20 years after the events of Spring Awakening, Ernst is a pastor in the town they grew up in- despite living alone, he is content with his life. Hanschen is working in Munich as a historian, with his wife and children. For years, Ernst has sent letters to him, hearing nothing in return. Until one day, Hanschen decides to reply, and meet again for the first time in years.
This work contains: Physical Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Domestic Violence, Referenced Suicide, Implied Melchior Gabor
I have written so many letters and have heard nothing back. I don’t mind, however, just knowing you are receiving my letters is more than enough to see me through the days and nights still to come. Of course, there is the ever-worrying concern that my letters are not even reaching you, but I like to think this is not the case, and you are yet to send a reply. Or perhaps you have sent replies, and those are not reaching me. Either way, writing to you brings a smile to my face, and in the end that is all that matters.
Onto more important matters. I have recently been housing a small kitten, who somehow keeps on finding his way into my kitchen. I think he must get in through the window, as I leave it open in the mornings when it is not too cold. It is winter now, and bitterly cold, so I am letting him stay inside the house, as I now leave the window firmly closed to keep in the heat. He, and I think they are a he, is rather small and adores cuddles, and he doesn’t seem to have an owner, so I have made it my duty to leave milk and food out for him each day. I am yet to give my new friend a name. Perhaps you might think of one for me?
I shall leave this with you to ponder over. Unfortunately, my letter cannot be as long as all the others have been so far, as I have a very busy week ahead, and will surely forget to send the letter if I do not sit down, write it and send it off in one day. I do hope to hear from you soon.
Yours, forever and always,
Ernst Robel
**
The house was lovely. Quaint, but large enough to house the entire family that resided within comfortably. The garden was big enough for the three children to run around and play, with room still for Hanschen and his wife could oversee. The small yet extensive library turned study was a secret haven for the restless mind. Books on everything you could imagine, and even things of which the imagination could never conceive on its own. Folklore, fantasy, history, and science, all living in a sanctuary for those who wanted to escape for hours at a time into the world of books.
Hanschen Rilow was one of those people. Someone who needed a means of escape. To retreat to a place of quiet, somewhere he could sit in solitude and harbour himself away from the harsh gaze of reality. Although his reality was far from harsh, the cold grew ever colder with each passing moment, and the comfort of books filled him with the warmth and solace he desired. Here he could sit and think, among his rows of books and collections that he confides in.
He didn’t have an unpleasant life. He had a wife, and three gorgeous children, who all loved him more than the earth itself. The eldest, Lammermeier, was tall, golden-haired, and athletic. Top of the class, and captain of almost every sports team at his school. Week after week Hanschen met a different yet pleasant enough girl who had come home with Lammermeier from school, and he didn’t see them again until their mother came home later that evening. He was aware of what Lammermeier was doing with these girls, but he didn’t pester him about it. Hanschen trusted he had taught his son well, as he had been taught, and how his second son and daughter would also be taught when they reach the age where they would be able to comprehend more mature thoughts and ideas. His daughter, Johanna, the middle child, was more delicate and soft-spoken than her older brother, but just as golden and wonderful. She was an avid reader, violinist of a talent way beyond her years, and a great lover of books. She would spend hours silently sitting in her father’s company, both reading. To most the silence would seem uncomfortable, but they enjoyed the others company more than anyone else’s, and could spend hours on end in their haven of silence, tea, and books. His youngest son, Robert, was only two years old, and had no discernible personality as of yet. Despite this, he was an angel in human form, never crying or screaming. Robert would and could eat almost anything, including cake, puzzle pieces, and his mother’s dresses.
Hanschen looked up from the last of the letters he had received that day, taking a in deep, quivering breath, and letting an even shakier one out. Despite the request, naming a cat was certainly not what Hanschen’s mind wanted to ponder over. He wanted to write back- truly, he did- but sending so many letters a week would only arouse suspicion in his wife.
“Hanschen?”
The call of Sofia pulled him back to reality, and he sat up straight in his chair, running a hand through his hair with a sigh.
“Dear? Are you joining us for dinner?” Sofia, his wife, appeared at the door. She was pretty and fair skinned, with dark hair perfectly framing her slim face and contrasting her rosy complexion.
“Yes. I was just filing these letters, and then I’ll be right with you.” He rose from his chair, stashing the letter away in an open drawer.
**
“Who was that from, dear?” Sofia asked as they walked down the hallway together toward the dining room.
