2. ne m'oublie pas

[ "tu es si loin. et si tu m'oublies ?" murmura la lune au soleil. ]

i looked at her and it felt like she was built of stories. like the atlas of wrinkles on her hand, every river of her skin told a tale. her eyes greyed with age, spoke of things i would never see. 

her voice was quavering. she spoke softly. kindly.

i sat on the chair beside her bed. "so, what story will i hear today ?" 

she chuckled into her hand. "it is one of my favourites." she replied looking far off at the window above my head.

i raised an eyebrow.

"a favourite, huh ?"

she smiled at me. "oh, let me reminisce without your cynicism for once, edith."

she'd got my name wrong again.

"alright alright. go ahead. tell me."

she closed her eyes for a second. 

"it was late at night.

things must have been alright.

all our words dissipate then.

late at night."

i rested my head on my hand at the edge of her bed. god, i could never speak like she did.

"both were kids, you must know that. kids aren't very wise. they suppose they've seen the world. but they really haven't.

both wanted to see the universe.

their worlds had not been kind to them."

she coughed. i handed her a cup of water. 

she continued.

"the girl in my story was a girl no one had seen before.

 i'd stay up the whole night to listen to her play. often i would sit near the window, just to catch a glimpse of her playing her piano. the window in my room became an altar to the girl."

i interrupted, "a neighbour ?"

she frowned at me. "ahh, you mustn't interrupt."

i grinned.

"apologies mrs dubois."

"i will never forget the first time i saw her.

i met her in leipzig, where my father had been called for military assistance, and my entire family moved. we had acquired a small flat in the east of the city, where my brother ansel and i shared a room the size of the restrooms here."

i laughed.

"you american lot are very privileged."

i agreed. we were.

"the girl lived in the building next to us. it was mostly inhabited by the jews in the city, and my mother told me atleast five times a day, to avoid all interactions with them. our neighbour had gotten in trouble. he was seen offering bread to a jew, and he was beat up in the streets by the gestapo.

if not for my father, we would have been arrested and taken to the camps for my mother's french origin.

we were all very scared.

i did not stop attending classes. i stayed quiet in the streets to avoid inconveniencing the rules. i did my classes. bought the groceries. and usually i did not get a rise out of the police. the most i was ever bothered by them was their occasional whistling and jeering at me. 

my mother was petrified at all times. she even installed new locks on the door.

i believe her fear was justified.

the jews were brought out of their homes and taken to the trucks in a line. like ants. nobody knew where they were taken once arrested, and nobody saw them again. the police would often interrupt classes to take a look at the students. the times made me very careful.

the first time i saw her was when she hurried into literature class late with a worn out copy of the Heliand in her hand. 

she had chestnut tinted hair that fell on her shoulders like water fell on rocks, tied at the end. her wired glasses hung on the end of her nose, made her look incredibly wise and the way she spoke- ah mon dieu, it made the whole room listen.

i made sure not to look at her too much. only when she raised her hand to speak to the professor. often correcting him, if he inferred the text wrong.

it was new to have a student who was better than me. i had mixed feelings.

i tried to be exceptional at literature. she always surpassed my efforts somehow. i envied her, but the resentment i would harbor for a competitor, i could not find for her.

"you were wrong." i said one day, after class.

she looked up at me as if she had never seen me before. 

"huh?"

" i said, you were wrong." 

the girl smiled smugly. "oh, is that so?"

"yes. you said goethe's novel was simply a preparation of werther's death in the end. it isn't."

"well-"
"the novel was the story of goethe's own sufferings, and the suicide only their symbolic conclusion more technical than intrinsic in nature. both professor and you believe werther's death to be an attempt to perpetuate the fulfillment of his love, which he had allegedly reached embracing lotte for a few moments. none ascribed his monomania, let alone his suicide to a disordered mind. it is no wonder that psychopathy can be applied to werther's unconscious mind, nature of his sufferings and particularly his motives for suicide."

i remember how she looked at me. i remember her brown eyes.

"you are undeniably right miss.."

"celine."

"miss celine. is that french ?"

she must not know my french origin, i thought then. i would be fresh meat to the gestapo.

"no." i said curtly.

"well miss celine, i am esther. your take on werther's death is.. interesting."

i took offense, of course.

but when she spoke, i could think of nothing but how beautiful she looked in the afternoon sun.

every night, when i wrote a letter to my father, i would religiously sit next to the window with my head against the glass. listening to her play für elise. the whole world went silent when she played. i could listen to her forever. 

i pictured her pale fingers dancing on the keys, her eyes closed as she played. lost in a trance. 

it was the only thing that kept me going those days.

the room outside my window. lit by a single candle, as she played the whole night. when the city had dozed off.

i don't know when i fell in love with her.

it could've been when i ran away with her to the woods to lay under the trees with her and she tangled forget-me-nots in my hair

it could've been when we pickpocketed books from the german bookstores.

it could've been when she kissed me in the rain. when it was too dark for her to see the skeletons in my closet.

it could've been when she touched me, and flowers grew on my skin. "

she paused. 

the silence in the room sat heavy.

she looked down at her hands. pruned with time.

i had no words. or my words seemed futile then.

i watched her eyes as she looked back at the window. glassy. sad. 

she smiled.

as if remembering an old friend.

"my heart broke not once. but twice.

the first time i spent a day on the railway bench. my belongings in a bag on the gravel. i returned home and cried to my mother.

the second time i boarded up my window. for the music never played again.

the candle never lit up the room.

and flowers never grew again."

i could feel eyes get heavy. a drop trailed down my cheek.

i let the silence sleep for a while before smiling.

i whispered, "what happened to her ?"

she took a careful breath. as if was counting them. 

" she was a jew. she had tried to run away to the station in the shed of her uncle's car. so they shot her. and they shot her jew uncle who drove the car. disgusting jews."

she didn't speak anymore.

i understood.

it was time to go now. 

"i'll see you tomorrow, grandma ?" i asked her.

"shush eda, can't you see i'm busy ?"

a stout black nurse entered the room. she gave me a cheery smile when i left.

-

['"je ne suis rien sans toi. comment puis-je t'oublier ?" répondit le soleil ]

in another world, where the stars align, esther plays this song to celine, who gazes lovingly as she does.

delusion (grandiose)