So much sadness, so much ire,
So much loss, my soul on fire.
Blackened ichor, Sanctum's bane,
Hubris, pride, and words profane.
Such heresies and paths astray,
Excoriate by light of day
The sins of weakness, bitter ash
Transgressions now put to the lash.
What fate before us, what damned truth,
From slumbering elder to faltering youth?
The death, it's toll begins by night,
God's messengers in chilling flight
To take those Damned, His servants dark
For Judgment final.  Kindred Hark!

And for this Earth, what destiny,
Holds in the balance? None here shalt flee.
God's will for man, that mercy dear
But for our kind, damnation's fear
Grows close at hand, this turbulence
Inspired by this darkened Danse.
God's wrath, no doubt that each will feel,
Before His Might and Glory I kneel,
Without a want or expectation
Of undeserving remuneration.
So guide my swiftest hand, O Lord
To strike the adversaries hoard,
And serve my place within Your plan,
As predator, Your servant damned.

She loved him, no doubt about that.  And despite the chiffon layer of falsities that sat like a fine layer of dust on an antique photo frame, the true jewel of her love lay beneath, sincere and unblemished.  And yet she could see to his core, the pride that might someday be his undoing.  Certain actions upset her...the hubris that stood between what could be such a fulfilling relationship once.  Would she be used as a tool?  She certainly hoped he wouldn't attempt it.  She was a tool of God, and of God only. 

So why was it precisely, she wondered, that none of us had a vote at the Synod?  Why was the entirety of the meeting led by two individuals, and decisions were made by them only?  Was the overbearing vanity and power play of this covenant becoming so saturating that the traditional way of our apostolica were being thrown out the door?

It angered her to no end.

The persecution begins once more.  Not for any potentially heretical creed, but now for the nature of our kind - The Elect...The Luminarians.  In my heart I wanted to believe that there was something special - something that I was chosen for, that perhaps my heart and intetions were a bit purer than the average damned.  It seems that thought is lost upon deaf ears, however.  As a young vibrant girl, I once dreamed the fairy tale of love.  My mother and father were kind but stoic, and not terribly warm.  Then I was lifted out of the fields of South Dakota, and I saw, once more, potential for this fairy tale - that precious romance that every girl dreams of - I saw that little light of possibility off in the distance, so  I reached for it when Billy took me and made me into a star, first in the pin ups, then on the stage. 

There were so many of them...everywhere I traveled, thousands of boys - good and patriotic boys.  I never looked them in the eyes.  I couldn't bare to look at those who I knew would soon fall to dust.  Nevertheless, their praise lifted my spirits.  Each one was so full of love and so full of life, and I could have had any one of them save for one harsh and devastating fact: they were in love with Rosie Ray, the image and the object...not Roselynn Annette Ray, the girl, the human.  No interest in who I was.  No interest in me.  Then in one singular night, I succumbed to my desire and allowed a man to take me.  Where did my lust lead me?  To the enemy.  I slept with the enemy.  Not for the cause, but for my own lust.  I fell that night that I lost my virginity.  I fell to sin by way of lust and by murder.  Still, that love unsatisfied.  Then I died.  In Germany, not five days after my embrace, I listened to the radio, heard talk of my funeral, and of the crash and as if watching some movie, could see my mother and father as they wept.  It crushed me - the pain inside, beyond tears.  The few remaining tidbits of love that I thought I'd felt were swept away in the smoke and ash from a singluar tragic moment.

Then my angel - my Miklas came and saved me.  He told me that I would be his angel here on the Earth.  I watched his downy wings enfold my broken body as he carried me into the Cathedral.  Even last year, I lay my face on the soft, white feathers of Aleron's wings, as he held me through the night, before my coming into the Elect.  How can it not be true?  Now my own dearest cousin, Cassius, and two Admired question the veracity of this being within me.  How can I do Zerachiel a disservice by denying he who came to me that night, whose purpose I carry in perfect tandem with the Lord's work, and who saw fit to endow me with the Light.  I cannot turn my back on my family.  I did once already.  This sadness overwhelms me...that I could face, once again, charges of heresy.  That there are those in my covenant who will hold disdain for me, rather than my celebrating our Divine duty side by side, in celebration of our dark charge, is nothing short of a travesty. 

