The Last Fräulein

Trigger warning: Contains references to historical violence, racism, and gun violence.

Note: This story uses historical language and figures to confront inherited ideology; the position is critical and condemnatory.

You think it’s fake news?

Mathilda chewed her nails.

Sure it is. All AI, Mat. Deep fake.

Ade laughed; the tiny wrinkles around his eyes deepened. She loved them. They walked close through the wet city of Berlin. The rain had just stopped, and they used the break to walk home from the party. Cabs were expensive, but legs were cheap.

It smelled of wet concrete; the streets slept, surprisingly still at 3 a.m. Ade pulled her close and kissed her.

Can’t believe we met only a year ago. Feels like I’ve known you my whole life.

She smiled. The streetlights brightened her eyes. Mathilda freed herself from his arms and opened the door.

I bought sweet potatoes.

Oh, no, not that again! I don’t like them!

But at home you always eat them, right?

They climbed the old stairs. Mathilda looked back at him. Moonlight brightened her face. Ade would make the sweet potatoes, she was sure. She didn’t even like them, but she loved that he made them for her.

The old lock resisted, but the key worked this time. Ade exhaled; his voice thinned. She knew what it meant. Mathilda loved being the cause.

I am going to the bathroom. Real quick.

Sure...

She peeled off her jeans. Relief. Then the cold arrived, covering her like a blanket. Her breath fogged; had the heating failed?

Ade screamed.

Mathilda listened. Spider? She stopped peeing and got her jeans back on. Washed her hands, even in emergencies. She felt stupid.

Ade stood pale in the living room. On the other side of the room stood a soldier holding a gun: black rider’s boots, skulls on his uniform. Ade trembled, his hands raised. Mathilda could see his breath.

Rat.

The soldier pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Ade in the chest, and he fell like a stone.

No blood, but the room froze. Mathilda’s nostrils burned in the dry cold, even her breath refused to show. She heard herself scream. Legs didn’t move. Ade’s face, his eyes open. Emotionless. Staring at the ceiling. She forced herself forward, touched him. His cold hands. His blue lips. Was he dead? He was alive and warm just a few minutes ago. His eyes shifted, but they didn’t see.

What did you do?

Shh, shh, not a problem. Did he ask for your money? Did he follow you?

What are you talking about? What are you saying? Who are you?

Mathilda’s eyes blurred behind a curtain of tears. Her stomach trembled, and her head throbbed.

Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?

I’m sorry. Jürgen Schmidt. SS-Sturmbannführer, zu Diensten.

His voice stayed firm as he saluted. She could smell his breath. Schnaps. Cold like a blizzard. Mathilda tried to meet his eyes, but her vision blurred when she looked at him.

We need to leave now. I think your father informed you.

Informed me about what?

You know the plan. Did he not tell you?

He’s been dead for ten fucking years. You asshole! You’ve got the wrong person!

Don’t make a fuss, pack your things. Allies will be here soon.

Allies?

Mathilda swallowed a thick lump in her throat. She got up. Ade lay unmoving. Staring. Dead or not, she didn’t know.

Are you kidding me? Are you one of them?

One of whom, Fräulein?

Schmidt blurred at the edges. Mathilda could see her closet through him. He was only half here, a distant call in the mountains. A living echo of a cruel murderer. She’d heard how the SS killed Jews by the thousands. Pictures of people on a train, brought to Auschwitz. She remembered the dark, industrial look of the barracks that filled so many mass graves with countless unnamed bodies. A killing machine that erased people like her family, like Ade. Like her.

Her eyes tightened. Not this time.
Weapon. She needed a weapon. One that could stop a half-life SS soldier.

What are you? A ghost?

Ghost? What are you talking about? I have to take you with me, Agnes.

I am not Agnes.

What?

I’m Mathilda. You got the wrong person, asshole. Bring my boyfriend back to life and piss off.

Don’t you yell, Fräulein.

Don’t call me that! I am not your Fräulein! I am a Frau, or whatever, but I am not your freaking Fräulein!

Schmidt sighed, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked around the room. The sound of his boots echoed as if he marched in the mountains, not on a carpet.

No need to be insulting over a...

He froze, staring at her watch.

Herr im Himmel, what is this? The numbers just moved!

It’s my watch, you idiot!

Mathilda grabbed the empty wine bottle from the table and threw it at him. It went through, but Schmidt flinched as if in pain. He grimaced, gasped; his mouth twisted. His teeth were yellow from smoking. For a second, Mathilda saw him standing on a watchtower, laughing, a cigarette in his hand. The room was filled with cold smoke.

Stop throwing things at me, or I’ll tell your father that the Untermensch shot you!

Schmidt pointed at Ade.

