any transactions to be made, they can be pursued through our banks. Privately. I don’t need to see how much she’d give Dirk and me…”

“Yes, well, that is the normal way we go about things, but in this case, it is unlikely any transactions will be taking place.”

“I’m sorry.” I blinked. “I don’t follow.”

“Your inheritance-” he stopped with a drawn-out sigh. “You are Felicie’s last descendent?”

“Last living.” I offered.

He sighed and head shaking back and forth, “This is where nothing makes sense. You are the rightful heir to this a-and he just thinks he can take it away!”

“He?” I questioned. My brow rose high. “He who?”

“Your grandmother made matters clear on who her heir would be. Logically it should and would be you, but-”

“But?” I asked weakly.

“But it has been made out to someone entirely different. Someone who she has apparently shared nothing with- no letters, meetings, phone calls- it doesn't even appear she has had any association with this man!”

“Wh-Who are you talking about?” I asked, biting my lip.

“His name is Robert Antelem.” Mr. Bartlet quivered, “I tried to contact him in France only to find he was just recently deported. The official I asked had told me that he was an influence in the French Revolution. Imagine being kicked out of your country only to find an inheritance- an inheritance from a person you don’t even know- now all yours!”

I swallowed, just managing to crack, “Imagine that.”

Mr. Bartlet’s head wagged back and forth, lips murmuring a sort of apology.

“I will see to it that this man will not scrape her savings, your birthright. You-” his eyes left mine and scanned the room. “You seem to be someone of good nature. I won’t let this happen.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bartlet.” I said quietly. I immediately regretted how I had treated him earlier. He stood, arm outstretched and I copied his motions. His sweaty hand gripped mine lightly. I squeezed a little as a gesture of kindness, mind trying to fathom what had just occurred as our connected arms rose and fell to the pull of gravity.

“We shall be in contact soon, Mrs. Blaisdale?”

“Yes.” my smile was wistful and I paused, “But it’s Hanna.”

He was halfway to the foyer when I first laid eyes… on it.

“Mr. Bartlet?” I called, feet pulling me towards him.

He turned slowly, brow creased. I didn’t see because my eyes were glued on a patch of stained yellow on his chest.

“Yes?” he asked.

My finger reached to the sewn star, eyes squinting through their haze to see the calligraphic word:

Jude.

“What is that?” I asked. His eyes widened and he brushed a stray curl under the brim of his hat.

“You have hid yourself for all too long, dear.”

When he turned to leave, it was not the solemn expression or sad eyes that would keep me there, rooted to the spot. My eyes still saw the burning imitation of a gold and yellow star.