It’s a long and arduous journey across Europe to South America. At every border, I keep thinking that we’ll be caught, but border patrols are not expecting us with our new appearances and identities. After days of travel, relying on the kindness of strangers, my wife, and I finally make it to Brazil.
We have settled in the south, in a tightly held community of expats. I’ve become a farmer who doesn’t know how to farm, but I’m learning. For leisure, I paint landscapes in the evenings as I used to, and occasionally meet up with comrades from the old country. They sing songs and retell war stories but I’d rather live in the present than dredge up old wounds.
There is a family of sorts here. I have godchildren to visit and we spend birthdays and Christmases with them but mostly my wife and I prefer to keep to ourselves. The expats in our village want to begin again, but it’s an exercise in futility. “It’s the past,” I say, “let it go.” They look at me as though I killed their children, but still they treat me with respect.
We live comfortably, with few luxuries. Friends smuggled in some much appreciated knick knacks from home. We have a few paintings by Adolf Ziegler, Arnold Bocklin and Hans Thoma and a couple of sculptures by Arno Breker. Listening to Opera is one of my favourite pastimes. It’s quite humbling to hear it being played over the fields as the sun sets. My wife loves anything by Wagner and Liszt. I love Tchaikovsky and Rimsky Korsakov, things our former comrades would be shocked to know.
I have a film projector and have seen the Great Dictator many times. The part where the dictator kicks the world around makes me laugh. Chaplin was so graceful and artless, I tried to fashion myself on him. He looks like ‘everyman.’ I thought it was the most deceptively powerful image ever. Who would think that an amusing tramp would rise to to become leader of anything, let alone a country, or potentially, a world? But I’m no longer interested in the world and it’s events.
Our life is quiet or, rather, it was until yesterday. A man came to the village making suspicious enquiries. He showed old photos around town of my wife and I, but of course, we’ve changed significantly since arriving here. We’ve both had rhinoplasty and chin jobs performed by one of our country’s greatest surgeons. Charlie Chaplin and I, even without the moustache, could even be twins.
When I look into the mirror I don’t recognise the man before me. I am fitter than I’ve ever been. My wife tells me that I look handsome. She likes my tanned face and body and says the short, grey hair makes me appear distinguished.
Another nosey person came digging into our pasts. There have been many other strangers coming through the village over the years. Many more of late. I’ve been haunted by the memory of a young couple that disappeared after making too many enquiries. That was only six months ago.
It’s a nightmare I wake up to every morning. I await the tap on the shoulder for crimes against humanity. I’ve heard rumours of my comrades being captured and killed for doing nothing more than following directives. We are imprisoned by history.
Last week, my wife died of a heart attack. She was truly all I had. Loyal and loving to the end, I can see no future without her.
As the sun sets, I pour a home-pressed glass of Riesling wine. I toast my wife, and the fatherland before popping the cyanide pill. I leave this world convulsing to a recording of the Overture to Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman. A dramatic but fitting end.
