The Apple of Discord
Every year I write a Christmas story, one page, that’s the rule, and distribute it to family and friends because I can’t bake a fruitcake. I had a story rattling around in my head about Jurgen, a simple Hessian country boy who goes to Marburg to learn a trade. He will macht das Weihnachtgeschenk (a Christmas gift) for the visitors.
Meanwhile in the Waking world I had two students, lets call them Peleus and Thetis, whom I had to instruct in the art of Elementary Composition. Thetis blew me away with her very first composition, while Pelus annoyed me terribly, handing in underwritten screed of strung-together clichés and canned thinking.
Pelus was in love with his own words (even if he "borrowed" them). He saw nothing wrong at all with strung-together clichés and canned thinking. He branded me a “Birkenstock-wearing Latte Liberal,” a hoity-toity coffeehouse pinky-up literary wannabe in love with fancy-Dan language. Pelus was correct, except I never owned a pair of Birkenstocks. So I bought some.
In my Dream world Jurgen was befriended by Schmidt, who was eager to teach the young boy a useful trade. These things must be done mit Kunstfertigkeit. Du muß schlau und durchtrieben sein. Und die Besucher willen überrascht sind. Yes, they will be surprised. We will surprise them, young lad. Mein Junge. You and I.
I couldn’t get Pelus’ brain out of the can. But Thetis continued to dazzle me with her wit and language. Then it was time for the final paper. Dress rehearsal is over kids. This is opening night. I told Pelus to give me the full six pages. OK, write about comic books. But give me six pages of Captain America clichés, not three. I told Thetis that I was eagerly anticipating her Magnum Opus.
The Volksgrenediers were driven in front of the Waffen SS Panzer Divisions like so much cannon fodder. Jurgen raised his Panzerfaust to deliver his Christmas surprise to the unwelcome visitors, and Tommy, a young shoe salesman from Toledo, popped up with an M1 Carbine and sent Jurgen back to his homeland forever. Schmidt found the body.
“Schlaf, schlaf, schlaf,” sang Schmidt softly, “Mein liebes Kindlein schlaf!” Sleep, sleep, sleep. My precious baby sleep! The Americans counterattacked with rage and fury, and this day they took no prisoners. They shot Untergruppenführer Schmidt where he sat in the snow, tears in his eyes and a dead boy in his arms.
Thetis froze with stage fright, handed in a late paper, 3 pages of regurgitated sidebar opinions I had tossed off in class. Pelus came out like a lion with over 12 pages about the artists and the companies who produced Marvel and DC comics, a paper filled with keen critical thinking, all his own. Somehow, I feel like I failed both of them.
I will correct the Eris of my ways. I will improve my German. Perhaps one day I will see the place where Jurgen and Schmidt rest. I imagine a sad place, overgrown, forgotten, with mossy Maltese crosses covering a terrible secret. Maybe I will learn why we are capable of fighting so nobly for causes so evil. Or vice versa.
Doch wenn uns Gott auch in die Hölle triebe,wir müßten glauben, müßten glaubend sehen im Dunkel noch die Wunder seiner Liebe! But even if God drove us to hell, we must believe, we have seen it. Somehow in the darkness love works its miracles. Somehow.
In the darkness… Es ist ein Ros entsprungen.
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