Just when I found a new purpose, away from the First Estate, and found my joy and love in the Grandeur of the Lance, I am met once again with adversity and disapproval.  I grasp.  Lord, save me from growing cold.  Save me from the ichor of heresy.  Save me from the skewed views of others who would see me fall.  Fill me with your dark purpose, for all the love that I have, Lord, is yours, and though I may not hope to one day be cradled in the warmth and glory of your arms, make me your servant through and through.  For this shred of love that I still hold in my cold unbeating heart is all for you...

...I never looked them in the eyes because I knew that they would soon be gone.  Not entirely the truth, I suppose.  I never looked them in the eyes because I knew I'd never truly have the love that warmed them.  Now I never will.

--R.

“I shall never be a heretic; I may err in dispute, but I do not wish to decide anything finally; on the other hand, I am not bound by the opinions of men.” – Martin Luther

      These, my friends, are the words of a man defamed as heretic by the church he fervently served and so hoped to better. He was a bastion of strong faith and conviction, but he was a heretic nonetheless and while we are not human anymore, these words still ring true for us. Heresy - those teachings which take our Divine truths and twist them, corrupting the faith from its very crux - must not be allowed to root itself in the mainstay of the Sanctified belief, nor to lead astray the Damned of the Lord.  The heretic, brethren, is a sad creature.  The innate danger in heresy resides in its nebulous disposition. It is indistinct, unpredictable and often difficult to define. We maintain just and thorough Inquisitions for this very purpose. Heresy necessitates a highly scrutinizing eye, given the already preexisting variations amongst our Creeds, the differences in our holding to one canon or another, and our myriad debates on principles. We must ever be vigilant in the presence of deviation, not only in our dogma but also within the political facet of the Sanctum. We are one body that governs our own and thus political in our own right. No doubt this leads us to conflict of ideals and provides yet another path for divergence.

      We, however, are not some democratic society allowing for any and all beliefs. Absolute relativism, unlike its station in mortal society, has no place in the Lancea Sanctum, lest we allow anyone with a thirst for heretical beliefs to rewrite the Testament of Longinus, and our faith becomes shapeless. We are then rendered absent a perimeter to define what is truth and what is falsehood. In acting on a suspicion of heresy, we need investigate swiftly and thoroughly but not judge hastily.. As heresy attempts to cloak itself under the guise of credibility it requires close examination, to reconcile the questioned beliefs against the truths of our Damnation. We have a valuable resource in the Testament…an inevitable reality passed down by Longinus himself, and the Monachus. Our mission and the Testimony that hands it down is precious and invaluable. Its words and its truths must be protected at all costs.. Thus, we turn our eyes to the question, “At what cost?” How do we best deal with heresy, once it is found?

     So often, we rush to bring low the heretic by means of final destruction, but it is not the foremost answer. In nights past we have lost numerous of our Brothers and Sisters, even our Admired. Why, then, waste the Lord’s precious instruments, adrift though they might be in their misconceptions or lured away like Eve by the Serpent, when we can re-educate them, and steer them back to the path of Longinus? With effort they may be brought back to their right path, but we cannot be indolent in this task. I will make no pretense to say that it is easy. This is not a duty to be undertaken lightly, but as we are to drive the Canaille back to His salvation, so too must our intercessions work to shepherd our own. We must study with them, break down their faulty logic and rebuild their faith from the ground up. The heresy at its very heart must be uprooted, seeking every corrupted morsel and burning it out, only to rebuild a newer, stronger and more pious predator of God. Let us say though that our heretic, firmly planted in his false belief is unbending, and loathe to recant his dissent. What more is there to resort to?

