Let me preface this entire thing with a Trigger Warning. I have trauma. I have walked through it several times in my life. This is me reflecting on one of those times. If you’re easily triggered, don’t read. Honestly.

There is no art without staggering emotion: Rage, Love, Fear, Joy, Pain, Heartbreak, Loss. Emotions that will bring you to your knees, all but break you. I’ve never been able to write well without giving too much of myself away. It’s uncomfortable. It’s vulnerable. I delete it. It’s too much. This time I did not. This time I turned it in. I got a B.

I wrote this story about 15 years ago, just about the time I had my daughter. I was a much heavier-handed writer back then. I had no grasp of the subtle. I was still processing a lot. I wanted to find meaning in my experiences, or maybe find a reason in them, or at least explore who I wanted to be instead of simply living with the coward I actually am.

The assignment was simple, write a story. That’s it. The class would read it and the author would make edits based on their critiques. The thing is, there is no story without a change, a growth in character. You, the author, had to clearly demonstrate this change. That was the hard part since your story could only be a few pages.

I was in my third semester of German and learning about the history and culture. I was listening to German music and watching movies with English subtitles. I was definitely enthusiastic but not very good at picking up the language. I mean, I was three semesters in and all I could confidently say was, “Sagen Sie das auf Englisch bitte,” which I am not positive is correct. So, I set my story during the fall of Berlin in WWII. Because that seemed reasonable for someone who was excelling in the class, obviously.

I thought I was writing a story about the fall from childhood, a loss of innocence. But I wasn’t. I thought I was writing a story about a woman reflecting on a traumatic experience from her past. But that wasn’t it. Looking back on it from this far removed, I wrote a story about the child I was, the moment that childhood died. And also the woman I wished I had been. A woman who had made a choice. Who didn’t freeze. Who faced her fate unwaveringly. Afraid, but resolved. The woman I would be if ever I were in the same position again.

The Fallen

The room was hot, stifling, and dark.  The room was always dark.  I have not been back there in twenty years, but I can remember every moment as clearly as if it were yesterday.  The screams and explosions had stopped early that morning, leaving us with an uneasy quiet.  Momma and I were sitting on the floor in our small, hidden back room, enjoying the silence.  There were no windows in the room and nothing to look at except the wavering candle flames and each other.  So, we were playing with dolls just to pass the time.  Neither one of us was really interested in the game, but we still went through the familiar comforting motions.  I watched Momma as she carefully combed out and curled my doll’s hair, much as she did my own every morning.  Her face had changed over the last few months since Papa died, taken from us by the war, that great machine bent on the destruction of our city and our lives.  She looked older now, more worn.  New lines circled her mouth and her eyes were always red.  Limp and lifeless hair framed a face that never really smiled.  The war had changed everyone, but Momma most of all.  We hadn’t ventured out into the city in weeks.  They told us to wait in our homes, that relief was coming soon, but that was before the siege.  We were swiftly losing hope, until the silence came.  Fritz, my brother, had gone out hours before looking for a sign that the coast was clear, that the fighting was over.  He had not returned.

            Just then, the door eased open and Fritz walked in.  He looked at Momma and shook his head.  I remember exactly how he looked in that moment.  His face and hair were grey with dust and dirt, and his mouth was compressed in a line.  His eyes were wide and his hands were clenched.  His pants were torn and blood dripped from a scrape on his knee.  His boots were filthy, and I wondered why Momma wasn’t yelling at him to wipe his feet.  His once pristine shirt was now some indistinguishable color, and missing three buttons.  Right then, I thought he looked closer to fifty than to fifteen.  I wanted him to look down at me and smile, but he didn’t.  He didn’t look at me at all.

            Momma got up, closed her eyes, and turned to me.  “Come here, Little Princess.” 

I smiled at the nickname Papa had given me.  Hearing it from her somehow made everything okay again.  “Momma, Fritz is all dirty,” I said, as if she just hadn’t noticed.

She forced a bright smile and turned to him, “Well, I’ll let it pass, just this one time.  But only because we have to hurry and get ready to go.”

“We’re leaving?  Yeah!  Where are we going?  Will I get to wear my pretty new dress?  Huh, Momma?”

