dandelion casually dropping traumatic information while insisting that instead of killing the problem wizard they simply burn his tongue

[HF] The First of May

The First of May

As bullets roared overhead, I used all my strength to claw at the concrete below. Bloody hands and searing pain went unnoticed as my mind focused on its most primal instinct, survival. “Get the hell down, boy!” The old veteran shouted. “I can’t get any lower!” I screamed back at him. Taking a quick glance above our cemented foxhole, I saw menacing beasts in brown charging towards our position. A bullet struck the ground in front of me, sending dust and pieces of concrete into my eyes. I retreated back down. “Panzer!” A yell pierced the deafening chaos. Turning my head around, I noticed the old veteran crawling up next to me, clutching a panzerfaust with such force his knuckles had turned white. “Willy, when I fire, I need you to lay still! Let them pass,” he said. Before I had time to answer, he got up on one knee and took aim. A loud blast filtered out from the white cloud of smoke that blanketed the avenue. When the smoke cleared, I found the old veteran resting lifelessly beside me with gore seeping through a single hole between his tired, dead eyes. I felt my peripheral vision fade to black, then the rest of it followed suit.

I opened my eyes, unsure how much time had elapsed since I passed out. My joints ached like those of an elderly man awaiting his passing, and my hearing hadn't fared much better. Swallowing my cries, I once more peeked over the rim of the crater. With the gunfire having grown distant and more sporadic, I was left with the impression of the battle approaching its conclusion. Some ways away rested the charred remains of a tank, periodically summoning bursts of smattering flames. After staring at it for ages, I felt something soft against my arm. As I turned my head, I was once again confronted by the pale, lifeless face of the old veteran. His two abandoned eyes stared right back at me. Letting out a shriek, I clambered to my feet and spun around, trying to make sense of what had become of the city I grew up in. The grey rubble that remained brought with it a horrific, gnawing sense of dread. I stumbled backwards a few steps before taking off in a sprint across the bombed-out street toward the nearest building.

The bell sounded as I barged through the doors of the old cafe. I knew it well, having visited the place with my parents innumerable times. It laid derelict and forgotten, another victim of war. The ringing sent all the memories back. It used to be an enchanting place packed with equally enchanting patrons. Not to mention the owners who were a lovely, old couple that the years had been kind to. I wondered what had happened to them. Dragging my arm against the dusty counter, I observed the smashed, long since plundered, displays. The glass that remained melted with my touch as I placed my weapon inside one of the shattered screens. I made my way to my favourite seating area in the back. Trudging across the broken scenery, the fallen portraits and ornaments crepitating like hoarfrost beneath my tattered boots, I turned the corner.

The familiar sound of a gun being readied made me stop dead in my tracks. Before me, on my beloved sofa, sat a Russian clad in a patchy dark-brown uniform that did little to distinguish him from his filthy peers. I felt my legs give way, but being frozen with fear, I remained upright, meeting his fury-filled gaze. Anticipating my inevitable demise, I closed my eyes. Instead of the expected gunshot, laughter filled the room. A startling roar of a laugh. Cautiously I reopened my eyes to the sight of the Russian clutching his stomach with tears rolling down his wrinkled cheeks. He couldn’t restrain himself, uncontrollable laughter escaping him with every agonising gasp for air he took. I soon began laughing alongside him, though the tears running down my cheeks were not those of joy or entertainment. “Your spineless rulers sit in their posh shelters as their children do the dirty work!” He exclaimed in broken German before his laughing fit recommenced. “Shut up!" I shouted without it yielding any results -- "Shut up!" I repeated. He appeared to have been making an attempt at it but regrettably slipping up after every hoarse breath he took -- "Shut up, Bolshevik! If you’re not going to shoot me, then at least shut up!” I roared at the top of my lungs. That time, it wouldn't fall on deaf ears. The Bolshevik cleared his throat and gave a nonchalant shrug as he placed his weapon on the table. Small hacks of laughter continued to escape him as he wiped his eyes. “I apologise... I was not expecting... you!” He admitted, massaging his cheeks. “They aren’t cowards, they’re heroes!” I yelled. “Who?” he grinned. “Our Führer!” The Russian broke out into another, seemingly, agonising episode of laughter. “I’m sorry, young man, but your brave Führer is dead!” His laughing only ceased when his lungs were thoroughly spent. Once more, my vision began fading, but I kept myself conscious. “He isn’t dead! You’re a damn liar! I saw him in his courtyard!” -- “Of course, of course, I am a liar. No doubt about that!” he wheezed. I looked around. The quaint café appeared to have been used as a makeshift hospital once its old role became a memory of days long since past. Ampoules and wound dressings littered the floor and table, illustrating the cause for the discoloured furniture and carpets. “Why are you here?” I pointed at him. “Me? I needed to take a break,” he admitted. “You’re a deserter then? Yet you dare call other people cowards?!” -- “If we're here to accuse each other, why don't you tell me why YOU are here, hmm? Don’t you have other places to be as well?” he said. I reflected for a moment, cursing my predicament. “No, I don’t! I was ordered to be here!” I finally replied. “Have a seat, young man,” -- “What?” -- “Have a seat!” He fixated his large, anticipating eyes on mine as he pointed at the floor. I hesitated but ultimately sat down, not acknowledging the fact that I’d followed the orders of a Red.