“Only Herr Seidel. He was enquiring about the Parisian letters I currently have in my possession. He wants to auction them off.”
“And I do hope you are taking him up on that offer. Those documents are worth an awful lot of money, Hanschen.”
Hanschen sighed as he sat down at the dinner table to join Sofia, Lammermeier and Johanna, where a large roast turkey was laid out, freshly prepared, and piping hot. “I’m not sure.”
“Hans! You must!”
“What’s this, father?” Lammermeier questioned, already indulging in his dinner before anyone else had even finished serving themselves.
“The Parisian letters. Do you remember those, Lammermeier?”
“The letters from the prostitute who people believe were written to Jean-Édouard Vuillard?”
“Lammermeier! Don’t discuss such vulgar things at the dinner table,” Sofia snapped, slapping her son’s hand lightly has he went to eat a mouthful of roast turkey.
“The very same.” Hanschen nodded, ignoring his wife’s request to cease conversation. “Herr Seidel, your friend’s father, wishes to auction them off in Paris later this year.”
“Later this year? But you won’t have finished working on them, father!” Johanna protested, looking to her father with a frown of concern.
“Yes, Johanna, but your father agrees that the best thing to do is to auction them off to someone who can better study the letters.” Sofia smiled at her two children, who did not look at all pleased with this decision. Hanschen stayed silent. He did what his wife wanted, whether he spoke out against it or not, so he had decided long ago that it was better to not protest than to speak out against her and cause another argument.
Once, a long time ago, he might have spoken out against his wife on matters such as these. But now he didn’t. He couldn’t. If he spoke out against her, he would face the wrath of a woman who was different from any other he had met in his life. This woman wasn’t kind, like his mother, or wise, like his childhood Governess. She was unpredictable, and stuck in her own ways, something Hanschen was not used to until the minute he stepped foot into their new home. Of course, initially, he stood up against her, having his own views and ways just as strong and set in stone as hers, but as the years went on, he found it harder to fight her, intellectually and physically. Intellectually, it was like they were on two different wavelengths, and could never see eye to eye. As for physically, well, Hanschen had decided it was never worth fighting back.
He had often thought about how his life would have been had he chosen a different wife. He had seen many women over the years, none of which particularly pleased him but ,thinking back on it, were easily more agreeable than the woman he had ended up with. He had often thought about how his life would have been had he stayed alone, living in a small apartment in the heart of somewhere more progressive, where men could live alone and not be suspected of anything malicious. He supposed that was subjective to who the man was, what his profession was, what he looked like. He also supposed that someone like him would absolutely arouse suspicion had he never gotten married and lived the way he wanted.
“Excuse me a moment.” Hanschen pardoned himself, standing up and abruptly leaving the room, his plate of food untouched. He needed space to think, as he often did.
He very often thought, and very much hated it when he did. When he was left alone to his thoughts, they often turned to one of two things- the hopes he had had as a child with ambitions and goals that he once thought attainable, or the beautiful, dark haired boy who wrote him letters every week. Sometimes both thoughts intertwined, visiting him in the night and latching onto him like a warm hug or a knife to the chest. Very rarely did these thoughts visit him during the day. Only in the quiet moments sitting in his study where he settled down to write a letter in reply to the many, many letters he had received did he reminisce on how his heart leaped into his throat as he read ‘Dearest Hanschen’ in that familiar hand, and how his heart continued to choke him until he was gasping for air the further he got down the page. He was practically drowning, only saved by the sweet release of ‘Yours, forever and always’.
He reached his study and shut the door behind him, resting against it for a moment. He took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly, tilting his head back and resting it against the door, a tear rolling down his cheek. He had to stop the intrusive thoughts before they persuaded him to do something he would later regret. At night, in bed, he couldn’t act on his impulses for fear of waking Sofia, but here and now, in the light of day, he was at risk of acting upon them. Thinking on how hard he had worked to get to the point he was at, the position he had, he couldn’t let that all be for nothing. And yet he found himself moving to his desk, pulling out some paper and dropping into his armchair. He shooed away the part of his brain screaming at him to stop and think, the rational voice which sounded exactly like his wife telling him exactly what she wants him to do which is to stop, and think, and take her side. To agree with her. To do what she wants.
But he does what he wants, for the first time in so long, and puts pen to paper.
Hoy no labure por que ando moquienta asi que me quede en casa a no hacer nada mas que ver "call the midwife" y ahora le estoy haciendo guiso de lentejas a mi novia.
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