I’m unsure of what to do anymore. I’m unsure of myself. Who am I now? The question turns in my head like a carousel and it’s going so fast I can’t seem to get off. It’s endless, this misery; this uncertainty; this waiting.
What is this that we have here, between you and me? Is there anything at all? I’m no longer sure anymore.
I’m unsure of you, now, too. Sometimes I feel as though you do things on purpose simply to keep me in the dark, to keep me on my toes. I’m always sitting on the fence with you, wondering onto which side I will fall this time.
I’ll admit it was interesting at first. It drew me in further. I took it as a challenge and as a facet of a relationship with someone so much more mature than me. But I have grown tired of this game after so many years. It’d be easier to continue on playing if I knew for certain there was an obtainable victory in the future.
However, as of right now, I see none. I can only see myself repeating the same moves over and over again, and you yourself doing the same.
If you have outgrown me, I will understand. You must realize I would never stand in the way of your happiness. I would do everything in my power to give it to you, including forfeiting the position of being your friend and your lover.
I say friend as well because I know it would be too hard for me to remain in personal contact with you knowing our history and knowing I will no longer be living in those wonderful moments we have shared. I mean it as no insult to you, no passive-aggressive act to express that I am bitter about your decision. Don’t think for a second I would resent you if you choose a life without me. How could I ever harbor such evil feelings towards you? Impossible.
But I know it would hurt too much, especially the day I would eventually see you walking with another girl on your arm, being forced to confront that you were sharing those same moments you had once shared with me with her.
I can’t promise I won’t resent her. I know it’s silly but I think it’s only natural and inevitable. I’m only human, after all. How can one not hate the partner of the one whom one loves so deeply, so fervently? In a way it will feel as though she has taken you from me; and even though I know that would not be the case, emotions are uncontrollable. They will come as they will, no matter the lack of rational behind them.
Do you remember that weekend in June, when Heinrich had taken his family up to Berlin for a whole five days; and I had told my parents I was spending the weekend with Herta?
It was so hot and their air conditioning was broken and there wasn’t even a breeze to blow through the windows. You showed up that Friday night, even though your cool apartment would have been much more comfortable. But there had been some reason it had been impossible for you to take me there–you never shared it with me–and you had chosen that time to follow through on your promise of spending those three days with me, even if it meant we would be wet and sticky for the most part.
We ripped the blankets off the bed that night, remember? We opened the windows in vain, hoping it might cool the rooms even marginally. Honestly, now that I think about it, it probably only made it worse once the morning came!
And even though it was so, so hot–even through the night–you still held me close and stroked my hair until I had fallen asleep. And every morning I still found you lying beside me. You were a bit of a bed hog that weekend but I sincerely didn’t mind. You were willing to stay with me through the night so I was willing to give you as much space as you needed so you could cool off as much as possible.
We spent one whole afternoon that weekend simply lying on the wood floor because it felt cooler against our skin than the thick fabric of the couches and especially those God awful heat trapping sheets. We snacked on ice cubes with our cold sandwiches and continued to rewet washcloths in cold water from the sink to place onto our foreheads. Our clothes were soaked by the time the night arrived. Do you remember how quickly we undressed?
You held my hand all that afternoon. That’s the sensation I remember most. We laid there and we talked about so many things and through every hour you kept your fingers locked with mine. It felt so nice and so secure. I hadn’t ever felt more certain of what we had together than I did that day.
It was something so simple. And it meant the world to me.
But what I remember most vividly was that Saturday night. Now especially it’s more of a dream to me than reality. I can remember every little detail, though.
We had such a magical night even though we were both incredibly sweaty and everything we did only made that room more humid. That we weren’t wearing clothes helped us none. We threw that away in favor of doing something better even though every minute only made us hotter.
Then you said you loved me. You told me you were madly in love with me.
Do you remember how confused and a little worried you were when I started crying? It happened before I even realized it. I just couldn’t believe it. I’m sure you remember how I asked you to say it again and you laughed at my womanish desires and said it again, just because I asked. Every single time I asked that night you said it. Over and over.
You kissed my eyelids and told me you hadn’t felt so happy in years; and I told you I hadn’t felt so happy in all my life.
I’ve held onto that moment through everything. The days I’d heard you’d come back to the city and didn’t hear a word from you or see your face for even a moment; the days you promised you’d see me and without any explanation or reason, without any forewarning, you simply never showed; the days I spent hours by your side and you hardly even glanced my way; the days I felt invisible to you, like I was just another meaningless civilian. Like I didn’t even exist to your eyes.
I held onto that moment. I told myself that wasn’t our reality; that weekend, who we were that weekend was who we really were. That was our reality. That was us.
My grip has failed and I can no longer hold onto that moment. You haven’t spoken to me in three months–has it been longer? I don’t know anymore, so much time has slipped away that even the blue of your eyes is dull in my memory–and I can’t help but feel you have dropped me once and for all.
I would greatly appreciate some official statement from you. At the very least, I beg you to give me that. If what we have is nothing anymore, please just tell me. I can’t bear this.
If you no longer love me, please just say it. I promise I can take it. At least until I am out of sight.
There are no more options left for me.
What am I to do.
The pen stops and she looks over what she has released onto the page before her with tortured eyes. She knows it is much too revealing. She knows she will never send it, that no other eyes will ever see it.
She tears the pages into strips and tosses them into the fire. She watches on as they buckle and twist beneath the heat, as the flames try to erase her pain.
But it’s impossible. It has simply taken on a different form.
The fire is now gone. All that remains is a sad pile of grey ashes.
© 2015 Elizabeth Klarke
My take on what kind of letter Eva might have written “to” Adolf before her second suicide attempt. Just some of the thoughts and feelings I imagine might have been going through her mind.