It had been almost a year and a half and I’d still never grown used to the darkness. Every once in a while, on what must have been especially sunny days, glimmers of light would come through the miniscule spaces between the boards of the false wall. But most of the time I could barely see my own hand even when it was just a few inches from my face. I didn’t need to see myself to know that I was fading away, that were I to somehow catch my reflection I wouldn’t recognize the man staring back at me.
In the beginning I’d assumed that an animal, perhaps a rat, had gotten into the small room and died before I’d been put there. It was only when Kurt first came to bring me rations that I realized it was me. It was as if the smell of death had come preemptively, only to remind me that unless I was able to fight my body would catch up with my smell.
But I couldn’t complain. It was better to have been slowly dying in the dark alcove of that partially burnt down workshop, than painfully and all at once as I was sure my mother and brother had, perhaps my father too. To be German, Jewish, and alive was a combination no short of a miracle. This miracle was solely in thanks to my mentor, Kurt Brotz. Despite criticism, possible loss of costumers, and threats, Kurt took me on as his apprentice seven years earlier, in 1933, when I was nothing more than a lanky 16 year old who was unsure of himself and unsure of the world.
When I first began working with Kurt I’d assumed that I’d been selected over the many other more capable and suitable boys in my class because Kurt felt he had a debt to repay to my family. My Uncle Oskar had been Kurt’s closest comrade and friend during the Great War, during which Oskar risked his life to save Kurt’s after he’d been injured. And because Oskar had only daughters I was the one given the opportunity to learn carpentry and craftsmanship under Kurt’s guise.
It was only after two years working with him, by which point our work had turned me into a man both mentally and physically, that Kurt finally told me my position had nothing to do with his and Oskar’s past. He’d given me the apprenticeship only after his daughter, Elsie, had told him, “Of all the boys in town of age to take on an apprenticeship, the only one I know to be truly perseverant, level-headed, and of a good heart, is Jakob Klein.” The three qualities she knew her father valued most in business, and in life.
Elsie Brotz. Amongst all the crippling sensations of guilt, worry, and starvation that riddled me with pain day in and day out in that cramped room, Elsie was my bright star. My one shining light amongst all that darkness. While torturous nightmares littered my evenings, Elsie was the dream I kept alive during the day.
Since childhood I’d worshiped her from afar. To be honest, every boy in Erfurt had at one point or another been entranced by Elsie. As a child she was impulsive, and unafraid. Until age 13 her hair, which must have been made of golden fibers spun by Rumpelstiltskin himself, was constantly flapping behind her, tangling into knots like a sparrow’s nest. She was always chasing something. Her baby brother, their family tabby cat that acted more like a dog, the football as she dominated boys twice her size all across the pitch. And whether she realized or not, I was always there chasing her, though mostly in a metaphorical sense.
The summer she was 13, in 1932, just a year before I went to work for her father, Elsie got caught up in a bet with Dietrich Wagner, the most notoriously foul-mouthed kid in all of Erfurt, which ended with her having to ride her bike down the tallest hill in town no-handed. Everyone under age 18 gathered to watch the feat. Elsie flew down with the grace of a swan, until about the last third, when the speed had gathered so much she was flung over the handlebars. She landed in a crunching heap. She broke her femur and was bedridden for the rest of the summer. When school started again in the fall, Elsie had lost her desire to chase. Perhaps searching for a new self, she struck up a friendship with Clotilde Leitner, the richest and prissiest girl in school, and by winter had won her doting beau, Clotilde’s twin brother, Hans.
I want to say that Hans is a hulking brute, with meat cleavers for hands, and iron for a heart, but I cannot. As much as I wish he is devious, ruthless, or unkind he is not. While perhaps a bit dull, and not exactly top of his class, Hans appeared to never be anything but loyal and tender to Elsie. My only moral high ground I know I can keep above him is that when the dark cloud that loomed over Germany became darker it was Hans who stood more proudly than ever, arm at a perfect 45 degree angle, beaming with pride each time he called out heil Hitler. It was he who led the training for children of the Nazi youth, and I caught a clear view of him looting through our neighbors’ store, smashing windows, and yelling Jewish swine, on the night now referred to as Kristalnacht.
While I lied there on my makeshift cot for many days I wondered if Elsie was proud of her little Nazi. I prayed he’d keep her and all the Brotz family safe, and selfishly that their association with him would lower anyone’s suspicions that it was Kurt who had me hidden, but I also hoped a bit that his blind devotion to the Fuhrer disgusted her, and ended their relationship.