      Mortal gospel tells us that “if the hand causeth thee to sin, cut it off,” but if the mind brings one to sin, then let it be altered! Ours is the God given power to wipe clean the heretical transgression of the misguided Damned and start anew, restoring veracity of Purpose and freeing him from that which distorted his grasp of the Longinian way. Not a brainless automaton, mind you. No, in fact the same dedicated Sanctified who now embraces truth rather than heresy. The once heretic should be treated as any novitiate entering the covenant, being assigned readings in the Testament and given lessons in our doctrine until his education is complete. This necessitates a close accounting, after which time the newly re-educated Lance is tested and barring any failure or lapse in scholarship, he is released once more into the fold. Finally, failing all other attempts at re-education, the heretic must succumb to torpor and await final judgment in the End Times. The Lord is judge of us all – living and dead, blessed and Damned, for so it has been said, “We are ageless. Since we are ageless, I can conceive of existing until the Day of Judgment when God will take an accounting of everything. What will come of me, of the Damned on that day?” For the heretic, we surely know the answer.  Bring him to repentance, and you have saved a piece of God's Holy mandate. Sum Sanctus.

Give praise to Him! He who gave us our purpose! He who sought fit to turn His face to us, even in our state of utter sin. For who but the Lord could so love his damned children even after they lash out against Him? Who but the Lord could grant us station to perform divine works, to give us another chance to serve him faithfully, to grant us miracles no less and to guide us to become better predators? He is great brethren. Never forget this. Become not so engrossed in your nightly pursuits, in striking fear into the Canaille that you forget to show Him deference through prayer, for while duty no doubt is imperative, so too is shared time with the Lord.

Prayer, like a precisely cut gem, is multi-faceted. At its very core lies one common purpose – to maintain our relationship with God – a unique relationship, forged first in our sin, and then in our conscious decision to serve our Father with penitence and piety. On the surface, however, its benefits and methods are abundant and clear cut. Prayer initially ensures that we keep the Lord foremost in our Requiem, for it was by His grace that we were born into this world, and by His will that we were chosen for an opportunity to serve Him in Damnation. Give thanks, for are His chosen! On top of gratitude, prayer brings us focus. The Danse Macabre can more often than not be dispiriting and trying. Prayer takes us to another place, where we can re-focus and check ourselves. Introspection is each Kindred’s responsibility. Each of us has the fundamental duty to make certain that we’re still walking the steadfast path, lest we wait for our brethren to address the issue with severity. Prayer also allows us to perform inventory on our sins. We are sinful in our actions, have no doubt, but ask yourselves, “Am I committing sins that are unnecessary to my Godly duties? Do I hold to the tenets of the Lancea Sanctum? To the Commandments of Longinus? The Testament?” Finally, prayer is just relaxing. Why would one forsake the idea of taking an hour away from crusades, politics, hunting, inquisitions, toiling over writing theologica, delivering masses, dealing with matters of city and clan, traveling and more? An hour of peace is not only reflective but therapeutic.

So now that you’ve decided to pray, what next? How does a Sanctified pray? There are so many ways to talk to the Lord. Prayer begins with thanksgiving. Thanks for our Purpose. Thanks for our Brethren. Thanks for our Miracles. Thanks for the clarity that He gives us. Even for the opportunity to help save men’s souls. There is reflective prayer – introspection, and the monitoring of the self, as well as reflection on the Lord and on the Word of Longinus. Reflection on the trials of our Father in Damnation can often help to guide us and illuminate what is frequently a dark and mystifying path. In addition to this, one can engage in conversational prayer, or discussing with the Lord your hopes, fears, successes and failures, your thoughts. Finally we can engage in prayer of appeal, whereby we ask the Lord for that which we need to better ourselves and to more efficiently accomplish our holy obligations. For, have no doubt, though we are separated from His light, he hears each of us and keeps us under watchful eye as we serve him. In summary, Brothers and Sisters, there is no reason to neglect prayer with the Lord nightly. It is a privilege, a duty, and a respite from nightly labors. I eagerly encourage each and every one of you to go now, give thanks and praise! Share with him your burdens, ask for strength and reflect on the origins of this, our Grandeur! Sum Sanctus!

