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The booklet looks like its gonna burn his fingers if he touches it again.
By all means, it should be impossible for a book to loom. But this is exactly what this little booklet is doing, constantly appearing on the edge of his vision, taunting and mocking him, bathed in moonlight. It’s small, its size incomparable to the weight the knowledge inside holds.
He should just do it. Read it and be done with it. He probably doesn’t even know most of those people whose names are written inside. Moreover, he probably hated most of them, as he hated nearly half of his school.
He thought it would be easier, when he first brought it home.
He threw it on the desk as soon as he got back from work. He thought he would make coffee, sit down, and skim through the names without paying them much attention. He considered it an obligation, something he simply had to do, without necessarily wanting to. Something the dead deserved. He planned to do it later.
Later hasn’t arrived yet, it seems.
He sits down heavily and the chair creeks underneath him. Its old, but sturdy, made from beech wood. For some unexplainable reason, it reminds him of home. A home before the war, before Hitler and everything that came with him. He sighs, long and deep, tired beyond his years.
If he focuses long enough, he can still remember the times when he and Konradin were still friends.
They first met in February, in 1923, when Konradin came to their school after being homeschooled most of his life. Hans wasn’t really paying the lesson any attention, focusing his gaze out the window instead. He glanced back when the door opened, not intending to linger for long, just to check who walked in.
He found himself unable to look away.
Hans’s first thought when he saw him was that he was beautiful, almost like a girl. Konradin had a delicate face, soft hair, and blue eyes, sparkling in the sun. Hans knew he could never be friends with someone like that, not with his permanently dirty knees and grazed elbows.
He never imagined Konradin would approach him first.
He was walking home from school, still thinking about the boy with soft hair and sparkling eyes, unable to erase him from his mind. That’s when he noticed Konradin standing on the sidewalk, clearly waiting for something, getting up on his toes to look around. Hans was shy back then; he didn’t dare come closer, but he also didn’t want to leave, so he stood frozen on the pavement like a tree rooted in place, staring like a deer caught in headlights.
Konradin noticed him then. Hans panicked; he was ready to ran away when Konradin started walking his way. But Konradin only grabbed his hand and introduced himself, in a way only young men from big households did.
They walked together that day, Konradin abandoning whatever it was he was waiting for. Hans walked him all the way to his house where they said goodbye, waving to each other from two sides of the gate.
Hans ran all the way back home, grinning the whole time. His smile threatened to split his face apart, the happiness overflowing from within him. He didn’t sleep at all that night. He couldn’t understand what a boy such as Konradin would want from him. He also didn’t think much on it. He made a friend today. He was excited, the way children are.
Back in his mansion, Konradin wasn’t sleeping as well, staring at the window towards the district where he believed Hans lived. His thoughts were plagued by a boy with wild eyes and a worn out hat. Konradin also made a friend today. His very first friend ever. He was excited, and a little nervous, the way homeschooled children are.
From the next day forward, they were inseparable.
In the morning, Hans met Konradin on the corner next to his mansion, and they would walk the rest of the road together. In the afternoon, they sometimes ran around in the park or spend the time in a café. One time, Hans brought Konradin to his house, to borrow him a book. Konradin ended up staying almost until nightfall.
Konradin was an infinite well of ideas for what to do, ideas he had many years to come up with and zero opportunities to use. Hans gladly complied with them all, showing Konradin the ways of his own childhood, and various games children played in the park.
He was always shy, but Konradin wouldn’t let him be; if Hans avoided his sparkling, laughing eyes, he would grab him by the chin, yank his head up and scold him for being a coward. He would murmur something about wanting to see his wild face, and Hans wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not. Konradin sure thought it was.
They often went together to the lake, to swim or to sit on the shore, knees bumping together. While at the lake, Hans let himself do things he didn’t dare do in public — accidentally brushing hands with Konradin or stepping on his foot. The first time they came, he had to lead Konradin to the water by the arm, for the young man had never swam in a lake before. He would grab Konradin by the arm to lead him into the water later too, even if he didn’t have to. Konradin often pushed him under water for it and mocked him, turning around in a rage, blushing furiously. But even though there were consequences, Hans didn’t really care; he still reached out for Konradin's hand with a laugh, to draw him under water as well.
