17 2012

DER ANGRIFF

They were all looking for her. Using the dim light that shone through the tiny, circular window, she rubbed at the blotched ink that painfully marked her pale skin. She pressed her face against the glass, allowing the cold air to soothe her heavy eyelids. Across the road, cracks appeared where dry paint had flaked off a decaying wall and the last attachment holding up a discoloured poster had severed, obscuring the Fuhrer’s cold stare. Klaus gazed out of his window at the debris left behind by last night’s parade. The vibrant crimson of the banners painted the silent, deserted street and everywhere, plastered upon buildings and windows, was the rigid, black emblem with its arms bent at right angles. In the two decades he had occupied this apartment block in such a highly populated area of Berlin, he had never known it to be as unanimated as it had been in recent years. However, this brief feeling of unease was short-lived as he turned the page of his daily copy of Der Angriff . He sat for a while, absorbing the image of his wife. Her face was turned towards the window so that the early morning sun illuminated her pale complexion. Reflected light from her golden curls fluttered across the dark wall in unison with the careless birds that played outside. Klaus returned to his newspaper. Draining the remnants of his coffee,Klaus left his apartment with promotional posters in hand. Passing his reclusive neighbour on the way out of the building, he strained to catch a glimpse of the old man’s face. His hat covered all the intricate details, except for his restless eye, trembling constantly from side to side. Klaus could just make out a reddish hue, which seemed to merge with a glistening pale blue - but all Klaus could focus upon under the drooping eyelid was the impenetrable darkness of the centre.

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