Mathilda froze. Ade lay unmoving, eyes locked on the ceiling. Was he even inside his body? Her muscles relaxed. She felt whole again, back in control. She could hurt Schmidt and bring Ade back.

Tell you one more time, Schmidt. My name is Mathilda. My father is Jacob. He died ten years ago.

Schmidt’s wrinkles deepened, his mouth tightened, hiding his yellow teeth.

Bring my boyfriend back. His name is Ade. Then leave this place. The Allies are already here. They’ll find you.

What? What? They are here?

Schmidt’s face went pale. He tugged at his collar.

We must go then. Now.

Forget it, Schmidt. They are all dead.

What do you mean?

The Führer! He is dead! His wife is dead! Goebbels is dead! They are all dead, and they killed themselves!

Mathilda took a breath.

They killed their own kids!

No, no, Mathilda, they wait for us in Brazil! It’s a safe harbor, and we’ll build our Reich from there!

I am not interested in your Reich. Why do you want me to go at all? Leave for Brazil if you wish, but first bring him back to life.

Schmidt circled the table, eyes on the floor.

There is something else you need to know.

Mathilda’s throat was closed again, and no matter how she swallowed, it didn’t open.

Forget it. No way. Forget it. I am Mathilda.

Then she knew. Remembered the photo on her mother’s kitchen wall. A woman she had never met. Dark hair, beautiful face.

Mathilda was my aunt! She died forty years ago!

Schmidt stared at her.

Schmidt, you died eighty years ago. Can you just go back to your grave?

But I’m here to rescue you. Get you to Brazil before the Jews take over the world.

Goddammit Schmidt!

He stared at her, mouth open.

I am a Jew. I go to the Synagogue. I love a black guy. And I fuck him, even when we are not married. Don’t you get it? You are done! Your Reich has failed!

Schmidt stood there. The clock, the TV, the photographs. None of it his time. Slowly, he walked to the window. The cars, trams, and noise. Lights in the city. Not the darkened ruins under bombardment. He seemed to shrink, as if the moon would eat his substance.

I see.

Yes. You lost the war. Fascism lost. You are fucking history.

I see.

Schmidt stood motionless.

I don’t like you Jews.

Do you even know why?

Mathilda wanted a cigarette, though she’d quit years ago. In the distance, sirens. No air raid. Traffic. The rain started again.

Jews carry diseases. And they rule the world. They are weak.

Schmidt spoke quietly. He turned to her. Looked straight into her eyes. Eyes that blurred for her.

Do I look weak? Do you think I have a disease? I am the one who is alive! You lost the war. And science proved you wrong.

Science? I see. Well then, I take it you are not going to Brazil.

Not with you. I’d go with Ade to the party on the beach. Not with a fucking Nazi commander to his bunker.

I see. Well, then, there is only one thing left to do, as it is my duty.

He reached for his gun and put it under his chin.

Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein...

Wait! Wait! What about him?

He stopped.

I don’t care about him.

Silence.

This life is not what I wanted. Jews in my house, people like him sleeping... with you.

What? Who am I to you? You don’t know me!

You have to stand by your values. Goodbye, Fräulein.

The soldier closed his eyes, inhaled.
The shot almost burst her eardrums. Gunpowder burned in her nose.

She saw Schmidt’s head explode, covered her face, but there was no blood. Schmidt flickered like a broken VHS tape, then everything that had been him vanished before it hit the floor. The cold slowly crawled out of the room, and the smell of cigarettes went with him. He was gone, shattered like the gunsmoke.

She started screaming. Crying. Screamed until all the breath left her lungs.

Mathilda? whispered Ade.

She turned back. Ade was alive. He tried a smile.

You OK? You had a nightmare?

Ade looked around, his eyes tired and old.

Did I sleep here?

How do you feel?

It’s cold. Did you leave the window open? What am I doing on the floor?

Mathilda cried again.

Come here, little girl. I’ll protect you.

Ade reached out for her.

Mathilda’s neck went stiff. Her stomach rebelled. She wanted to hit him, but she yelled.

You know... If anything, I’ll protect you. Little girl? Stick it up your ass, Ade. I am nobody’s Fräulein.

Ade’s jaw dropped.

Her eyes narrowed; she stared at him. He breathed again, confused and weak. She wanted to hurt him.

You’d better leave, she said.

What?

You’d better leave. Now.

What’s going on, honey? I don’t understand.

She stood up, her back straight, head up. The moon shone, but Ade couldn’t see her eyes.

Because I no longer serve a master.

Silence.

The air smelled of cigarettes and stale beer. Mathilda had a bad taste in her mouth, as if the words themselves were poison.
Then she threw up.

Leave an offering †
This story is part of the “Unquiet World” created by Jenifer Jorgenson.
Cover Image Credit: Original photos by JJ Jordan. Manipulated by Ashmore under the Unsplash License.