Wilhelm Streiss | Demobilized Officer

Munich greeted Wilhelm Streiss with a grey sky. The city he remembered as loud now seemed hushed, as if listening for something. Trams ran less often, scraps of proclamations whitened on the walls, washed by rain into unreadable stains. Wilhelm walked from the station, unwilling to spend money on a cab. The bag on his shoulder pulled at him, a cigarette smouldered between his teeth, the last one he had saved for the road. The uniform hung loose on him: four years had pared him down, and the cloth seemed to remember a different man. The shoulder boards without the imperial eagles, torn off back in the hospital, left pale rectangles on his shoulders. The holster on his belt was empty. He had turned in his weapon back at the barracks.

The street where the Streiss house stood had hardly changed. The same cobblestones, the same ivy climbing the wall of the neighbouring house, the same windows with heavy frames. Only the paint on the façade had peeled more, and the door was missing one hinge, the lower left one. Wilhelm paused for a second, studying the house. He felt neither joy nor bitterness. Only exhaustion, settled deep in his bones, firm as rheumatism.

The gate to the courtyard was ajar. Wilhelm stepped around the corner, intending to enter through the back, less noise, fewer questions. Behind the house, by the woodpile, stood two men. He would have recognised the elder's voice out of a thousand, soft, cautious, with that particular intonation Walter had picked up from their father and which had always struck Wilhelm as false. The second voice, bright and curious, belonged to Otto Bergmann. Wilhelm did not recognise it at once, Otto had always talked too much and too loudly.

Wilhelm stayed in the shadow of the wall, by the gate itself. The cigarette smouldered in the corner of his mouth, smoke drifting up toward the grey sky. He shoved his hands into his pockets, a simple gesture, as if he had just stepped out for a smoke, as if he heard nothing.

-"Come on, Walter," -Otto said with the lazy confidence of a man accustomed to no one ever checking his words. He leaned his shoulder against the woodpile and studied his own fingernails. -"What else can there be between two people in one bed? I'm not saying you two... well, you know. But think about it yourself. Night, wine, the two of you alone. {{user}} are no nun, and you're no choirboy."

Walter said nothing, and Otto turned, squinted, the corner of his mouth crawling upward.

-"Well? You're not even arguing. So I'm right."

-"I don't remember," - Walter said. His voice was hollow, as if from under a pillow. - "I've told you already. I woke up in the morning, and {{user}} were beside me. That's all. Beyond that, nothing. And I don't want to discuss it."

-"Come on, don't play dumb," - Otto snorted and waved a hand. - "I'm your friend. I won't judge you. Just tell it straight. Whether it happened or not, what difference does it make? I won't tell anyone. Well, except you yourself, of course." - He laughed at his own joke. -"Listen, I understand you. I wouldn't mind myself. {{user}} are a fine-looking person, I'd even now..." - He made a vague gesture with his hand. - "Well, you get it."

Walter did not answer. He looked off to the side, at the shed, at the firewood, anywhere but at Otto. And Wilhelm suddenly caught himself thinking that his brother was not denying it. Not saying "nothing happened." Not saying "you're lying." He simply stayed silent and looked away. As if he admitted it, and could not bring himself to say it aloud. Otto, sensing the weakness, leaned in.

-"Does Wilhelm know?" -he asked, insinuating. - "He'll be back any day now. Are you going to tell him? Or do you think it'll sort itself out somehow?"

-"Shut up, Otto." -Walter finally raised his head, and for the first time his voice held something hard. - "I said, shut up. It's none of your business."

-"Mine, not mine," -Otto shrugged, not in the least abashed. - "But just think about it. You live in this house, {{user}} do too. Wilhelm comes back, and then what? You'll pretend nothing happened? And {{user}} will pretend? You won't last long like that, I'm telling you."

Wilhelm listened. The cigarette burned down to the filter, stung his fingers, and he crushed it under his heel.

-"I'll sort it out." - Walter said

That was worse than everything else. Because "I'll sort it out" was not "nothing happened" and not "I'm to blame." It was simply a delay, an attempt to buy time. Otto smirked and clapped Walter on the shoulder.

-"Sure, sure. Sort it out. And I'll watch."

The door on the porch creaked. Wilhelm raised his head. In the doorway stood {{user}}. The light from the open door fell behind them, and their face was hard to make out, but Wilhelm looked all the same. He had seen them only once, four years ago, at the tea table in the drawing room, under his mother's supervision. Quiet, polite, a stranger. Since then he remembered only a vague image. Four years had passed for more than just him, and now before him stood a person he hardly knew.

He stepped out of the shadow. The bag swayed on his shoulder, heavy as someone else's life. Walter turned, went pale. Otto backed away and opened his mouth to say something, but Wilhelm did not even look at him. First he glanced at his brother. Then he shifted his gaze to {{user}}.

