My Liebling

Written by: Aphrowrite
April 28, 2002


Some of the happiest moments of my childhood were the times after school when I dashed toward Scully's Bakery to see Mr. Lenin. He'd be sitting on the steps of the Bakery smoking his pipe. Beside him would be his newspaper and a cup of coffee, and on his lap would be five or six other children. Rain or shine we'd meet Mr. Lenin every day on those steps, and every day he'd have a new story to tell.

The moment the bell rang, my friends and I would dash out the door toward the bakery. Being that the Great Depression was in full swing, we'd rarely have any money to buy treats. But Mr. Lenin would always pull five cents out of his pocket, enough for us to all get a doughnut. Then we'd settle down and he'd tell us a story about growing up in Germany, Greek mythology, or princes and princesses. Sometimes English words would fail him and only German would suffice. Although none of us understood what he was saying, the language sounded like music and we listened in awe. The words sounded like jewels, and I'd often go home and repeat the words to myself, not that I knew what I was saying, but the way the words rolled off my tounge felt so good. My favorite word was the nickname he had given me: "Liebling", which meant darling. I loved Mr. Lenin, and I thought that he was the greatest man alive.

My parents thought differently though. Every time I brought up Mr. Lenin my father's eyes would grow dark.

"Mr. Lenin is a German," he'd say. "The German's killed your grandfather in the war. Do you want to be friends with the man who killed your grandfather?"

My mother would shake her head. "Kevin, you know for a fact that Mr. Lenin himself didn't kill your father. Don't scare Marie like that." She'd wipe her hands on a dishtowel and give my father a kiss on the cheek. "Mr. Lenin is a kind man and he makes Marie happy. There's not much room for happiness in the world today for children, so just let it be."

My father never left the conversation happy. He'd just quiet down and return to reading his newspaper.

I didn't care about what my parents thought. I continued to see Mr. Lenin everyday that I could, until the day he didn't come.

Just as I did everyday, I ran to Scully's Bakery, my blond pigtails hitting me in the face. I reached the stoop out of breath and panting. The other children were already there, but Mr. Lenin wasn't. There was a storm of chatter among the children.

"Where's Mr. Lenin?" I asked, my heart began to race. For the past six years, Mr. Lenin hadn't missed a day. I knew that something terrible must have happened. The six of us sat on the stairs for two hours, praying that any moment we'd see Mr. Lenin coming around the corner, pipe in his mouth and newspaper in his hand.

He never showed up.

I walked home slowly with my head hanging down. Mr. Lenin hates us, I thought. He abandoned us. A tear trickled down my cheek. Mr. Lenin had been my hero, and he had just left us without a word. I reached my apartment building and headed toward our room. I reached for the doorknob, but my mother opened the door first. Her mouth was agape, and she stood there mute. My eyes widened in horror of what she knew that I didn't.

Something was horribly wrong. My father pushed my mother out of the way. He looked tired. The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile, as if he were trying to hide his pain.

"Hey kiddo," he said quietly, ushering me into the room. He sat on the couch and patted the spot next to him. I sat down. The atmosphere was so thick it was almost surreal. My father took a deep breath.

"I'm guessing that Mr. Lenin didn't show up today," he said. I was amazed.

"How did you know?" I asked in shock.
He looked at my mother, whose mouth still hung open. Tears were now in her eyes. My father gazed at me, seeing my face twist in fear. He stroked my head.

"Marie, I don't know how to put this, but Mr. Lenin was murdered." The room grew silent as my head began to spin. I'm having a dream, I thought, just a crazy dream. My father had to rub his eyes.

"Some men heard him speaking German," he continued although his voice was cracking. "It's just that since the war, people don't trust the German immigrants so much. They thought he was bad and, well, they killed him."

My ears repressed everything he said after that. I stood up and walked to my room. I don't even remember walking there, just being there. I wanted to cry but I couldn't. It was as though someone had just punched me in the stomach, and I was too busy focusing on the pain to cry. I just sat on my bed and stared at the wall. I sat there for hours with my door close, listening to my mother crying. "Liebling," I whispered over and over. "Liebling."

My parents attended Mr. Lenin's funeral with me. There were only eight people there, and all eight of those people had chipped in to pay the cost. Mr. Lenin had no family, so we were the only people he could count on to give him a decent funeral. The procession was simple, and we couldn't afford a gravestone, so me and the other children made one. We found a rock in the woods. It was so grey it was almost blue, and shards of shiny micha covered it. On the rock we wrote in a blue pen: "Here lies Mr. Lenin, hero to us all" and we all signed our names. As the graveside service drew to a close, the sky opened up and began to rain. Everyone ran home as quickly as possible. All except me.

I stared at the stone, now wet with rain water. It was so simple, so plain. Mr. Lenin deserves more, I thought. I took of the gold necklace from around my neck and placed it on the stone. Inside of the locket was a German coin Mr. Lenin had given me. On the outside of the locket I had engraved "Liebling" very simply. I stepped away from the stone slowly, and a smile crossed my lips. "Liebling," I whispered, and walked home.