Anne > Books: war‎ (22)

Your daughter’s face is a small riot,
her hands are a civil war,
a refugee camp behind each ear,
a body littered with ugly things

but God,
doesn’t she wear
the world well.

Well, I think home spat me out, the blackouts and curfews like tongue against loose tooth. God, do you know how difficult it is, to talk about the day your own city dragged you by the hair, past the old prison, past the school gates, past the burning torsos erected on poles like flags? When I meet others like me I recognise the longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.

I hear them say, go home, I hear them say, fucking immigrants, fucking refugees. Are they really this arrogant? Do they not know that stability is like a lover with a sweet mouth upon your body one second and the next you are a tremor lying on the floor covered in rubble and old currency waiting for its return. All I can say is, I was once like you, the apathy, the pity, the ungrateful placement and now my home is the mouth of a shark, now my home is the barrel of a gun. I'll see you on the other side.

To my daughter I will say,
‘when the men come,
set yourself on fire’.

Poseidon,’ I said. Then I whispered, ‘Help me with Nico, and Luke, and Grover’s problem …

Poseidon,’ I said. Then I whispered, ‘Help me with Nico, and Luke, and Grover’s problem …

"Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitud

"Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude"

"You want to believe in black and white, good and evil, heroes that are truly heroic, and villains that are just plain bad, but I've learned in the past year that things are rarely so simple"

"A war was coming. I could feel it in my bones. A war to end all wars"

After all, everything I achieve, everything I have done, it is all for you. For you and for Germany.

Mothers tried hurling their infants to passengers up on deck, but they couldn’t throw high enough. Their babies smashed against the side of the ship and plunged into the sea. Women screamed and dove into the water after the children. A man dressed as a woman was beaten by a sentry when he tried to rush the gangway. I watched it all from above, sick with sympathy as they cried and screamed that they would die if they were not allowed to board. The Gustloff was their only hope.

“The shoes always tell the story,” said the shoe poet.
“Not always,” I countered.
“Yes, always. Your boots, they are expensive, well made. That tells me that you come from a wealthy family. But the style is one made for an older woman. That tells me they probably belonged to your mother. A mother sacrificed her boots for her daughter. That tells me you are loved, my dear. And your mother is not here, so that tells me that you are sad, my dear. The shoes tell the story.”

“Everyone has a price,” she said.
“But clearly not everyone has a soul,” said Poet

The Wilhelm Gustloff was pregnant with lost souls conceived of war. They would crowd into her belly and she would give birth to their freedom. But did anyone realize? The ship was christened for a man, Wilhelm Gustloff. My father had told me about him. He had been the leader of the Nazi Party in Switzerland.
He was murdered. The ship was born of death.
-Emilia

“That kid. She’s a warrior.”
“Yes, but fighting who?”
He looked at me, surprised. “Everyone. Everything. Fighting fate.”

But when she sat alone her face looked cheerless and forlorn, full of tears waiting patiently to fall
-Emilia

Yes, life can be lonely for the truly exceptional, darling. So I build my own nest and feather it with thoughts of you.
-Alfred

We cannot be too cautious, Hannelore. Just because someone knocks on the door doesn’t mean you have to open it. Sometimes, sweet girl, there are wolves at the door.
-Alfred

My secrets padlocked the gates. I’d be a torn kite stuck in the dead branches of a tree, unable to fly.
-Emilia

Mother was anchor. Mother was comfort. Mother was home. A girl who lost her mother was suddenly a tiny boat on an angry ocean. Some boats eventually floated ashore. And some boats, like me, seemed to float farther and farther from land.

“Six years,” said the shoemaker. “This war has stolen six years from the world. I was born in Germany and have lived here my entire life. I have dear friends who are Russian. They tell me the Russian people are suffering terribly. Stalin, Hitler”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“there is no happy ending here.”
-The shoe poet

The old man nodded. “There’s a saying, ‘Death hath a thousand doors to let out life; I shall find one.’ We all have a door that waits. I know that. I accept it. But the children. That’s what I struggle with.” He shook his head. “Why the children?”

Yes, I know it must all sound hostile, but this is war. Brave men are reduced to numbers. These numbers are engraved twice on an oval metal disc we wear around our neck. In the event of death, they shall snap the disc in half. Half will be buried with my body, the other half turned in to Command with my papers and personal effects.
I am 42089.
-Alfred

As a child my Mutter would shield my eyes from sickness and deformity. She was quite right to do so. There is so much ugliness and imperfection in the world. We know it exists but we create further trauma by being forced to look at it. Some things are better ignored.
-Alfred

You are of the fairer sex and for that I am glad. May your fingers never know a fist. May your ears never ring with the call of duty. Before this war is over, all men will have an opportunity to reveal their true selves. I welcome that opportunity.
-Alfred