She had been fond of colours since her childhood. She’d been good at it. Pure gold didn’t do justice to what she would create.
In the depths of the bomb shelter that they cowered in, only the two of them were left. They had seen their friends try and die. In tears they waited out what seemed like endless bombings. It was December in the motherland and it was being bombed. The Nazis were on the run. Hitler had tucked tail and hidden himself away in one of his distant bases. Germany was falling. The radio held nothing but bad news for the Germans. The Allies were enraged with what was done to the Jews and were claiming their pound of flesh.
The snow and ash covered the streets. Bloody buildings that once held so much love were consumed to rubble. Ashes and dust covered the cobble streets. Distant cries filled the roads every night sending harrowing chills down any survivor’s necks. Automatic gunfire would occasionally erupt and break the breathless silence. Everyone was hiding in their bomb shelters. Down this street though, no one existed in its delved depths any longer. All were gone in their fear of the enemy who knocked down their doors and threw grenades in. They were all gone except the two.
The door to their shelter was sealed shut and only a bomb from the outside could tear it down. From the inside, a simple unclick of a lock and the door would slide open. Being the daughter of a great general in Hitler’s army had its privileges. With her mother and father dead in a plane crash, all she could do was wait it out. The only consolation was her bodyguard/boyfriend. Given to her by her father as a gift, he had guarded her since the first offensive of the Third Reich. She was a skilled painter, and she knew nothing of the profanities of war. All she knew was painting. She needed protection, and on her 16’Th birthday, she was given the bodyguard. A specially trained SS soldier, fresh out of the camp, to protect her from harm was her father’s way of showing his love to his 16 year old daughter. That was 5 years ago. What had happened?
The war had. It took away her sisters, forcing them to flee to Switzerland where the war hadn’t touched. She’d never gotten the chance to leave since her parents never made it back for her. Only the servants and her bodyguard were left to take care of her. Soon, the servants as well had to flee to their homes. Her bodyguard was so caring, even if her worth died along with her parents. He had let her into his home with his family, and even when his family was finally killed by the Allied soldiers, he gave up his eyesight just so she could live. He’d fallen in love with her, and she with him.
Now the war had taken even their home. All that was left was one last canvas, a small set of paint, the soldier’s Walther P38, and the bomb shelter. As the Allied tanks rolled on outside, she did the only thing that she knew how. She painted.
Streaks of white upon a white canvas blur the edges ever so finely.
“Tell me your favourite things.”
A few blotches of blue darken the purity of the whites.
“Right now, you, my dear. You most of all. But there are others. My pin that was given to me by Hitler, himself. My service rifle which I held dearly and had served me well. None of it matters though.”
A dab of orange and a lull of gray cover each end.
“Do you love me?”
Cherry red dot the small pattern her mind makes as she works.
“I will always love you, Hannah. Always.”
A little brown for the mix of what hands hold and a little gold for shine. She hummed that sweet tune that would always put him to sleep. He listened carefully and followed with lyrics. The sound of the men outside came closer and closer until it reached the shelter door. She knew they could be heard but she still kept humming and he still kept singing.
“I love you.”
And finally, a light blue sky.
“Hannah, my dear, what is it you do?”
She sat down beside him on the cold floor. She looked at the white gauss that covered where his eyes once were. There were still blood marks in the shape of his eyes. The soldiers had put explosive charges on the door. Their shouts meant it was time. The blast could kill. Leaning her head on his shoulder, she turned the painting around to face her blind interrogator. And with one last sentence, she set down her brush for the final time.
“I paint, my love. I paint for you.”
(c) Anachronic Works 2011