Steffen

Based on the photograph taken by Collier Schorr entitled 'Steffen'.

I pay the taxi driver and step out of the car, my legs wobbling while I try to stop my heels from sinking into the gravel. Unfortunately, it is my fate to break the heel of my right foot and I cannot help but groan aloud as I look down.

"Are you all right?" A half-worried, half-amused voice comes from before me, and I look up to see Steffen standing in the doorway of his family's quaint country cottage. He is trying to hide a smile, but I can see the laughter in his eyes; my ego demands of me that I do not beg for his aid, so I respond with, "of course, I'm fine."

To prove my point, I bend over, pull at the strappy contraptions that adorn my feet and relieve myself of the anguish that most women subjugate themselves to in order to appeal to the opposite sex. Yes, my relationship with Steffen has advanced to the degree that I am meeting his family, but even so, I know that I have to make a good impression; and no good impression, in my experience, has ever been successful without a pair of heels.

Nevertheless, the heels have been shed and so I am praying that my past experiences will be proven wrong as I tread across the gravel, trying not to cringe, and reach Steffen, who is now leaning on the porch railing. "Hello," I finally greet him and he smiles before kissing me and then grabs my hand.

"My family is in the kitchen, preparing a meal fit for a king," he says as he leads me down a hall, just before he enters a doorway, though he stops me from following with a hand motion, and closes the door behind him. I stand there like an idiot, unsure of what is going on but a minute or two later he walks out with a pair of flip-flops in his right hand. "Do they fit?" I take them and slip my feet into them. I look up at him and say, "perfect." He grins before taking my hand again and leads me back to our origin and down another hall which, finally, leads to the kitchen.

The five people within stop what they are doing, one, I assume she is Steffen's mother, stops cutting lettuce with the knife in midair. "Oh, she's gorgeous!" she says causing me to blush and Steffen to look slightly embarrassed, which he relates by crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. I can’t help but laugh at his embarrassment.

"It's fine, really," I tell him, still smiling. "Thank you," I say, turning to his mother. "I am Gabrielle."

Steffen's mother open her mouth, but a little blond girl, interrupts. "I'm Laura, you know, right? Laura, the little sister?" She appears to be about ten and very excited. "That's Mama, obviously. And Papa," she points to a man who has the same strong face as Steffen, albeit with a bit more age. She then continues, "that's Uncle Franz Schorr and Aunt Collier. She's American, like you!" I look to the last two in the kitchen and the middle aged, mostly balding, man with a slightly disturbing handle bar mustache and beady black eyes nods while his brunette wife smiles warmly; she seems very American, but perhaps I merely think that because Laura has mentioned it. I open my mouth to speak, but Laura interrupts again. "Are you going to marry Steffen? Because I want to wear a pretty dress!"

"Laura!" her five relations shout at her at once, Steffen louder than the rest and, yet again, I notice his uneas iness but this time I do not laugh at him but rather I just smile at Laura's bubbliness. The small blond girl seems as if she is generally a very enthusiastic child. The family starts to work again, as if they are all unsure what else to say, and as they do so I notice some of the tension flee; I am relieved that Laura isn’t further pursuing the question. I like Steffen very much but... Well, I met him less than a year ago!

Steffen walks over to where his father stands, using an indoor grill to cook either tilapia or halibut; I am glad to see that it is not pork for despite the fact that I am not a practicing Jew, I still do not eat pig. I want to help and glance around, trying to find something to do. Steffen’s aunt, Collier Schorr, motions to me to come over to her. I move and see that she is making dough. She gives me an apologetic look around and says in a comforting, American tone, “I’m sorry; I overslept and Sarah, Steffen’s mother, should have known better than to trust me to make the sourdough bread. Maybe we can have it as dessert, though.” She laughs at her own words and I can’t help but laugh with her and soon I am helping her shape the dough.

While I help, I notice that Mrs. Barbarostrase is finishing the salad while Steffen, his father, and his uncle are grilling, and Laura is bringing dishes through a doorway, down a hall which, after a quick question, I learn leads to an outside alcove.

Just as Mrs. Schorr and I put the dough into the oven, the little blond announces, “I’m ready!” in a sing-song voice. I wait a moment and then Steffen beckons so I follow him into a small grove with a prettily set table. We take seats opposite his aunt and uncle, while Steffen sits between me and Laura, with his parents sitting opposite one another, at each end of the table. Mr. Barbarostrase offers us wine, even Laura, who drinks a mouthful, makes a face, and then demands water. We start to eat the fish, the salad, and several other dishes which were prepared in advance and the meal is very comfortable; I find myself liking Steffen’s family a great deal.

