Fragments of the Anonymous

The smock rustled as she put it on, its crusty exterior in stark contrast with the shirt that lay at her feet. Not needing them anymore, she bundled up her clothes and shoved them deep into the side of the barrel, under the other gowns.

Her hair she let fall down out of its usual, rigidly tied bun; it had been days since she’d washed it. She looked at her small, white feet, knowing that they were too clean. Leaning down, she scooped up dirt and brushed it over her legs, over her feet.

The sound of marching filled the air, making her jump. She ran her hands down her face to calm the beating of her heart.

The glass made a soft thud as she set it on the table. Still angry with her for last night’s mechanical lovemaking, her husband ignored her; he was reading the paper.

Turning back to the sink, she started working on the dishes. She washed and dried methodically, counting the minutes between each turn of the page.

She heard her husband slowly getting up. She heard him putting on his boots. He walked up to her and instinctually she stiffened; things used to be so different between them.

He slowly brushed his hand along her face, making her shiver.

‘’Was ich tue, tue ich fiir uns, “he murmured.

What I do, I do for us.

She quickly left the building, watching for signs of people. No one ever bothered to guard the clothes, and she easily made her way through the crowded yard. She was so thin she didn’t stand out. Looking through a never-ending sea of black and white, she smiled. Everyone here was the same.

Her feet moved quickly over the paving stones; she watched them as she thought of how she’d gotten here.

Two men stood outside of the gate. She didn’t recognize them, but they knew her. Everyone knew her by the honorable badge she wore across her coat. It was the same as her husband’s, a signal to their stature.

They nodded and let her through. She had come to visit her husband before, looking every part of the perfect wife.

The other officers admired her disposition; a wife should follow her husband, even if it leads her to war.

Looking over at the longhouses, she made her way to the third quadrant. Today was a special day; her husband had told her so. Men were already starting to gather up the women and children. There were too many mouths to feed and they were losing the war.

Pausing, she stood with her hands pressed against the door to her husband’s study. She knew already that he wasn’t there, the smell of lemon and ginger conveniently absent. She opened the door and walked inside.

On his desk sat one picture. It was of the two of them, the summer that they had just met. She ran her fingers down the frame, leaving small smudges against the glass. This was the closest that she had felt to her husband in years. Perhaps it was because he had refused to get rid of this one memory, in a time where there was peace.

She had asked that he remove the photo.

People were pressing against one another in jumbled confusion. Children were crying, clinging to women who weren’t even their mothers. They were being led to the showers; it was cleaning day.

From her neck she removed the small locket that her husband had given her. With a kiss she placed it on his desk. Inside it contained the same photo of them in the summer, with the wind blowing her hair into her eyes. He was chasing her around her parent’s backyard. His arm stretched towards her as he laughed, but she was just out of reach …

She left the room without looking back, having said goodbye to that summer a long time ago.

She gave back the clothes that she had so recently gotten. She stood huddled against a thousand other shivering bodies. Knowing what was coming, she closed her eyes.

With her last moments she whispered, “Was ich tue, tue ich fur uns.”