“What’s your name?” His lowered his deeply accented voice. “What’s it to you?!” -- “I’m not going anywhere, and I suppose you won’t either! So I’d like to know your name!” he said. “Tell me yours first,” I replied. “I am Fedor of the Third Shock Army. Now, your turn,” he said. “Are you the only Fedor in your army?” I snickered. “No, I am certainly not,” he chuckled -- “But my comrades call me Fedor,” -- “I'm Wilhelm,” I blurted. “You are definitely not the only one with that name, that I am sure of!” he bickered. I wasn’t quite as amused. “It was my grandfather’s name,” -- “Is that so? Was he a hero then?” He asked with an interested glimmer. “I never met him, but he was good friends with our Führer,” I said. “Truly a hero!” he smiled. “He isn’t dead, you know,” I said after a short break. “Your grandfather? I'm glad to hear that!" -- "No! Our Führer!" I corrected him. "Well, If he isn’t, we’ve still got the Reichstag,” he quipped. I didn’t bother responding to his inconsistency -- “What will you do when the war ends?” he continued. “Why do you care?" -- "Just curious, that is all. Most of us enjoy at least the thought of continuing our lives when this is all over," he said. "It won’t end!” I shot back. “That’s terrible! I was just beginning to get homesick!” He put his hand over his mouth in feigned astonishment -- “I was hoping to go home to my village, rebuild my bakery. You know, we had the best bread in the whole of the Soviet Union!” -- “It probably didn’t taste very good then,” I replied. “Not only bread but so much more! Whatever your mind can conjure up, we baked," He ignored my remark. “I’d rather keep fighting you than eat your stupid bread,” I looked down at the splintered floorboards, kicking away the shards of glass I’d almost placed myself upon. “I am only teasing. But we did have very nice bread!” He leaned back. “So what? You don’t anymore?” I asked. “No, your people burnt it down to the ground,” he solemnly replied. “You burnt us up too!” I felt inclined to comment. “I was not accusing you of anything, Wilhelm,” he said. “Yes, you were!” -- “No, I was not. I know you weren’t there, kid,” he responded. “You killed my brother!” I pointed out, inadvertently causing my eyes to well up with tears. He appeared taken aback as a cold, though hurt appearance took hold of him. A brief period of silence encapsulated the room. "How did your brother die?” He eventually asked. “He was shot because he surrendered,” I sobbed. “I wouldn’t shoot a surrendered soldier,” he revealed. “But you did!” I exclaimed. “Hold on, boy. Surely you understand that is not the truth,” he said. “Why does it matter?” My vision became blurred by tears. The pain I’d withheld from others for so many years had finally found its way out. “Listen, kid. I fought in the first war against you all! I saw things no young man should ever have to see, very much like you. Friends I’d known since childhood were blown to pieces by artillery. But I do not hold that against you, I couldn't do that, hell, I even learnt your language!" He pointed out -- "Nor do I hold the death of my family against you. At the very least, not against you personally,” he said. I built up the strength to continue. “My father died in the bombings,” -- “Germans burned my village, I had to bury my own son. Listen here, we have all lost people, and we are all forced to learn to live with that,” he said. I hated the thought of acceptance, resentment was so much simpler, but I couldn’t keep it up. The sheer thought of such a life drained my spirit. I buried in my dirty palms, letting my tears reveal the pale skin beneath all that dirt and blood. “What do you want