Chapter Text
I was not born during the Great War. My mother told me that even in that time when everything was scarce and money was a laughable currency, she would rather relive that time. Despite the war being such a devastating war for our beloved land, Germany, she told me she would rather live in that time because it was infinitely better than the time we live in now.
“Those times were difficult,” she would tell me, giving me an indulgent smile, “We thought they were...what I wouldn’t give to relive those days, with all my little angels.” She was referring to my brothers and I. I was the youngest sister of four brothers, all of whom had left for war.
But still, they all persevered, I think. Some got more affected than the others. My family was already poor when the Great War had begun. But my father's various excellences and advancements in the army took the surname Wolfgang into a whole new class of society that had treated my parents well.
In the world of economic and socialist exploitation, a rising tide raises all the well-built boats, and those who have well-built boats are the ones who have the money. We were the ones who had a well-built boat. Not a cruise, in that sense, but enough to get us through economic and socialist depression we were in.
But the effects of the depression in Germany affected everyone just the same. The perceived injustice (and the literal one) of the Treaty of Versailles made the nation bitter and resentful of the West. I felt it most bitterly too because for a while, I had to watch my poorer friends suffer and we had to suffer as well. Our houses were rich but the supper on our table was not.
So when Füher Adolf Hitler had come along, when I was just eleven years old, with his suave charm, his rich ideas, and his politically advanced mindset, everyone loved him, the Ludos were no different. His promise to restore pride in Germany, restore value in our money, and give bread to every child won him some 99.9% of the vote. At least, that was what my father proudly announced. The opposing party stood no chance. It was more of a half-assed attempt to give the people a semblance at democracy.
I was eleven years old at the time. When he was elected, I remember, my brothers and I, we would salute in the name of the Füher when we enter through any threshold, even the washrooms. It was all so exciting. The promise of a better life, of full bellies (a phenomenon for me), and just general... fun excited me. I would defend his name in every way possible, even when I didn’t need to. The adults would give me indulgent smiles, commenting on how delightfully I was raised. I remember I always tied a red scarf around my hand with a poorly drawn eagle on it that would make passing SS soldiers smile at me.
“Heil Hitler,” I would yelp, my arm excitedly shooting up to a group of soldiers. They would nod their heads at me, in cool arrogance. But who could blame them, in their sharp uniforms and clean cuts?
When I was fifteen, my belly was always full and it began to show as I gained some extra weight, growing slightly taller. My mother commissioned for me a few tasteful day-dresses and insisted I learn how to groom myself, seeing as I am a budding woman now. But my figure was not fit for such dresses. I was too... plump . But my ankles and wrists were small so it made the appearance of my large bosom less severe and my large bum less huge. Shapeliness was in fashion and my bosoms (which had been growing since I was eleven, I was the only girl in my class who wore a brassiere) were ungainly for a girl my age. But I suppose my face was pleasing enough. I had tanned skin (my mother is Italian, my father met her when he was on one of his military campaigns) and wide, brown eyes. My beauty was unconventional but many girls looked like me. But my features were small and button, but darkly coloured. I felt it would have been infinitely better if I was blonde and blue-eyed, like the prettiest girl in my class, Freida Schiller.
But alas, I was not. If wishes were granted, I would be perfect. I would be taller than I am now, I would be much paler, my eyes would be blue, my hair would be the colour of wheat, and my assets would be smaller. My mother insisted I was beautiful but what self-respecting mother wouldn’t say that to her only daughter? Still, I appreciated it.
The day I gained self-awareness of my body was the day I bled. I was going on sixteen at the time. My period hadn’t ever come when I was eleven, or twelve, or thirteen. It had come late, but it was the only assurance I had that I was not barren. I was simply, in the more complex and hidden aspects of my body, a little late. That had made my mother so incredibly happy.
I was happy too.
Until my father had given me the news. When he had known that I had bled, he had made no mention of it for several days. I wasn’t aware that he knew. But I felt like a whole new woman now. I walked around with a sway to my hips, I began noticing some looks I received, I began putting on red lipstick, much to my father’s chagrin.
At first, he had begun inviting the village assemblyman; Jan Heydrich. At first, I thought it was another one of my father’s ambitions. I was not so naive as to not see that my father was ambitious and that all the food that feeds me comes from his advancements, his connections, and his work with the higher powers that he does.
I was grateful for it, but at the same time, I was ashamed because I was also aware of the envy that I sometimes faced. Just because we were living better did not mean that other people were. It always made things a little bit more awkward with everyone else.
But these issues always seemed insignificant when I had to dress for dinner nearly every night. I wasn’t sure at what point I started being seated next to Herr Jan Heydrich. But he was an enjoyable fellow to speak to. He was exactly forty-eight years old. I was aware that he previously had two wives from the gossip in the village. He was tall and built like a bull, his stance proud and aggressive, forever seeking the thrill of a war he could no longer participate in because of his injured knee. His mustache was like salt and pepper and the hair on the sides of his head was completely white. But the rest of him was filled with virility. He was faintly handsome, I suppose.
It was a good thing that I thought so because as I previously stated, my father had some news for me:
I was to be wedded to assemblyman Herr Jan Heydrich, the most powerful man in this little village and a prominent member of the Nazi party.
It was simultaneously the most ambitious and patriotic match ever made. My brothers and I were known to glorify Adolf Hitler. My father was ambitious. My future husband was patriotic and ambitious. What could such a powerful match like this do other than to restore pride and faith in our small little village? It served everyone’s self-interest.
At least, that was what I told myself. I lied to myself, and I convinced myself that this would be a happy. A beneficial match in which I would be doing my duty as an obedient daughter. I was so convinced that we would be in love. What girl wouldn’t? I was to marry young, have children young, and live a comfortable life. What more could I ask for?
“I do,” I said with no regrets when I stood at the altar, standing before my now-husband, in my wedding dress, smiling widely and feeling and incredible elation: I was the first girl of my year to get married!
But my one misstep: I did not foresee any regrets.