We eat until we are full and then Collier realizes that she has yet to take out the bread and brings it to the table, thanking goodness that the oven t imer worked. Laura frowns and whines that she wants to eat the chocolate chip cookies she made as dessert and Steffen tells her that they shall have two courses of dessert, letting nothing go to waste; but savoring both the bread and cookies independently. Seeing him so at ease with his family makes me like my boyfriend even more than prior to the meeting.

After the bread is finished, while we wait for Laura to retrieve the cookies, Collier says, “oh! I almost forgot! I developed the picture!” She reaches into her purse and passes around a framed photo; everyone smiles an odd sort-of smile and I wonder what I shall see, for nobody is making a sound. Steffen passes it to me and I nearly drop it. “Is this a sick joke?” I demand as I stare at a picture of my boyfriend wearing the uniform of a Nazi. The photo slips out of my shaking hands, the glass of the frame breaking as it lands on the table; I say nothing and as the family stares at me in shock, which quickly turns to hurried explanations which I tune out, I kick off the flip-flops and walk to the front of the house.

There is a shout from behind me and I turn around, primarily out of desperation; I do not want to leave. I like Steffen and his family a great deal and the logical part of my mind tells me that he is no neo-Nazi. The Jewish part of my soul, however, shouts out to me that no German, unless they are Jewish, is to be trusted. But I stop and turn because I am a logical person.

It is Steffen; he is out of breath from running after me. As he approaches, I see that he has the flip-flops in his left hand. “What the hell is wrong?” he implores of me.

“What’s wrong?” I seethe, wondering how he can be so callous. He is aware of my heritage, even if I am not a practicing Jew. I told him about my grandmother who was in Dachau, for she died three months ago. And he had comforted me! Yet he had been a supporter of Hitler then! How could his family support that? They had seemed so nice, too! And yet none of them had said anything earlier... “How could you support the murder of eleven million people?” I demanded.

Steffen looked as if I had slapped him. He inhaled deeply and shook his head, “I don’t! You think because I were that uniform that I am automatically a Nazi sympathizer?” I nod and his eyes narrow; he is glaring at me as he has never done so before and for the first time since I’ve known him, I wonder if he is capable of hitting me out of rage. I never thought so before but that look... It is horrible; it is one of disbelief, dislike, and a little bit of pain. “Do you think I am capable of that?” he challenges me.

I stand there for a moment as I grapple with my thoughts. I never did before but... “I didn’t. But, how could you wear that if you don’t? How could anyone? We live in a free world but that... ” Why is nothing ever as simple as we desire it to be? I came to meet his family; not to confront him. And yet, I thought I knew him, hence the meeting. I am completely baffled.

And he sees this confusion and the anger on his face changes to something else. Recognition, perhaps? “Gabi, Gabi, Gabi... I forgot that you didn’t know. I thought Aunt Collier told you about it when you were baking. She’s Jewish too; she’s an artist. A Jewish artist.”

“Wait, what?” Collier’s a Jewish artist. And her nephew’s a neo-Nazi?

“Collier. Is. A. Artist. A Jewish artist who is using that picture for her exhibit to show that what you see isn’t always the whole truth,” he says calmly and my eyes grow wide. I say the only thing that I can: “oh.”

It’s nothing brilliant, but I cannot comprehend this; I am no artist. I’m majoring in childhood education and as a result the only art that I understand is finger-paintings. Steffen is watching me and I decide that I need to sit down, so I walk over to the porch steps, brush some dust away, and take a seat. He sits down besides me and looks at me expectantly.

“So... You’re not a supporter of the Nazi’s?” I simply had to ask the question; I needed to hear him answer, to reassure me.

Steffen turns his face away, runs a hand through his dusk-colored hair, sighs then turns back. His eyes bare into mine and he says, “I do not support the neo-Nazi cause and I posed for my aunt for that precise reason; she’s trying to explain the difference between German’s now and then. We’re not our predecessors.”

I say nothing, for there are no words and Steffen seems to understand this. I stand up, take his hand and murmur an apology. And then we go back to the table and I compliment his aunt on her photography skills. The mood is slightly tense but I see that Collier knows this and she realizes that it is her fault.

And I realize something; that’s the point of her art, isn’t it?

Alright, so I'm planning on putting this in the BIMA writer's anthology so any critique would be loved. Oh, and for some reason the indents aren't showing up for the first portion of the story, but there are paragraph breaks.
-Edited at 3:45 but still not complete, of course. Critique still adored!