Wednesday, 17 November 2010
04:06:17 AM (GMT)
Okay, so -- historical inaccuracies abound! Subject to lots of change if I ever
develop this concept. And I didn't write this like a story story, just like something
I'd write for any of my other oekakis lulz. Basically a synopsis. No proof reading,
just whatever was on my head. No structure, tenses switch up a lot, blah blah, not
very detailed. THEY DON'T EVEN HAVE FREAKIN' NAMES LKGJALKJDFLKDF will draw some kind
of oekaki or 'srs werk' for my dA based on this... I guess. Can't be bothered too
much with my own whims.
A young man attended a party of some sort, somewhat in a funk from having a
spat with his current lady friend - over something trivial, as he had a habit of
picking up high maintenance women - and he is introduced to the older gentleman
visiting from the Soviet Union. Their only connection, an aging German man and his
sweet half-Russian wife, bridged the distance between them. It started with talks of
politics, and the exchanges where mutual, nothing guffawed at, no argumentation. The
Soviet merely believed in his own lifestyle; a life full of hard work supporting
one's family, with the only pay off being the knowledge of a job well done. Communism
did not affect him in the rural countryside. No one would drive out to take his crops
or leave him the supplies to grow anew. He was over looked.
This is before anti-Communist sentiments starting to roll, before the war, but
National Socialism had been introduced and Hitler was indeed Chancellor of Germany at
As the night progressed, the young National Socialist man listened intently to those
tales, interested to know about how others lived outside of his beloved Germany.
Easily swayed, he latched onto this view of the world and wished to try it for
himself. Every so often his words were impeded by sleepy head dips and slurs -
relationship troubles had come in the form of hard liquor drinking that night. The
Soviet laughed at his new friend, easily putting away bottles of motherland drinks
(supplied by the half-Russian hostess). The house started to clear before it was only
those two chattering drunkards and their hosts. The drinks must have taken a toll on
his logic as well, for when he started to let out all of his relationship problems
with the support of drunken, unnecessary repetitions, he became fond of how the
Soviet answered, seemingly knowing just what to say, and suddenly he didn't look
half-bad. The Soviet's words pleased the German's ears in every way, unlike the
shrill tone of his on-off lady friend. Dark, gentle eyes upturned by how often he
smiled, the bristling mustache - must have tickled whenever he kissed his wife. In
his drunken stupor, he vaguely remembered boxing in the Soviet against a wall, a
bottle of demons in his right hand, his left arm creating a barrier on the other
He couldn't remember if his kiss was returned, but the next morning he found himself
in the guest room, half undressed with the Soviet no where to be seen.
Turns out he had already left for his home, doubtlessly hundreds of miles away from
Germany. A strange familiarity lodged itself into the German man's stomach. He had
seen those kind eyes before, but damned if he could remember from where.
He left for home and suppressed that night into the dark recess of his mind. Made up
with his lady friend with the advice the Soviet, who he referred to as a kind
stranger. Engaged! Years past. WWII happens, and by then he has started a family
consisting of two young children. Instead of fighting on the front lines, he took a
grittier job (which his sheep mentality made out to be for the good of his country)
in the Gestapo and jumped at the chance to go out and do his dirty work in the Soviet
Union, not that he hoped to run into that man he tried to seduce again, but it wasn't
entirely out of the question. He was curious. Did he really know that man at all?
Driving along a dirt road. It's dusty, the weather is different, and it's lonely. No
one trusts his newly learned Russian tongue, as the Gestapo outfit is off putting,
and he is getting no work done. A drive should clear his head. But even that doesn't
seem to work as the engine starts to sputter and it rolls to a halt. He curses
himself, wishing it would have stopped at the house in the distance. A lengthy walk
it is, he declares! By the time he gets there it is dark. The animals bleat
incessantly at his arrival, alerting the family inside of his presence. He raps
lazily on the door, parched and feet sore from the walk. Does his heart skip a beat
when he sees the face that greets him is an aged, jaded face of the man he tried to
kiss years ago? He is not sure, but the man remembers him warmly and welcomes him in.
