{"id":236,"date":"2023-06-29T23:22:40","date_gmt":"2023-06-29T23:22:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/?p=236"},"modified":"2023-11-27T17:33:27","modified_gmt":"2023-11-27T17:33:27","slug":"236","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/?p=236","title":{"rendered":"I Only Drink Candles [In Progress]"},"content":{"rendered":"

I Only Drink Candles [In Progress]<\/h2>\n\n\n
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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<\/em>.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

“I Only Drink Candles” <\/em>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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is currently a work in progress. There will be more details to come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n
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Chapter 1<\/h1>\n\n\n\n

Rudolf’s Second Death<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n

Neuer Metzgerbauernhof<\/em>
A cottage farm on the outskirts of Bad Wildbad, Germany
November 1945<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Mutti never truly understood how her words were killing our family from the inside. \u201cYour father is a monster,\u201d 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. \u201cHe is dead. May he never haunt us again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The crisp Black Forest air hummed with the farm animals\u2019 muddy stink and our burning childhoods. Before us, the fire\u2019s ash clouds climbed for the fleeting sun, each one redolent of the War\u2019s blackened skies which mirrored the broken landscapes inside us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe is right,\u201d <\/em>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. \u201cStop denying the truth. You\u2019ve hurt us enough.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVatti isn\u2019t a monster,\u201d I told Mutti, ignoring my Heart as it spoke through its thoughts, this mind we shared. \u201cHe is a hero.\u201d 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. \u201cHe saved us from the big bombs, remember? We\u2019re only alive because of him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo Nazi is a hero,\u201d 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\u2014<\/em>the skeletons of their shame\u2014and 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 <\/em>uniforms from his Hitler Youth group that he so loved, and the Jungm\u00e4del <\/em>skirts and ties from my Young Girls\u2019 League troop that I so hated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe must move on without him,\u201d Mutti said as we all turned away from the fire, trudging through ice-cold drafts. \u201cAs a family, we can only live together once your father is gone from all of our minds.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood. Let him burn,\u201d <\/em>my Heart said. \u201cAs one Body, we must create our own Stunde Null. We must live as if the past never happened.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d<\/em> I said. \u201cHeart<\/em>, I can\u2019t. The past is the only thing that keeps me sane.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

September 1947<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

For two years I retreated into my imagination, wading in a purgatory of dreams and rot as I refused to let Mutti\u2019s words banish Vatti from my living memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But no longer! Today would be a day of justice. Judgment. This morning, Wolfgang and his friend J\u00fcrgen found a way to restore his name. We will give Vatti back his voice, <\/em>I thought <\/em>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.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease,\u201d<\/em> Heart said. \u201cYou keep believing that he isn\u2019t, but your father is still hurting everyone even in death. No Frenchman on the radio will change that.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMutti has robbed me of my self-trust,\u201d <\/em>I told Heart. \u201cToday, Wolfgang will help me get it back.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

This morning, J\u00fcrgen thrust a crumpled piece of paper in my hands. \u201cLook at this,\u201d he said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is our chance,\u201d Wolfgang said giddily, rubbing his hands. He stood beside J\u00fcrgen\u2019s tall figure before the pig pen outside, his pale cheeks blushing with the vigor that he had long lost since accepting Mutti’s words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The ink of these next words sparkled like wet pebbles under the sun: <\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

RASTATT TRIALS<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

DEFENDANTS ON TRIAL FOR CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Geislingen Trial<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

1. Rosa Baumeister (born.15.6.1923.rottweil; chief warden)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

2. Rudolf Otto Metzger (born.27.04.1915.pforzheim; warden)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

3. Bertha Sommer (born.19.6.1907.kuchen; warden)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour father,\u201d said J\u00fcrgen as he pointed at the second name, \u201cwill be tried up in Rastatt.\u201d He slurred through his choppy words, speaking from the good half of his face that still had intact flesh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd here\u2019s a letter,\u201d said Wolfgang, withdrawing a torn envelope, his words edged with a new staccato verve. \u201cIt came in the mail but Mutti hid it from us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I read the paper inside:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

ATTENTION<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rudolf Otto Metzger is due to stand trial for accusations of human rights abuses while stationed as <\/em>a Death\u2019s Head overseer at the Natzweiler-Struthof Concentration Camp during his post in eastern France. He will be tried for his crimes at the Geislingen Konzentrationslager (KZ), one of the Natzweiler sub-concentration camps.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The former Nazi SS war criminal is expected to appear at 12:30 Central European Time before the Tribunal G\u00e9n\u00e9ral of Rastatt.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Signed,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Governor Marie-Pierre K\u0153nig<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The French Military Administration<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd why are you showing this to us?\u201d I asked J\u00fcrgen. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He smirked. \u201cThe Rastatt Trials will be broadcast live on radio. Tune into the EFM <\/em>station <\/em>later at 12:30.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe \u2018\u00c9puration de la For\u00eat-Noire\u2019 <\/em>station?\u2019<\/em>\u201d I asked. The \u2018Purification of the Black Forest.\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

