The Photograph

The Torte looked amazing. It was vanilla-flavoured cake puffed up with lots of fruits; mostly tropical. There was loads of whipped cream on top. There had been wine with dinner and there was home-made Schnaps with desert; Schnaps that Kurt had made. The label read: Kettler; das feinste Genuss im Deutschen Reich (Kettler, the tastiest pleasure in the German Empire). The Schnaps lived up to it's name, Alistair had at least four glasses of it and even Adolf and Anneliese had downed two or three as well. Kurt out drank them all, guzzling down a glorious seven glasses, he'd had the most wine as well. 

Everyone at the small party was pleasently buzzed on alcohol. The conversation never ceased, it got louder and more playfull, and at ten-thirty, there were only two slices of the delicious Torte left. 

"Adolf, do you have a camera here?" Kurt asked out of the blue. Adolf nodded his head and gestured at one of the lower cabinets in the living room, perhaps too buzzed to explain where exactly. Kurt bumbled off his chair and through the room to retrieve it and set it up. 

"I love photographs!" Anneliese excalimed, clapping her hands together. Adolf just waved his hand through the air; being the Führer he was recorded enough. Alistair, the only man or woman in the entire room who'd ever seen or would ever seen a smartphone just smiled. 

"I think she likes you," Adolf said quietly, leaning over to Alistair. "I haven't seen her like this in years." 

"Really?" Alistair didn't know wether to be excited or nervous about it; the only emotion he could place was the feeling of being flattered, and he allowed himself to be. 

"And you've made quite an impression on Kurt, he usually doesn't want to take photographs." 

"Then why does he tonight?"

"To remember you after you return to America of course!" Adolf answered. He made the un-german gesture of laying his hand on Alistairs arm. Such touches are commen among Russians and Ukranians, but seldom in Germany; unless there was alcohol involved. Maybe Russians are just drunken Germans, Alistair couldn't help but think. "I would miss you too, so if you wish, I will employ you as my unofficial translator." The offer and the unexpected touch from the Führer made Alistair's stomach lurch. What kind of man was he that Hitler himself had taken a liking to him? 

"Get up, get up!" Kurt's call sobered Alistair up a bit. A second later he was pushing in his chair and then joining Hitler to walk across the room. They posed in front of the prettiest back wall, it had several paintings, Alistair decided NOT to ask if Hitler had painted them. Kurt called a maid in and quickly explained how to take a photo. Then he joined his three friends in front of the decorated wall. The men smiled, Alistair, waiting for the maid to click the photo. She failed. Everyone broke out laughing. Kurt desperatly tried to explain where she had to press. In the meantime Anneliese had grabbed ahold of Alistair's arm, and he'd cracked a joke, causing her and Hitler to laugh. And that's when the picture was shot. 

Sadly there was no film left for a re-take. But the picture was a good one, it had truely captured the spirit of that night. 

Alistair remembered which room he was staying in and was delighted to find out that it was next to that of Anneliese. After all four of them had wished each other good night they disappeared to their rooms. It didn't take long for Anneliese to knock on Alistair's door, and when she asked him to join her for a cigarette he couldn't refuse. 

"The Berghof is so beautiful..." She said, staring into the darkness as if she could see what they'd all admired at daylight. "I'm jealous of Eva."

"That she often stays here?"

"Yes, and that she has Adolf." 

"Why?" For a split second he thought the pretty girl might have also fallen for the ruthless dictator, but she just shrugged.

"It's been a long time since I was in a relationship. I guess life just got in the way."

"That happens," he agreed. She shot him a look and he shrugged in turn. "I've been around more than twice as long as you, Anne, I know exactly what you're saying."

"And you're not married?" She asked, almost hopefully.

"I am. To a French woman. Her name's Monica." And maybe it was saying her name in a dream that made him realize how real it was. It wasn't a dream, no way. In a dream he'd never mention his wife, he'd eagerly sleep with the young german girl. But he was honest; and most of all, he missed his wife. "And she's pregnant. I originally wanted to head back to the states for the birth, but now I'm not sure if that'll be possible."

"How far along is she?"

"Not too far." He answered vaguely. "But far enough for it to be noticable. She was getting moody when I left, and I didn't know why. Recently she messaged me telling me that the moodiness was due to the baby she was carrying along with her."

"Congragultions." She said, and it seemed to Alistair that she meant it. "First child?"

"Yes."

"The first child is the hardest. You feel like you're dying when you give birth," she answered, "I felt as if I was being torn apart."

"You have children?" Alistair asked in surprise. She couldn't be a day over twenty-three. 

"I had." She responded. "The baby died at childbirth."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't apologize." She said quickly, "I'm a bit relieved. My lover left me the second he heard I was pregnant, and I wasn't ready to raise the baby alone. And he wasn't attractive in the slightest anyways, so our baby wouldn't have been a cutie, let alone a sweetheart." She spoke about it noncholantly, but Alistair could tell that it was one of the things that made her troubled and, a bit sad. "I'm done with the cigarette, and it's getting chilly, want to go back inside?"

Alistair nodded, and they re-entered the living room, closing the door behind them quickly as not to let smoke follow them in."