Plague: Leprosy. Famine. Death.

Plague: Cancer. Poverty. Crime. (Pause)

One Biblical. One contemporary. Both just as punishing in their cause. We are a plague upon the mortal world, revealing the horrors that God’s blessed children walk amongst, blindly. Though blind to the cause they must sense God’s wrath upon their wickedness. As Longinus was cured of his blindness that he did see the truth of man’s sin, so to do we cure the blindness of the mortal soul. Whether through ignorance or willfull spite man is blind from His light, A blindness from the path of the righteous. So too are we as the plague of locusts that descend upon mankind laying bare the fields of decadence and giving man a wilderness to wander. By bringing God’s wrathful hand down upon them, we save them. We, brothers and sisters in Longinus, are eternally cursed, removed wholly and inevitably from salvation that we may through terror reveal God’s verity to those that may be saved. Your purpose, that place that you hold in God’s plan, is to save them from our fate. To salvage their souls from damnation and return the flock to their Heavenly Keeper. For my brethren, why did the Lord send his plagues upon His chosen, but to redeem the worthy and rid His children of the wicked and the wanton?

But how will you plague their world?  Show them their ever existing purgatory? Will you attack their person? Will you attack their emotion? Find and exploit their weakness, their vice and then bring them divine revelations of their spiritual illness? How will YOU serve His plan? They walk before you, fellow damned. If they repent and vow to live in His Light, we send them off to fulfill the rest of their path. Or, if they are found wanting, we send them back to the Lord at that peak moment, before they have chance to fall back to their sin, the moment redemption is assured. Without fail, without mercy, nor distraction, go with conviction, that you might be the plague, the scourge, the sword of God. Sum Sanctus.

Roselynn sat pensively staring out the window of the upper conference room in the Basilica, rosary in one hand, angel token in the other.  Her thumb moved meditatively over and over across the wings of the smooth metal angel.  She gazed, hypnotized by the movement of the eerie passing, light orange, early autumn clouds as they reflected the street lights below.  A pang of hurt twinged in her, something becoming increasingly more rare these nights, as the predator took over what once was a lively girl.

"You told me you'd be with me forever, sire.  Where's my angel now?"

Her mind brought her back from the time she was but a girl, staring, in the same fashion, but hiding inside the country lace curtains casting her glance out at the corn fields of South Dakotah, pondering the thoughts of a young and vibrant eleven year old girl.  She traveled through her thoughts..through the Rhubarb festivals year after winning year...the pageants, the discovery, the posing for portraits, the tours, singing, dancing..and then the crash.  The fear.  The embrace.

Inside, part of her wanted to cry, but no matter how she tried to force it, she could not.  The coldness, the numbness of the beast inside stole that from her, cruel and indiscriminate theif that it was.  She wanted it back so badly sometimes.  Pain, fear, anger, sadness, joy, excitement, love...how she missed love.

"I still love," she stated as a mantra.  "I still love my Lord.  I still love my Lord, and I still love my angel.  Miklas.  What I wouldn't give to talk to you again."

She continued to stare, as the autumn winds picked up and rustled the leaves frantically on the gradually changing trees outside the window.  She continued to recount the rest of her Embrace.


"This truly is damnation."

And Justice For All: Leaving Germany

  Walking with a hurried clip, Roselynn returned just in time to see the girls starting to board the plane.  Maxine and Roselynn simultaneously spotted each other and Maxine, with a wide-eyed glance, rushed over. 

  "God you scared the wits from me.  I though something'd happened.  Plane's ready...we should go, doll.  We don't want to hold 'em up."  Roselynn nodded, still quivering a little, trying not to draw undue attention from her best friend.