He only dared to by the lake.
Things started changing after Konradin first brought Hans to his house.
His parents weren’t home then. Hans didn’t think it weird at the time, happily following Konradin around and looking at everything in his vicinity. It was the first time ever that he entered a big house like this. A rich house, even he could tell.
The door to the room they were passing by were opened just a slit, so he sneaked a peek inside. It looked like some kind of shrine, but Hans didn’t recognize the man on the portrait.
(Not yet, at least.)
Whoever the man was, he seemed… bad, in a way a child would describe it. He had a perfectly normal face, but it looked twisted in some way. For some reason it made Hans uneasy, like a knot tied itself in his stomach and pulled at his insides.
He backed away and shook his head, trying to erase the image from his mind. He turned around to quickly catch up with Konradin, before he noticed Hans lagged behind. He took his hand to dispel his fear, emboldened by the fact they were alone.
The second time, Konradin’s parents also weren’t home. And this time, Hans asked.
“My mom hates Jews,” Konradin explained, turning his head away. “She doesn’t know I brought you here.”
“Hates Jews?” Hans repeated. “But why?” He squeezed Konradin’s hand, and that blond head turned even further away, hiding the face from sight. “I’m a normal boy, just like you. Why does it matter if I’m Jewish or not?”
Konradin stayed quiet for the longest time. Hans almost thought he wouldn’t answer at all.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, and let go of Hans’s hand.
Hans was never invited to his home again.
He tried not to let it show, but those words stuck with him, like a bitter aftertaste of something rotten. My mom hates Jews. Hans thought Konradin’s mom was unfair. But it wasn’t exactly Konradin’s fault, so he decided to let it go.
That’s when he started noticing his town changed as well, transforming right under his nose into something twisted beyond recognition. People were staring at him now. Some even crossed the street, not to walk right past him, lest they accidentally brush shoulders with him.
When he and Konradin spend their time in town, it was awkward. Hans was always more afraid of other people, and especially now, when the Nazis came to spread their lies like a disease. And something about those lies they were telling seemed to appeal to the people, because as they flowed through the streets like blood flowed through veins, they quickly became the truth, the man with a twisted face molded to be the savior of Germany.
Hans suddenly became dirty. Lowly. Worse. People started talking behind his back, but he couldn’t hear them, everything a blur in his ears. He didn’t dare laugh openly in public. He dared to look up at Konradin even less than before.
Deep inside, he secretly hoped Konradin was still the same; that he would yank him up by the chin, laugh at him, and then they would go to the lake, so Hans could grab his hand and coil his arms around him under the pretense of dragging him to the water.
But Konradin too, dared to do less and less. He didn’t touch Hans like before; and avoided Hans’s hands, knees, and feet like the plague. While in town, tense, awkward silence descended over them almost every time. They grew more distant by the day.
Only the lake stayed the same, but they came there less and less. And one day, they just stopped.
Konradin slowly started avoiding him. He’d walk a bit faster after school, to outrun Hans and his worn out hat. Hans could have easily caught up with him, but he purposefully slowed down and allowed Konradin to disappear in the distance. He thought that maybe, for some reason, Konradin needed some time alone. That if Hans gave him space, Konradin would one day be back to the way he always was, and nothing would be changed.
But time passed, and things kept changing. Konradin kept disappearing in the distance. When their eyes met on accident, he'd turn away red to the ears with shame.
Or disgust even?, thought Hans, when Konradin once again turned away from his lofty place in a theater, before Hans could wave to him from his seat.
They fought later.
“What happened?” Hans felt tears gathering in his eyes. “You only say ‘hi’ to me at school, but you don’t talk with me anymore, you ignore me all day long, and you won’t even look at me. Do you really believe all those stuff people say about me? That I’m worse then you? You believe that?”
