I keep thinking back to the day at the post-office. Dreadful. Why? What is the point, of forcing people to play by their rules and abide to their limits, when they're trying to win hearts and minds. I cannot understand why they expect us to accept them in our home when they basically force you into a corner where nothing but perish awaits. I wonder what would a random person say, if I took his life's work, his very essence and crushed it until his soul shattered. The notebook was all I had left. I have no family, no friends, just loneliness, which I embrace thinking that I am free. That notebook contained everything I ever thought of, it was my own little world, where I found a home of my own. Then they came and destroyed it. It could have been avoided. I read the propaganda poster before I asked Beatrice for my notebook, I could have thought it through. But no. I was in too much of a hurry. And now my work is lost and Beatrice is being held in some interrogation room, or concentration camp, or dead. How can such a vast majority of people do this kind of nonsense, like proclaim everything different from their standards bad? You cannot force ultimate rule on so many different people without somehow neglecting their interests or needs. Well of course they care only for their own interests. Since the only way they can get their point across is by their actions, the only way for them to get a point is by counteractions. I hope this Stiller fellow will be taken care of. I once promised myself that I would never get involved with politics, I hope I won't need to break that promise.
###
I have to go to my least successful but ambitious students home once again for his music lesson. I guess putting up with him is almost a fair trade-off for the money his parents pay me. At least I'll know that there's one more person educated in the fine art that is music. Here we are. The usual slightly awkward greetings, walking to the next room, having a seat next to the kid. This job get's quite repetitive from time to time. Let's start the lesson then, shall we? Speaking German to teach music is like using a wooden stick to chop meat, it just doesn't work. Music should be taught in either French or Italian, the way it's supposed to be. Luckily I speak all three quite fluently and can even say a few phrases in English, although with an atrocious accent. When your job gets repetitive you start noticing things completely unrelated, like your surroundings. Wait a minute. It seems that my students parents are talking in the next room about a very interesting thing. I could have sworn I heard the name Stiller fly by.
"...Hans isn't all that bad." I knew it!
"He is a very cruel man." I would sure say so.
"You must understand, he may be cruel, but he's doing the right thing. Anyway he was planning to go to a concert, I think it was about Haydn's music, or something." Intriguing...
"Don't tell me you're planing to spend your own free time with him?" Wait what?
"No of course not. He may be my superior, but I would do it even if he ordered me to. Oh, by the way, since he's going to that concert on Thursday, I'm having the day off." Thursday eh? But that's tomorrow. I was thinking of going there anyway.
###
This is the big night. The concert hall awaits. I don't think I'll be enjoying the music tonight. I'll take a walk.
It's getting dark. There isn't much to look at. Some alley cats running across the street. I'd rather keep a blank mind right now.
Large entrance welcoming me to the concert. Ehh... No, no, I'd much rather just have a good time and listen to the music. I think I'll do just that. Let's see, the ticket says my seat is in the third box to the left. Up the stairs. A curtain dividing the corridor and the box. I am alone, I hope it stays that way. The arena is slowly filling up. The orchestra is waiting to go on stage, where their instruments and chairs await. There goes the third bell. A short applause aught to remind the orchestra about their jobs. Lights go slightly dim, the musicians take their place. Conductor as well. Music starts to play.
Large entrance welcoming me to the concert. Ehh... No, no, I'd much rather just have a good time and listen to the music. I think I'll do just that. Let's see, the ticket says my seat is in the third box to the left. Up the stairs. A curtain dividing the corridor and the box. I am alone, I hope it stays that way. The arena is slowly filling up. The orchestra is waiting to go on stage, where their instruments and chairs await. There goes the third bell. A short applause aught to remind the orchestra about their jobs. Lights go slightly dim, the musicians take their place. Conductor as well. Music starts to play.
So soothing. Finally I am at least slightly relaxed. Beautiful. Not quite Mozart, but still.
The first act is over. Applause. Light becomes brighter. Oh my, I recgonise quite a lot of people. I don't wish to speak to them right now, so a quick trip to the lavatory will be the only trip I make here.
