Last Man Standing

This is a short story AD wanted me to write about Cologne and a couple remembering their youth. Copyright's mine.

Last Man Standing

He liked these days of autumn, when the sky was a clear blue and the sun was shining. He liked the cold, how the wind clung to his face and reddened his cheeks. He loved her laughter as the wind grabbed her grey woolen scarf and tried to rip it off her neck. But she was quick, she grabbed it and kept it in place. Cathedral square was always a tricky place to be, especially at this time of the year. No matter how many tourists there were, the wind got a hold of you anyway. He grabbed her free hand. It was cold.

It hadn't always been like that.

When it was oddly quiet. Because no one could quite grasp what had happened, somehow. There'd been bombings before, of course, but nothing like that. He'd grown used to the shrieking alarms at night, to the rushing into the bomb shelter nearby and the smell of fear. He'd grown used to the stale taste of unknown death that clung to the air, that he breathed in, he and all the others who'd been lucky enough to survive – this time.

He'd only been home for two weeks. On holiday, at least that's what they called it. There wasn't much time for slacking, though, when he had to organize his parent's funeral and what was going to happen to the firm. But during his brief stay, yesterday had been the fifth bombing. Needless to count all the false alarms. Still, it was a safer and more unwound daily routine than trying to melt with the dugout's earth, frantically mumbling prayers to every God he could think of. And he was still alive, wasn't he?

There were rumors of numbers. People who weren't that lucky. An old man walked the streets, stopping people by grabbing them by the shoulders, mumbling something about how Churchill would get them all. There were ruins everywhere, stones and pieces of furniture blocking the way. People were already cleaning the mess that a thousand RAF bombs had made. He didn't really know what had made him come here. Somehow he'd had to check that Cologne cathedral was still there, last man standing. As long as the cathedral still stood, they'd be fine, that's what his mother used to say.

He saw the girl jumping over pieces of ruins; swift, light-footed. Holding something pressed against her chest. A stack of paper. She was as blond as if Hitler himself had picked the color, a few strands of hair had escaped her braid, her dress not as clean as a BDM's supervisor would've liked it to be. But to him, she looked perfect.

He remembered the thrill he felt when she passed him. Their eyes met briefly, he smiled. She didn't smile back. A moment later he knew why. The stack of paper flew in the air, heads turned, hands raised, paper was caught. He picked up one sheet that landed in front of him. And immediately let it go again. “So braun wie Scheiße, so braun ist Köln. Wacht endlich auf!” By the time he looked up again, she was gone. Gestapo men were clearing the place, shouting commands. He threw one last glance at the cathedral and the holes where there used to be medieval windows full of color, before he turned and followed the crowd, away from the pamphlets.

The sun shone through the windows. He loved to see the colors come to life. See the saints and Maria brighten up. The whole atmosphere changed. It was no longer a tourist attraction – he could feel it, a change in the air, everyone suddenly was very much aware of the fact that this was a church, the house of God. A place with a sacred history.

He sat on one of the benches in front of the main altar. She was closely seated next to him, still holding his hand.

“Makes you remember, doesn't it?”, she leaned towards him, whispering.

He nodded. “Yes, it does. You looked beautiful back then, darling”, he said.

A lady two seats to his left raised her eyebrows at him. He could feel his love's body shake with suppressed silent giggles. After all these years, she still sometimes behaved as if she was still 17.

He squeezed her fingers once, quietly mouthing: “Remember how we first met?”

This time she couldn't suppress her giggling. “You mean how you first – finally – found the guts to talk to me?” The old lady to the left did not seem to mind her laughter now.

It hadn't been hard to guess where to find her. There was a lot of talking about the Edelweißpiraten. He lived only a block away, really, and he made a point of going through Ehrenfeld a lot when he had errands to run. He saw her a few times, mostly in a group of other teenagers their age. He would've never guessed she was only 14 – she looked so much more mature. But then again, war does that to children, doesn't it?

She had a lovely voice. Whenever he saw her among the other pirates, she had a guitar seated on her lap and was singing. He didn't recognize the songs and he tried hard to ignore that. He told himself how he could not get involved with a girl that so obviously was part of an underground resistance. Yet his heart took up a beat whenever he saw her. And she was only singing, wasn't she? And, well, distributing pamphlets.