“Of course I don’t!” Konradin finally turned to look at him, probably for the first time in weeks. Hans couldn’t be sure. “But the rest of them do! People will think I’m a freak too! My parents will hate me! You have to understand, please, Hans, it’s—Don’t you hear what they’re saying about you?”
“No, I don’t listen to what they say about me! I don’t care! Not like you, apparently!”
He wanted to scream, to cry and destroy. Why was Konradin being so stubborn? Why did he care so much what people said?
“My parents were already scoffing at me all the time for hanging out with a Jew, if they hear people call you a—” He stopped, then spat on the side of the road. “They’ll disown me!”
“Call me a what?”
“You know what!”
“A what?!”
“A GAY!” Konradin screamed, stepping closer to Hans. He’s shorter then me now, Hans thought. It seemed so weird to him for some reason. Konradin was always taller by a few centimeters, but now he had to look up to scream at Hans from below.
So this time Hans turned away and started walking a little faster. No matter how hard Konradin tried, he wouldn’t be able to catch him. If he even tried at all. Hans didn’t know. He didn’t look back.
A GAY!
They were just kids, throwing around words they didn’t understand. Words the adults taught them to curse. A gay. A Jew. Different.
Two days later, Hans found a letter stuffed in his locker. A pristine white envelope, the fancy kind. Inside, a big piece of paper, with only a few words scribbled onto it:
My dear Hans,
I'm sorry. I'm stupid. Forgive me.
Yours, Konradin v. H.
Such formal names, but the letter itself so childish. The official form only made it seem more immature.
So Hans forgave him.
It was better for a time after that. They went to cafés together and laughed out loud. They run around on the pavement, and fed ducks fresh bread. They read in the sunlight and stargazed in the evening.
But they didn’t touch anymore.
Konradin didn’t yank Hans's head up by the chin, and Hans didn’t reach for Konradin’s hand anymore. It was like a barrier formed between then, an infinity they couldn’t cross no matter how hard they tried.
They only went to the lake once more.
At the time, Hans didn’t know that was the last time they would ever come to the lake. It was a normal day, a cold and windy one, and he had to constantly hold onto his hat, lest it got swept away by the wind.
“Should we go back?” he asked. “I'm cold.”
Konradin was standing with his back to him, ankle-deep in the water.
“Konradin?”
“Hans.” His voice was rough, but Hans didn’t think much on it at the time. He thought so little back then, it was almost funny. “Do you think... I'm a good person?”
“Of course.” He thought it so obvious. “Why not?”
“But I'm..” Cold. Distant. German. Cruel to you.
In love with you.
But Konradin left it all unsaid.
“You're my friend.” For some reason, the word “friend” seemed insufficient, like it could no longer contain everything they were for each other. But Hans knew no other words, so he kept the one that was closest to the truth in his mind.
Once more, Hans allowed himself to be bold and grabbed for Konradin's hand in an attempt to comfort him.
Konradin pulled away.
“I'm sorry, I didn't—“
“You're right. We should go back,” Konradin interrupted him, turning his face away. Fighting back his tears, so Hans wouldn’t see. “It’s cold.”
They never came back to that lake.
Their relationship only grew worse after that. Konradin actively avoided him now, openly running away when he spotted Hans in the distance. When peers bullied Hans, when Hans got into fights he was bound to lose, Konradin no longer stood up for him. It’s not that he didn’t notice; he did. He just refused to do anything, turning away with a pained expression.
Hans’s parents noticed as well.
Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep at night, he could hear his mother crying in the living room. During those nights, he felt like crying too. Teenagers were somehow even more cruel then primary school children. Their fists were so much heavier when they hit.
One day, when he came from school bruised again, barely able to open his right eye, his parents told him they were saving money to send him to his grandparents. They told him he would be safe there; that he could be happy.
He smiled then, and his parents smiled back at him. He should be excited about this; he knew this much. But he couldn’t find it in him, and he didn’t know why.
