14. Lorna
August 29, 2025 at 2:41 PM
I was the first to wake, covered by a black uniform tunic, and I looked at the man sleeping peacefully beside me. His features were even and calm, his hand resting on my back. What we had done went far beyond all norms. A Major and an Italian girl—what could be worse? I ran my palm over his cheek, and Dieter woke up.
— Are you all right? Does anything hurt?
— No, it's fine, Sturmbannführer. I just... was thinking, what if someone finds out about this?
He rolled onto his back, felt around for his lighter and cigarettes, and lit one.
— I think we would both meet a rather unfortunate fate. I could be stripped of my rank and sent to the camps, and you, Lorna...
He hesitated for a moment, as if about to say something that would cause terrible pain.
— They would kill you without hesitation," Dieter said in a half-whisper.
I exhaled and covered my face with my hands. I wanted to disappear, to sink through the floor, to become invisible. I had slept with a Sturmbannführer, for God's sake! With an SS Major! If anyone reported it—my life would be over. I felt scared and looked at Eichenwald; he, in turn, looked at me, leaned up, and gave me a long, tender kiss, as if to calm me.
— Don't worry, no one will find out about our connection, I promise you."
He began to get dressed, and I watched him, unable to tear my eyes away from his masculine body. Sighing, I followed the man's example. Soon we were standing by the window, looking out at the city, his hand on my waist, his lips lightly touching my hair. The hill wasn't visible from here, only other houses and trees between them.
— Let's switch to the informal 'you'. If you don't mind, of course.
— No, I agree.
We talked for a while longer, then left the apartment and wandered through the city, not knowing how to start a conversation out of awkwardness.
— Tell me... tell me, Dieter, what kind of people used to live there?"
The man looked at me, squinting slightly from the bright sun; the mole above his lip almost blended with his skin tone at that moment.
— A traitor to the Reich used to live there," the Sturmbannführer began, — an underground dissident who disagreed with National Socialism and the NSDAP regime. They found him on the twenty-third of February this year at exactly seven in the morning, printing protest leaflets, and eliminated him. The man was lonely, withdrawn, and reclusive. He was a Jew."
— You say that as if you took part in it.
— Exactly. I'm the one who killed him, put a bullet between his eyes. What?
— Nothing, — I swallowed, — it's nothing.
Despite this unpleasant fact, I didn't want to just cut off all ties with Dieter. He was too attractive a man. I was ready to be with him, to hell with the consequences. But there was Ralph. Ralph, who had shown me how to love life, a young guy who had sneaked into my heart and settled there.
And I was torn in two.
After saying goodbye to the man at the square, I headed home. Looking at the clock hanging on one of the workshops, I realized that Paolo wasn't home from school yet, so I still had time for a walk. But as I walked down the street, men looked at me with greedy, predatory stares, and women whispered behind my back. "Again," I thought, trying to ignore them. Perhaps I really was dressed too brightly for German people; maybe I should try to blend in with the crowd.
Suddenly, a low, deafening hum was heard, and I jerked my head up. In the sky, quite low over Munich, flew four military aircraft with the distinctive German cross. They were probably heading towards the Soviet Union, carrying ammunition. The townspeople near me also looked up at the sky; one two-year-old child even shouted and pointed a finger upwards.
— Hey, fräulein, — a muffled voice came from an alleyway, — come here!
I turned towards the voice and met a red-haired boy of about fifteen. He was looking around furtively and beckoned me with his finger. Unable to resist my feminine curiosity, I slipped over to the boy unnoticed by others; he handed me a small pamphlet with a caricature of Hitler and Goebbels on it.
The inscription read: "And these too shall perish." I looked at him questioningly. The child looked thin and underfed, bruises standing out as bright spots on his pale skin.
— Why?
— You're just too different from these arrogant pigs here.
His accent and his manner of addressing me revealed the boy as a native of Britain, and I realized I simply couldn't live without trouble—I was bound to get myself into something. I felt sorry for this young fighter against Nazism and the authorities, and I gave him some money so he could get something to eat.
— Here, buy yourself something. And be careful. But please, don't follow me anymore.
