Past Lives (11 page)

“I don’t think I could have survived it,” he said. “You have proven yourself a competent soldier, and no one here even knows that you are…what you are. I’m amazed by you more and more every day,” he said, his expression full of wonderment. As the tide of honesty rushed from me, I couldn’t help but get in one last jibe.

“And you allowed for Giselle to be beaten, in spite of being master of the house. Yet I was spared…why? Because of my color alone? Giselle is no less of a human than I am.”

Sebastian shushed me, and I straightened up, offended.

“You can’t talk like that here,” he chided in a whisper. “I don’t like it any more than you do, J, but do you think the son of a plantation owner can protest such things and still be respected? I have a station that I have to live up to, even if it goes against what I think. I had no choice that day,” he finished, exasperated. I stared.

“You always have a choice when it comes to doing the right thing.”

“It’s not that simple,” he huffed.

“Isn’t it?” I asked, not really knowing the answer. After all, I had never been a rich man’s child…how would I know what pressure they were under? The mood was getting heavy, and in our situation it was something we couldn’t afford.

“Look at us,” I laughed. “The master and his servant, talking as equals—nay, friends. That’s one good thing this war has brought about, to be sure,” I said, my best attempt to change the subject. This made him frown.

“I never looked at you that way, J. Not once,” he said, his expression becoming fierce with…something, in the waning flames of the flickering fire.

“Well,” I said, not finishing the statement. I had no idea what I would have said anyway. In my own girlish way, I had determined that I had fallen in love with Sebastian Liddell, much to my own detriment. I meant to hint that in our world, we would never be equal, and I would never get the chance to be his wife. To keep myself busy on the long, endless walks, I would imagine living in a fine house as the new Missus Liddell, holding our nicely clad little babies in my arms and laughing. Always laughing. It was a foolish dream, and I was certain I was only feeling that way because I had no one else and was desperately alone without my brother.

Still, sometimes my breath would catch when he looked at me in a certain way. It was a combination of fierce protection, and something I dared not name out loud, for fear of what it could mean after the war. More importantly, for fear of what it could mean while I was disguised as a man in a world where homosexuality wasn’t even a word spoken out loud. We could easily be killed and left on the side of the road for the buzzards. I lived in an empty world of could haves and should have beens, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

“We should tuck in,” he said finally, rising and offering his hand as always. I grasped it in my usual masculine way, relishing his brief touch, holding on a moment too long after I found my footing. We felt our way back to our small tent, our hands gently brushing against the rough skin of the trees. I was amazed at how gallant Sebastian was, that he was willing to carry the extra weight of the tent in our endless parade of marching without uttering a single word of complaint. When we made our way back and settled down on our blankets, I shivered. The further north we got, the colder we all became, and I felt Bastian’s slow and hesitant progression across our barrier of space.

When I felt his body close enough to press against, the heat of him reaching out to me like tendrils of sunlight in an arctic freeze, I very slowly rolled onto my side, pressing my back into his chest. His arm slowly slid around my hip, cradling me close, and we settled together as two puzzle pieces—a perfect fit. I sighed, comfortable for the first time in our dreary world of no food, disease, and the endless parade of marching. My stomach was always in a state of hunger, and I barely recognized it when it growled softly under Bastian’s hand. His fingers tensed, flexing across my belly and spreading fire across my body.

“I wish that things could have been different,” he whispered in my ear, and I shivered again, as though he had spoken over my grave. Thinking I was cold, he held me even closer. I recovered.

“Me, too,” I said, feeling brave speaking out into the darkness. “I would have liked to someday be worthy of consideration to be your wife,” I said, my breath leaving my body entirely at having the courage to say the words. I expected him to pull away, to remind me sternly of the rules of society. Instead, he began to rub his thumb back and forth along my stomach thoughtfully, driving me to distraction.

“I think you would make an excellent wife,” he declared, shocking me into turning over to face him. Even in the pitch of night, I could feel the smile in his voice.

“You’re teasing is most cruel,” I said, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder. Before I could pull my hand away, he grasped it, and very, very softly kissed the center of my palm. My heart began to race.

“I am not teasing you. You are a woman who was willing to risk her life, to give up the comforts that being a woman provides, to live as a dirty man in an angry war. Who wouldn’t want someone like that by their side?”