“No, Baby, not today.  Today, we’re going to play a game.  You and your brother are going to pretend to be soldiers and we’re going to go hunting Americans.”

            “But soldiers are boys and I don’t wanna be a boy!”

            Fritz came over and swept me up in a hug.  “Oh, come on, Little One!  Can’t you, just this once, pretend to be a boy?  For me?”

        I pouted and whined for a minute, but I could never refuse my big brother anything.  “Well, I guess.  But just this once, and next time, you have to wear a dress and come to my tea party!”

            We all laughed, and things seemed almost normal.  Momma went off to the bathroom and left me and Fritz to get ready.  He mussed my hair and said, “You can’t pull off being a boy with such pretty hair.  Come on.” 

He grabbed my arm, and as I stood there confused, my long soft curls started falling at my feet.  I began to cry.  “I didn’t want you to cut my hair!  I just wanted to pretend to be a boy!  Stop!  I’m not going to look like a princess anymore.  I’ll tell Momma!  Stop it!”  I begged, pleaded, wiggled, and tried to break free, but he was eight years older than me and a great deal stronger.  When he finished, my hair was sticking up in clumps like a badly trimmed bush.  Then, to my horror, he took big handfuls of mud off his boots and started rubbing it all over my face and into my newly demolished hair.  He tried to make out like it was a game, laughing and joking about my being a good little infantryman, but I just stood there in shock with tears flowing down my face.  I couldn’t believe that the older brother I adored could be so cruel.       

            As his face softened, he gently wiped away my tears and whispered, “Don’t worry so much, Little Princess.  It’ll grow back, and you can always take a bath.  Besides, you’re still beautiful to me.”  Then he gave me a long look, smiled a small, wistful little smile, and hugged me fiercely.  “I am so sorry.  Forgive me?”  I reluctantly nodded and he turned and walked away.

            I stood there fingering the remains of my hair and rubbing at the dirt on my face until he came back.  He tossed me some of his old clothes, and we finished getting dressed in silence.  My pants were too big, so we tied them around me with a piece of rope.  Fritz made sure I wouldn’t trip on the pants legs, and rolled up my sleeves.  Then we waited.  Momma took a long time getting ready to leave.  When she finally came to get us, I couldn’t believe how she looked.  She looked like a grotesque parody of the woman I knew as Momma.  Her hair was slicked back and shiny.  Her face was covered in a stark white powder, and her eyes looked dark and sunken in her skull.  Her lips were a full dark red.  They matched her dress; her revealingly short, bright, red dress.  Her legs were long, pale, and bare.  She was wearing black high heels.  She didn’t look like my mother at all; she looked harder somehow, colder, unapproachable, and untouchable.  I didn’t say anything, but I thought she’d mess up our game.  We were supposed to sneak through the city and find the Americans, but they’d spot her red dress in a second, and her heels weren’t really made for sneaking.  She looked us over and nodded to Fritz.  He tucked my remaining hair into a cap and took my hand.  Momma handed something to him over my head and whispered, “Remember what we talked about?  Don’t let that happen to her.  Promise me.  Whatever else happens, save her from that.  There are two.” 

    I didn’t understand what Momma was talking about.  I mean, it was just some game, right?  I really wanted to leave and was pulling Fritz toward the door, when I looked up and found, to my surprise, tears standing in both their eyes.  Fritz looked down at me and stuffed Papa’s gun into his waist band, covering it with his shirt tail.  Momma took my other hand and we walked out.

We stepped into a scene of horror.  The courtyard where I had played my whole life was buried beneath the remains of the apartment building that stood next to ours.  I peered around expecting Asha and Alek to come running up asking if they could be soldiers too, but they were gone.  No one was laughing or playing on the swings.  In fact, the swings were gone too.  Everything was gone.

