English and Cigarettes

Martin found that he - or rather Franz Weiher - was no longer a member of the Wehrmacht; instead, he had become part of the SS and, due to his services in the First and Second World Wars, held the position of Hauptsturmführer. 

The first thing he'd done after a quick and tense conversation with his wife, or rather, his great-grandmother Marlene, was dash off to the washing room where he observed himself in the mirror.

At first, he frantically scratched at his face, pushing his nose to the left or the right, pulling at his cheeks, running his hand along the sharp typical German jawline he never used to have. He tugged at his hair, a light blonde dabbled with spots of grey as if he wanted to rip it out. Where were his childish chipmunk cheeks? Why were his cheeks hollow with perfectly carved high cheekbones? Why were his eyes so deeply blue that the sky itself might ask them for ink if heaven ran out? 

Frustrated and confused he sank back against the door. He slid down until he was seated on the floor of the bathroom. Why was this happening? 

But once his heart had stopped beating so furiously he slowly got to his feet again. And he leaned forward. His reflection was by far more attractive than he'd ever been before. For a second he wished that some of these genes had made it down to him. The broad shoulders, the blazing eyes, the

"Franz!"

Marlene. He'd never met his great-grandmother before today as she'd died long before he'd been born. But he'd seen a few scarce images of her. She didn't feel like kin, but how could she if the first time she was speaking to him was now?

"I'll be right out." He called. He turned back to study himself more thoroughly. He slipped out of his shirt. Franz was muscular and sturdy. He flexed his bicep and then wrapped the fingers of his other hand around it. Hard as iron. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. He turned around to glance at his back. It was a vast expanse of muscle and some thin but long white scars. Marlene called out to him again and rapped on the door with her knuckles. Martin quickly slipped back into his shirt and took one look back at Franz, his reflection. 

He stepped out of the bathroom and immediately his wife handed him a small box. "What's this?" He asked confusedly.

"Why, your cigarettes darling! Comrade Schneider dropped them off yesterday as a gift. He also gave us a small basket of apples. They're fresh! Not pickled! Can you believe it! I asked him what the occasion was but he wouldn't say, he said it was something that you and some man named Sievers* needed to discuss," as the woman continued to talk about the surprise but welcome visit of whoever Comrade Schneider was Martin realized something that made listening to her chatter impossible. She was speaking German. And he understood every word. Martin had never learned the language, and neither had his father. So how come he could understand it-

"I'm sorry, Sievers?" He interrupted, cutting back to the place his mind had drifted off, "What did you say about him?" That's when he realized he'd been speaking German this whole time himself. It came naturally, so naturally that he hadn't registered the switch of language. "Baby, I'll be right back, I need to do something quickly. Stay," he darted back to the bathroom but before he closed the door he peeked his head around the frame and called, "And don't forget to tell me everything about Comrade Schneider's visit and this Sievers guy!" He slammed the door shut behind him and fumbled with the lock. 

He opened his mouth to speak but the sounds died in his throat. Did he really want to try this? What if...

"My name is Martin Weiher, I'm seventeen years old and if I'm not in my backyard with my dog then I'm probably..." But the lines he'd spoken so often at high school introductions died on his lips. His English was plagued by a heavy German accent. He still remembered the words, thankfully, but Franz Weiher's mouth and jaw were not used to the movements needed to articulate the sounds used to speak accent-free English. He tried to say "thicket" or "birthday" several times, but the "th" wouldn't sit. 

He'd lost absolutely everything about his appearance and body that was what made up the body of Martin Weiher. And he'd completely turned into Franz. 

SS-Hauptsturmführer Franz Weiher.