I stared at his shadow in disbelief. Bastian would be willing to love me for a lifetime, even considering how ugly I was with my chopped up hair and my terrible face and my odd body shape. I had been told over and over by Miss Jean that I was unworthy, and at some point I had grown to believe it, and had come to accept it as truth. Yet still, this man would have me for who I was beyond my outer appearance…for what I offered on the inside. I held perfectly still as his hand gently cupped my face, guiding his lips to mine, trapping them in a delicious, delicate, and completely forbidden kiss.

It was all we dared to do. He pressed his forehead against mine, our breathing ragged as we worked to repress a raging torrent of emotions. Finally, we lay back down, as we were before, and he gently brushed his lips against my temple. I held onto his arm tight, wishing that this night—the night we could be in love—would never come to an end.

Chapter Fourteen

Our Last Battle

The next day began much like any other. Bastian and I woke and pulled apart, stretching in the light of a new sun. He left to go boil water for coffee—the only thing we had plenty of—and I reached for my satchel and began to dig around for a biscuit I had been slowly savoring. I had always kept my shard of mirror as a personal keepsake (or potential weapon), and when I grasped it to move aside, the tip tore at the inside of my bag, ripping a loose row of stitching I had mistaken for a manufacturing mistake.

“Damn,” I cursed, fingering the loose cream-colored fabric on the inside, my fingers brushing against an unusual texture. Frowning, I pulled out a small folded piece of paper…a note.

To J
it read in the delicate script I had come to know better than my own.
A letter of support?
I wondered as I gently unfolded the parchment and began to read.

To my dearest J,

I don’t know if you’ll ever find this letter. In fact, the thrill of not knowing whether or not you will is exciting enough to allow me to speak frank and true. You will likely not be surprised to know how truly and deeply I hate you. From the moment I laid eyes on you, with your foppish manner and your stupid, perfect skin, I knew I had to beat you down, and I think I did a good job of it.

I purposely sent you to war in the hopes that you will suffer, and perhaps even die—Lord, isn’t that refreshing to finally be able to say! I cannot express deeply enough the extent to which I have loathed you these past few years, and the joy it gives me to think of you suffering in the mud like the disgusting pig you are.

I sincerely hope that you and your brother die in the pursuit of keeping you and your friends slaves—isn’t the irony just delicious? I will make it my personal mission to have your little slave friend beaten in your absence until she will be of no use to anyone, as it will be my only form of entertainment now that you are gone. Please do make sure that Bastian makes it home, though. He is above you in every possible way, and is the only one of you who truly deserves to live.

Ever cordial,

Miss Jean

My hands shook as I re-read her nasty letter over and over again. There were no words for the raging storm of anger that exploded inside of me. I knew then that I would do anything to prove her wrong, that I would come back home and marry Bastian, and then kick her out of our house and into the dirt myself. I crushed the paper in one hand, dropping it carelessly onto the ground before packing up my bag. We had to be ready at a moment’s notice to run into battle, despite the fact that we had walked around aimlessly for months just trying to find one.

“J!” Bastian rushed over, his hands empty.

“I thought you were getting coffee,” I said tersely. The letter was making me want to lash out at something, anything, and Bastian just happened to be the first person to arrive. This in no way deterred him, as he reached into the tent and grabbed his gun. That removed all else from my mind in a heartbeat.

“What’s happened?” I asked, following suit and grabbing my own gun, the weight of it now a familiar friend. I slung it back on my shoulder. Bastian continued moving, getting all his battle gear in order.

“A battalion’s been spotted not far from here…they’re prepping the line,” he said, finally casting a glance at me. I saw the fear in his eyes, sure that it mirrored my own. We had only seen one battle, and for me it had been more than enough. As we had spent the past few weeks just walking, I had secretly hoped that that was all we would do until someone else won the war for us. Alas, it was not to be.

We fell in line with our fellow soldiers—dirty, half diseased men who hadn’t had a decent meal in far too long. I stared at their mud caked faces, the whites of their eyes shining out from smudged, unwashed skin. Filthy beards and tattered shoes were a trademark of every man…making my beardless face stand out even more. Bastian had made it a point to continue shaving, keeping up the pretense that it was a matter of principle among us, though at that point I doubted anyone cared what or who I was anymore. We were soldiers. We weren’t trained to think.