  "Honey," Maxine stopped her, taking Rosie by the shoulders.  Roselynn dreaded the concern in Maxine's voice.  "Have you eaten?  You ok?  You look mighty peekish.  What's eatin' ya?"

Head still low and gathering her last minute personals, Roselynn replied, trying to mask the nerves in her words.  She laughed softly, nervously. "I'm fine...just a little flight fright...that's all," she smiled. "That's all really."

On the plane the girls sat together, Roselynn on the window and Maxine on the aisle.  Roselynn was curled up the moment she sat down, wrapped up in a cumbersome blanket, a pillow immediately stuffed beneath her head.  She lay back and watched the grand cityscape shrink before her, while the plane rose, an angel from Earth - light and quiet.  A low hum of feminine voices filled the inside of the small plane, almost harmonious in concert with the buzz of the engines.  She could hear the notes intertwine, the ladies' melodious voices intermingling and dancing through the backdrop of the engine hum.  Her drowsy eyes watched the buildings far, far below and then wandered to the horizon, watching the sunset as the plane lifted ever higher.  Weariness overcame the raven haired beauty and the buzz and murmurs of the girls became a gentle hush.  Her eyelids became heavy and the hush became heightened silence - a barely audible white noise.  She began to doze.

SCREAMS. EXPLOSION. Black smoke filled the small cabin, like a gas chamber for those helpless humans they'd been fighting abroad for.   Roselynn sat up, disoriented, with a sinking feeling, as if she were falling - lifting off her seat.  Everything around her jolted and banked suddenly. The spinning aircraft, plunging toward the earth, tossed her around, her limp and uncontrollable body slamming into seats and into other victims of the soon to be fatal ending to an eternity of fear and horror.   She tried to brace herself.  She caught a glimpse of the ground coming closer out the window and she let out a scream as her mind reeled in terror.  'When is it going to crash?!?  How can I ready myself--  Am I going to die?  Lord please don't let me die!  I'm so sorry...PLEASE I BEG YOU DON'T LET M-'

........
    ........


Her eyelids were stuck shut...she couldn't open them.  Her eyes stung, and were sticky, as if thick...something thick...had filled them.  Almost gummy.  She managed to open one, which stung even further as the black smoke rose across her vision.  Like a kaleidoscope, the flames to her side flickered in between the puffs and wafts of blackness.  Her nostrils burned with the offensive and overwhelming odor of jet fuel and as hard as she tried, Rosie couldn't move at all.  Her body ached.  The ache turned gradually into a stabbing pain.  Stabbing her ribs, stabbing her shoulder, stabbing her knee.  Opening her other eye, all she could see was a red haze, as a warm liquid spilled into her right eye, overflowing and flowing down her cheek.  She wanted so desperately to cry..to sob, but to no avail.  She hadn't the energy and she was terrified beyond tears.  Tears would indicate life, and Rosie was no longer certain if this was life or if she had passed.  Wavering in and out of consciousness, she closed her eyes once more, only to see the flicker of fire through her blood encrusted eyelids...but...then a new light...a new light came from the left side of her.  It was bright..brighter than the fire that churned out the heat which singed her torn cheek and forehead.  She turned her head toward it and a sharp pain drove into her neck and she cried out.  She opened her eyes and her fears were confirmed as she gazed up at the white radiant figure which stood above her.  A large man, adorned in heavenly raiments, with wings.  A gentle face...eyes that calmed amidst the wreckage and chaos that was that very moment.

"Fear no more childe."  No sooner had Miklas, an angel, gotten out those words than Rosie was onces more unconscious.  He lifted her body as if it was a stray, brittle tree branch off the ground.  Carrying her with ease into a nearby Cathedral, he lay her battered figure down on the cold, archaic stone of the large dais in the grand church, where the altar stood, sacred and stoic as the crucified Christ that cast his saddened glance down upon her.  The sculpture might as well have risen to life, as if He were not saddened for what had transpired in His sacrifice, but what had transpired in hers.  Roselynn's eyes opened up once more.

