Die Künstler (The Artist)

        As I watch my breath stream from between my fingers I’m suddenly aware of how filthy they are. The dirt compacted beneath my nails, the impossibly thin veins of black that have filled the crevasses of my knuckles. It almost looks like I'm working again. I can almost feel the pastel in my hand and the dirt and soot and grime turn in to brilliant hues of blues and lavender. Then a floorboard creaks beneath my feet and they're black again. My hands have been caked in this for so long.
        This building is still somewhat intact, and as I shuffle through I can see what it was, a parlor room here, the piano room down the hall; the kitchen where smells of fresh bread and the warmth of family emanated.  This house, like the colors that covered my hands, was once beautiful too. The high painted windows have been shattered by bombs or artillery shells, and the last shadow of the man I once was hurts a little to see the broken colors and torn silk curtains that poke through the snow that has poured in through the empty space which contained the memories of this place.
        The night air through the broken windows is chill, but not biting. Slow, soft flakes of gossamer drift through the moonlight pouring in and over the shattered reds and blues and yellows of the old window. They swirl and dance and drift into pillows shining white, reflecting the splendor of the night's easy light. Each flake is a memory. My father sweating in the yard chopping fire wood--my mother's cheek against my fevered forehead. That slow, lightly falling fat flake, that's the first stick of charcoal I grasped.
         The memories come easily--until they don't. When the wind gushes harshly the flakes become small and sharp and the memories bite harder than the cold...the Gestapo and their heavy handed pounding at the door, the crippling hunger pangs of survival in hiding. But soon the wind stops, and the memories soften again and I'm brought back to that smoky bar where I met Bryda--the next flake, the last flake I notice, is her lips.

Then--
        “Was machst du hier? (What are you doing here?) The voice is warm, but it sends an uncontrollable chill through me. And the words--it’s been so long since I’ve heard another’s voice—they are senseless. The German language is familiar, casual even, but terrifying in its calmness. “Verstehst du mich?” (Do you understand me?) 
         The words finally register and begin to become clearer--more natural.  Then I hear his boots, deafening on the hardwood floor, move slowly around from behind to my left. The black eyes of the winged eagle pin on his cap are endlessly deep in the moonlight.
         He is a handsome man, who stands tall and moves fluidly, and he's not alone, the curt steps of an enlisted page follow behind him. I don’t know how, or why, but something in that uniform compels me to turn and face them. Fear obviously, but something more—respect, not for the uniform or the man, or what they stand for, but for the authority they present.
        “What is your name?"
        Seventeen years of a mother's etiquette pry my lips apart. “Jerome Got--.” My name is a death sentence, but it comes without my consent. “Gottlieb”
        “Do you live here?"
        I shake my head, “No."
        “Do you know the family who lived here?"
        “No.” the first tear begins to well in my eye.
        “What are you doing here?”
        "...," Dying.
        "Who are you?"
          “I am—I—I was an artist."
        “An Artist?” His pitch raises subtly, incredulous.  His eyes reflect the clearest blue in the moon light; unlike the beady cruel eyes of the page at his side. Light blue. Like a man who’s spent so long under a cloudless sky that it has infused his very being. “Come, Mr. Gottlieb," he says taking a spiral notebook from the hands of his companion, "draw me something."
        Something--A picture? What image could I create that would capture this moment? What tool could I use that would save my life? What memory could I share that could turn those blue eyes grey like mine? He holds the pad of paper out to me, patiently. "Schröder, give him your pencil."
        The pad and pencil are like hot coals in my hands, hotter still is the fire that comes from the page's eyes as he pulls his black gloved hands back from the filth that covers mine. As I grip the pencil my hands shiver scratches across the page. Hatches form shadows and soon the strokes begin to smooth and at length, they become Bryda's clavicle. My mind wanders away, and her chestnut hair drapes over the curvature of her shoulder, falling lightly across the top of her clavicle. Then her neck and jaw line begin to take shape. The fullness of her lips, the light in her eyes. The time stretches into endlessness as my hands create each shadow, using icy fingers to blend and caress, and suddenly I know, this is the last opportunity I will have to touch her.
         Simultaneously, each stroke of the pencil is fleeting, like each moment I spent with her was. Before this cold house, before the black pistol at this man’s hip.
        And then it’s over, and I hand him Bryda...
        Examining the page, he pauses for a moment. Finally, he speaks, the casual humor empty from his face, “Schröder," he commands coolly, "go and start the car."
        "But, Captain!" the young page protests.
        "Go." The captain's voice turns bitterly chill, and his man slinks out of the room, but not before sending a cruel and spiteful smile in my direction. And then we're alone.

        "Where are you hiding?
        “..."
        “the attic?"
        I nod.
        "Jewish?"
        "Yes..."
        For a moment looks through the broken window above us, ”You should stay away from windows, Jew."  He exhales heavily and the handsomeness of his face is solemn. In a deliberate and fluid moment he kneels, and lifts a cold silken curtain from the floor, it’s snowy blanket falls from it in a thousand shimmering flakes that drift in circles around his feet.  "It is a shame--beauty, it is so fragile." Then he releases the silk and sighs, “But this is the world which we have created, it cannot be helped.” He says just before he reaches to the pistol at his side. I close my eyes and hold Bryda there.
        Bryda--
          I barely hear the snap of the holster pop.
          No more hunger. No more cold.
          And I hear him approach, the black gun is in his hand.
       
Then, the shot. 
        “Jerome.” I hear my name through the ringing... “Your hands are ice cold.”
        When my senses find me again, my eyes open and he's gone.  A pair of fur lined gloves rests on the window sill.





Alternative Ending

Then...the shot.
        In an instant my nostrils fill with cigarette smoke, that comforting smell tapped beer.  Jubilant rhythms of a band echo and swirl around me.  In my hand, the unmistakable feeling of a cool glass, filled with vodka.  I open my eyes and there I see her, just for a moment, before joy and anticipation close my eyes once again. She's perfect, just as she was in my drawing, just as she always was, leaning in for a kiss. Then the world goes black once more, and all there is Bryda.