Iron Curtain Rising

"The Iron Curtain is rising, and we best be atop it."

 Dedicated to Michael “Mike P” Piszczatowski. “Go then, there are other worlds than these.” Rest in Peace, friend.

-Part 1-

“I spoke into his eyes, 'I thought you died alone. A long long time ago' 'Oh no, not me. I've never lost control. You're face to face with the man who sold the world.'” -David Bowie, The Man Who Sold The World

We were tucked into beds of indigo silk by the time the blood dried upon the floor, 2,000 miles and another lifetime away. It must have been a lifetime, for who could believe the sight of a starlit California shoreline when just days ago you were in shackles and chains?

“Amadeus?”, I hear my sister calling to me.

“Yes?”

“What does it feel like...to kill?”

I inhaled deeply, searching for the words, thinking back to the thunderous BANG, the smell of sulfur, the forming scream that was blasted out of the man's throat before it had a chance to escape his lips, and the blood....oh the blood that painted the walls. I turned toward the window, absently gazing over the ebbing, flowing tide of the Pacific Ocean, and found the words to answer in its wake.

“Mandarys, what controls the waves of the ocean?”

“Is this a trick question?”, she flatly replies.

“Just humor me.”

“Fine. I'll bite. The moon, I suppose.”

“And what controls the moon?”

Her brows furrow in bemusement at the question.

“The Earth's orbit?”

“Yes, and what controls the Earth's orbit?”

“The sun.”

“Precisely. Now, what controls the universe?”

She goes silent. In the darkness I can vaguely see her eyes wandering about upwards, as if searching her own head for thoughts. Philosophical discussion was never in Mandarys' realm of interests.

“I don't know.”, She finally resigns.

“I don't either. Nobody does, really. Some may call it god, some may call it fate, or perhaps it's nothing at all, and we're all just riding on a chaotic tide of rock and flame to nowhere. I can tell you this, though; when you take the life of another human being, it's like for a single moment...you hold all that power, all that control, in your hands. For a moment, it doesn't matter how small you are, how insignificant you feel, what your shortcomings are, how many times you've been beaten, how many games you've lost, how many things you've failed at, how many of your dreams have been broken...because in that moment...you are a god.”

“Amadeus?”

“Yes?”

“I think you need to get some sleep.”, she states to me plainly.

I laid my head upon the silken pile of pillows, feeling a surprisingly involuntary chuckle escape my lips, which blossomed into laughter. Her hyena-esque chortle soon followed as she fell back against her bed as well, the two of us lightheaded, overtired, and relieved of our strife long enough to steal a moment of childish joy.

“Goodnight, Baby Sis'. I love you.”

“Good.”, she spoke softly as she closed her eyes.

I hear her breathing become more and more rhythmic as the sound of the sea makes me do the same.

-Dusseldorf, Germany 1947-

“Vorsätzliche Hure! Are you aware at all of the gravity of the situation!? Do you have any respect, regard, or even THOUGHT for this family?”

Christine Prince ignored her father's insult and kept her eyes transfixed on the snowflakes slowly building up on the window, wishing she could crash through the glass and escape running into the snowy maelstrom outside. For the cold out there was nothing compared to the icy heart of the man standing by the fireplace.

“I always have, father. Even considering the course your...career took.”, She finally answered, running her fingers through her waist-length black hair out of nervous habit. “Father, he's my first cousin -

“And the last of our line!! The last Prince of marrying age! Amadeus LXVIII is a fine, wealthy, pure-blooded man of our proud heritage who will care for your every need until the end of your days. Where is the problem here? What more could you want?”

“Happiness, Independence, the freedom to marry a man of my own choosing, preferably one who is not related to me.”, She explained to him through tightly grit teeth. It was all she could do to keep from tackling him.

He stood still, contemplating for a moment and breathing a heavy sigh that caused the flames of the fireplace to dance ever so slightly. Above the stone and brick mantle hung an intricate tapestry detailing their entire family history in a wide web of names and faces. Her eyes absently followed the design, looking upon names upon names that spanned 40 centuries. She let her eyes trail upward as the skin tone of each face slowly went from sallow white, to lightly tanned, to dark. Further upward still, the English alphabet ended and Egyptian hieroglyphics began. Her eyes scanned all the way up until she reached the top, which of course was none other than Amadeus The Great, flanked by his two sister-wives.

