Nikolai slowly smoked the cigarette. He was content; the cigarettes from home were so much better than the cigarettes soldiers traded each other for money or shifts. They were Russian cigarettes Belomorcanal, packed into german cigarette packs so he wouldn't be outted as a soviet. His darling Darya was smart. Aside the vodka, cigarettes and tea there was also a note. It was his favourite among the gifts. It was a love letter, a very detailed one, with a description of what he was doing to her, if there was something Darya and Vitia had remained it was romantic. On the back of the note she'd written that they were headed off to Konstanz, and if he wanted to write he should please send the letter to this adress. Nikolai - or rather - Vitia, was relieved. He felt as if the burden of the world was lifted from his shoulders. His family would be much safer now.
His mind drifted from his family to Killian. Was he doing well? He was probably on his way home by now. Maybe he'd see him enter camp from the watch post he was on. Vitia leaned against the railing of the tower. Life could be good, even in Auschwitz. "I'm a tad too optimistic to be Russian." He said out loud with a laugh. It was true, but he was also too optimistic to be German.
He'd often considered telling Killian that his name was Vitia - Viktor - and not Kolya. But at the same time it was far too dangerous. His friend wouldn't call him a soviet by accident but he might call him the wrong name; and the wrong name would mean a false identitiy. But then again, being called Nikolai didn't feel right, not always. Altough he adored the name Kolya, it had such a soft touch. He smiled to himself. But Vitia...Vitia was a nicer name. More powerfull but also more sweet.
He lit another cigarette. Vitia smoked partially out of habit and partially out of fear. He was afraid of dying, but not of death. In death it would all be over, it wouldn't matter anymore. Vitia didn't believe in God even though his wife did with all her heart. He believed it was over after death. But he was afraid of the pain of a body succumbing to time and age. So he smoked. Because smoking would bring him closer to dying, but it would be in his hands, he'd have control over his body.
The sun distracted Vitia from his thoughts. It was beautiful. Poets are mainly aroused and amazed by nature. Vitia was a poet, not a very good one, but still, a poet. He allowed himself to stare into the sun, just for a few seconds, then looked away, causing his eyes to scream in pain. But the golden sunlight had made the suffering worth it. Many poeple don't allow themselves to look into the sun, they may never feel the pain but they will also never see the beauty. "Of course, only a starry sky is more beautiful than the sun." But why was that actually? Was it because the dark sky made it possible to watch the stars without the risk of blindness, was the distance of the light that made it cherishable? "I love you Darya..." He whispered. He plucked the note out of his breast pocket and reread it. His mouth formed itself into a smile as he imagined what she'd written.
He grabbed a tissue, and a pen (Vitia always carried a pen with him for precisely reasons like this or - more often, to sign papers) he began to jott a response. "My dear Dashka, I miss you too! Kiss the children for me, five times, ten times! And hug the dog, please, does she miss me too? Does she still whimper at night?" He muttered along as he wrote the words. "No bother...how are you? You made me a happy man today, thank you for leaving Essen! I kiss you I kiss you I kiss you!" He really wrote no comma between the kisses; very typical for his style of writing. "And Dasha, don't write me those things...I'll desert my post in Auschwitz and chase you down..I'm hungry Dasha, I haven't had it in so long...I cannot wait for my vacation in January...oh Dashka!" The rest of the letter he wrote with rosy cheeks and a smile on his beautiful lips. He looked like a school-boy, giddy in his first love.
Werner was on the train, thinking about Marie, about how much he would have wanted to stay. About how badly he wanted to kiss her again. The quick kiss goodbye hadn't satisfied him.
Marie stared at the empty train tracks. Why couldn't time turn backwards, why couldn't Killian come back, why couldn't the fucking war be over?