Of course I never asked Kurt specifically about it. In fact our conversation was kept to a minimum. It was safer for him to get in and get out, infrequently and at times where people wouldn’t raise their eyebrows. Plus while I’m sure Kurt knew deep down that my heart longed for his daughter, we’d never discussed it, and requesting information of her wellbeing specifically felt dangerous. While I had no reason to doubt Kurt, I didn’t need to give him any reason to consider abandoning me – though that would be safer for him. And if he had any inkling of how I was keeping myself motivated to live, what I did alone in the dark to keep myself from becoming so depressed that I gave up on fighting, well he might just leave me to rot there like my stench suggested I was.
In the beginning I’d assumed that an animal, perhaps a rat, had gotten into the small room and died before I’d been put there. It was only when Kurt first came to bring me rations that I realized it was me. It was as if the smell of death had come preemptively, only to remind me that unless I was able to fight my body would catch up with my smell.
But I couldn’t complain. It was better to have been slowly dying in the dark alcove of that partially burnt down workshop, than painfully and all at once as I was sure my mother and brother had, perhaps my father too. To be German, Jewish, and alive was a combination no short of a miracle. This miracle was solely in thanks to my mentor, Kurt Brotz. Despite criticism, possible loss of costumers, and threats, Kurt took me on as his apprentice seven years earlier, in 1933, when I was nothing more than a lanky 16 year old who was unsure of himself and unsure of the world.
When I first began working with Kurt I’d assumed that I’d been selected over the many other more capable and suitable boys in my class because Kurt felt he had a debt to repay to my family. My Uncle Oskar had been Kurt’s closest comrade and friend during the Great War, during which Oskar risked his life to save Kurt’s after he’d been injured. And because Oskar had only daughters I was the one given the opportunity to learn carpentry and craftsmanship under Kurt’s guise.
It was only after two years working with him, by which point our work had turned me into a man both mentally and physically, that Kurt finally told me my position had nothing to do with his and Oskar’s past. He’d given me the apprenticeship only after his daughter, Elsie, had told him, “Of all the boys in town of age to take on an apprenticeship, the only one I know to be truly perseverant, level-headed, and of a good heart, is Jakob Klein.” The three qualities she knew her father valued most in business, and in life.
Elsie Brotz. Amongst all the crippling sensations of guilt, worry, and starvation that riddled me with pain day in and day out in that cramped room, Elsie was my bright star. My one shining light amongst all that darkness. While torturous nightmares littered my evenings, Elsie was the dream I kept alive during the day.
Since childhood I’d worshiped her from afar. To be honest, every boy in Erfurt had at one point or another been entranced by Elsie. As a child she was impulsive, and unafraid. Until age 13 her hair, which must have been made of golden fibers spun by Rumpelstiltskin himself, was constantly flapping behind her, tangling into knots like a sparrow’s nest. She was always chasing something. Her baby brother, their family tabby cat that acted more like a dog, the football as she dominated boys twice her size all across the pitch. And whether she realized or not, I was always there chasing her, though mostly in a metaphorical sense.
The summer she was 13, in 1932, just a year before I went to work for her father, Elsie got caught up in a bet with Dietrich Wagner, the most notoriously foul-mouthed kid in all of Erfurt, which ended with her having to ride her bike down the tallest hill in town no-handed. Everyone under age 18 gathered to watch the feat. Elsie flew down with the grace of a swan, until about the last third, when the speed had gathered so much she was flung over the handlebars. She landed in a crunching heap. She broke her femur and was bedridden for the rest of the summer. When school started again in the fall, Elsie had lost her desire to chase. Perhaps searching for a new self, she struck up a friendship with Clotilde Leitner, the richest and prissiest girl in school, and by winter had won her doting beau, Clotilde’s twin brother, Hans.
I want to say that Hans is a hulking brute, with meat cleavers for hands, and iron for a heart, but I cannot. As much as I wish he is devious, ruthless, or unkind he is not. While perhaps a bit dull, and not exactly top of his class, Hans appeared to never be anything but loyal and tender to Elsie. My only moral high ground I know I can keep above him is that when the dark cloud that loomed over Germany became darker it was Hans who stood more proudly than ever, arm at a perfect 45 degree angle, beaming with pride each time he called out heil Hitler. It was he who led the training for children of the Nazi youth, and I caught a clear view of him looting through our neighbors’ store, smashing windows, and yelling Jewish swine, on the night now referred to as Kristalnacht.
While I lied there on my makeshift cot for many days I wondered if Elsie was proud of her little Nazi. I prayed he’d keep her and all the Brotz family safe, and selfishly that their association with him would lower anyone’s suspicions that it was Kurt who had me hidden, but I also hoped a bit that his blind devotion to the Fuhrer disgusted her, and ended their relationship.
