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Fearful cries filled the hot night air, legs tangled with slick sheets as two pairs of eyes flew open. A swampy pair and a pair of dangerous brown eyes. Their heavy breaths were the only sounds of the night, a constant familiar occurrence in the house. Without either realising their hands reached out to grasp each other. Rough gripped soft, old and young, man and woman. Their fingers entwined and their breathing slowed when realisation set in. It’s okay. They were safe and still here. But those from the dreams were not. Every night their faces glide across the roof or sky, underneath the eyelids, before slowing to stop. Each one presented their story in flashes of dark and blood, screams and tears, trains and bombs.
“Liesel,” he whispered softly and tightened his grip further. She did not respond right away. She couldn’t. Hair the colour of lemons still blinded her eyes and clutched at her soul whilst she relived those dusty lips. Tears escaped her eyes and she shook lightly. Saumensch, Saumensch, Saumensch. The word echoed in her ears each time getting louder and louder until it was as loud as those bombs that fateful night all those years ago. Saumensch a voice whispered so close to her ear that she jolted in the bed. Then suddenly she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in.
“Saukerl.” The word escaped her lips involuntarily in a voice that sounded as if it had come from a twelve year old.
“Oh Liesel,” he sighed sadly and brought her closer to him. His arms, the muscle having been regained over the years, tightened around her waist and he rested his head in the crook of her neck. The hair of feathers brushed against her cheeks and it was almost as if she was brought back, shaken from her nightly visions.
“I’m sorry,” she apologised quietly and moved to pull away but he did not let her go. No not tonight. Not like all the other nights before this. Tonight he would not let her go. He would not let her bear this alone.
“Don’t be. We both have nightmares.”
“Yes but mine wake you.”
“My own wake me,” he answered darkly. Sometimes he still fought the Fuhrer but it was more of a fair fight now. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost. Some nights he could see those dangerous brown eyes in the crowd with the German blonde hair. Even when he couldn’t see them he knew she was there watching the fight. Cheering for the Jew no one thought could win.
“Were you fighting the Fuhrer tonight?” she asked. It had been years and they still called him the Fuhrer. Maybe because if they said the name, that would make their past real. He nestled his head further in her neck not really wanting to answer.
“Yes.”
“Did you win?”
“Not tonight.”
“Then we both lost tonight,” she said blandly. He knew what her losses consisted of. A boy buried in snow, a communist woman, a broken street, accordions no longer playing music, no more beatings, no more thieveries with the boy who ran like Jesse Owens.
“Yours is greater than mine,” he offered gently.
“Don’t Max. When you were gone…what you saw…I can’t even imagine. To everyday live with the fear of dying while I played happily in the street ignorant like any other German child.”
“You didn’t. You saved others with your words.”
“While others died because of another’s words.” Words were objects with many uses. They could be used to maim, destroy and even break. Or they could be used to heal and soothe, gentle like a mother’s touch.
“Things are different now,” Max reassured her with a swift kiss to her cheek. Liesel gave a small smile. Things were different. Now she had Max and that was all she needed.
But sometimes she still needed the accordion, the threat of beatings and Jesse Owens.