Second half is starting. Once again lights change. But wait. There is no orchestra, or conductor. This is strange. But you can't blame them. Playing music is indeed tiresome. Someone is entering the stage. Hans Stiller!? The bastard just can't stop can he? Trotting on stage, throwing chairs around, very fast movements, but his face is very serious. Frightening to be honest. Now he's yelling something:
Second half is starting. Once again lights change. But wait. There is no orchestra, or conductor. This is strange. But you can't blame them. Playing music is indeed tiresome. Someone is entering the stage. Hans Stiller!? The bastard just can't stop can he? Trotting on stage, throwing chairs around, very fast movements, but his face is very serious. Frightening to be honest. Now he's yelling something:
"Enjoy the music! Please enjoy it! But remember that there are people, such a bohemians, that want to demoralize you and create an anti-government movement! Do not give in to their ways, report anything suspicious to an SS officer as soon as possible! Now for all you bohemians that are here today: you may be stubborn, but let this be a lesson to you all...!" There's two German soldiers pulling a woman on stage...wait...is that...no! Beatrice!
"Keep away from me you pigs!" She's been tortured. This is madness!
"This! Is!... the way we will treat each and every enemy of the Third Reich!" He's pulling Beatrice by her hair. She screams. The audience is shocked and silent. He reaches for his officers blade, it gives a slight glare. He shows her the blade, I can hear crying. Slowly the blade moves closer to her neck. She is having a hard time breathing, she is gasping and looks very close to fainting, but her eyes keep looking at the audience with more to say than she might even begin to tell. Hans pulls her by her hair even harder. She is shacking and closes her eyes almost as if she's trying to tell Hans not to waste time. His face doesn't change, or flinch at all. Suddenly she opens her eyes and lips revealing clenched teeth while the blade moves along, or should I say through, her neck. Blood starts to ooz from her neck and mouth. It's all over her dripping on the floor. She falls on the floor with her face down and slightly turned towards the audience. Again her eyes want to tell the world everything that has been left unsaid, but all she can do is twitch and cough up blood straight through her throat.
Hans is standing in the scarlet puddle with his face still unchanged, the knife still in his hand.
"May you all be warned."
"Keep away from me you pigs!" She's been tortured. This is madness!
"This! Is!... the way we will treat each and every enemy of the Third Reich!" He's pulling Beatrice by her hair. She screams. The audience is shocked and silent. He reaches for his officers blade, it gives a slight glare. He shows her the blade, I can hear crying. Slowly the blade moves closer to her neck. She is having a hard time breathing, she is gasping and looks very close to fainting, but her eyes keep looking at the audience with more to say than she might even begin to tell. Hans pulls her by her hair even harder. She is shacking and closes her eyes almost as if she's trying to tell Hans not to waste time. His face doesn't change, or flinch at all. Suddenly she opens her eyes and lips revealing clenched teeth while the blade moves along, or should I say through, her neck. Blood starts to ooz from her neck and mouth. It's all over her dripping on the floor. She falls on the floor with her face down and slightly turned towards the audience. Again her eyes want to tell the world everything that has been left unsaid, but all she can do is twitch and cough up blood straight through her throat.
Hans is standing in the scarlet puddle with his face still unchanged, the knife still in his hand.
"May you all be warned."
He turns around and leaves.
###
My hands are bleeding. No, this is no sick hallucination, my hands are really bleeding. When I was in the concert hall, and....it happened...I gripped the chair so tight that I ripped the skin on my palms. It doesn't hurt, not a bit. I barely have any healthy skin on my palms, but it still doesn't hurt. I need some of that Scottish stuff from the far corner.
Cowards. Filthy cowards! Murderers. I am filled with rage. There is no way I can bring Beatrice back. She was innocent! The cold-hearted murderer. Stiller must be stopped! Ugh. What was that? Who hit me?! Oh. I stumbled and hit my head on the shelf. What's this then? A bottle. I'll drink to that. Monsieur Mendeleev: You are a genius. Who would have thought that vodka's correct proportion is 45%. I'm pathetic. I need to drink some more to drown the sorrow.
###
My hands are bleeding. No, this is no sick hallucination, my hands are really bleeding. When I was in the concert hall, and....it happened...I gripped the chair so tight that I ripped the skin on my palms. It doesn't hurt, not a bit. I barely have any healthy skin on my palms, but it still doesn't hurt. I need some of that Scottish stuff from the far corner.
Cowards. Filthy cowards! Murderers. I am filled with rage. There is no way I can bring Beatrice back. She was innocent! The cold-hearted murderer. Stiller must be stopped! Ugh. What was that? Who hit me?! Oh. I stumbled and hit my head on the shelf. What's this then? A bottle. I'll drink to that. Monsieur Mendeleev: You are a genius. Who would have thought that vodka's correct proportion is 45%. I'm pathetic. I need to drink some more to drown the sorrow.
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