As she lay feebly on the ground, like a sacrificial lamb on an altar of old, she stared transfixed in awe.  Framed in her vision, still somewhat blurry, was her angel, and the face of a crucified Savior over his left shoulder, staring back at her.

"Please!  Help Me.  I'm...I'm so sorry!" she cried, "I didn't mean to kil--You...you're an..an ange--"

He smiled with warmth, a single finger upon her lips putting her panic to rest.  "Shhh....silence childe.  All is well."

"Don't let me die.  I'm not ready. I'm not done, please..."  Rosie begged and pleaded through salty, blood mixed tears, running down through the ash and soot covering her delicate face.  "Forgive me."

He spoke again, his voice echoing through the vast space. "That man was due his judgment and you brought him to it.  Do not cry."

"But it's not my place to....He was going to kill me, I know he was--"

He interrupted, "and as such the Lord's hand moved through you to make his end swift."

Her face grew pale, as she began to slip into shock, her body quickly losing blood, and death creeping closer to claiming the few fraying threads of her vitality.  Her breathing quickened.  Then hyperventilation.  His eyes bore deep into her and Rosie let him in, opened herself to him as the power of his blood reached into her core.

"Calm yourself, Roselynn Ray."

Her eyes dropped down a bit, and she grew drowsy.

"You are dying," the angel whispered to the fading girl, "but I have a gift for you if you are willing.  You have been chosen to do His work.  He has sent me to you, that you would become an angel yourself.

Panicked but weak, she strained to speak to the angel...to plead, "Please, don't leave me.  I'm not ready.  I don't want to leave.  My work isn't done.  I love my life, please help me..don't leav---"

"--then you will be an angel here on Earth.  No, childe, your work isn't done." Seemingly out of nowhere, the angel's voice boomed...rang out like a choir of a thousand Saints and Seraphim.

"I WILL BE WITH YOU FOREVER.  I AM MIKLAS.  YOUR WORDS HAVE BEEN HEARD CHILDE.  THIS IS NOT YOUR DAY TO DIE, BUT TO LIVE IN HIS SERVICE."

                         To Be Continued in the final chapter "Dawning of the Night (Part 4)..."


 

The Flat (Continued)

In an instant Roselynn made a dash for the door.  'He'll kill me.  Oh God, please don't let me die!'  Heinrich, desperate to explain himself to her, grabbed her by the arm, pleading for her not to leave, demanding that she allow him an explanation.  With his sheer touch, Rosie screamed and tried to pull away.  Her knuckles were white, as her fists clenched the knife and the silk armband. 

"LET ME GO!   STOP!  PLEASE!"  Hot tears spilled down her flushed face as her stomach knotted from the terror of her circumstance.  She failed to notice, though, in her frenzied state.  In fact, she couldn't notice anything.  Her mind, momentarily,  was a blank slate.  And then a moment later she noticed...she noticed the warm liquid on her face.  She went to wipe the thick tears away from her face, and wipe her hand on her dress.  'Thick?' her mind wondered, fleetingly, but before her hand reached the Navy blue fabric, she saw it.  Shock. The red.  On her hands. On the floor.  On Heinrich.  Then she began to notice that her hands were numb and, in moving them to see if she could regain feeling, dropped the knife...which was also red.  Paralysis took over as she simply stood and took in the tableau of Heinrich's dead body - his blood, visceral and seemingly sentient, creeping slowly across the wood floor toward her, as if it knew of her most recent crime and was coming to exact its revenge.  She caught the breath that she'd lost amidst her utter shock.  Rosie's body quivered uncontrollably and she cried hard.  A sudden chime startled her and she jumped, her eyes darting to the face of the clock.  'Seven p.m.'  One hour left before her tour plane would leave, with or without her.  She scrambled with quaking hands, stumbling into the bathroom and fumbling recklessly with the faucet.  She let it run for a moment as she tried to set her mind straight and devise a plan for herself.  Rosie's thought process not yet rational, she closed her eyes and thought, took a deep breath and thought to herself,  'I'm leaving Germany in an hour.  Nobody will ever see us again.  Nobody but Maxine knows I'm with him.  This will be ok.  Have to clean up.  Have to compose myself.  Have to get out of here quickly.' 