We shuffled through the trees, waiting in dread for the clearing…and more carnage. The woods became eerily quiet, the birds seemingly holding their breath in anticipation of a plentiful meal. I had no doubt that their wish would be fulfilled. My knees began to buckle, and I shook my legs to the side with each step, loosening the tension. I tripped on a rock and stumbled, catching a nearby branch to keep from falling. It seemed far too soon when we made it to the clearing—to face another, longer, line of Union soldiers.

My teeth began to chatter. I forced my tongue between them, and bit it hard enough to bleed. Prepping my musket, I fell in towards the middle of the line, next to Sebastian. We stood in silence once again, reliving our previous battle almost exactly—the one major exception being that the other side now grossly outnumbered us. We cast nervous glances around at each other, subtly accepting that it was extremely likely that we were facing our deaths, that these last precious seconds without pain would be our last.

“J…” Sebastian whispered. I kept my eyes forward, waiting for the charge, but tilted my head to the side slightly, indicating that I could hear.

“I love you.”

I turned my head fully, searching for the joke in his expression, maybe the quirk of a lip. There was none. I sighed.

“I can’t afford to love you, but I still do. Let’s talk about it once this is over with,” I said, desperately trying to instill the hope that we would, in fact, be able to speak again hours after the fighting—perhaps even days or years. He wrapped his thick pinky finger around mine, the smallest gesture—all we were allowed—and squeezed tightly for just an instant.

“Ok,” he agreed, whatever he was going to say next swallowed as the charge was led, and we began our sprint towards our enemies. The first volley took down our entire front line, and we leapt over the bodies of our own soldiers, desperate not to stumble and lose our footing completely. Bodies blew around me left and right, limbs shattering, men screaming in agony. The air smelled of hot iron, both from the blood and the weaponry, and it penetrated my nostrils as I collided with the heaving bulks of men. Bastian stayed by my side, both of us watching our flanks.

I stabbed and stabbed through man after man, but there were too many this time. My arms began to burn with fiery exhaustion, my lungs bursting from a lack of oxygen. My side cramped up, piercing straight through me. Everything in me screamed to drop, to let go. My weapon lowered inch by inch. I knew then that I wouldn’t be walking out of that fight. Glancing over, I could see Bastian’s exhaustion taking over him, too. He was locked in combat with a large, brutish man. In the distance, as if in slow motion, I saw a second Union soldier come running, ready to cut Bastian in half.

“No!” The word ripped from me like paper tearing from a book. I dove in front of Bastian, the Yankee’s knife-tipped weapon slamming deeply through my side, cutting all the way through me. Already in agony, I screamed as he pulled the weapon back out, and twisted as I fell to the ground. I heard Bastian call my name before he gasped, and before I knew it we lay, chess pieces on a blood-smeared battlefield. With my last ounce of strength, I rolled to face Bastian, ignored now by the fighting men. Violence continued to rage around us, and we stared vacantly at each other in resigned disbelief.

Had I been able to speak, I would have asked him if he thought we’d be joining Jack in heaven. As it was, neither of us could say anything, and we stared sadly at each other as once again, the blood drained from our bodies, and we began to float away.

Part Three—Austria

1938

Chapter Fifteen

Vienna

I was very fortunate, it would seem, to be born a blonde catholic in Vienna at the end of the First World War. Of course, that never really occurred to me until later, when people I had considered friends were torn from my arms and led to places I dare not imagine. My mother died shortly after my birth, presumably due to the complications of giving me life. I always believed that my father blamed me a little for that, which was why he was such a cold and distant man.

My father was a doctor, and a good one. He was very well respected. We lived in a comfortable bourgeois house in the sparkling city of Vienna, the crown jewel of Austria. His profession allowed for a certain lifestyle that provided me with nannies and governesses to do all that nasty upbringing business. I had several women whom I wished to call mother who disappeared after my father determined that their knowledge did not run deep enough to provide me with the best education possible…even for a girl.

Sometimes, when he had no choice, my father would let me go with him to his practice, and I got to meet the men he worked with day to day. It never occurred to me as important that his coworkers were Jewish men. They were kind to me, and often snuck me candy behind my father’s back. In fact, many of them were more fatherly than my own, and I would lie awake in my bed at night and daydream about what it would be like to have been born to their family instead. Then I would suck on a piece of candy until the roof of my mouth began to peel and fall asleep.