“You know our history, Christine. You know the way we marry. It is of paramount importance that we preserve our bloodline and more importantly still, keep it pure. We have been marrying cousin to cousin, uncle to niece, and brother to sister since the days of Amadeus The Great to ensure that. You would throw an entire dynasty to the wind? For what? For your childish dreams? For your own selfish desires? We are, and will remain, one of the proudest and most powerful families in not just Europe, but the entire world.”

“Your mind is lost to ages past, father.”, she sighed. “You are delusional. The most powerful family in the world? Who? All three or four of us? And what power? You lost your last ally in 1945.”

Her father's voice took on a deep, smooth, malicious tone, like silk soaked in acid, as it always did when he was on the edge of rage.

“WE lost our last ally, Christine. WE did.”, He began to stroke his golden-blonde beard and contemplate silently for a moment. “The Iron Curtain is rising, Christine, and we must be atop it. Do you remember what the mystic said?”

“You mean the tea leaf reading quack who will get your dead grandmother on the horn for only 150 Deutschmarks?”, Christine had little and less respect for the art of Clairvoyance.

“Für die Liebe von God! ENOUGH of your goddamned quips, child! You remember what she said. You remember her words. “Your Prince shall be THE prince. Your offspring will be the force that restores our bloodline back to glory. The son you bear will be Amadeus The Great reborn. He will play the harp that summons the Hand of God and our family will be delivered back to our position of highest power.”

“Yes, the harp, the harp. The macguffin in your bullshit story that will return us to limitless wealth and power. Amadeus is certainly going to look the fool on this go-around, trying to conquer the entire modern world with a goddamn choir boy's instrum-AUGH!!”

For a scrawny, middle-aged doctor, he hit with the force of a man twice his size. Christine was knocked to the floor, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of her mouth. He loomed over her, his face twisted in rage.

“Do NOT mock me, child. This is not a negotiation. Three weeks from today you will be wedded to Amadeus LXVIII. You will be graceful, courteous, and you will perform your duties as a bride come the wedding night. This conversation is over.”, he told her curtly.

“It is NOT!” His eyes widened in shock, as it was remarkably rare for his daughter to talk back after a good thrashing.

“Do you not realize that this is BARBARIC! It is the year 1947, not 1447! There are no more conquerors or all powerful kings in the world! There are no more knights to gallivant around and win the hearts of fair princesses, and now there will be no more Princes either. And what does it matter!? That age has passed! That chapter of history has long since closed. There is neither glamor nor honor in the thrice-be-damned forced coupling of two blood relatives anymore, just the potential for more children to die or come into this world misshapen because we're so F*****G inbred!! How, father? How can you be so content to sell the soul of your only daughter for this god forsaken pipe dream? How can you stand there and be proud of the fact that in three weeks, your child will be a BREEDING-SOW!?”, She screamed as her voice cracked and the tears streamed down her cheeks, trembling half with rage and half with hysteria.

“It seems we will not see eye-to-eye on this.”, he spoke with lazy resignation. “Nonetheless, these are the events that shall come to pass. The hand of fate holds us all in its icy grasp. You cannot change what is written in the stars.”

“Bullshit. Fate, prophecy, magic...you aught to be committed. When has fate ever lent aid to you? The war has been the latest illustration of the fact that fate is blind, the heavens are deaf, and god is somewhere far far away from us.” His eyes immediately dropped to the ground, as if by reflex, at the mention of the war.

“How do you propose to change your plans, child?”

“I'm leaving.”

“Where will you go?”

“England, where I can freely show my face and not worry about someone recognizing me as Dr. Prince's daughter.” She squeezed all the disdain she could muster into the mention of his name. “I'm still remembered at Evergreen Academy, Professor Horn could find me work, I was his best chemistry student.”

A sinister grin spread across his face, so wide it looked as if his face might split in two. “I don't suppose you're as good a chemist as I am.”, He chuckled.

A look of horror crossed with disgust twisted Christine's features. “How can you laugh at that, you sadistic pig? I would never want to be as good as you, if it meant doing the things you've done.”

“Oh Christine, one day you will learn that nothing great was ever attained without sacrifice. Perhaps the lesson will sink in when you're bearing your son.”

“Did you not hear me, father? I'm leaving. I'm done. I want no part in this family and I will not be used as a pawn in a game that was lost centuries ago.”

His face took on a look of icy calm that sent a pang of fear piercing her heart, and his hand delved into his pocket. Christine rose to her feet and smoothed her skirts.