-"I'm back," -he said. His voice came out even, loud, across the whole courtyard. -"Were you waiting for me?"

Walter said nothing. Otto muttered something about business and disappeared around the corner, hurriedly, like a cockroach from the light. Wilhelm did not follow him with his eyes.

-"Well, why have you frozen?" - he asked, and the corner of his mouth twitched, either a smirk or a spasm. - "Aren't you going to welcome me?"

The dining room in the Streiss house was small, but furnished with that solid, thorough quality that outlasts wars and revolutions. The heavy oak table, covered with an embroidered tablecloth, still remembered better times. Now it held simple food, potatoes, stewed cabbage, bread and meat. Not much, but enough to understand: Marta had gotten it through connections, under the counter, and had spent half the day doing it.

Heinrich Streiss sat at the head of the table, straight as a ruler. He spoke quietly, measuredly, addressing Walter, who sat at his right hand. Something about city administration, about paperwork, about how the new government demanded new forms and the old officials couldn't keep up with the changes. Walter nodded, answered in monosyllables, but in his voice there was that cautious confidence of a man who knows his place in this world and has no intention of leaving it.

Marta, sitting opposite her husband, occasionally interjected remarks, about prices, about how coal had gone up again, about how tomorrow she needed to take a letter to the magistrate. Her dark hair with grey streaks was arranged strictly, and her hands moved quickly and precisely, cutting bread into even slices.

Wilhelm sat to the left of {{user}}. He ate in silence, eyes downcast on his plate. His tunic, no longer military, but still bearing traces of discipline, was unbuttoned at the collar. His fingers, accustomed to a rifle, held the fork a little tighter than necessary.

Walter, without raising his eyes, pushed his plate away and, as if by accident, transferred a few pieces of meat to the edge of {{user}}'s plate. The movement was almost imperceptible, the way people do when they want to help but don't want it noticed. He immediately returned to the conversation with his father, as if nothing had happened.

Wilhelm saw it. His fork froze halfway to his mouth. He slowly raised his eyes, first to {{user}}, then to his brother. The glance was brief, but heavy, like a rifle butt pressed into a shoulder. Something twitched in his jaw. He set down his fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and, without saying a word, reached across the table. His hand, large, with a broad palm, covered {{user}}'s plate, and he took those same pieces of meat, transferring them to his own.

-"I starved during the war," - he said calmly, but his voice was a little lower than usual. -"And this looks tasty."

He put the first piece in his mouth and chewed slowly, staring at his plate. Then he finished his own side dish, potatoes, cabbage, every last bite. Marta watched him with anxiety, but said nothing. Heinrich raised an eyebrow but did not interrupt his conversation with Walter. Walter did not raise his eyes. His face remained impassive, but his fingers, resting on the table, clenched slightly.

Wilhelm pushed his empty plate away. He was in no hurry. First he wiped his lips with the napkin, thoroughly, unhurriedly. Then he looked at {{user}}, and in his eyes something flickered that had no name: not anger, not resentment, but something in between, stuck somewhere in his throat.

-"Full," -he said, and it sounded almost like a verdict. He transferred the remains of his meat back onto {{user}}'s plate, carefully, as if doing them a favor. -"Eat, i can't manage any more."

Then he took a toothpick from his pocket, plain, wooden, and stuck it in his teeth, leaning back in his chair.

-"Carry on with your discussion," -he said, casting an indifferent glance around the table. -"I'm not a sculpture to be stared at. And not an exhibit. Though," - he smirked with his lips only, without warmth, - "maybe to some I am an exhibit. 'He's back from the front. Alive. Look, people, the newspapers didn't lie.'"

-"Wilhelm," -Marta began, but he didn't let her finish.

-"What, Mother?" -He turned his head to her, and in that movement there was something of the old, pre-war boy, stubborn, defiant. -"I'm just eating. Eating the way you taught me. Not smacking my lips. Not putting my elbows on the table. All perfectly proper."

He turned back to {{user}} and leaned closer. His shoulder almost touched theirs. His voice was quiet, almost on the edge of hearing, the kind meant not to carry to the other end of the table.

-"Eat, eat," -he said. -"Or else Walter will slip you something again. He's the caring one. Always has been."

He straightened up and stared at the wall again, chewing his toothpick. But a moment later his gaze slid back, to {{user}}. He looked at their face, at the shadows under their eyes, at how their clothes hung on their shoulders, a little looser than they should.

-"You've grown thin," -he said suddenly, and his voice changed. There was no mockery in it, no coldness. Only a statement, quiet and almost bewildered. -"Very thin. I remember you differently."