I was very young when I started taking voice lessons, as was the usual practice. My young voice rang out as clean and clear as a perfectly tuned instrument, but no matter what I sang, a melancholy tone would settle on every listener, enchanting each audience that came to hear me. I was declared a prodigy at a very young age, one of the most promising up and coming singers of the time. My father fought it for as long as he could, and I think that was why a lot of my caretakers were let go—they wanted me to pursue my talent and apply to enter a conservatory. Instead, I was trained in math and science, learning about politics and history, all the while wishing that I could get to the piano to practice my scales. I wanted to be a singer more than anything in the world.

Finally, when I was seventeen, a man knocked on our door. He was the head of one of the most prestigious conservatories in the city, and he wanted to hear
my
voice. I practically danced with delight, my plain brown-checkered day dress swirling around my ankles as I shifted nervously from one foot to the other. My father had always been a practical man, and I never dressed extravagantly. In spite of what wealth we had, he always behaved as though we were poor, and spent very little outside of my education. With trembling fingers, I made my way over to our slick, wooden piano and sat daintily on the padded bench. I took a deep breath, and flicked my gaze quickly over to the man to check his expression, which was frighteningly blank.

Then I began to sing.

I allowed my voice to fill the room, to warm it with the timbre of the pleasing sound that I could somehow generate without a single thought. The music flowed through me; it was everything I was and everything I wanted to be, and so much more. I let my soul slip into the song to be carried away, my nerves giving way to pure emotion. When I finished, the man jumped enthusiastically to his feet and clapped wildly, and I smiled politely. If I could impress him the path to my dreams would open—he held the key to my happiness in his weathered, aging hand.

I listened outside the door of my father’s office as the man, Herr Eisler, practically begged my father to allow me to attend.

“This country is falling apart,
Herr Doktor
Senner. That girl’s voice could lift the spirits of an ailing nation!” he cried. I tried not to let his words affect me, but I would be lying if I said my naive self didn’t blush with pleasure at his praise. Finally, after going round and round in circles, my father finally agreed to let me go, so long as it was what I wished. I scurried back to the piano, where I feigned silently playing the keys. Both men came in at once, Herr Eisler looking like a starved man about to eat a delicious meal, my father looking tired and worn down.

“J, this man would like to take you away with him to the conservatory. All you would study from that point on is music, and assuming your voice doesn’t give out you could have a lucrative career. Is this something you would want?” he asked, his loaded question revealing his opinion far too obviously. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by looking too excited to go. In spite of the fact that he was a distant man who involved himself in his profession more than his child, we still only had each other. I hoped he wouldn’t be too lonely without me.

“I would, father,” I answered, my hands folded respectfully in my lap. I nearly cracked a smile at the fiery light in Herr Eisler’s eyes. In them, I saw the star I would someday become. Holding a perfectly somber face, I waited until he acquiesced. Sighing, he turned toward Herr Eisler.

“We can get her out to you for the start of the next session then. It will allow her the last month of summer to get in a few more weeks of study at home.”

Herr Eisler shook my father’s hand, then came over to me and took mine.

“We will make a star of you, young lady. Just wait and see!” he whispered giddily over my hand. I smiled and wished him well, expressing how much I looked forward to working with him soon.

And then I spent the longest month of my life waiting to go.

***

The conservatory as a building was large and quite stunning. Glass windows glinted in the light of a morning sun, encased in cream-colored brick walls. It was capped with a red tiled roof, which towered above me as I gawked at the splendor that would be my new home. A few men, who I assumed were part of the janitorial staff, came out and lugged my suitcases into the building. When I thanked them, they glanced up in surprise but said nothing. Along the right side of the building, I caught sight of a park in the distance and a few dirty men sleeping under the shade of its trees. I frowned.

As long as I had been alive in Austria, the country had suffered. The currency was depreciating, money became harder and harder to grasp, and the unemployment rate was skyrocketing. People like my father were glared at in the streets, but the people of Vienna did not glare so hard at him as they did his dark haired companions. It was fairly common to hate the Jews, though of course I could not. They had been so kind to me as a child that I failed to see why they were hated at all.

I was led on polished wooden floors up a narrow staircase to the dormitories. A long hallway with many doors on either side lay before me, and I waited in anxious anticipation as the thin man in front of me passed door after door, finally turning to the right and reaching for the knob of door 333.

“Here we are, miss,” he said, his voice light, like a tenor. I wondered if he sang. My dorm room was very, very, small, and had two twin beds on either side. The beds each faced a small closet, and I found myself despairing that any of my trunks would fit in such a place. Leaning against a beige painted wall, a girl with dark hair and eyes lounged with her face buried in a book, green skirts draped around her bent knees. When the door opened, she sprang off the bed and stood before me.