to become when you grow up?” He asked after an eternity. I lowered my hands, keeping my head aimed firmly down. “I want to be a teacher,” I admitted, my voice barely more than a whisper. “A teacher? What do you want to teach?” he continued. “I like geometry,” I said with a voice that was little more than a whisper. As much as I hoped it would, the guns firing in the distance didn’t mask it. “I also enjoyed mathematics, it is so mysterious, don’t you think?” -- “Mhm,” I muttered. “My son wanted to be a baker, like me!” His bellowing laughter had turned more feeble -- “Some people enjoy the simple gifts of life, other people enjoy mysteries we have yet to solve!” He looked, not at me, but beyond, at a solitary portrait still hanging on to a tether. I turned to gaze at it. It was the former owners and their daughter, a pretty girl, some years older than me. I liked her, I think. Yet, war and frivolous anxieties took any notion of that ever being figured out away from me. I snorted. “I’m sorry about what happened,” I said, hoping to conceal my admission. It hardly worked. “Don’t be. It is how war is. I hope you and your friends enjoy a peaceful life,” I looked back at him, he was smiling at me. “Will we?” I asked. “I only said that I hope you will! I cannot say for certain,” he acknowledged -- “But I do hope so," -- “Will things go back to normal?” I wearily continued. “Perhaps not for you, but for your children, and their children,” he responded. “I don’t want to fight anymore... I’m so tired,” I said. “We all are, Wilhelm,” He said, clutching his gut. “Is the Führer truly gone then?” I spoke after a moment of consideration. “He is," He took a hoarse breath -- "Son, the war has passed,” His words struck me like a bullet. Was this truly it? Was it all over? “Will you go home now?” I asked. “No, I will stay here,” He said as if it was obvious. It took a moment for me to grasp his peculiar statement. “Why? Don’t you want to go back home?” I continued. “Oh, how I want to return home,” His eyes glossed over as they recalled better days -- “But I can’t, I will remain here,” he finished. “That’s dumb, you aren't safe here!” I scoffed at his naïveté. “Oh, don't you worry, I won’t be alive to suffer your wrath,” He said with a waning smile. He spoke so matter of factly that I recoiled somewhat. “Yes, you will! I won’t shoot you,” I tried reassuring my former enemy. He went back to laughing, weakly, yet genuine. “I know you won’t... otherwise, I would’ve shot you!” he chuckled. “What do you mean then?” He looked at me for a second before moving himself to a more visible position. He lifted his threadbare tunic to reveal multiple gunshot wounds. “No!” I instinctively yelled. “Calm down, Wilhelm, it’s quite alright, I’ve come to terms with it,” he smiled. “No, no… we have doctors! I’ll carry you!” I helplessly yelled. “Don't be stupid, do you truly believe they will help me?” -- “I will force them to!” I said. “I can’t walk... I can barely breathe properly,” He said with an ever-weakening voice. “Maybe your doctors can help you then! I can help you walk to them instead!” I searched for any viable option. “Listen, if you take me to your lines, they will shoot me. If you take me to my lines, they will shoot you!” he explained -- “But it is okay, Wilhelm, you have given me hope.” I got up and ran over to Fedor, waving my arms around in a fruitless attempt at finding a way to lift the stout man from his deathbed. “It’s alright... you go live your life to the fullest. Wilhelm...” He paused to catch his breath -- “maybe you could stay here... just for a few more moments."

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