And it is not a dream, because the Gestapo man is soon introduced to the tired, yet
proud wife and to his three sons.
He tells the man of the house his problems and asks if the car can be fixed. The
Soviet has no experience with these automobiles but could try, and if that did not
work a horse would do him well and last just until the next pivotal city.
They go out to inspect the car. Can't be fixed. Something burned out. What a shame.
But they stay out there in the car for some time, just talking about what has
happened since they first met each other. The Gestapo man relates his marriage and
family in a way that almost makes it seem like he regrets it, but a small smile is on
his face. Getting over this stranger, right? But what is that familiar allure, he
The Soviet laughs heartily, more or less indifferent to the events that happened
years ago. He's had another child since, one girl that was almost a year old, already
asleep upon the German's arrival. His farm has done well, his children work hard,
everyone is in good health. His eyes have crow's feet adorning them, but the German
finds them charming. He must smile a lot, he thinks as he looks in the darkness
towards this man. It's unsettling to have those events brushed off, but he has moved
on since then. It wasn't meant to be anyway. They could only hope to be friends. His
drunken impulses where shallowly driven by the desire to be loved unconditionally,
which is what he suspected the Soviet offered with his words in the first place.
They're men, they're in relationships with women, have families to raise. It is a
time of war. Absurd, the German thought. How could they ever be together? Fragmented.
Lives. Only existing in parallel.
They go back in. The wife has cleaned up the homey place and put the children to bed.
She has left some food out for the men. Sitting down together to dine, the German
struggles with each movement of his wrists to eat the culture food and not blatantly
ask why the man sitting with him seems so familiar and has captured his interests so
much. It's a quiet dinner until it has finished. The Soviet hesitates for a moment
before he pulls out some liquor from his cabinet and asks his guest for a late night
drink as a cap before bed. Almost eagerly the German accepts the invitation and they
sit outside as to not disturb the sleeping ones.
It's an uneventful night as they look up at the stars, but beautiful nonetheless. The
liquor isn't nearly as hard hitting as it first was for the German, and the Soviet is
highly trained in holding his own. Somehow they strike up another conversation just
outside the confines of awkwardness and it drifts back to that night that seemingly
had no impact on either of them. The Soviet is quite with his replies but gentle, not
disregarding his guest's feelings. The German is shy but does not press any further
into the matter, not even asking about the man's familarity. From what he has seen,
he is an ideal man - in a sense - treats his family well, works hard, forgiving.
Germany is not forgiving right now. He is not supposed to be forgiving. But the
Soviet man is forgiving, and his country opposes that.
The next morning the German finds himself waking up at the crack of dawn to the foot
steps of the Soviet man and his children. The couch made for a rather stiff
make-shift bed and the Soviet apologizes for it with a warm smile on his way out.
In exchange for a day's work, the Soviet has agreed to accompany the German (so he
may take the horse back) to the next city. They work from dawn break to dusk. Never
have worked the fields in his life, the German sticks close to the Soviet and more or
less tags along after the strong man as he does his perfunctory chores. He babbles
about life to the working man, who only chooses to nod and smile as a reply. Though
he is listening, the German can tell. It makes him happy. The German man's wife
listened to him as well, but not before putting up her stressed front to hush him up.
The man before him worked strenuously and still had time to listen to this man's
troubles, a man he had only known for one night from years prior.
Work was done, in some way, and they had dinner, washed up, and rested for tomorrow.
It was chilly when they woke up. Everyone remained asleep as they slipped out of the
front, mounting the only horses to begin their trek. Again the German man talked
incessantly, almost feeling rushed to make due of what time he had with the man. The
trip was a few hours long. The noon sun shone brightly upon the city. There was an
office there where the German man could ask for another vehicle.