Everywhere I looked, the color seemed leached out of the world.  The air hung heavy with smoke and dust.  I couldn’t breathe.  Everything around me was grey.  Momma’s dress stood out against the backdrop, the only color in a lifeless world.  We began to walk.  We passed once familiar places that no longer bore any resemblance to the vibrant bustling hubs of humanity they had been.  We passed through a dead city.  We saw no one, heard nothing but distant shouts and the occasional crash of a collapsing building.  Once, we passed a perfect flower perched on the lip of a gigantic hole that had not been there a month ago.  It was unreal, like moving through a dream.  But I could feel Momma’s hand trembling in mine.  I could feel the stones digging through the soles of my shoes.  I could feel the cold sweat slicking Fritz’s hand.  Cautiously, we crept around a broken wall, and Momma froze.  “Get down!  Now!”

She jerked me back behind the wall and covered my mouth with her hand.  She put her mouth close to my ear and whispered so quietly that it seemed as if the wind was talking to me, “Stay absolutely still and silent.  Don’t move.”  Then she relaxed and let me go.  I strained my ears for some noise, any sign of why we had stopped moving.  Then I heard it, a wave of sound getting louder and louder, a roar that would soon engulf us in its fury.  I looked to Fritz for some sign of how to act, some reassurance that we could hide and stay safe.  He was looking at Momma, wide eyed and shaking.  She made no sound but mouthed the words “Don’t move.”

As the mob approached, I began to pick out familiar German words.  My heart pounded with relief and my body sagged.  I smiled up at Momma and opened my mouth, but her hand clenching my arm killed my urge to speak.  I couldn’t resist taking a peek over the wall, so I crept slowly to the edge and peered over.  What little I saw before Fritz jerked me back and hid my eyes sent my heart to the pit of my stomach in fear.  I saw German troops, men sworn to protect our people, men wearing a uniform I had always associated with Papa and warmth and safety.  They were chasing and beating two old Grandfathers, screaming at them, crying that they were deserters and traitors who didn’t deserve to live.  Behind them, they were dragging the body of a boy no older than Fritz with a noose around his neck.  I wanted to scream.  Instead, I silently sobbed into my brother’s shoulder.  When things had grown quiet again, we crept out. 

Slowly, we picked our way through the broken streets of our once beautiful city.  My legs were shaking with weariness when we stopped again.  I was amazed to discover that we were in a relatively untouched part of the city, only a few miles from home.  Then, I saw why we paused.  There, right before us, were soldiers in the uniforms that we were taught in school to hate.  Fear threatened to overwhelm me, and I clutched tighter to Momma’s hand.  We had found, not the Americans who were said to be kinder to our people, but the Russians who were bent solely on revenge.  We tried to back away from the street corner quietly, but Momma’s dress gave us away.  When we turned around, we found ourselves surrounded.  Filthy uniformed men were slinking out of the shadows like wolves moving in for the kill.

A huge mountain of a man had come upon us from behind.  Momma stepped in front of Fritz and me.  Her dress was dingy now, no longer the bright red it had been.  I clung desperately to her hand.  She stated loudly and clearly, “We are German civilians.  We ask free, and safe, passage through the lines and out of the city.”  Fritz squeezed my hand, then let go and stepped in front of me, right behind Momma. 

The man laughed, cruel, and cold with no merriment or mirth in it, and said in perfect German, “Oh, we’ll give you passage, but not for free.  Now, as for safe, well, that depends on your definition doesn’t it, Bitch?” 

I looked up into his unkempt face, shocked that anyone would speak to my mother in that fashion.  His eyes gleamed with some emotion I could not yet name.  Then he spotted me, his mouth dropped into an O, and his eyes widened.  He looked back at Momma.  Her head was high and proud, but her eyes were shining with tears as she whispered, “Please, my sons…”

He nodded once, quickly.  He snapped his fingers, and as another unshaven, dark, little man approached us, he whispered back, “I understand.  I have a daughter myself.  My men will need a distraction if she is to remain undiscovered.  All they will see is a German, not a child.  Do you understand?”

Momma sighed once and clutched my hand.  She was no longer the proud brave woman she had once been.  Now she looked defeated, scared, and alone.  But still she said, “I understand.  I will do whatever you want.  Just, keep them safe.  Please.  They’re all I have.”       

