I Only Drink Candles [In Progress]

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A twelve-year-old German girl recovering from the aftermath of World War II, whose body parts all have independent minds and personalities, must mutilate her body to save the lives of her loved ones.

“I Only Drink Candles” is a historical horror/fantasy novel exploring themes of post-war PTSD, managing internal demons that are impossible to control, and embracing your heritage despite the shame that comes with it.

It is currently a work in progress. There will be more details to come.

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Mutti never truly understood how her words were killing our family from the inside. “Your father is a monster,” she told me and Wolfgang as we all circled the bonfire and stared into its flames, our pupils burning as if looking into the sun. She and Siegfried wanted to destroy everything from our past, even the man who saved our lives. “He is dead. May he never haunt us again.”

The crisp Black Forest air hummed with the farm animals’ muddy stink and our burning childhoods. Before us, the fire’s ash clouds climbed for the fleeting sun, each one redolent of the War’s blackened skies which mirrored the broken landscapes inside us.

“She is right,” my Heart told me, its syllables pulsing with the heartbeats we shared. Sometimes, my body parts liked to talk to me. We were all friends inside this body, so I gave them names, even the parts and organs that pretended to be dead. “Stop denying the truth. You’ve hurt us enough.”

“Vatti isn’t a monster,” I told Mutti, ignoring my Heart as it spoke through its thoughts, this mind we shared. “He is a hero.” I reached for the cluster of our old dirndls in her hands, but she launched them into the hot pyre, whose flames devoured our tawny fabrics and gingham lattices, purging us of all the old scents from the War. “He saved us from the big bombs, remember? We’re only alive because of him.”

“No Nazi is a hero,” said Siegfried, his voice broken. He was no longer the bright-minded, ambitious big brother I once knew; his soldierly resolve had already long been shattered since his return. He grabbed the rest of our old Hitler Youth clothes from the mahogany trunk where he and Mutti concealed our past—the skeletons of their shame—and hurled them into this effigy of fire. Wolfgang snarled beside me as our youth flew and smoldered before us: his lederhosens, our overalls, the cinnamon-brown Jungvolk uniforms from his Hitler Youth group that he so loved, and the Jungmädel skirts and ties from my Young Girls’ League troop that I so hated.

“We must move on without him,” Mutti said as we all turned away from the fire, trudging through ice-cold drafts. “As a family, we can only live together once your father is gone from all of our minds.”

“Good. Let him burn,” my Heart said. “As one Body, we must create our own Stunde Null. We must live as if the past never happened.”

“No,” I said. “Heart, I can’t. The past is the only thing that keeps me sane.”

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September 1947

For two years I retreated into my imagination, wading in a purgatory of dreams and rot as I refused to let Mutti’s words banish Vatti from my living memory.

But no longer! Today would be a day of justice. Judgment. This morning, Wolfgang and his friend Jürgen found a way to restore his name. We will give Vatti back his voice, I thought as I poured some boiled milk into a batter of custard powder and sugar, helping Mutti and Siegfried bake a Bienenstich cake. The one he lost not through death, but through Mutti. For even the dead have voices.

“Please,” Heart said. “You keep believing that he isn’t, but your father is still hurting everyone even in death. No Frenchman on the radio will change that.”

Sweet tones of vanilla and earthy almonds whiffed through Nose, who flared its nostrils to devour the airborne pleasantries. These were strong smells, reminding me that today was a time of unveiling illusions, of seeing the past in all its truth. I had never felt such conviction, nor confidence, in myself before. 

“Mutti has robbed me of my self-trust,” I told Heart. “Today, Wolfgang will help me get it back.”

This morning, Jürgen thrust a crumpled piece of paper in my hands. “Look at this,” he said. 

“This is our chance,” Wolfgang said giddily, rubbing his hands. He stood beside Jürgen’s tall figure before the pig pen outside, his pale cheeks blushing with the vigor that he had long lost since accepting Mutti’s words.