Of course I never asked Kurt specifically about it. In fact our conversation was kept to a minimum. It was safer for him to get in and get out, infrequently and at times where people wouldn’t raise their eyebrows. Plus while I’m sure Kurt knew deep down that my heart longed for his daughter, we’d never discussed it, and requesting information of her wellbeing specifically felt dangerous. While I had no reason to doubt Kurt, I didn’t need to give him any reason to consider abandoning me – though that would be safer for him. And if he had any inkling of how I was keeping myself motivated to live, what I did alone in the dark to keep myself from becoming so depressed that I gave up on fighting, well he might just leave me to rot there like my stench suggested I was.
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Because when things got too dark, when the darkness of my mind overtook the darkness of the room, all I could do to stay positive was stroke myself and picture Elsie.
The fantasy was almost always the same.
It was a fine summer afternoon. Birds were chirping and the children of Germany, Jewish and Aryan, were laughing and playing in every shinning field. We break midday from some unnamed construction project and as sweat drips down my chest my body aches to cool off in the waters of the nearby Gera River. I head towards the part of the river outside of town where it exits from its origins in the forest. I am walking with purpose and with no real awareness of my surroundings. My self-centered trance is broken when I am only a few meters from the water’s edge.
I am not expecting anyone else to be here, as this water portion of the river has almost always been isolated every other time I’d come. But there it is, the distinct sound of someone swimming just beyond the large rock where I’d normally leave my clothes. I slowly approach, not sure of who I might find in the water. As I inch closer to the boulder I notice off by the bank a discarded swimming costume, distinctly a woman’s costume.
And then I see her. Like a mermaid or a siren from naval lore, she emerges from the surface caught in a beam of sunlight. She glides up, water streaming down her face which rolls down farther, over her chest, and through the narrow passage which separates her glistening perky breasts. Eyes still closed, she takes in a deep breath while running her hand through her silky hair. Her melon-like boobs and pert nipples raise up towards the sun.
As she steps forward, her lower half slowly exposing itself to my wanton eyes, she twists and gathers her tresses upon her head. While turning towards the rock which separates us, the last rush of water flows down her tiny flat waist and disperses like a water shed at her round womanly hips, gliding down over her high and tight ass or small twat. My knees nearly buckle as I take it all in, and I can feel my cock pushing against my trousers, begging for escape, begging to be inside Elsie.
With the dexterity of a cat and the elegance of a ballerina she climbs up onto the rock and lays down on her back, exposing her whole front-side to the sun, warming herself like a seal on a beach. She has yet to look in my direction and I am almost paralyzed with terror. I can’t retreat. I am drawn to her like a moth to the last flickering candle, and yet if I make my presence known I fear she will never look my way again. And just as I am about to tip-toe away from the truest beauty I have ever known, she whispers, without turning her head, “Jakob if you don’t take me now it will be me walking away.”
Time and time again I’ve relished what comes next, temporarily forgetting about conserving energy as I stroked my long thick cock imagining it was real.
I climb up onto the rock and immediately I am suckling and nibbling her rock hard nipples as she squirms beneath me in pleasure. She purrs like that old tabby-cat, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
She runs her hand through my dark curly hair and unbuttons my sweaty work shirt. Her long fingers and polished nails trace circles on my muscular back and we kiss with an urgency. Two innocent bodies and two souls who have longed for each other for many years.
Her hands slip down my backside and into the waist of my trousers, hands grabbing the top of my firm buttocks. “Take them off, Jakob, please. I want, I need to taste your cock.”
I sit up, still perched over her lightly wet skin, unzip and slip off my trouser and pants, revealing my pulsating cock. She stares up at me with her deep blue eyes. Eyes that have regained that twinkle of childhood mischief, those eyes that beg for me.
She too now sits and slides down the edge of the rock so the tip of my penis is almost at her full berry lips. I can’t help but moan in anticipation of her warm, tiny mouth engulfing me. She reaches up and places her hand on my abs, tracing them down the defined muscles built up from years of working with her father. As they trace lower she grasps the base of my penis, gives me an almost nervous look up and places her lips around the head of my dick.
Slowly but surely she takes more and more of me into her tender tiny mouth, licking my underside, swirling with one hand, cupping my balls with other. I cum with a force that both startles me and Elsie, but with an impish grin she swallows my load, pulls my head down towards hers and whispers, "Your turn."
In the beginning I could usually keep the fantasy going and even sometimes knock out a load or two more. But as time went on my muscles grew so weak and my food supply became so low that I could rarely let my mind go that far. When the second winter came since I’d been locked away behind the walls of the old warehouse, I feared more and more that the rot, the smell of death was becoming a stronger reality. The last time Kurt came he brought a larger supply of rations and quickly explained that he’d been called away to consult on a project that needed to be completed before the first snowfall. The scraps lasted about 16 days and for four more I survived on nothing. I knew that death was imminent. I cried not for the fear of death, but for the worry and shame Kurt would feel when he found me here, a shell of a man, crusted over like old bread.