  The swarthy little man approached, and they fell silent.  The giant turned to him and said something in Russian.  The man saluted, and with that, my mother was ripped away from me.  The man’s grip on my arm was tight, his hands calloused and rough.  I reached desperately after Momma, but no matter how far I stretched, I couldn’t reach her.  The despicable little Russian was dragging me along so fast that I had to run to keep from falling.  I started to cry.  Frantically, I searched for someone, anyone, who would help me get away from this horrible person taking me away from my mother.  There wasn’t anyone but Fritz, and he was staring at his shoes, trudging along behind us both.  He looked resigned and defeated.  He kept checking to see that the gun was still hidden.  He wouldn’t look at me.  I screamed and wailed in despair.  I was alone with no one to protect me for the first time in my life.  I gazed after Momma, but too many men separated the two of us now.  Once, I caught a brief glimpse of red, but that was all.  I began to choke on my tears, and I panicked.  I could think of nothing but escape.  I wanted more than anything just to go home, for everything to be the way it was before.  I longed for Papa to come and rescue me, but Papa was dead.  There was only me.    

Suddenly, we stopped.  The demon dragging me along gripped my shoulders and pulled my face close to his.  His breath smelled like sweaty socks, and his beard stuck out in different directions, like the hair was trying to escape the stench.  It struck me that his nose looked like a big red potato, and his eyes were beady little agates stuck into a piece of hardwood.  His voice came out in a menacing hiss.  “Ah, you’re a little too pretty to be a boy, aren’t you?”  I was riveted by his horrible stone eyes.  I knew then the emotion I could not read before, pure animalistic hunger.  I felt his hands slide down my throat and across my chest.  My heart jumped beneath his fingers.  My head swam with terror.  I couldn’t think what to do.  I was a frozen little rabbit in the jaws of a tiger, and there was no way out.  I wanted to scream, but no sound would come.  I understood then what Momma had done, what she had sacrificed for my safety.  With that realization, a terrible murderous rage built inside me and replaced my fear.  How dare they touch my mother this way?  How dare they touch me?  I would have killed them all in that instant had I had the chance.  Instead, I glared up into his face.  I noticed Fritz then.  He had come up behind the Russian whose grimy hands were still crawling over my body.  His jaw was clenched tight, and his knuckles were white where he was gripping the gun.  Thankfully, he had not yet drawn it.  He was shaking in fury.  But he was not afraid, nor was he defeated.  Tears were coursing down his cheeks as he looked at the situation.  We were surrounded by enemies, with no one to help and no place to run.  He began to draw the gun with anguish painted across his face.  In a flash, I understood who the gun was for.  He was going to save me in the only way he was able, and follow me to my fate.  Silently pleading, I shook my head.  The soldier laughed.  The sound startled me.  He made a crude grabbing motion at his own breast, and said, “Nah, I like a little more to hold, besides you’re too filthy.”  Then he shook me once, hard.  Still chuckling, he released me, turned, and walked on leaving me alone with Fritz. 

I drew a deep breath and dried my eyes.  I had escaped death and worse in mere heartbeats.  I stood silently for a time, numb with relief.  Then I thought of Momma who had not escaped, and I lifted my head.  I was proud in that moment to be her daughter.  I vowed to be worthy of her sacrifice.  I said a prayer for her, reached down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and walked on rubbing the mud onto my cheeks.  Some part of me was already beginning to mourn for everything that was lost.  That was the day when, like the great bronze bear, the symbol of our city that once stood proud and tall, I too fell.  Mine was not a fall from power or prominence, but from childhood and innocence.   

You see, friend, that may be the end of the story, but it wasn’t the end. Momma didn’t die. She got up and she soldiered on. Bent? Yes. Broken? No. Momma was not a victim. She chose her fate. She could have fought. She could have died. Instead she chose to live. Live with the trauma, with the pain, with the memories. Live another day. With hope or without, it didn’t matter. Just Live.

I was as much Momma as I was the child and the woman reflecting on her life. Of course, I wasn’t even alive during WWII so this story is completely fiction. The experiences of these characters are not my own. However, at the remove of these many years, I realize how much of myself, my heart, my emotions I put into this story.

Life is precious and we have so little time. Survival is paramount. You have to grasp every moment, cherish every breath. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” When I wrote this story, I didn’t believe that. I thought there were worse things than death. I hated living in fear. I hated myself for not fighting, for being too afraid to fight. I blamed myself. I hadn’t come through to the other side.