She immediate thrust her hands under the steaming water and screamed, jerking her hands back in pain.   Her delicate hands were seared, and yet capable of such an act of strength and brutality.   The water was scalding.  She grasped to turn the faucet cooler and began to rinse the blood away until there was only a faint pink swirl left circling the drain.  She took a small cloth and wiped the spattered droplets of his bloody Nazi life away from her face and neck, her arms and her collarbone.  Rosie gathered her things, regained herself and left for her plane, as if nothing had ever happened.  A performer she was, indeed.  Nothing showed beyond the young woman's façade, but beneath the surface, her guilt roiled.  How could she have given herself up?  To the enemy?  To lust???  Lust.  The key that would be her damnation.  Her lust drove her to shed his blood.  Little did she know that within the night, blood would become her lust.

Thursday, June 21st, 1945 - A Summer Afternoon performance - Frankfurt, Germany


The crowds reveled in her.  She reveled in the accolades.  The shouts.  The wolf-whistles.  Adoration.   The sheer desire they had for her.  The thrill fueled her voice to belt, her feet to dance, her energy to explode as she entertained the soldiers and the more they gave, the more she gave.  Roselynn could fall in love with anyone of them, but she knew she couldn't let herself.  Every one, a handsome face.  Strong, rugged, men built to fight.  Hundreds of handsome eyes aglow with adoration...and despite their stalwart nature, their faces were filled with so much innocence.  She couldn't look into their eyes.  She never did.  Couldn't allow herself to, lest she die inside with the knowledge that so many of these mother's sons would never look into maternal eyes again - that so many of those mothers would experience the horror of that knock on the door, that terribly dreaded telegram, and worse yet, receiving the casket for them to bury...if they came back in so much tact.  Rosie had nightmares about it, almost weekly.  Nevertheless, God gave her talent and with charity in her heart she would give them inspiration...something to bring them light in so much darkness.

Finishing her finale song, Bei Mir Bist Du Schön, she waved to the raving crowd of men and bid them farewell.  The late afternoon sun blazed down upon them, the heat coming off the wooden stage built for the performance out of old crates and flats.   Back to the ramshackle room to change out of her costume, she excited at the thought of spending some time at the local cabaret, watching performances this time with her best friend, Maxine.  'We've got five hours before we leave.  They won't miss us a bit,' she mused.

"Take a load off, it's time to go get our kicks!"  Maxine giggled as she unhooked her girdle, touched up the fake stocking seam on the back of her leg and changed behind the screen into a keen little summer dress.  She tossed her costume over the screen and did a little turn in the dusty and cracked full length mirror.  Rosie looked around. 

"It sure isn't Broadway, is it," she chuckled as she finished dressing.

"C'mon Rosie, let's split!"  Maxine grabbed her little pink and white dotted clutch purse and exited the run-down makeshift dressing room, with Rosie in tow.

The two girls found themselves hailing a cab in German and heading nearby to a local tavern and cabaret venue.  It was a dark little club with tables crowded together, large enough for three seated comfortably, four if one packed in tightly.  The meager light fixtures read of late art-deco...obviously built in the twenties.  From the façade, a patron would have no clue as to the elegance it held when you walked in the door.  The outside was slightly dirty.  The inside, clean and classy.  An unobtrusive dark brick building with a plain sign that read: "Schwarzhaus: Die heibesten nummern wenig in der Stadt!"  The Black House.  An appropriate enough name.  The girls entered and were shown with immediacy to their own little table in the corner toward the diminutive stage.  They each ordered a lager and sat back watching the crowd and discussing the afternoon's performance.

"We'll have to get back about a half hour before the plane leaves," Rosie stated.

