She was writing about her life, what had happened, and how she had felt during those two years. She was scared and alone, but she had hardened up to the world and so she sat there, with her tea and pastry beside her, knowing her writing was what would save her.
She was in a snug cafe, tucked away in a small corner of an out-of-the-way street. There were white lace curtains in the windows and cardinal rose buds all round. Inside, paintings of lands that existed only in the quarry of imagination hung on the walls; their frames accenting the ivory chairs and tables. And there was a pianist, whose sorrow dripped over the sides of the instrument.
The bell rang as the cafe door opened and closed, the girl looked up from her paper to see a man with cold eyes; she looked down.
“Pardon me.” The girl looked up. It was the man. He was holding his coat in one hand and a cup in the other. He was drinking a coffee so strong that she could smell it. It was the type the Germans drank after they were done pushing her around. “May I sit down?”
She nodded and went back to work. There was a flashing in the corner of her eye, and she couldn’t ignore it. There was something desperate about it, as if it had died, but was still clinging onto a strand of life. Quickly, quietly, she forgot about the man, the piano, her pen and paper and she stared at the man’s coat, which lay carefully draped upon the chair.
“Writing is such solitary labour,” said the man. The girl’s eyes snapped to his face, her pen had dropped from her hands. “One could ask for company, but then you feel more alone. But the best pieces I’ve written were in crowded parks and libraries. I’ve always wanted to know why they ended up so well.”
“Do you write much?” asked the girl, as she drank the rest of her cold tea, the man had finished his coffee already.
“No,” he said. “I finished my first story half an hour ago, then I tore it up.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I don’t know why,” the man sighed as he put his hand on his forehead. “It seems as if…no, I don’t know why.”
An eloquent silence followed. The girl and the man looked at each other, neither caring to talk.
“It scared you,” said the girl.
The man started. “What?”
“The story you tore up, it scared you.”
He opened his mouth, shook his head and sighed. “Yes…yes…it must’ve frightened me,” he said hoarsely. Then with sudden force he cried. “No! I shouldn’t be frightened after the things that I did. My fear died a long time ago. Besides, the doctor said writing would help me face what I had done during the war. But how many words will it take to change the past? I wish it never happened, I wish I had been killed like the rest of the-”
He suddenly stopped. His eyes, which had turned misty during this dialogue slowly hardened once again. In sudden and jerky movements, he went to reach for his cup and saucer. He stood up, uttered a small cry, clutched his chest, dropped the cup and fell back into his chair. His coughs took over his body.
The girl shuddered as the glass broke, but in her heart, she was growing a certain sympathy for this strange man.
“You must forgive me,” the cold voice said.
She smiled faintly, “Of course.”
Squinting, she opened her notebook and pushed it towards the man. “I want you to read this.”
As the waiter cleaned up the broken glass, the man read and the girl stared once again at the chair. That flashing again. Her whole world had turned into that small gleam. There was nothing more important to her than that blinding glint. What did she care for life, death, broken cups and white lace curtains? Right there, tucked away on an out-of-the-way street, there was a pin on a man’s coat. A pin that was burning into a young girl’s eyes; while a stranger read her innermost thoughts and reflections.
She blushed after he finished reading her notebook. “I guess it was silly of me to think that you would be interested in such foolish thoughts, I don’t-”
She had stopped because he wasn’t listening. His eyes, once cold, were now warm and sympathetic. “So. You were one of them.”
Slowly, she nodded.
The man looked across the room and sniffed. “Did w…did they treat you badly?”
“There were worse off than myself, I have no right to complain.” Her hand wandered to the blue number tattooed on her wrist.
The man laughed dryly. It was the first time he had smiled or laughed during his remarks with the girl, but it was not natural. It didn’t lighten up the atmosphere, it didn’t change the pianist’s sentiments towards his lost lover, and it didn’t change the girl’s sensitivity towards the pin. It was a sound. Nothing more, nothing less. “So you saw the others as well.”
She nodded. He stood up and reached for his coat. He paid for his drink and put the coat on. And for the first time, the girl got a glimpse of the pin. Her head began to spin. Her world turned upside down. And then she knew: all that had happened to her in those two years was because of that flashing.
“I’m sorry.” He said.
The bell rang as the cafe door opened and closed. With the smell of the German’s coffee still in her nose, the girl blinked rapidly to clear away the blank spots the swastika pin had left on her vision.