J\u00fcrgen nodded as he rolled his eyes, and I wanted to apologize. I forgot that he hated hearing the language of our occupiers. \u201cOur dear Wolfgang here,\u201d he said, \u201ctells me all about how your family continues to spit on your father\u2019s honor even after his death.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cYou still have that rickety radio at home, ja<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Wolfgang said. \u201cB\u00e4rbel! We can finally stop pretending that Vatti is dead. This is our chance.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I faked a smile through my glare. It was <\/em>you who pretended, <\/em>I thought. I never did. <\/em>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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou both know what to do.\u201d J\u00fcrgen winked again, and I avoided his glance. \u201cHerr Metzger has done nothing wrong. He isn\u2019t a war criminal. They can\u2019t even find evidence of his \u2018crimes.\u2019 I promise they will declare him innocent.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

J\u00fcrgen\u2019s 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Heart refused to talk this time. Perhaps it succumbed to the truth for once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I smiled as a new vigor enveloped me from inside, rooting itself deeply into my Bones. Yes\u2014soon, Mutti and Siegfried would see the truth: that Vatti was innocent. They would realize they were wrong,<\/em> 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now in our kitchen, <\/em>French voices blared from the radio. They spoke of \u201csuperior\u201d French values, the Arbitur <\/em>exam dreaded by all us Oberschule students, the anger of the Catholic Church, and \u00e9puration<\/em>\u2014denazification\u2014of purifying <\/em>us Germans from all traces of our Nazi past. Nothing I hadn\u2019t known. I lived through the French at school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe are more fortunate than the others,\u201d said Mutti as she plopped the rolling pin on the counter a bit too harshly. \u201cAll the other Germans are starving. We need to share this cake with our good friends from Bad Wildbad, Lautenhof, and beyond.\u201d She continued speaking as I drifted away in my mind. I could only make out some of her words\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c… the Americans lodging at Frau Efrat\u2019s, such hearty, earnest souls\u2026\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026 finally we get a taste of what it\u2019s like to be fed like dogs at the mercy of their rations\u2014\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c…just like every ex-Nazi coward, every single German bastard\u2014\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Though she saw danger everywhere, especially in the strange and uncertain, she still worshiped our French occupiers. I never understood why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not much longer.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Together, we eyed the rickety radio. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My Hands twitched, which forced me to flick more vanilla extract than I would have liked into the batter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMeine B\u00e4rbling,\u201d <\/em>teased Mutti. My little B\u00e4rbel<\/em>. \u201cHaving one of your little spasms again?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m just\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t pay her any mind,\u201d 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: \u201cIt\u2019s been a while <\/em>since we did anything<\/em> together as a family. I\u2019m happy <\/em>we can come together like this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My Hands twitched, a jolt of electricity coursing through my Fingers. It wanted to write, to talk to me. Yes, \u201cHands\u201d really meant both <\/em>of my hands, but one mind occupied them both, so I united Left Hand and Right Hand with one name\u2014just 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I \u201crelaxed\u201d the twitch, giving Hands permission to move on its own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those tiny electric jolts left. Right Hand took a pen while Left Hand grabbed the Bienenstich recipe paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStimmt<\/em>,\u201d it wrote beside the list of ingredients. Agreed. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou see,\u201d <\/em>said Heart, \u201ceven Hands is on my side.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mutti and Siegfried chuckled as they eyed those written words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou always do this,\u201d 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. \u201cYou\u2019re a peculiar one, B\u00e4rbel. Why write when you can talk?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere are you going?\u201d asked Mutti. \u201cKeep an eye on the oven. The cake won\u2019t bake itself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI want to talk to Wolfgang,\u201d I said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut why not speak to him here? Whatever you say, you can tell the whole family, yes? Sooner or later, I\u2019ll begin to suspect you\u2019re keeping secrets.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Like the secrets you kept about Vatti? <\/em>I bit my tongue. \u201cI\u2019ll only be a moment, Mutti. It\u2019s about his Arbitur <\/em>exams. He\u2019s scared about graduating.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh, yes,\u201d said Siegfried. \u201cBetter you worry about it now, B\u00e4rbel, as you\u2019ll graduate in two years when you\u2019re his age. How fast you\u2019ve both grown.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cuckoo clock read 12:29.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Wolfgang\u2019s fingers were inching toward the radio dial.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can\u2019t let him turn it.<\/em> I walked more quickly. It\u2019s my burden to repair the family. It\u2019s my burden to be the hand that brings justice to Vatti\u2019s name; I\u2019m the only one in this family who\u2019s never banished him\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s life all over again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not this time, Hands.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I strode forward, swatting Wolfgang\u00b4s palm away as I touched the radio, turning the dial to the EFN <\/em>station just as the cuckoo clock hit 12:30, before Hands could twitch\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c… and that concludes the trial of Rosa Baumeister,\u201d said the radio announcer in nasally German. \u201cWe will rejoin tomorrow. Achtung! <\/em>Now, we will switch our attention to defendant Rudolf Otto Metzger.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat the hell are you doing?\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVatti is innocent,\u201d I said as I stayed planted, in awe at how I was able to stand my ground for once, projecting an aura of conviction. \u201cHe’s not evil like you say he is. The judge will say so.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But instead of scolding me, Mutti released me. She crossed her arms, staring at me and Wolfgang with bemusement. \u201cGo ahead then,\u201d she said. \u201cListen. Let\u2019s see what the Frenchmen say. It\u2019s been years, oder<\/em>? They will expose Rudolf for the monster he is for all the world to see. I promise you.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She had used to call Vatti \u201cmein Lieber.\u201d My love. It hurt me to hear her utter his name so\u2026 coldly. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c… the case of Rudolf Otto Metzger is an\u2026 interesting one. We may have to delay the announcement of his verdict. There is a slight problem here\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Siegfried stayed in the kitchen, ignoring us, watching over the Bienenstich as it baked.<\/em> 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\u2019ll always bury our past even if it means destroying each one of us.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAha!\u201d spoke the Frenchman among shuffling papers and erratic voices. \u201cWe have reached quite a quick <\/em>judgment regarding this… this man<\/em>.\u201d He coughed. \u201cOr rather, the lack<\/em> thereof.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019t come from inside us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt appears there is no question to answer,\u201d said the judge. \u201cHe is gone. Rudolf Otto Metzger\u2014prisoner of war and former SS-TV Nazi officer\u2014has 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 <\/em>will be awarded to those with information about this war criminal\u2019s whereabouts.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before me, the world receded as the radioman\u2019s words droned  and droned, fading. All of my prior confidence dissolved into the abyss. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at Mutti\u2019s and Siegfried\u2019s faces. Their dumbfoundedness devolved into confusion\u2026 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI told you,\u201d said Siegfried with new distance. \u201cNot only is our father a monster. He is a coward<\/em>. Vatti is dead like I said, and they\u2019re only covering it up to hide their incompetence.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Even you know that is not true, <\/em>I thought. We all know.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh, yes,\u201d 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s shadows. The confidence that J\u00fcrgen inspired in us had died in that single moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vatti is dead, <\/em>rang Mutti\u2019s words through my head, just as she told me a year ago. I drifted away as I tried to banish those words\u2014back 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now there was a new face to my enemy: the French, Mutti\u2019s heroes. Together they all killed Vatti again, a second time\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(Vatti is dead)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