The ink of these next words sparkled like wet pebbles under the sun: 

RASTATT TRIALS

DEFENDANTS ON TRIAL FOR CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY

Geislingen Trial

1. Rosa Baumeister (born.15.6.1923.rottweil; chief warden)

2. Rudolf Otto Metzger (born.27.04.1915.pforzheim; warden)

3. Bertha Sommer (born.19.6.1907.kuchen; warden)

“Your father,” said Jürgen as he pointed at the second name, “will be tried up in Rastatt.” He slurred through his choppy words, speaking from the good half of his face that still had intact flesh.

“And here’s a letter,” said Wolfgang, withdrawing a torn envelope, his words edged with a new staccato verve. “It came in the mail but Mutti hid it from us.”

I read the paper inside:

“And why are you showing this to us?” I asked Jürgen. 

He smirked. “The Rastatt Trials will be broadcast live on radio. Tune into the EFM station later at 12:30.”

“The ‘Épuration de la Forêt-Noire’ station?’” I asked. The ‘Purification of the Black Forest.’

Jürgen nodded as he rolled his eyes, and I wanted to apologize. I forgot that he hated hearing the language of our occupiers. “Our dear Wolfgang here,” he said, “tells me all about how your family continues to spit on your father’s honor even after his death.” He shook his head. “You still have that rickety radio at home, ja?”

“Yes,” Wolfgang said. “Bärbel! We can finally stop pretending that Vatti is dead. This is our chance.” 

I faked a smile through my glare. It was you who pretended, I thought. I never did. Vatti was always alive to me, and it was only Wolfgang who killed him in his mind. I would never betray our hero like that.

“You both know what to do.” Jürgen winked again, and I avoided his glance. “Herr Metzger has done nothing wrong. He isn’t a war criminal. They can’t even find evidence of his ‘crimes.’ I promise they will declare him innocent.” 

Jürgen’s words moved me and all my Body Parts, who pulsed, rattled, and whispered in their own ways. He always bullied me at school, but was only nice when Wolfgang was around. It was such a shame that Wolfgang and I went to different schools; if only I had my brother around to always protect me. 

Heart refused to talk this time. Perhaps it succumbed to the truth for once.

I smiled as a new vigor enveloped me from inside, rooting itself deeply into my Bones. Yes—soon, Mutti and Siegfried would see the truth: that Vatti was innocent. They would realize they were wrong, then they would apologize to me and Wolfgang. Only then could we begin protecting each other again, like we did when the thunderstorms of bombs fell over the Black Forest like rainwater, carving holes inside all of us.

Now in our kitchen, French voices blared from the radio. They spoke of “superior” French values, the Arbitur exam dreaded by all us Oberschule students, the anger of the Catholic Church, and épuration—denazification—of purifying us Germans from all traces of our Nazi past. Nothing I hadn’t known. I lived through the French at school.

“We are more fortunate than the others,” said Mutti as she plopped the rolling pin on the counter a bit too harshly. “All the other Germans are starving. We need to share this cake with our good friends from Bad Wildbad, Lautenhof, and beyond.” She continued speaking as I drifted away in my mind. I could only make out some of her words—

“… the Americans lodging at Frau Efrat’s, such hearty, earnest souls…” 

“… finally we get a taste of what it’s like to be fed like dogs at the mercy of their rations—”

“…just like every ex-Nazi coward, every single German bastard—”

Though she saw danger everywhere, especially in the strange and uncertain, she still worshiped our French occupiers. I never understood why.

I glanced at Wolfgang, whose head peaked above the ottoman in our parlor room. His eyes darted between me and the cuckoo clock, whose hands read 12:24. We knew what the other was thinking.

Not much longer.

Together, we eyed the rickety radio. 

My Hands twitched, which forced me to flick more vanilla extract than I would have liked into the batter.