I could feel the pains of starvation chipping away at my last wills to live, and all I could do to hold on even one moment longer was to picture that face. The face that had kept me going for so long. I called out so quietly into the night, not out of fear, but only because I couldn’t physically speak any louder, “Elsie.”
And from that damned darkness I heard ever so quietly back, “Jakob?”
End of Part 1
The fantasy was almost always the same.
It was a fine summer afternoon. Birds were chirping and the children of Germany, Jewish and Aryan, were laughing and playing in every shinning field. We break midday from some unnamed construction project and as sweat drips down my chest my body aches to cool off in the waters of the nearby Gera River. I head towards the part of the river outside of town where it exits from its origins in the forest. I am walking with purpose and with no real awareness of my surroundings. My self-centered trance is broken when I am only a few meters from the water’s edge.
I am not expecting anyone else to be here, as this water portion of the river has almost always been isolated every other time I’d come. But there it is, the distinct sound of someone swimming just beyond the large rock where I’d normally leave my clothes. I slowly approach, not sure of who I might find in the water. As I inch closer to the boulder I notice off by the bank a discarded swimming costume, distinctly a woman’s costume.
And then I see her. Like a mermaid or a siren from naval lore, she emerges from the surface caught in a beam of sunlight. She glides up, water streaming down her face which rolls down farther, over her chest, and through the narrow passage which separates her glistening perky breasts. Eyes still closed, she takes in a deep breath while running her hand through her silky hair. Her melon-like boobs and pert nipples raise up towards the sun.
As she steps forward, her lower half slowly exposing itself to my wanton eyes, she twists and gathers her tresses upon her head. While turning towards the rock which separates us, the last rush of water flows down her tiny flat waist and disperses like a water shed at her round womanly hips, gliding down over her high and tight ass or small twat. My knees nearly buckle as I take it all in, and I can feel my cock pushing against my trousers, begging for escape, begging to be inside Elsie.
With the dexterity of a cat and the elegance of a ballerina she climbs up onto the rock and lays down on her back, exposing her whole front-side to the sun, warming herself like a seal on a beach. She has yet to look in my direction and I am almost paralyzed with terror. I can’t retreat. I am drawn to her like a moth to the last flickering candle, and yet if I make my presence known I fear she will never look my way again. And just as I am about to tip-toe away from the truest beauty I have ever known, she whispers, without turning her head, “Jakob if you don’t take me now it will be me walking away.”
Time and time again I’ve relished what comes next, temporarily forgetting about conserving energy as I stroked my long thick cock imagining it was real.
I climb up onto the rock and immediately I am suckling and nibbling her rock hard nipples as she squirms beneath me in pleasure. She purrs like that old tabby-cat, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
She runs her hand through my dark curly hair and unbuttons my sweaty work shirt. Her long fingers and polished nails trace circles on my muscular back and we kiss with an urgency. Two innocent bodies and two souls who have longed for each other for many years.
Her hands slip down my backside and into the waist of my trousers, hands grabbing the top of my firm buttocks. “Take them off, Jakob, please. I want, I need to taste your cock.”
I sit up, still perched over her lightly wet skin, unzip and slip off my trouser and pants, revealing my pulsating cock. She stares up at me with her deep blue eyes. Eyes that have regained that twinkle of childhood mischief, those eyes that beg for me.
She too now sits and slides down the edge of the rock so the tip of my penis is almost at her full berry lips. I can’t help but moan in anticipation of her warm, tiny mouth engulfing me. She reaches up and places her hand on my abs, tracing them down the defined muscles built up from years of working with her father. As they trace lower she grasps the base of my penis, gives me an almost nervous look up and places her lips around the head of my dick.
Slowly but surely she takes more and more of me into her tender tiny mouth, licking my underside, swirling with one hand, cupping my balls with other. I cum with a force that both startles me and Elsie, but with an impish grin she swallows my load, pulls my head down towards hers and whispers, "Your turn."
In the beginning I could usually keep the fantasy going and even sometimes knock out a load or two more. But as time went on my muscles grew so weak and my food supply became so low that I could rarely let my mind go that far. When the second winter came since I’d been locked away behind the walls of the old warehouse, I feared more and more that the rot, the smell of death was becoming a stronger reality. The last time Kurt came he brought a larger supply of rations and quickly explained that he’d been called away to consult on a project that needed to be completed before the first snowfall. The scraps lasted about 16 days and for four more I survived on nothing. I knew that death was imminent. I cried not for the fear of death, but for the worry and shame Kurt would feel when he found me here, a shell of a man, crusted over like old bread.
I could feel the pains of starvation chipping away at my last wills to live, and all I could do to hold on even one moment longer was to picture that face. The face that had kept me going for so long. I called out so quietly into the night, not out of fear, but only because I couldn’t physically speak any louder, “Elsie.”
And from that damned darkness I heard ever so quietly back, “Jakob?”
End of Part 1