(Vatti is a lie)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014and through this second death, a new truth invaded my mind:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vatti isn\u2019t invincible. He is mortal like all people.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those words floated in my mind\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vatti is mortal. Vatti is human.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am only human,\u201d<\/em> said Vatti with a demented croak. \u201cEven your heroes, B\u00e4rbel, are mortal. I am not invincible. No amount of swastikas or battle victories or Lebensraum living space in the world will change that, dearest B\u00e4rbling. I am sorry. So sorry.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour hero is only human, after all,\u201d <\/em>spoke the floating swastika as it succumbed to its own weight. It burned together with Vatti\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI told you,\u201d <\/em>said Heart. <\/em>Its words were garbled, demented gallimaufry, as if speaking in tongues, \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t 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\u2014\u201c<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

This must be a stroke or a heart attack, because no pain in the world compared to this\u2014I\u2019m dying I\u2019m dying, please God I am dying\u2014<\/em>but I chose to bear this suffering in silence\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s happening?\u201d <\/em>I asked, fighting through the weight of my thoughts. \u201cTalk to me, Heart. Why are we dying? This is unbearable. Answer me! I beg you.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Heart’s voice faded and faded, surrendering\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTalk to me,\u201d <\/em>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\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

… then garbled static. Heart was now a broken radio. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But at least I could breathe again. So I stood and let Chest expand as I inhaled swathfuls of air, soothing it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The radio was silent. I hadn\u2019t noticed that Siegfried turned it off. He stood guard for the Bienenstich as Mutti cleaned the counters.<\/em> Suddenly, the thought of food made me ill; those warm vanilla fragrances and toasting almonds turned Stomach\u2019s hunger pangs into dog-like whimpers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wolfgang approached me and whispered, \u201cThe French will interrogate and investigate us.” His face contorted as primal panic seized him. \u201cThey will send their gendarme<\/em> police to the farm.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf Vatti escaped, will he come and visit us?\u201d he asked. \u201cWill they catch him? Mein Gott<\/em>, B\u00e4rbel, what will happen to our family? What do we do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Siegfried began opening all our cottage windows for Sto\u00dfl\u00fcften<\/em>, our home ventilation routine. That prior farmland stink from earlier became more potent, and I remembered our animals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gretchen the Trifling Pig. M\u00e4dchl 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe animals,\u201d<\/em> I told my maddening Heart. \u201cYou must talk to them.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":237,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":true,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[16,4,14,15],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-236","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-historical","category-horror","category-novel","category-wip"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/236","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=236"}],"version-history":[{"count":48,"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/236\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":345,"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/236\/revisions\/345"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/237"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=236"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=236"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/marcoangeloauthor.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=236"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}