“Meine Bärbling,” teased Mutti. My little Bärbel. “Having one of your little spasms again?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just…”

“Don’t pay her any mind,” said Siegfried. He snatched the spatula from me, a bit too firmly, then took charge of mixing the batter. Each swirl he made was as emphatic as his words: “It’s been a while since we did anything together as a family. I’m happy we can come together like this.”

My Hands twitched, a jolt of electricity coursing through my Fingers. It wanted to write, to talk to me. Yes, “Hands” really meant both of my hands, but one mind occupied them both, so I united Left Hand and Right Hand with one name—just like Fingers and Eyes and all my other parts and organs that had brothers and sisters. Sometimes when Hands and I wrote to each other, I’d shred the paper afterward so nobody would think me mad.

I “relaxed” the twitch, giving Hands permission to move on its own.

Those tiny electric jolts left. Right Hand took a pen while Left Hand grabbed the Bienenstich recipe paper.

“Stimmt,” it wrote beside the list of ingredients. Agreed. 

“You see,” said Heart, “even Hands is on my side.”

Mutti and Siegfried chuckled as they eyed those written words.

“You always do this,” said Siegfried, his scrawny figure towering over me as he grabbed more ingredients from the Quaker package that the nice American lodger gifted us a week ago. His muscles had all melted since returning from the Western Front, dissolving with his spirit. “You’re a peculiar one, Bärbel. Why write when you can talk?”

I shrugged. They knew nothing about Hands. Or Heart. Or Legs, or Feet, or Stomach, or how they all talked to me in their own ways, or how they had their own brains and personalities and wishes. And I would bring that secret to my grave throughout all the long years of life ahead.

I stirred a pinch of almonds into the topping mixture then lathered them over the puffy yeast dough. As soon as I put the cake base into the oven, I turned away and moved to the radio.

“Where are you going?” asked Mutti. “Keep an eye on the oven. The cake won’t bake itself.”

“I want to talk to Wolfgang,” I said. 

“But why not speak to him here? Whatever you say, you can tell the whole family, yes? Sooner or later, I’ll begin to suspect you’re keeping secrets.”

Like the secrets you kept about Vatti? I bit my tongue. “I’ll only be a moment, Mutti. It’s about his Arbitur exams. He’s scared about graduating.”

“Ah, yes,” said Siegfried. “Better you worry about it now, Bärbel, as you’ll graduate in two years when you’re his age. How fast you’ve both grown.”

The cuckoo clock read 12:29.

And Wolfgang’s fingers were inching toward the radio dial.

I can’t let him turn it. I walked more quickly. It’s my burden to repair the family. It’s my burden to be the hand that brings justice to Vatti’s name; I’m the only one in this family who’s never banished him—

My Hands twitched again as I redacted its permission to move, to control itself outside of my jurisdiction. I could not let it act freely; I knew Hands wanted to stop me, thanks to Heart. It would pick up the radio and throw it to the ground to break it, shattering Vatti’s life all over again.

Not this time, Hands.

I strode forward, swatting Wolfgang´s palm away as I touched the radio, turning the dial to the EFN station just as the cuckoo clock hit 12:30, before Hands could twitch—

“… and that concludes the trial of Rosa Baumeister,” said the radio announcer in nasally German. “We will rejoin tomorrow. Achtung! Now, we will switch our attention to defendant Rudolf Otto Metzger.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Mutti ran to me and grabbed my Right Arm, who froze and raised its hairs, irked at being awoken from its nap. She began pulling me back into the kitchen, her brows furrowing.

“Vatti is innocent,” I said as I stayed planted, in awe at how I was able to stand my ground for once, projecting an aura of conviction. “He’s not evil like you say he is. The judge will say so.”

But instead of scolding me, Mutti released me. She crossed her arms, staring at me and Wolfgang with bemusement. “Go ahead then,” she said. “Listen. Let’s see what the Frenchmen say. It’s been years, oder? They will expose Rudolf for the monster he is for all the world to see. I promise you.” 