He told Konradin about this, the next time they met.
Those meetings were rare now; rare and precious. They would walk out of school separately and reunite in the forest on the outskirts of town, where no one could see. Konradin would then act as if nothing happened between them, as if the town didn’t exist. He yanked Hans’s head up by the chin, brushed arms with him and laughed out loud. He didn’t once mention how he ignored Hans in public, how he ran away from him and let him be bullied.
And Hans let him, because he missed those times.
“I’m leaving, you know,” he said, sitting atop a tree branch.
“Leaving where?” Konradin asked from his spot below the tree.
“To the US,” Hans explained. “They say it’s safer there.”
Konradin stiffened.
“That’s… really far away.”
“Yeah, kind of,” Hans admitted. “But maybe I can be happy there.”
He looked down at Konradin. He hoped Konradin would argue with him. Try to make him stay. Promise to treat him better and beg Hans not to leave.
“That’s good,” Konradin said quietly. “Good for you.”
“We probably won’t see each other again,” he tried again, like he was poking a snake with a stick, checking how many pokes it would take for the snake to strike.
“I know.” Konradin hugged his knees. “But it’ll be better this way.”
“You really don’t care that I’m leaving you?” Hans asked, bewildered. He was so sure Konradin would fight for him.
“Of course I care,” Konradin didn’t look up, but he could feel Hans’s eyes on the back of his head. “But I want you to be alive; not here.”
“You know I would stay?” Hans whispered quietly. “If you asked me, I would stay.”
If you asked me, I would stay. Konradin couldn’t understand. He was awful for Hans. Why would he want to stay?
“Why? You’re stupid or something?” Konradin got up from under the tree to look up at Hans. “Every day, you come home bruised. How can that be called a life?”
“You could help me, then I wouldn’t!”
Konradin never mentioned the outside world these days, and Hans let him. But all of that resentment and hurt gathered beneath his skin like poison, and now it finally spilled over.
He wanted Konradin to fight for him, to cry and despair he was leaving, to treat him better, to lov—
To like him, at the very least.
“I can’t!” It seemed one part of the goal was accomplished; Konradin obviously despaired, his expression twisted with pain so badly, Hans barely recognized him. “I wish I could, but I can’t!”
“Why not?”
Hans jumped down from the tree to stand next to Konradin.
“You’re Jewish! I can’t save you even if I try, so why bother at all?” Konradin laughed, bitter and crazy, too heavy for a teen his age. “I can’t save anyone.”
“You’re a good person, Konradin,” Hans pleaded. “You’re still a good person, you can do anything! So why won’t you try—”
The words “good person” seemed to break something inside Konradin. A hand brutally shoved Hans against the tree and he yelped in pain.
“Konradin, what— mmph!”
The rest of his words were swallowed by a pair of mouth on his own.
This wasn’t how Hans imagined his first kiss. He wanted it to be gentle, maybe under the moonlight on a bridge, or in the bright sunlight by the shore of the lake.
This was demanding and scary. Konradin bit his lips and shoved his leg between his, kissing him so aggressively their teeth clattered against each other.
“Konradin— please, stop—” Hans tried pushing him away, but even though Konradin wasn’t as tall as him anymore, he was still stronger, just like when they were young.
“You still think I’m a good person, Hans?” Hans turned his face away, but Konradin grabbed him and yanked his back. “Look at me! Look at me and tell me if you still think I’m a good person!”
He smiled a sad and twisted smile. It made something turn in Hans’s stomach. He almost threw up on the spot.
“I’m just as much of a freak as you. The only difference is I can hide it and you can’t,” Konradin spat, self-loathing tainting his words. “You’re brave, Hans, but you’re stupid. You would stay in this hell for a coward like me, who can’t even look at you in public, afraid of his parents like a little bitch.”
Hans shut his eyes tight, refusing to look. Konradin scared him like this. He didn’t want to see him like this.
“You’re a good person, Hans, so go get on that ship and leave this place the first chance you get.”