I left the alley and walked home as if nothing had happened, having hidden the pamphlet in my purse. I didn't know then how much trouble this cursed piece of paper would bring me, all because I forgot to throw it in the nearest trash can. I shouldn't have approached that boy at all, but I was foolish. Now, all that was left was to wait for it to come back to haunt me.
Paolo returned from school around half past three, threw his bag on the floor, and immediately went rummaging in the refrigerator. I had never seen him in such a state before.
— Che è successo? (What happened?)
He looked at me tiredly and grumbled:
— Niente, solo stanco. (Nothing, just tired.)
— Come on, Paolo, you can tell me.
— Today the guys said that Italy will fall soon, — he said with tears in his eyes, — and everyone who lives there, including me, will end up in the camps. They said that Benito Mussolini is an old lousy goat who can't train his soldiers properly, that those incompetents lose every battle and are undermining the Führer's imminent victory. Sono dei fottuti idioti! (They're fucking idiots!)
A strong curse escaped my brother's lips, and he immediately covered his mouth with his hand and looked at me guiltily. I didn't say anything, letting him get it off his chest.
— Don't pay attention to them. Stick to your own views and convictions. Italy is a strong country, and the Duce is a...real leader. It won't fall.
But is he? He nodded doubtfully and continued rummaging in the refrigerator. I stared out the window, at the hill. Among the gray and gloomy colors of the city, its bright green color instilled hope, and that massive shape seemed like something else, something bright. It was an abode of peace and joy.
Someone knocked on our door, and I went to open it. Our upstairs neighbor was on the doorstep. As I understood, she was neither German nor Italian. And she didn't see an Aryan in me either, trusting me immediately:
— Por favor, señora, ¿puedo entrar? (Please, ma'am, may I come in?) (Spanish)
She's asking to come in? It seems so.
I cautiously peered into the hallway, and making sure no one was there, I let the woman in. She was frightened; boundless fear swirled in her brown eyes; she was wringing her hands and was almost crying. I sat her down on the sofa and made strong tea.
Paolo settled nearby.
— My name is Carmelita Servantes. And yes, as you guessed, I am Spanish. Have you seen my boy, Diego? He left home yesterday and has been missing for a whole day? I can't find him anywhere..."L
The woman began to cry bitterly; Paolo silently rushed to the table and brought her a tissue. She blew her nose loudly. I took the unfortunate mother's hands.
— How did he disappear? — I asked sympathetically.
— He... w-went with friends to the yard of the n-next building to play ball. I wasn't worried about Diego, he's a punctual boy, always came home by dark, by eight. Yesterday... everything was as usual: he went out to play, but when it was already eight o'clock, my s-son wasn't home. I got worried and went to look for him. He wasn't there, and he wasn't in the yards of the other houses either. I asked the k-kids, they said he had gone home. Seriously frightened, I started searching the neighborhood, but... in vain...
The poor thing was choked by sobs again, and I didn't know what to say. Many versions spun in my head: kidnapped because of his Jewish-like appearance, he wandered off too far and got lost, or he was taken. But I didn't dare voice these versions aloud, afraid of upsetting Carmelita even more. Then Paolo spoke up.
— I'll help you find him, señora, don't worry. The guys and I will comb the area and find Diego, don't worry.
— Oh! Thank you, my golden boy! Thank you so much!"
She warmly hugged my brother, then me. The woman smelled of freshness and soap.
— Yes, we'll find him, Carmelita. Just... try to be less conspicuous...
The Spanish woman nodded, stood up, and brushed off her skirt. Her black, raven-wing hair swept up fiercely, her brown eyes burning with fire. Proud, warlike, fearless.
— If they kidnapped him, then those bastards will pay for it, — she said in a threatening, fearsome voice, — I swear, they won't get away alive. Adiós! (Goodbye!)
Carmelita left, slamming the door. I leaned back tiredly against the back of the sofa, and Paolo did the same. I really wanted to sleep. So I turned off the light, drank a glass of water in one gulp, and went to bed without even undressing, and Paolo never went to bed. He walked over to the window and stared into the distance. He didn't look like an eleven-year-old boy right then; my brother looked serious, focused, and thoughtful.
The last thing I saw before falling asleep was his back, clad in a white shirt.
