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Hermann steals his first cigarette from his father’s pack of expensive ones when he’s fifteen. He doesn’t even know how to smoke, doesn’t like the smell of tobacco, doesn’t like the way the filter tastes when he puts it in his mouth just because he can. He doesn’t even have a lighter for God’s sake. But it’s a form of rebellion, however small.
Father notices he’s missing a cigarette, of course. He always notices, no matter how small the detail. Dietrich gets the blame, since he’s the oldest and actually does smoke, and Hermann doesn’t know if Dietrich somehow knows of his private rebellion or if he’s rebelling on his own but he takes his punishment with an odd sort of pride, and gives Hermann his signature crooked smile whenever he passed him on the stairs.
He’s sixteen before he ever smokes it. He’s kept it since the day he stole it, either tucked safely in an empty mint tin in his pillowcase or in his socks or anywhere safe, really, anywhere Bastien won’t snoop and Father won’t inspect. He’s kept it, but he’s never put it in his mouth again, has never done more than touch it when moving it from hiding spot to hiding spot. It’s like his prize, his relic. He treasures it almost as much as he treasures his first telescope.
Almost.
It was one of the worst fights he and Father had ever had. Father was angry enough his cheeks were splotchy red, that damned vein in his forehead pulsing (Hermann wishes it would burst, then feels guilty, then doesn’t). Spittle was flying from his lips and he looked every bit the demon Karla used to mutter he was. Hermann was holding his ground, though, using all of his height to puff himself up, glaring and spitting out harsh words in English and German that make his mother cry. It ends with Hermann storming to his room and Father storming out in general, doors slamming and siblings cringing and Mother, still crying in the sitting room.
He doesn’t have a lighter like Father, silver and engraved and some family heirloom, but he’s glad he doesn’t. He’d burn if it he did, he thinks. Burn it or dent it beyond repair or something, anything, because as much as he loves his sister and brothers and Mother, he hates the Gottlieb name, hates it with every inch of his being. A lighter would have made it easier, though; he wastes three matches because his hands are shaking so badly.
He nearly burns himself in the end, but he manages it. He has that fucking cigarette between his lips, the end glowing red. He knows it isn’t good for his health, mental or physical. He knows cigarettes can become an addiction, knows that’s the last thing he needs because he has exams and university applications and his coding projects and his star chart projects but–-
But the burn in his lungs feels like rebellion, the stream of smoke that floats out of his bedroom window looks like freedom, and the taste isn’t all that bad.
He doesn’t steal any more of his father’s cigarettes; he buys his own. He buys a lighter, too, but half the time he still uses matches, just because.
It’s bad, it is. But he’s free.