I’m trash, so treat me like I am, he thought, looking at the tear-stricken face under him. He hurt him, he knew that. But maybe that was the only way to make him leave.
He indulged himself one last time. He leaned closer and kiss Hans one more time, this time gentle, feather-like. He knew he probably wouldn’t see him again. And even if he did, Hans would probably run at the sight of him.
But that was good. That was— that was what he wanted.
The hands disappeared. Those lips were gone. Hans didn’t open his eyes for the longest time. He slid down the trunk of the tree and cried. Then his tears dried, so he wiped his face and went home. He told his parents he tripped and hid in his bedroom. They probably didn’t believe him, but he didn’t care. He lay down in bed and touched his broken lip. His mouth still tasted faintly of blood.
He and Konradin never talked again after this. Hans's parents finally saved up enough money to send him overseas to the USA, to his grandparents. So he went, as they wanted. As Konradin wanted.
Somewhere inside, he hoped Konradin would come to say goodbye. He didn’t dare hope he would ask him to stay; he wasn’t that stupid. But maybe he’d come to see him one last time. That hope burned hesitantly in his chest as he hugged his parents and bid them farewell, as he climbed onto the ship and leaned on the railing, waving until his arm hurt.
But the person he really wanted to wave to didn’t appear.
He knew why he didn’t. Logically, it made sense he wouldn’t come if he went to such lengths to push him away and make him leave. Hans still didn’t know how he felt about this, his emotions a tangled mess inside of him. Logically, it made sense. But it still hurt.
He crumbled then, burying his face in his arms, curling on that railing. The letter Konradin have him back then was clutched tightly in his hand, as if it would turn into the blond haired boy if squeezed hard enough. As if it could bring back the Konradin who looked him straight in the eye, beat people up for bullying him and let him reach for his hand.
A Konradin who reached for his hand first.
(What Hans didn’t see though, was a lock of soft blond hair sticking out from around the corner and one sparkling blue eye peeking at the ship leaving the harbour and the boy with wild eyes curled on its railing.)
The US were different from Germany in lots of ways. Hans almost forgot what the world felt like when you weren't worse from those around you. When you were all different from each other and that was okay.
He wanted to bring his parents here one day, so they could remind themselves of a world like this too.
He was too late.
Relived from the burden he was, his parents finally gave up. Unwilling to let the Germans dictate their death, they hanged themselves together, same rope and beam.
They left Hans behind.
He sometimes wished they didn’t let him leave. That they took him with them, gave him a piece of their rope to climb to oblivion. On those days, he felt like he was drowning, and everything came to him like from underwater, a slight buzz constantly in his ears. After those days, he didn’t sleep at all, staring at his ceiling and imagining bodies hanging from it; his mother, his father, himself, and a boy with sparkling eyes.
On other days, he threw himself into his new life, the friendship, the freedom, the lack of fear, and everything felt good again. On those days, he was grateful for being pushed away. For being alive.
After those kind of days, he usually had nightmares. He fell into a shallow slumber and tossed and turned on the bed. He saw that ceiling beam, he felt rope tightening on his neck.
He dreamed of a boy with soft hair, who pushed him away.
That boy sometimes turned away, refusing to watch him suffocate, but also refusing the salvation of air. Hans would then look through teary eyes, until it went black and he woke up alone in his bedroom. Other times, the boy climbed to him and kissed him, gentle and hesitant, and passed him air. He untied the noose and hugged him. From those dreams, Hans always woke up crying. He hated them the most.
He thought about Konradin a lot, regardless of the kind of day he was having. The boy with soft hair was one of the few constants in his new life. Hans didn’t know how he felt about him for a very long time. He felt hurt. And abandoned. And saved. He truly didn’t know.
He probably forgave Konradin at some point. He couldn’t be sure, not without looking him in the eyes. And he would never be able to do that again. After time, Konradin became just another piece of the past Hans was trying to forget.
(Or so Hans thought to comfort himself.)
And then there was that booklet.
