1943, Cochem, Germany.

Looking down the street, I could almost fool myself into thinking that all was well and that nothing could possibly go wrong. It was autumn and the air was chilly, but the night was beautiful. Peaceful, even. The trees were ablaze in the full, vibrant glory of fall, though some had lost the majority of their leaves and stood shaking their bare branches in the wind like skeletons rattling their bones. The moon rested, calmly, high above in the star-strewn sky, her round face looking down upon the world she kept watch over during the dark hours, cold fingers of silvery light creeping down to earth and casting ethereal shadows. I found the tranquility of the luminescent globe an odd contrast to the turmoil that was causing the mess of knots my stomach was tangling itself into.

My mother had promised she would be home by nine o'clock. I had come out of the house at nine sharp and seated myself on the front steps awaiting the return of my mama. I've become more anxious about separating with my mother, even for a couple hours, over the past year. It's not that I'm worried that something will happen to me - no, I'm capable of standing up for myself; it's mama I'm concerned about.

Mama didn't show up at nine, nor did she show up an hour later. My mind was spinning too fast, thinking of the worst possible scenarios as to why she was hasn't come home yet. She's been late before, but never by this much. She knows how paranoid I can get. She knows to give me the exact time of her arrival. She knows that I have to know those things.

"I need to deliver the washing to Frau Schautz, I will be back by nine. Stay safe, mein liebling," she had said to me as she kissed my forehead goodbye.

She just stayed a little longer to chat with Frau Schautz, you know how mama is, ever so friendly and polite, I tried to reassure myself.

In hopes of calming myself, I headed to the graveyard, my place of refuge during stressful times. The front steps creaked as I stepped on them. I was trying to fix them the other day, but mama stopped me when she saw what I was doing.

"The creaking stairs resemble a barking dog; they let you know when you have a guest, Luka," she said.

The frost-laced grass crunched beneath my feet as I strayed from the path, meandering around the gravestones and memorials lined up in uneven patterns, many worn by weather and age, and some brand new. It was close to eleven and the night was at its darkest, but there were various lamps illuminating the trails, some near-death, and some seeming to flicker as moths danced around them like sycamore seeds. Peeking out from over the brow of a slight hill, I could make out the naked branches of an elm tree, stretching up to the stars like pleading arms, and I began to feel the emotion swell in my throat.

Papa, mama, and I lived in Prüm for most of my life. We had a house there, and my papa's mama lived on the same street as us. All was well up until the autumn of 1941 when the first bombing occurred in Prüm. I had just come back from one of the Deutsches Jungvolk, Germany Youth, meetings. My mother was busy doing the washing of our neighbour, Herr Eichmann, and my papa went to his mother's house to drop off the soup that mama made us for dinner.

Tall, willowing trees with long green arms now gave way to the most vibrant of colours. Rich reds, bright yellows, robust oranges, and mahogany browns adorned the trees. The kids were out on the streets kicking balls, playing in piles of leaves, and screaming as they chased on another, unaware of what was about to happen.

I was getting ready to go to bed when suddenly the deafening noise of the air raid siren filled the house. Mama grabbed my hand and ran to the basement. We sat there, shaking. Soon enough, we could hear bombs falling all over outside.

"Mama, what about papa?" I had asked, my voice trembling, the tears forming in my eyes.

"He's going to be alright, Luka, mein liebling," she said as she squeezed my hand.

But he wasn't. It turned out that papa and his mother were hiding in the basement of her house, along with a few of the neighbours who did not have a basement, when a bomb landed right on top of them. After that tragedy, mama decided it would be best to move, and thus we ended up in Cochem. Just the two of us; without any friends or family.

Although papa was buried in Prüm, I still like to come to the graveyard here in Cochem. I can feel his presence whenever I come here. Perhaps it's just my vivid imagination, but maybe his soul actually does hang around the Cochem graveyard in hopes of seeing mama or me. Besides, Cochem is a great little village with wonderful people so perhaps he likes the company of the souls of the people who have passed on.

Mama has warned me about not going to the cemetery at night but that's the time when it's the most serene. I wander about the cemetry, observing headstones. I like to read what it says on every tombstone because I imagine that it makes the people feel less lonely and more acknowledged. I glance at the cross gravestone to my right.
Claudia Gersten
4.12.1934 - 3.12.1941

She probably died in one of the bombings. They happened here right around that time, a month before we moved to the village. She must have been so excited to finally be turning seven, but that day never came. I wonder if her mama or papa are still alive. I looked around the tombstone but didn't find any matching last names. Losing a child must be a tragedy. Parents should not outlive their children, that's not the way it works. But then again, nothing ever happens properly during war. I think mama would not be able to hold herself together if I, her 13 year old son, died. She can't afford any more tragedies in her life.

I headed home, my anxiety building up again. Please, mama, please be home, I whispered to myself as I increased the pace of my walk, soon turning into a run.

As I was turning onto the street that we live on, I heard it.

No, no, no, no! Not today, not right now, please, no!

No matter where you go, how hard you try to forget, the sound of the air raid siren will forever be imprinted in your head, long after the war is over. The distress and anguish that that siren carries makes stomachs turn. The desperation of the people once they hear the noise, the feeling of the oncoming storm, it all adds up and you start to lose grip on the reality.

My run turned into a sprint, I could feel my heart pumping so fast I thought it was going to jump out.

"Luka!"

I turned around so quickly I almost lost my balance and fell. Mama was standing near one of the houses that I ran past, waving her arms and yelling something which I couldn't hear over the siren. I ran toward her, my head spinning.

We climbed into the basement of the family that lived in the house. There were about a dozen other people there already. A mother was holding a wailing baby, singing a lullaby to him. And old couple was seated in the corner, holding each other's hands. A large family with 4 kids was in the middle of the room, hugging each other and speaking in hushed tones.

"Komme Sie hier, mein liebling," she said, spreading her arms. Come here, my darling.

"I'm so sorry darling, Frau Schautz wouldn't let me leave, kept on talking and talking," she whispered as I hugged her, "but it's ok now, we're going to be alright."
***

Death is a fascinating thing. I've always assumed that I would know when it would be my time to depart from the world. I've always assumed that death would be a huge, epic event that would take place. Or that my whole life would flash before my eyes.

In reality however, it just sort of happened. There was no retelling of my life story in my head the moment before, there was no screaming, no noise that would indicate that it was coming.

What was there was my mama hugging me, and the smell of soap that still lingered on her from delivering the washing.

Death. It was the most predictable thing in our situation, but it was least expected.