Sternenklar

Rathen, Saxony, Weimar Republic
Summer 1919

Around Alma there wasn’t much anything. No noise, no silence, just nothingness. The numbness creeped up in her until it all encumbered her. She remembered sound, she certainly remembered silence but this? She didn’t remember it. The eerie nothingness felt strange, like a new dress in a new cut, like the living room in someone else’s house. Alma enjoyed it; she really did.

Earlier, when the sun had just set on this hot midsummer night, there was no nothingness, and the air was full of all. Screams, laughter, music, mostly flutes and children singing, an old man with a violin. There were birds calling each other to bed, mothers putting their children to bed, men having a last smoke together before being called in. Rathen’s annual summer fest had come to an end, the main square still smelled of beer and bread, of well-cooked meat and perfume worn by the town’s well of folks. Down by the river there was still a few young people enjoying the summer evening, chatting, sharing secrets, having a forbidden wine. Young women laughing about lackluster jokes told by men they thought were less bad than most, curls of hair around fingers before kisses were shared, eyes met and certainties of when the world went back to normal; acceptable weren’t questioned. It had been a good evening.

Alma had danced, sung, presented her rosy cheeks to the man her mother thought she should marry. She had hidden herself when she wasn’t being shown around and presented the goods when it was warranted. She had a few glasses of sweet wine that gave her cheeks even more of the so desired rosy flush. The man, Emil, was 21 years, blond hair like hers, his eyes a dark brown. He had a nice smile, so Alma thought. He wasn’t from the town, his parents owned a farm a few towns over. A big one, with cattle and pigs. A good family to marry into. Alma hadn’t listened much to Emil’s mother talking to her. About cattle, fields, dowry. Her mind had trailed of to the sound of the nearby river, the children singing, the river again. The moon was slowly creeping up the sky while the sun was still giving them warm, orange light. She had monitored it’s rise. Very careful but persistent. Emil had asked her if she wanted to dance. Just one dance, he won’t be indecent, he had added with a boyish smile and a quick glance over the bride-to-be’s parents. Alma didn’t think that her parents would particularly mind – Jesus had watched worse, she thought, her hands trailing over the lose cotton covering her arms. She and Emil danced to a song she didn’t remember. He had strong hands, farmers hands, that held her gently while resting on her hips, just above being indecent. She didn’t talk much and mostly listened. Something about the rooms in the home. His mother liked embroidery, Alma didn’t.

When he was done twirling Alma around on the town square, Emil gave her back to her parents. Alma had said good night, he had answered in the same manner, all went well. She even agreed when her mother exclaimed that Emil was a nice young lad. A proper husband. He was.

When dusk had settled, the sky went from deep orange, pink and light clouds to a deep blue, sprinkled with the stars shining like candles on the Christmas tree. Alma was sitting on the bench in front of her parents’ house. If the sky looked the same at Emil’s, she had wondered. Maybe it looked entirely different. Maybe it didn’t and the stars and the moon would come with her. They all seemed to listen to the same sounds Alma did – the nightingale in the trees by the river, the river singing a lilting lullaby. Alma loved listening. She closed her eyes for a moment. Emil had said it was interesting, the way they looked, one blue and one a peculiar shade of yellow. Like amber, her mother had suggested, which Emil had promptly ignored. He told Alma about the stories his grandmother, a superstitious woman by his own words, who thought that only gypsies possessed such eyes. That looking into them for a moment too long could grant luck if you didn’t lose your soul. If she would grant him luck, he had asked, which answered with a smile, earning a scold from her mother once Emil was gone.

Now that music laughter and festivity had died down, Alma knew too well that she was expected to return home and help with the house, with putting her siblings to bed and tending her father an evening beer. Instead, she got up, ignoring the looming front door of the house in her back and made quick steps down to the river, where she had heard natures own lullaby earlier. The other teenagers were gone or had instead fled to elsewhere as not to be disturbed. Alma didn’t mind, she was glad even – neither she nor they would disturb each other with their very presence. Sitting down in the grass by the river, the floor still warm from hours of summer sun, Alma let herself loose a little. The tension in her shoulders that had been there, holding her up and straight, vanished. Just her, the rivers quit mumbling and the stars.

Alma didn’t notice the figure beneath the trees, how they approached or when they appeared. She didn’t notice the steps that made no noise. There was little to notice, anyways. The steps made no noise, their chest didn’t rise from a breath. Maybe they didn’t need such mundane things. Maybe they weren’t really there.

Only when they pressed their hand on Alma’s shoulder, lightly, Alma turned around, feeling the tension between her shoulders tense up again. Look presentable, be nice. She felt the blood rise to her cheeks again. No word came from her, none from them. Their eyes crossed. One blue, one yellow, looking into a pair that was so dark in tone, Alma couldn’t make out the colour. “Everyone else is in bed already”, she told the person, instead of a proper greeting. “I know.” Their voice was strange. Raspy, yet familiar sounding, like the smoke of a well stuffed pipe that lingered around her. “Why come so late, then?”, Alma asked. She wasn’t curious about it; it was just that she needed to say something. She turned back to look up into the stars.

“I didn’t want to disturb the festivities.” Me neither, Alma thought. But she still had to attend – that seemed unfair to her. She chose not to answer again. Whatever it was the stranger wanted, they could ask themselves.

There wasn’t much to ask left. Alma felt a cold sting that quickly turned into a pleasant feeling. Her hands dug into the grass next to her, ripping out a few blades. It felt good the same way too much wine felt good, their voice had felt good or the way the stars looked down on her felt good. Alma looked up again. Everything seemed fine up there, so clear, and true. She felt like she could dance with the stars instead of Emil. She looked up and up and then didn’t look at all. There was something on her lips that felt like kissing a star might feel. Alma didn’t close her eyes but still didn’t see anything. She fell asleep, maybe. Maybe she danced with the stars.

When she opened her eyes again, she was alone and felt cold. It was after midnight, even the river had gone to sleep. Instead of the silence a night deserved, she heard calls in the distance. Her name. But she didn’t want to disturb.

She didn’t disturb, not for long. It was the first night in ages where she didn’t feel like she was intruding. She went home and it again felt like dancing with the stars. Alma told her parents, her father with great care, good night, and her siblings. Even the neighbours.

Around Alma there wasn’t much anything. No noise, no silence, just nothingness. The numbness creeped up in her until it all encumbered her. She remembered sound, she certainly remembered silence but this? She didn’t remember it. The eerie nothingness felt strange, like a new dress in a new cut, like the living room in someone else’s house. Alma enjoyed it; she really did.

Alma went to bed when the sun rose.