He thought he got better. He really thought all of that was behind him, that he didn’t care about the war anymore, about all those deaths, blue sparkling eyes, and lakes.
But here he is with that book, his fingertips as if burned by the paper brought from overseas.
He slowly opens it.
The names are written in small font, to fit every life lost in the war. He doesn’t recognize most of those people, their everything lost to time, every laugh, cry and fear weaved in a thread of black and tied to the page, a shallow, pointless reminder of what that person was.
He still remembers some.
For some reason, it never occurred to him just what kind of people would be written here. He assumed it would be all those German kids who were cruel to him, facing retribution for something they never understood. He didn’t realize most of the dead were Jewish, like him.
That girl used to be kind to him. Her parents owned a bakery, and she would share pastries with him. She was also Jewish, but not lucky enough to leave like he did.
And that boy. He and Konradin sometimes played tag in the park with him. When it all started, he grew terrified of Konradin, so they stopped hanging out. Hans didn’t think much on it. The boy was beaten to death in an alleyway, bleeding out with people all around him, reaching out for help. Nobody caught his hand.
And that boy, a group of boys actually. They used to bully him and beat him black and blue nearly every day. For some reason, they died too.
Another Jew he used to know. A boy with pants torn on his knees and sleeves too short for him, who had a twin sister with ponytails and a smile like the sun. They were shot on the street. For nothing.
Hans’s finger trails on the page as he reads through the names. Then it slows and stops as it gets to the letter “G”. “H” is next. His heart is suddenly beating faster, and he feels nauseous.
He doesn’t want to check. He wants to blow out the candle and throw the booklet away. He doesn’t want to know.
And yet, his fingers moves as if on its own, and drags itself down the page. It’s painful, and it burns. Hans wants to close his eyes, but he doesn’t. That naïve hope once again burns inside of him. Konradin was German, as pure as they get. He probably survived. He probably—
Konradin von Hohenfels, executed for participation in an assassination attempt against Adolf Hitler.
Time stops. Everything goes quiet.
Hans’s finger trembles on the page, right beneath that name.
Executed for participation in—
Executed for—
Executed—
Executed.
Dead.
Hans lays the booklet back down onto the table. He feels weird. Like he’s gonna throw up or sneeze, but nothing happens. The flame sways, and a droplet of wax runs down the candle.
He thought he would cry.
Konradin always called him a crybaby, and he was right. Hans was always easy to break into tears, so why, now, when he wants to cry so badly, he doesn’t?
Konradin is gone. Maybe it didn’t hit him yet. Maybe, if he looks at that booklet again, sees that name again, he will—
But he would rather hang himself right here then look at it again.
And he doesn’t really need to. The words are still before his eyes, carved with bloody letter on the insides of his eyelids, on his irises, showing up before him no matter if he closes his eyes or opens them. Konradin von Hohenfels, executed for participation in an assassination attempt against Adolf Hitler.
He fought back in the end, Hans thinks, and this somehow makes him happy. That, after everything, Konradin finally tried. He failed, but that doesn’t matter at all. That’s more than Hans could ever ask for, to know that he tried.
Oh, but he wants so much more. He wants to demand Konradin back, he wants him here, and alive, and well. He wants Konradin to love him, to kiss him. He wants Konradin to be his.
But Hans has always been a shy kid. He never dared to do or say too much. Maybe, if he gathered his courage back then and said something, things would have gone differently. But he will never know. All of those things he wants will forever remain as unfulfilled wishes in his mind. All he’s allowed to have is to know that Konradin tried.
He sits like this until dawn breaks, the sun peeking at his red-rimmed, dry eyes. Hans extinguishes the candle, gets up from the chair in an almost mechanical manner, and throws the booklet away. He should go to work, but he can’t bring himself to. He wants to cry, but he can’t seem to do that, either.
He finds himself stepping into a bus, scanning his ticket and sitting down. He doesn’t know where he’s going, not consciously at least. He looks forward with unseeing eyes, at a young man around his age, with soft blond hair. He looks, but he doesn’t really see.