She had used to call Vatti “mein Lieber.” My love. It hurt me to hear her utter his name so… coldly. 

“… the case of Rudolf Otto Metzger is an… interesting one. We may have to delay the announcement of his verdict. There is a slight problem here…”

Siegfried stayed in the kitchen, ignoring us, watching over the Bienenstich as it baked. He was likely lost in his mind, swimming amidst his visions of the future as he buried the past like he always did. He had forgotten that before Mutti turned against Vatti, she used to love and worship him like a saint. They’ll always bury our past even if it means destroying each one of us.

“Aha!” spoke the Frenchman among shuffling papers and erratic voices. “We have reached quite a quick judgment regarding this… this man.” He coughed. “Or rather, the lack thereof.” 

Mutti leaned forward and Siegfried turned to listen. Wolfgang relaxed his face: a cold, stolid mask once more. Dumbstruck, we all were. For once, we were all beheld by a secret that didn’t come from inside us.

“It appears there is no question to answer,” said the judge. “He is gone. Rudolf Otto Metzger—prisoner of war and former SS-TV Nazi officer—has escaped the cattle car in which he was transported from his captivity in Alsace-Lorraine. For this, the French Military Administration henceforth declares him a wanted fugitive. 25,000 Reichsmarks will be awarded to those with information about this war criminal’s whereabouts.”

Before me, the world receded as the radioman’s words droned  and droned, fading. All of my prior confidence dissolved into the abyss. 

I looked at Mutti’s and Siegfried’s faces. Their dumbfoundedness devolved into confusion… then a contrived type of relief. They pretended to be happy, calm, but anxiety scuttled through their cheeks and jaws, I could tell. Wolfgang was much better at hiding his true feelings than them.

“I told you,” said Siegfried with new distance. “Not only is our father a monster. He is a coward. Vatti is dead like I said, and they’re only covering it up to hide their incompetence.”

Even you know that is not true, I thought. We all know.

“Ah, yes,” said Mutti, as if agreeing with my thoughts, speaking not a word more. She waltzed back to the kitchen, humming a false lullaby as she strained her neck. 

Wolfgang hung his head down, sharing an all-too-familiar shame with me that united us both in the silence of the past years. Once again, we felt small under Mutti and Siegfried’s shadows. The confidence that Jürgen inspired in us had died in that single moment.

The heat of the bonfire smoke from two years ago began to envelop me again, floating amidst its choking ash clouds, fanning black smoke into my curling Nose.

Vatti is dead, rang Mutti’s words through my head, just as she told me a year ago. I drifted away as I tried to banish those words—back into the realm of dreams I created where the War never happened, when Vatti was free to fight and protect us. But my feelings slowly froze like November lakes.

Now there was a new face to my enemy: the French, Mutti’s heroes. Together they all killed Vatti again, a second time—

(Vatti is dead)

(Vatti is a lie)

—and through this second death, a new truth invaded my mind:

Vatti isn’t invincible. He is mortal like all people.

Those words floated in my mind’s eye as I stood before the burning cottage where my Body Parts came to life; Vatti towered against the fire in his uniform of black, white, and red.

Vatti is mortal. Vatti is human.

Those letters sprouted little arms and legs that held cutlasses, jabbing into my Heart and Eyes and slicing Vatti into pieces, whose severed body collapsed onto the charring ground. From his body a wicked thing was born into the air as it floated, a swastika on fire, whose image always made Heart beat faster and flee deeper inside Chest, its cave.

“I am only human,” said Vatti with a demented croak. “Even your heroes, Bärbel, are mortal. I am not invincible. No amount of swastikas or battle victories or Lebensraum living space in the world will change that, dearest Bärbling. I am sorry. So sorry.”

I closed my Ears to his words. Vatti once said that Lebensraum meant we would be safe from all dangers anywhere we went in the world, safe from all the enemies who wished to harm noble Germans like us. It was his ultimate promise to us. A world free for those who deserve to roam it. 