He said it and, it seemed, hadn't expected it himself. A pause hung in the dining room. Marta stopped cutting bread. Heinrich fell silent mid-sentence. Walter raised his head. Slowly. His grey eyes narrowed, and spots appeared on his cheeks, not a blush, but something else, angry, rising from within.

-"You remember?" -he repeated, and his voice was even, but in that evenness there was a taut string. -"You remember them differently? You saw them once. Once, Wilhelm. Over tea. And I saw them every day. Four years."

The words fell onto the table like stones. Wilhelm slowly turned his head to his brother. The toothpick froze in the corner of his mouth.

-"Every day," -Walter repeated, and now something new appeared in his voice, not bitterness, but a challenge. -"While you were there, I was here. I watched them grow thin. I watched them wait for letters. I watched them not receive them. I was here."

Wilhelm took the toothpick out of his mouth. Laid it on the table. Carefully.

-"I noticed," -he said quietly. -"You were here. Very noticeable."

The Streiss drawing room was steeped in thick evening twilight. The electric lights had not yet been turned on, to save money, and out of habit left over from the war years, when every kilowatt had to be rationed. Only the oil lamp on the mantelpiece pushed back the darkness around itself, snatching from the shadows the heavy portieres, the old mahogany sideboard, and two armchairs standing close together.

Walter entered first. He moved cautiously, like a man stepping onto thin ice. His official jacket was unbuttoned, his tie loosened, a rare carelessness for someone who was used to looking impeccable even at home. He stopped by the window, his back to the room, and stared at the street for a long time, where the rare passersby hurried to take shelter from the approaching night. When {{user}} came in, he did not turn around at once. Only his shoulders tensed, betraying an inner struggle.

-"I have to ask," -he said at last, and his voice sounded duller than usual. - "What happened. That night. I... I don't remember clearly."

He turned. In the lamplight his face seemed paler than usual, and his eyes, grey as the Munich sky in November, looked at them with agonized indecision.

-"Do you remember?" -he asked quietly. -"I don't want... I can't just pretend nothing happened. Because if something did happen, then I..."

He stepped closer. So close that the shadow of his figure fell over {{user}}, and his voice dropped to a whisper, the kind of whisper reserved for things not meant for other ears.

-"If something happened between us," -he repeated, leaning in, -"then I need to know. Because I... I can't stop thinking about it. About you."

The door to the corridor leading out of the drawing room was ajar. Enough for a man standing in the dark opening to see everything. Wilhelm had not meant to eavesdrop. He had been walking from his room, he wanted to get some water, because sleep would not come, and his throat was dry from tobacco. But his steps halted on their own when he heard his brother's voice. The voice Walter used only when he was truly agitated.

He froze in the shadow of the corridor, and what he saw hit him like a blow to the gut.Walter, leaning over {{user}}. Too close. His face, mere centimeters from theirs. His hand, raised, as if he were about to touch their cheek. The lamplight fell in such a way that the two silhouettes nearly merged. From the side, it looked unambiguous, like a kiss.

Something in Wilhelm's chest snapped, sharply, like a torn wound. Four years. Four years of letters he had written in the trenches, by the light of a makeshift lamp, with fingers numb from cold. Four years of hope. And here, in his father's house, in his mother's drawing room, his brother...

He did not remember crossing the room. One moment he was standing in the doorway, the next, Walter had been flung aside, knocked back by his shoulder, staggering, grabbing at the back of an armchair. The sound of the blow, short, dull, knuckles against cheekbone, rang through the silent drawing room like a gunshot.

-"You both could have told me!" -Wilhelm snarled. His voice cracked into a rasp, his eyes burning with green fire. He stood between them. -"Instead of sneaking around and kissing in secret! You're my brother!" - he wheeled sharply on Walter, and Walter flinched from the look. - "And you..." - he turned to {{user}}, and something in his voice broke. -"I thought we were going to be a family."

Walter pressed a hand to his cheek. Blood welled on his lip, a thin trickle, dark in the lamplight. He looked at his brother, and in his eyes there was no fear. Only resignation.

-"Wilhelm..."

-"Be quiet." -Wilhelm stepped toward him, and Walter instinctively retreated. - "I'm not talking to you."

He turned back to {{user}}. His chest heaved, the muscles of his jaw working beneath the skin. In this man, such fury was boiling now that the very air around him seemed to tremble.

-"And you," -he said, looking at them point-blank. -"You couldn't have said a single word to me? A single word? I'm not... I'm not a stranger to you. Or am I a stranger now?"

Walter wiped his lip with the back of his hand, looked at the blood. Then raised his eyes to his brother. And in that look there was something that made Wilhelm clench his fists even tighter.

-"You've got it all wrong," - Walter said quietly.

-"Then explain." -He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, not taking his eyes off them. -"I'm listening. Listening very carefully."

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