(Or rather, he doesn’t allow himself to see.)
He and that young man are the only people left on the bus when it reaches its last stop. They get off at the same time, one through the front doors, the other through the back.
The lake stretches across the horizon, seemingly endless, melting into the sky above. The trees lean over the water, reflecting in the surface, like they want to embrace the view in their branches.
Hans stops on the shore. The young man with soft hair takes off his shoes and walks into the water, ankle-deep.
This lake is different from the one back then. But it is still a comfort to Hans. He came here a lot at the beginning, when he felt like giving up. He told himself that every place has at least one lake. And if there is a lake, there is happiness hidden in it somewhere. And if he stands here long enough, something is going to change.
Nothing really changed from standing on the shore, but Hans gradually started feeling better. He grew more and more tired of his sadness, and he slowly learned to discard it. He came to the lake less and less, until he stopped.
It was a sunny day the last time he was here.
This time, the lake doesn’t make him feel better at all. He can’t think about anything but Konradin and the lake they used to visit as children. He remembers how he would step on Konradin or brush his shoulder in passing, and he feels like crying again, but the tears stubbornly don’t come.
He draws a shaky breath and looks around, searching for a distraction. Anything, but staying alone with his thoughts and that empty void that’s opening in his gut.
Hans then looks at the stranger. Really looks, and starts noticing things.
The way the man left his shoes neatly next to each other, and put the socks inside them, instead of throwing them aside. The way he walks into the water, careful and timid, like he’s waiting for a hand to draw him in, a hand that doesn’t come. The way he stands, the way his hair move in the wind.
Hope is a funny thing.
Most people think of it as delicate and frail, something easily extinguishable. It drifts like a petal in the wind, appearing at whim and disappearing at the slightest inconvenience.
But Hans knows hope better than anyone, and he knows it’s not like that.
Hope is bloody and beaten. Hope is easy to appear, but almost impossible to kill. No matter how many times you beat it down, it will always rise again, fueled by the most minuscule things. Hope doesn’t give up. Doesn’t die. Doesn’t leave. Hope tries again, because it sees a future where everything is okay, and drags you towards it, even if it hurts you on the way.
Hans thought hope left him that day on the ship, when he curled around the railing, clutching that letter in his hand.
My dear Hans,
I'm sorry. I'm stupid. Forgive me.
Yours, Konradin v. H.
Yours.
But here hope is again, igniting in his chest, stubborn like a fire refusing to go out in the rain.
“Konradin?” He asks, his voice rough. It sounds just like his did back then, he thinks, a realization that came to him many years too late.
He must have been fighting tears too.
For a moment, he feels like a child again, standing on the shore and holding his hat tightly against the wind. Konradin is a child too, ankle-deep in the water, his hair buffeted by the wind.
He turns around and he’s an adult again, grown up, but somehow unchanged. His eyes shine in the sun just the same, his lips are gentle and his face feminine. He’s not crazy. He’s not dead.
He’s here.
“Hans.” He answers quietly, exhaling. He feels his heart start to race. He can’t believe his eyes.
He knew Hans lived here somewhere. He came here precisely to find him. But this feels like an illusion, another cruel nightmare.
“Hans?” Konradin asks again, hesitantly. He doesn’t know if Hans recognized him. Maybe he misheard. Maybe Hans didn’t call for him at all. And even if he did, he might not want Konradin in his life anymore.
But right then and there, the infinity between them finally thaws and shrinks and disappears. And Hans isn’t the same shy kid he used to be.
“Konradin!” He runs, tripping and rushing, to Konradin’s side, splashing water around. He throws himself at him and they both fall over, the water cushioning their fall somewhat.
"You’re alive! You're okay! I'm so glad!" Hans exclaims, the words pouring out of him like a deluge of feelings, unstoppable and clumsy. He clutches tightly to Konradin’s shirt as he wails and laughs, and both at once. “I thought you— you died— I’m so glad you’re okay!”