Next thing he knew, he sat down besides that group. She smiled at him, and by the end of the day he not only knew the lyrics to all their songs, but also her name.

He didn't have to go back to war. And he was forever grateful for that. Paul, a close friend of his father, did some trick, filed some papers, paid some money, and after another week had passed, he got the confirmation that he would be of best service for his Vaterland if he stayed home and managed the firm.

Whenever he could, though, he sat with her and the others. He hardly participated in the discussions, but loved to listen to her argue.

They kissed first on June 30^th, 1943. It was the worst bombing in the history of Cologne, worse than the Tausend-Bomber-Angriffe. When the alarm screamed, he ran. Not to the bomb shelter in his street, but to the one he knew she'd be in. He'd been wanting to kiss her for days, and this might be his last chance.

Of course she was singing when he entered the shelter. She looked up, surprised when she saw him, and even more so when he went straight to her and clumsily pressed his lips on hers. They didn't do anything but kiss during those long hours in the shelter. But when they came out again, Cologne was not Cologne anymore.

The next day he had to check – the cathedral was still standing.

She urged him to light a candle. He wasn't catholic, and he never asked her if she was. Funny enough, he thought. But she loved the beauty of the picture, all these candles, all these flames, so much hope and love and loss. So he got her one. She smiled when he lit it.

“Place it there”, she said, pointing.

“Of course, love. This one is just for you.” He was a little biased, but very certain that it was the brightest candle of all. The lady from earlier was just a few inches away from him. This time there was sympathy in her eyes.

His bones ached when he took the stairs, slowly, one at a time, down to the central station. He bought some sunflowers, her favorite, and she squeaked with joy. It made him happy, seeing her smile so much.

He took the train to Köln-Ehrenfeld, holding her hand. His palm was sweaty, her fingers still cold. “It's really sweet of you to still come here, you know”, she said. “After all these years.”

He shrugged it off. “Hush. Of course I come here.” Even though the place looked very different these days. Only a small plate in the wall told the story of November 10^th, 1944, and not even all of it. He liked the graffiti better, white and red and black. “They called them Edelweis Pirates; their numbers were few, but where they bloomed, resistance grew”, it said.

She didn't show up in the records, no one remembered her. No one but him.

There were no reports on her screams. He remembered how they'd all gathered around those gallows that day. Two weeks before, there'd been people hanged here already. It was him, really, who urged her to go. She was lost in tears these days, with her brother being arrested. They didn't know where Barthel was, let alone if he was okay. He likely was not.

It took them a moment to realize that he was among those thirteen figures. All bruised, their skulls shaven, their eyes sunk deep into the sockets.

She gasped.

It was a similar sound she'd made when he proposed to her. Though he liked to think that the nature of that sound was a different one.

He had put so much thought into the proposal. It was in 1946, when they were finally getting better. When they didn't wake up at night anymore, hearing the sound of the alarm, when there was finally something like peace. He had taken her guitar, played the song she'd been playing when he finally was brave enough to sit with them. It had taken him weeks to learn the melody. Of course, she'd cried. She'd made that sound, her hands flying up to her mouth, and said yes.

It was a similar sound he'd made when she told him she was pregnant the first time. And the second. And the third.

It was the only sound he could remember, really. That sharp intake of breath, those hands that flew to her mouth. He'd ever since been trying to make it become something positive. To have positive memories lay over what had really happened. The truth.

Because she did not just gasp. She did not just cover her mouth with her hands. She couldn't stifle her screams. And he realized too late what she was going to do. That she was pushing her way through the crowd to the front.

That she spit at the Gestapo and SS men.

Called them names.

Picked up a stone.

And was shot before she could throw it.

He lay down the sunflowers in front of the graffiti.

She smiled. Smiled the way he knew she would have smiled if she was still with him.

He moved his fingers, stretched them, felt how they were surrounded by air only.

There were no records of her. She did not show up in the history books, unlike her brother. There was no street bearing her name.

He often wondered why Cologne cathedral didn't collapse that day. But then again, if it had, he couldn't watch the colors of the windows come to life, holding her hand.