The Soviet took the horses and ventured back to his humble abode, only offering a
firm pat on the arm as his goodbye. More, the German wanted a bit more. Not something
of the same caliber of a kiss - he was not that man's wife or lover - but a tight
hold would have sufficed. He thought nothing more of it before continuing into the
city on foot to find a way to his desired destination.
A year has passed. He is back in Germany. Working in a German office. Organizing
papers. A desk job. Traveling was starting to make him ill. After a day's worth of
work he heads out to a bar. Alone, naturally. His fellow workers find him peculiar.
There is a lack of required hatred with him. No one likes that.
He drinks himself silly and stumbles out of the bar, musing about that drunken
meeting of the lips he attempted with the Soviet man. Something causes him to fall,
or perhaps his own dizziness, and he is out like a light in a conveniently dark
Those eyes of that man, he realizes, are very familiar. He's seen them before, before
that drunken night! A few days in his childhood, his intoxicated mind unlocks, were
spent in the countryside of the Soviet Union. His parents had taken him on a trip to
the Soviet Union, for what he knows not, but their car had spindled down a lonely
road and gave out. A house, not too far down the road, had a farm with two people
working it. A father and a son. The father was kind and quickly helped the family
with their problems, and the son, close to being a young adult, looked at the 12 year
old with a smile. It wasn't very often he would see children around his own age, and
not with that kind of blonde hair/blue eyed combo! They had a gay old time getting to
know each other, despite the language barrier. All those boyish games. The young
German boy admired this new friend greatly! When night fell, the family stayed and
the two would speak to each other in their mother tongues, as if they understood each
other, and did so for most of the night. The Soviet fell asleep on his side. In the
morning he awoke to find the little German boy cuddled up next to him. He laughed
silently to himself before carefully uprooting himself to go do before-dawn work on
He woke up when the sun shone brightly into his eyes. It was just him now. His
parents came to fetch him and led his sleepy form to the car, which had miraculously
been fixed. In his German tongue, the boy asked his parents if they would ever see
the Soviet family again. His blue eyes stared at the Soviet teen he admired so much,
all within the short span of a day and a night. His parents replied with a realistic
answer of how it wasn't very likely. It saddened him as he begrudgingly got into the
car. As they drove off, he was sure to have a moment by staring out the car window to
lock eyes with this Soviet boy. He kept on looking back. The Soviet had broken eye
contact far before he did and focused back on his chores.
Now, the German man awoke to the rough German of a man asking him if he was well. He
managed to mutter his wellness and slumped on the taller figure for support. Familiar
scent, it was him, wasn't it? And so it was. The Soviet had come back to Germany to
visit the couple that first introduced them, but now for political reasons. After
receiving a definite yes about wellness from the German, he was coaxed into drinking
with him. All these meetings were possibly by liquor consumption.
The German man related his revelation to the Soviet. The Soviet man remembered
immediately. It was an interesting memory that punctuated his everyday farm life. So
THIS was the little boy that admired him so quickly. He had grown up well, even if
his current alliance was immoral. What a retentative memory, even if it was spotty.
The German feebly mentioned something about getting to know each other more -- to
become friends and nothing else, as much as his heart seemed to pound around his
And they could both drink to that, the Soviet's arm slung lovingly over the German
man's shoulder as they both raised their bottles to a toast. Such close quarters. The
German man's head pressed further to contact the skin of the Soviet man's face. Pure
bliss, even if it was only friendship he seeked. Or so he told himself. They drank to
the new commitment and it lent itself to the sensual nature of the German man after a
few hard drinks.
What happened that summer night is unclear. The German man had linked arms with the
clear minded Soviet man and walked back to the nice couple's house to recover from
their drinking. Standing now inside the foyer, drunk as ever, the German man was
reminded of that night years ago and attempted his daring act one more. Whether or
not this kiss was reciprocated is not known.
The British air bombers saw the end to that tale, and with it the people involved.
me and my silly concepts (- 3-);