“I'm-I'm going upstairs now, to gather my things.”

He was on her before her foot hit the ground, and a scream would have escaped her lips, had his cold, slender hand not clamped around her nose and mouth. With his other hand he found the vein, and drove the needle inside. It took not half a second before her limbs failed her, and she crumpled to the ground like a twisted, grotesque rag doll. You're right, father, you always were the better chemist.

He loomed over her once more. “We can do this two ways, child. You can be a good girl, walk down the aisle and end your days as a maiden in 3 weeks, or, you can enjoy the feeling of being drugged and chained to your bed while you get familiar with my tazer until you change your mind. You haven't a dime to your name, girl, nor as many friends as you think you have. And if in the throes of lunacy you decide to run away, I will find you.” With a sinister grin he added, “You know that no one under my...care...slips through my fingers.”

Christine attempted to prop herself up on her arms, but they slipped out from underneath her, as useless as wet parchment. With a painful jolt to her neck, she felt her father seize her by her long, dark hair. She clenched her teeth to the point of near shattering as she heard the screeeeeeee sound that her body made being dragged along the glossy, wood floor.

With a harsh tug, Dr. Prince dragged his daughter up the stairway leading to her room. Eileen mused as each step dealt her a rough knock on the head, 13 steps...same number as the gallows. She could almost laugh, had she not so badly wanted to scream. When they reached the second floor of the estate, her father had the decency to slide his arms underneath her and lift her from the ground. He pushed the door of her room open with his foot and unceremoniously tossed her onto the bed.

“Your room will be shut and locked until morning. If you try anything foolish, I will know. Sleep well, princess.”

With a light slam, the door was shut and Eileen was left to process thought after unpleasant thought that raced through her pounding head. It wasn't until about an hour later that movement returned to her limbs. Stacking some pillows against the headboard of her bed, she propped herself up and absently surveyed her bedroom.

The décor of her room was a motley of childhood memories frozen in time, framed by pale pink wallpaper. On the closet door to her left hung a moth-eaten school uniform, complete with black skirt, black cardigan, black button-down and a black tie with thin, silver stripes. Next to the closet was a small display table on which several chess tournament trophies stood. Against the far wall stood a radio and a tall dresser whose surface was home to five porcelain figurines.

Looking at the figurines never failed to evoke a pang of nostalgia within her. They were a Prince family heirloom that had been passed down to her on her 7^th birthday, back when life was brighter, and all it took was a simple gift to bring her joy. She observed each of the figures from left to right: A tall, dark-haired prince dressed in crimson and black, a chestnut haired princess who held a crystal ball in her cupped hands, a magnificent unicorn with a flowing main of every color that existed in the rainbow, a gallant knight whose armor was made entirely of glittering, solid gold, and lastly, a fair-haired blacksmith, who was hammering away at a sword on a tiny little porcelain anvil.

Her mother used to tell her that the figures would come to life when she was sleeping; that they would throw little parties and gallivant around the room whilst she was tucked warm in her bed, and should she awake, they would run right back into their original positions, quick as lightning, so that she may never notice. It was for this reason that Christine had dubbed the painted porcelain troupe the “Night Crew.” She recalled the hours and hours she staved off sleep, fighting a losing battle against heavy eyelids, just for a chance to catch a glimpse of their after-dark affairs. Of course, the Night Crew remained stationary, but they were her most precious possessions nonetheless.

Turning over in her bed, she faced a mahogany nightstand where an ornate, jade and ivory music box stood. She reached over and wound it up several times. A little door opened at the top, and two little dancers, an elegantly dressed man and woman, ascended and began to twirl around to a simplified, high pitched, twangy version of one of Mozart's waltzes.

Resting her head and relaxing her body, she observed the tiny dance. Maybe it won't be so bad...maybe he's gentle and kind. Perhaps, against all odds, I'll even come to love him. As optimistic as the thought was however, the gnawing sense of doubt in the pit of her stomach refused to let her believe it.

Author's Note

Life sucks when your dad is a Nazi, eh? The dedication is for my friend who took his own life recently. Reviews are greatly appreciated.

Reviews

[Brenda Woods]

Ohhhh, I like this. Great imagery, really captured me - you have a beautiful way about describing and setting the story. It grabbed my attention in the first lines; very nice work. I look forward to seeing where this will go in the future, keep up the good work!