April.
The halls were empty now.
Days would pass without a soul walking by, but somewhere in the distance he heard a radio. If he strained, he could make out the words: constant, urgent, patriotic declarations.
“You are the fighters of the Third Reich. You are the future of Germany. To arms—for the preservation of our people.”
Each morning, he heard the date announced. The 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th….
On the 20th, a booming voice urged everyone to celebrate the Führer’s 56th birthday, and a short while later, a weather report dissolved into static.
The signal returned a few minutes later, and before the transmission fell dead for the last time, Gunther heard a poem, read aloud by a triumphant young boy’s voice:
“Those words it was that first awakened us,
From dull brooding, hollow death —
We can no longer perish,
A light bur—”
The hissing of the static went on until, after many hours, it fell silent as the hallway fell dark—power to the building had been lost. There were no more screams, no more trains; there was nothing.
“Gunther.”
A hand appeared on his shoulder. “Thank goodness you’re still here.”
The rage Gunther had felt toward Josef was gone; his will was lost. He was still tied down, but even if he were free, there seemed no way he could overpower the doctor.
Josef pulled the gag from Gunther’s mouth and knelt down beside him. “It’s over,” he said in a voice as soft and gentle as they day they had met. “The Soviets took Berlin yesterday—there is no Germany anymore,” he stood, “and no such thing as a German.”
Gunther’s eye followed Josef as he took a few steps away and stared down the dark, empty hall. He picked up a flashlight and flipped it on, casting a dim beam through the dusty air.
“We’re all like you now—totally helpless.” He sighed. “Our brightest future is death at the hands of Stalin.”
“Luther,” Gunther managed to whisper.
Josef was silent before he turned to Gunther. “I might never see you again. The future world may not ever know what a miracle was born in this German boy.” He placed a hand on Gunther’s head. “They’ll never know what could have been.” Josef seemed genuine in his hurt. “They won’t know you. At your best, you’ll just be as much of a monster as they see the rest of us.” He took hold of the gurney. “The life you wanted to live is over, and the future we all wanted is dead.”
Gunther was wheeled across the floor, through the hall, then into a room, and another, where they stopped. To his shock, he saw his own face staring back at him—a reflection hardly recognizable now. His cheeks were sunken and his skin was blotched and dark. One hollow eye socket festered and oozed, and the other was… shut.
Something stirred in Gunther, like a quickening pulse. His body began to shake as reality sunk in. An unrivaled despair gripped him as words and thoughts failed.
“He’s alive, though I don’t expect for much longer since the power went out,” Josef observed. “He lost a lot of blood from infection. He’s in a pretty delicate state.”
It wasn’t a mirror. It wasn’t Gunther.
“He’s not like you,” Josef commented, shuffling through some tools nearby, out of Gunther’s sight. “But for as bad as he looks, he at least responds to morphine.”
Gunther stared at his brother’s ghastly, disfigured face.
“He’s drugged right now, shouldn’t be awake for a few hours yet.”
Gunther was immobilized—by rage, horror, shock—no reaction could manifest itself. His thoughts were stunted and chaotic.
“In any event, he’s been very supportive,” he explained. “He wanted to help you, just like I do. You should be proud of him.” Josef stepped away from his instruments, up beside Gunther, but still out of his range of vision. Gunther heard him removing the straps which bound Luther. “What can we still learn now?” Josef asked, expecting no response. “Your life and mine are dissolved. Even if you live a hundred—five hundred years—where you have been and what you have known is gone. You and I are dead, Gunther.”
He lifted Luther’s limp, emaciated body from the table and moved him on top of Gunther so they were back-to-back. Luther’s limp head dropped beside his, lips brushing Gunther’s ear.
Josef let his hand rest on Gunther’s broken arm. “When you erase the past, you erase the essence of humanity,” Josef continued. “Germany and its plight have been washed from the annals of history, and we can never have it back. The victors of this war will paint us as monsters and criminals, when it was we who sought to rid the world of such vermin.”
Gunther felt something cold against his back, somewhere between himself and Luther.
“What I wanted to learn was why people are what they are and what makes us that way. What makes a Pole or a Romani or a Jew or even some lowly schwule inferior to you and me? What makes you and me different? What makes you and your identical brother so different?” He paused once more. “All that being said: I believe with all my heart, Gunther, that if there might be one soul who can transcend the destruction of Germany and bring to the future some remnant of our age, it’s you.”
Something pressed down onto Gunther’s skin.
“… This may hurt a bit.”
* * *
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