But I refused to banish his degrading image; for the first time, I allowed myself to imagine my own father as a corpse, one among the thousands of dead I saw around us at our old home of Pforzheim during the smaller air raids. Before he saved us from the big bombs. 

“Your hero is only human, after all,” spoke the floating swastika as it succumbed to its own weight. It burned together with Vatti’s skeleton as it dissolved into the ground, bone dust floating to the sky like the million ashes that painted the sky black during the War, petrifying our souls.

A vibration swept through my body, buckling my knees as I stumbled to the ground; Chest expanded as it tried to contain the meaning of those new words, the weight of Vatti’s mortality. Heart was collapsing, and I inhaled to soothe it, but its heartbeats carried dirt and grime, corruption and death, as if crawling from a crypt of Nazis. 

“I told you,” said Heart. Its words were garbled, demented gallimaufry, as if speaking in tongues, “You shouldn’t have done it. I warned you to stay away from the radio. I warned you to accept the truth. To stop lying. And look! You are dragging us through newer depths of grief: depths far more profound, far beyond our conscious understanding—“

Heart’s beats pulsed with the force of flash grenades, little explosions inside my Chest, Skin, Bones, bombardments of fire-bombs blasting craters upon Heart’s walls like the face of the moon. Cracks formed beneath those craters, poisoning Heart as they snaked through the blood-laden tunnels of my veins. 

This must be a stroke or a heart attack, because no pain in the world compared to this—I’m dying I’m dying, please God I am dying—but I chose to bear this suffering in silence—

“What’s happening?” I asked, fighting through the weight of my thoughts. “Talk to me, Heart. Why are we dying? This is unbearable. Answer me! I beg you.”

But Heart’s voice faded and faded, surrendering…

“Talk to me,” I pushed, clutching against where Heart lay under Chest: its protective house, its motherly cage. Then, as my heartbeats ebbed away, so did Heart spiral into a quiet purgatory of wordless whispers…

… then garbled static. Heart was now a broken radio. 

Only the voices of the crypt hummed through my Head, and my body felt like an urn of ashes. Heart must have been silently dying for all this time, like I was.

But at least I could breathe again. So I stood and let Chest expand as I inhaled swathfuls of air, soothing it.

The radio was silent. I hadn’t noticed that Siegfried turned it off. He stood guard for the Bienenstich as Mutti cleaned the counters. Suddenly, the thought of food made me ill; those warm vanilla fragrances and toasting almonds turned Stomach’s hunger pangs into dog-like whimpers.

Mutti continued to hum, her eyes darting through all the open windows as if expecting Vatti to appear, as if he would emerge from the breech and evergreen thickets of the Black Forest at any moment. She clutched the knife more firmly than usual, ready to strike at anything, anyone. Meanwhile, Siegfried left to invite guests with whom to share the Bienenstich cake: Elisheva Efrat, Fritz and Frieda, Dr. Grzegorz. To be able to bake a cake in these hard times where we Germans starved in the masses was a luxury. A cause for celebration. 

Wolfgang approached me and whispered, “The French will interrogate and investigate us.” His face contorted as primal panic seized him. “They will send their gendarme police to the farm.”

I hugged my brother as we drowned in our internal cries, united in a pact to never let the other know what we truly felt. Showing our feelings to each other would bring us to naught but weakness and doom.

“If Vatti escaped, will he come and visit us?” he asked. “Will they catch him? Mein Gott, Bärbel, what will happen to our family? What do we do?”

Siegfried began opening all our cottage windows for Stoßlüften, our home ventilation routine. That prior farmland stink from earlier became more potent, and I remembered our animals.

Gretchen the Trifling Pig. Mädchl the Milking Cow. Neva the horse, the swarthy mare who knows and sees all. Heart loved them just as dearly as they did. They could heal Heart of all its ailments before the French hand of justice came to knock.

“The animals,” I told my maddening Heart. “You must talk to them.”