But then something hits him. He’s acting like a little kid, but they are adults now. And Konradin hasn’t moved since Hans jumped him; maybe he doesn’t want that kind of reunion with him? Maybe he doesn’t want Hans in his life, just like before? Maybe he just wants a peaceful life that Hans has now invaded with his presence.
Or maybe Hans was wrong and this isn’t Konradin at all.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have jumped at you like this, you probably—” He apologizes without pause, fumbling for purchase other than Konradin below him. He looks at Konradin’s shirt, covered in tears and sot, and his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He braces his hands on the sandy ground underwater to get up.
But there’s a hand on his waist now, preventing him from doing so. There’s a hand gripping his chin and yanking it up. Gentle fingers brush his tears away as he stiffens.
"You were always such a crybaby,” Konradin smiles softly. “You didn’t change at all.”
“You—” Hans suddenly doesn’t know what to say.
This is real after all…?
“Stay here,” Konradin asks, a little pleading. “Just a little longer.”
It’s real.
So Hans stays where he is, straddling Konradin’s lap.
“How are you— that booklet, it said you were dead— executed…” he trips over his words in emotion.
“I managed to ran away,” Konradin explains. “I… when I realized the plan would fail, I abandoned everyone and ran.” He turns his head in shame. “The Nazis didn’t want a rumor of a runaway spreading, so they claimed I died with the rest. They looked for me afterwards, my parents too…” He smiles bitterly. “I got on a ship and left to look for you.”
Hans feels his tongue turn to stone in his mouth. What is he supposed to say to that? His heart races like he’s fifteen again, and he just brushed Konradin’s hand with his own and didn’t get pushed away.
“I am no one now,” Konradin continues, oblivious to Hans’s inner turmoil. “I don’t have a fake name yet, and my real one means nothing here, so… please…”
He bites his lip, and Hans waits for him to continue, the breath stuck in his throat.
“I'm sorry. I'm stupid. Please let me be your friend again.”
Not please forgive me. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness. He just wants Hans and his wild eyes in his life again, so, so badly, he feels as if—
“Alright,” Hans concedes, something in his chest relaxing after years of tension. So he did forgive Konradin after all. It feels good. Right. “Alright,” he repeats with a little laugh of relief. He’s grinning so wide, just like that first day when he walked Konradin home, and then run all the way back to his own house. “Let’s be friends again.”
An impulse overtakes him for a second. Or maybe it’s the joy he’s feeling, bursting inside of him like a little explosion of sunshine, begging to be shared with another. Or maybe it’s the fact they’re lying in the shallow water of a lake, and he always dared to do more by the water.
He leans in and pecs Konradin on the lips.
Konradin freezes, caught entirely of guard and shocked to the core. Hans stops too, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s not like he didn’t want to do it. Maybe it is better to do it now, to see what Konradin really wants from him. He waits, hearing only the rush of blood in his ears.
And then Konradin’s stiff form thaws. He pulls Hans into a tight embrace, like he wants to be even closer to him, as close as he can. Like he wants to melt into his body and engrave himself in his bones, never to separate again.
Hans can hear the sobs Konradin is trying to suppress, burying his face in his sweater, wailing like a child, but says nothing about it. He just wraps his arms around him and holds him through it, rocking with him back and forth in the lake.
This is the first time he ever heard Konradin cry like this, from deep within his gut.
Many of Konradin’s firsts are his. The first time he swam in the lake. The first time he fed ducks by the river and the first time he climbed trees. Hans wanted to experience those things with him over and over again, relishing in the feeling that he gave him those possibilities. He never wanted any of that to stop.
And, for the first time in his life, he thinks he never wants to hear Konradin cry again. He wants to make him laugh, to make him smile, to make his eyes sparkle in the sun.
And, for the first time in their lives, there isn’t anything coming to stop them and pull them apart.
For the first time in their lives since they were little children, they have time and freedom to be whoever they want to be.
Together, reunited.
Never to separate.