Sodden snowflakes flail outside the window as they freeze on the ground and come to their end. For what seems a millennium the world has been a shattered reflection of its former self, the sad sight of dying snow an uncomfortable reminder of him, and the rest. A longing sigh escapes from my breath and I can only think him, with me. That would be the best. Yet for four years and today life cannot be so perfect and surreal as it had appeared to be so long ago. Though the thought of him makes my heavy heart light once more.
I set aside the inky fabric heaving from the cold metal hooks on the walls and then the gaslight, overjoyed and no longer confined, escapes out into the black dawn: never one to hide. Disturbed dust falls from the smooth beige stone, a few specs land near a wandering spider: on a quest for his family - for all his kind. Such a sight sadly not rare, still clear in mind.... No Eva. Do not think. Do not break. Keep that smile that no one could tell was fake.
I wave the dust away as I turn from the window. Yet as my vision clears my eyes stolen by his sweet photograph displayed on the mantle.
They were taken. Him and my heart. Promised to return.
"I am yours" he had said - three hopeful, deceitful, words that would only lead to dread. He should be here with me. With me. Not only enclosed within a shattered wooden frame and within my heart but here holding me with pride knowing how lucky he must be to have me. In the past, I thought of him like that: perfect. I would spend every precious second in private with him when we first met, thinking: I found him! I found the one!
But that was before. Before he became a slave to the war.
That day, when it began, his uniform was strict. Formal. I had taken the photograph then and there, the film capturing my reflection in his accolades before he left - the only trace of my existence in his life. Now he was gone. As time passed, I would listen to the radio: droning speeches, his love for his country taking hold of him; a parasite with no cure.
If only he were really mine, here with me.
I wish.
Of course, that would never happen.
You know, he was distant even before the war, preferring a more 'idealistic' appearance. Forcing me to toy with my mortality for the slightest speck of attention or recognition.
After the first time, it was as if God himself had blessed me for my courage - my love, by my side and caring for me as I healed from the wound inside my chest, the smell of gunpowder from his pistol flavouring my handiwork.
But it was not enough, I never was. Insomnia overtook me - the ache in my mind; for his love, for his time, keeping me awake. My face shrivelled for worry - worry that I would never be noticed by him again.
I decided to reprise my role as the hero in my story. Emptying the bottle into my hand, I giggled, the tablets sweet like Dominostein as I swallowed them whole. When he found me, he was caring, yes, but his love for me was dry, not the river of passion and emotion pumping around his veins that I desired! That... that was for the Deutschland.
Clang. From the door.
I turn and stare, frozen; the seconds stretching into hours as my eyes meet the horrid thing.
A letter, staring at me from the floor. Such a simple thing to receive in the post. A common thing. So why do my hands shake as I see the tea-coloured paper, why do I imagine the worst? These are just some measly words trapped inside some folded paper about to burst, begging to be released, nothing more. Pick it up Eva. Open it. Just pick it up and open it!
I shake in my entirety as I edge towards to what I fear may be my demise - Stop it Eva. Get it together. This is not what he would do. I step back, stand still, and breathe. And for one, beautiful moment of relief the intoxicating scent of fresh dumplings - not just any dumplings, his favourite - from the kitchen crashes over me like a wave. The thought of him and I eating together again, spending time together again soothes me to my core, and draws my hand to the scar on my chest as my memories of us flood my mind. Even through our hardship I have fought for him. Once more I have given us strength, once more I will go on for him.
I swipe the letter from the floor and clean the dust and muck of the label. Taking my knife out my concealed pocket, I finally slice the horrid thing open and reveal the dreadful contents.
My heart crashes to the floor and I follow with it.
"Dear Ms. Braun, we regret to inform you that...."
Oh lord, please don't let it be him. Breathe, Eva, just breathe.
"...earlier this week your brother was found guilty of deserting his honourable position in the Fuhrer's high command and was justly executed this morning at 7.42am by firing squad for treason against our supreme leader."
Words fail me. I- I ca- I cannot describe what I am feeling. I have never felt such incredible, mesmerising relief in my life! It wasn't him. It wasn't him! He's alive! Tears of joy erupt from my eyes as words of cheer vomit from my mouth and as I catch his gaze, in his portrait, time slows... I can feel his arms cradling me, calming me down. He's alive... he's still alive.
The world is good again.
Our love might just outlast this wretched war! I look out the window then back at him. My head starts to ache as the adrenaline flushes out of my system and I descend back into reality. The question that has been here since the start of our romance begins to echo again in the back of my mind, the blaze that refuses to die. Calm down Eva, don't overreact. I try to squash it down but for so long I have drowned it out with thoughts of love and hope of a life with him that now the antidote is now useless, and the thought is surging up, building up pressure and preparing to explode, bulging out my eyes as I stare at him.
Why. Isn't he here? With me?
Surely, he should be here, grieving with me, showing me something real for at least this once in our story. I touch the scar on my chest and consider the extremes I have gone to for him, of course they were not extreme at the time as I would do anything for him, to keep him. But now those sweet, sweet memories turn bitter as I start to really understand our relationship and how shallow it really is.
He's alive. But he's not here. Ha! Typical. Here I am, nearly destroyed at the thought of losing him and he's isolated himself in some office more important than I, pulling the strings in a losing war without the slightest care to allow me to join him or better yet come running to my side at a time which most would consider desperate. Now, this letter just reminds me of all the disinterest, disrespect, and disaster in my life that Adolf has brought upon me. I'll do what my husband could never do, and end things. Today is not just the death of my brother: but the day of the death of Eva Braun as the world knows it.
I wrote this when I was 16 years old for my Higher English portfolio in 2019. What began as a poem quickly changed direction and became this piece of prose.
The original poem was to be about the wife of a soldier receiving a letter during the Second World War. The premise was that we would experience her overwhelming worry regarding her husband’s fate. She’d stand next to the door, staring at the letter, mind racing. An example of the imagery I intended to use in the poem was the postage stamp as a symbol of all the places they’d never go to together. Eventually, she’d find the courage to open the letter and read it – this is where the poem would end, without the reader knowing the outcome.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I had the idea to make it about the individual it is today and felt prose was a better medium for the story I wanted to tell. I heavily reference her real life (as reported on Wikipedia – with some creative liberty on my part) and her characterisation was heavily inspired by Carol Ann Duffy’s Havisham.
[afterword tbc]