“Hello there! You must be my roommate!” she said, a peculiar light dancing in her eyes. She was as transparent as glass—her insecurity and fear of being disliked radiating from her in waves. Wanting her to feel at ease, I smiled warmly. I wondered vaguely how many others this poor Jewish girl had been through before me. It wouldn’t be uncommon for people to demand not to share a room with her. In response to my smile, she beamed like the sun, the tension in her shoulders quickly disappearing.

“It would seem so,” I said, holding out my hand for her to shake. She did so gratefully. “And you are?”

“Janika,” she said, pumping my hand. “I can’t tell you what a…pleasure it is to have such a kind and beautiful roommate! I just know we’ll be friends,” she breathed. Her gratitude was endearing, and I found that even though we had just met, I knew we would be friends, too. I introduced myself before bidding adieu to my helpful guide, who gave a reassuring smile to Janika as he closed the door.

“So what do you do?” she asked, bouncing back onto her bed and crossing her legs. I brushed down my skirts and sat down on my own narrow bed, which was lumpy and creaky as it reluctantly accepted my weight. It would certainly take some getting used to. I quirked an eyebrow at her, confused, before I realized she was asking for my particular musical talent.

‘I sing,” I said shyly. My father had never emphasized my gift, and I didn’t want to come off as vain. “And you?”

“My half-brother and I are piano prodigies. We were discovered playing together far too often, much against the will of our mother, if you can imagine. Never got anything useful done to be sure!”

I wanted to ask how they were related, but knew better than to pry. In those days it wasn’t unusual for a half-sibling to have a mother who once bore an illegitimate son to a member of the royal court, and I didn’t want to make my new friend uncomfortable by snooping into such a situation were that to be the case. I was saved from having to come up with a response when a letter slid across the room from under the door.

“Well, isn’t that a funny way to deliver the mail!” Janika announced, launching back up to grasp at the piece of paper on the floor. Unfolding it, her eyes began to glisten as she gazed mournfully at the contents of the letter. As her shoulders slumped, the paper dropped from her fingers and back onto the floor. Janika stood above it with her head folded against her chest as if in prayer.

“Good heavens, what is it?” I asked, sweeping over to the letter and pulling it up to read for myself. Inside the folded sheet was a caricature of a Jewish girl being hung by a noose. The words scribbled inside said
Go back to Israel, dirty Jew!
I frowned, and turned back to Janika. Large tears escaped her eyes and plummeted onto the dirty wooden floor. I grasped her hand and squeezed, her reddened gaze lifting to mine.

“Whoever is cowardly enough to do something like this doesn’t deserve a second of your time, much less your tears,” I said, unable to keep myself from folding her into a tight hug. Even though we had only just met, I felt a fierce and inexplicable need to protect Janika. Finally, she heaved a great sigh and pulled out of my embrace, wiping forcefully at her tear-streaked face. Her smile was wobbly.

“Well, I suppose you’re right about that. Oh J, I’m so grateful they’ve paired me up with you!” I smiled and began to make myself busy creating a home out of our small, sparse room. I unfolded some pictures I brought from my old bedroom and began to set my clothes out, hoping I could find some way to make them all fit properly. I told Janika about my life at home, and how I was discovered by Herr Eisler.

“We’re so lucky!” she exclaimed, hearing my story. “No one can afford to be educated in music anymore unless they have ties to the rich, or have a particular talent,” she smirked, referring to the two of us. I laughed.

‘Well, we’ll certainly see about that,” I said, downplaying myself.

“Speaking of talent, when do I get to meet this brother of yours?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows teasingly. Janika laughed.

“Hopefully soon…he’s usually always tucked behind a piano, scribbling notes. I think he’ll like you, though. He’s always had a thing for blondes.” I feigned a dramatic pose.

“Don’t you know, music is my only love!” I won another laugh, and was glad to see the pain of that horrible letter dissolving from behind her eyes…though it could never be completely erased.

“Oh I don’t know…you might hit it off. You just never know with us tortured musicians,” Janika said, flipping through her book without reading it.

“Well, what’s his name anyway? So I know him when I find him.”

“Oh, just the most boring older brother name in the world,” she said. “Sebastian.”

And my heart leapt for no reason at all.