Maplewood. Redwood. Pine. Earth. Rain. The scents that would foster me inside the halls of Kinderheim. The entity where I grew up with the other parentless children. I call it an entity aptly. Fading green floors. Sickly beige walls. Tall black spires cutting the moonlight into teeth that surround the cobblestone atrium. Originally a church, its nave housed unspeakable darkness, and the cross at the altar dragged the eyes like a moth to a hungry flame. The transept emerged from the center, reaching like the arms of Christ. At their intersection was the altar. At the altar I met him.
At the age of twelve, while shivering in the shadows of the altar, a pale thin hand cradled my wet cheek, and dried my swollen eyes. He looked at me with steel blue eyes, decorated with curls of ashen hair. The tall boy held me, in the hollow body of a church. I found comfort in his sweet words, and by the end of our first meeting, nothing but a warm heart and cold eyes remained.
“Johan,” he introduced. “sixteen”.
“Emil, twelve” I responded
His grip tightened, then he looked at me, he looked at my one-armed body and smiled softly. He asked me to walk with him, and I obliged. He held my hand, and we slowly journeyed across the grounds of Kindelheim. We traveled from the church to the break rooms, then the dining area, then we passed by the storage rooms, all under the pale creamy vaulted ceiling. While we walked, he would tell me fascinating stories about Germany. He would tell me about how the country was now split into east and west. Stories of the Berlin wall. Stories about the communist east and the democratic west. The downfall of Hitler and the Nazi party. I remember it so vividly because he was not afraid to look at me. He was not revolted by my stump of a right arm. He simply prattled on. And as we were about to finish a full circle, he stopped at the entrance to the church. He looked at the portrait of the man hung by the door.
Hanz Liebert; the portrait of the owner, painted in an almost deifying fashion. He stared with utter contempt. For the first time since we started, he stopped talking. He continued where he left off only after the harrowing ring of the bell tower, signaling the hour of six. His voice seemingly subdued by the sight of the mustachioed man.
We walked in silence, and then we halted at one of the tall spires, stretching from the black roofs of the building. The cross at its apex made me acutely aware of the black void in every corner, and fog as suffocating as the silence.
And the teeth of the courtyard.
He looked up at the cross then back to the ground. It was covered in tiles with etchings of different plants. Lilies. Poppies. Violets. Roses.
“Do you love, Emil?”
I was stunned by the question, but more so that I didn’t know the answer.
“Do you love God?”
“Ofcourse!” I blurted out. Not because I did, but because it was the right answer.
“When they needed him most, he sent his son to die for their sins, right? But y’know, it reminds me of that story about the prostitute. Do you know how her handler made her loyal to him?”
The silence answered for me
“He beat her within an inch of her life, then, he ran her a warm bath and gave her a tincture. She was so grateful and in awe of his mercy, that she forgot he was the one who beat her” He finished the tale howling with laughter, echoing in the twilight.
“I love him too…I do not know why”
He looked at me with a soft smile, then he plunged a hand in his shirt and pulled out a key on a necklace. It was damascene. He placed it around my neck, kissed my forehead, and left Kinderheim. The last words I heard him say were “I’m free”.
I would not see Johan for three days. Three days, I fiddled with the key, and wished for his company. The next time I saw Johan, he was in a pool of his blood in the courtyard. He had leapt off the spire. His blood had flooded the flowery etchings, leaving only a trail of red roses.
When I turned sixteen, the head matron gave me a box with a lock. She told me with a certain melancholy that I arrived here with it. I rushed to my room and unlocked it with Johan’s key. Inside I found a single picture of a mansion, with gardens in bloom. On its backside was written “I’m Sorry”. It would take me years till I finally left Kinderheim. I had looked for Johan’s reason. For why he did what he did. And I found it, nestled within the grove of trees was the thing I have been waiting for since I was twelve. Near a mansion, he left a letter for me in the dirt. I dusted it off, it was clearly an old parchment. It read:
1945
Dear Brother,
If you are reading this, then a long time has passed . I wanted to leave something on this earth that will let you know how much I loved you.
I regret the day I angered our father terribly. It should have been me who was drowned. It should have been my arm. I do not know if I can thank you for being the hero of an older brother you always were. I am twelve now, I do not know what to do. Father was taken to Nuremberg with his Nazi friends. I am alone. Please regain your memories and leave his orphanage. One day, I promise you Emil, I will come save you. I will reach you. We will both be free, Emil. We will be free.
Forever yours,
Johan
Fig 1.1: Church architectural terminology
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