"Don't sweat it...we'll get back just fine.  And if we find some fellas, we'll just meet back up.  You got cab fare?"

"I'm fine," she smiled.

As the evening progressed and the girls took in the performance, not to mention a few more beers, they relaxed and immediately invited two handsome gentlemen to sit down.  After all, it was the Nazi's we'd been fighting, not the civilians.  Heinrich and Peter politely and charmingly approached the ladies and asked if they might join the ladies.  Rosie's eyes connected immediately with Heinrich's and after a moment, she was helplessly caught in his gaze and vice versa.  Her twinkling eyes and smile drew him in.  The couples talked for a few hours and took in some very enticing performances.  They danced, the chatted, and embraced a bit...the sum total of publicly acceptable behavior.  Rosie had always been a good girl.  Not trashy like the city girls.  She'd never let herself be taken and at twenty-five, she was proud of it.  Then the moment came when they were invited back to the gentlemen's respective flats for drinks.  Irresistable.

The Flat...Early Evening

"...so the waiter says, no problem!  I can also bring you the feathers!" Heinrich chortled in an attempt at entertaining the entertainer.

Rosie laughed hysterically, more out of fondness for the fellow than sincerity.  She felt drawn in by him, perhaps because he was foreign.  Perhaps because he was supposed to be the enemy.  'He's not the enemy Rose.  The Nazi's are,' she reminded herself.  An awkward silence occurred and had there not been classical music playing on the Victrola, the quiet would have been deafening.  She gazed at him and he returned it as they slowly and cautiously moved toward one another.  He engaged her in a long and passionate kiss and in her mind she tried to suppress the voice of morality that she'd grown up with. 'I'm a big girl now. It's ok,' she argued, while the voice called back to her, 'this isn't Godly.  What would Father Banion have to say?  Or your mother and father?  Don't lose your integrity. This isn't right.  It's a sin!  Lust is a sin!'  The angel and the devil sat in the back of her mind, consistently involved in a moral tug-of-war.  Then the two disappeared and the excitement of the moment took over.  The passion laid claim to her and one deep, long kiss led her to the small bedroom, and lured her to disrobe.

The moment became a minute and the minutes passed into an hour.  The voice in her head came back as she lay on the bed, recovering her wits from the throes of ecstasy, only this time the angel came back without her inner demon.  'What have I done?  I violated that which God gave me?  My God...I'm not wed.  What have I done?!?  I'm sorry, I was weak!'  Rosie jumped up, looking at the clock, clearly suppressing a bit of panic.

"My God!  I have to get back soon.  I have to get dressed -- I can't miss my plane!" 

Heinrich kissed her forehead.  "Very good, my little robin.  I'll be back shortly to see you off, though such a short time with you is a travesty."

Rosie dressed quickly and waited for Heinrich in his front room.  She wandered, looking at the artwork on his walls, the photographs of his family, then moved over to the window, clumsily dropping her purse on the floor beside the loveseat.  As she reached down to retrieve her clutch, she froze.  Froze in horror of what she saw in front of her.  A belt with a few utilitarian items attached and an armband, behind the loveseat, against the wall.  A familiar -- no, outright notorious, armband.  She picked the swastika emblazoned armband  and German Army knife up off the floor, then turned on heel and gasped as Heinrich came from the facilities. 

"I do so hate to see you go, my little robi---"  Heinrich froze in turn, taking in the image of Rosie, with armband in hand, gazing at him in horror.  Neither could move for a moment.  Neither knew what to say.  Rosie paralyzed in fear, sadness and anger and Heinrich desperate somehow to explain to her, grasping for words. 

'How do I tell her I had no choice?!?  They'd have murdered my family?'

'Not only did I violate myself and God, but I slept with the enemy and violated my country, the soldiers, the boys...my God, he's going to kill me!  How do I run?!?  God help me!!!'

Both their minds flurried with thoughts, each unsure of what the other was thinking.  And then one broke.

She made a dash for the door in the only move that might possibly save her life.

...to be continued.