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Copyright owned by the L.A.R

Started Writing - 7:38, 31st March 2022.

Finished Story -

Written by Leon Pham, Ronit Bellamkonda.

German words used in this story:

Sohn - Son in German.
Mein Kampf - A German book written by the Nazi Party leader Adolf Hitler.
Wolken - Clouds in German.
Saukerl: Bastard in German.

The German Soldier

Mein Kampf Is Bad - Change my Mind.

Love is temporary, you forget even those you love, you're always too
self-absorbed to help those you love.
Hope - hope is permanent, even at your darkest times you never forget
what someone did to save you.

Sohn… Sohn… fly; spread your wings out and touch the wolken.

5th of September, 1939 - 4 days since hell had started.

Drip… Drip… Drip…

Rain fluttered on the canopy of Cambodia's famous rainforests. A German soldier, no

older than 30, sat on a damp box, filled with notes of hope, freedom, love. Yet, to his
right lay a book. A book signifying hate. Death. Blood. A book that was commonly
known as “Mein Kampf”. The book that was written by a person either you love or hate.
The book that destroyed families, demolished friendships, and most importantly: started
the Second Great War, known as World War Two.

He hadn’t moved. Neither had he spoken. He just sat quietly under the soft melody of
rain while staring at the cascade of colours. Green, yellow, orange - all colours of the
various fruits scattered between the soft-emerald colour of foliage glued to the
hazel-coloured boles of trees. Mein Kampf was soaked now, water had trickled down
the leaves onto the ground which poured on the damp concrete path. If any German
saw him “vandalising” Mein Kampf he would almost instantaneously be killed. Germany
was hell even for Germans. And not even at the lowest point of anyone's life, would they
be able to imagine the pain Jewish people were going through.

A select few Germans haven’t decided who to join, either the Nazi party or the French
rebels. Most have joined the war on Hitler's side, others have committed suicide at the
thought of treason, or the thought of murdering Jews.

Here's is A Fun Fact:

You are going to die.

Of course, you are going to die. Nothing you can do to stop it. It's more likely when you
are in the Second Great War, but it's true.

And now an introduction, a true beginning - where are my manners, I almost forgot - I
could introduce myself properly. I could be a normal “human”. But no; I am Death. I am
death itself. Every day you come closer to me, every day you step forward for me to
decide your fate. Your death. It is inevitable that you are going to die.

I am Death itself and this is why I enjoy Germany. At least Germany in 1939.

And this brings me to my point, I have been avoiding it this whole time. The one on the
box? The one who didn’t save Mein Kampf? They’re a survivor. A survivor of World War
2. And they are a traitor to my fun - my fun that is watching people crawl closer, and
closer, to me.

Finally, we can start. We can start this hell of a story.

First is something red. Of the dark kind.

A lot of you are thinking that it's blood, assuming I am that dark. And I am, but you are
wrong.

You are all wrong.

It was a velvet carpet. It all started with carpet.

You might expect, the carpet was white. But someone wanted to go to me so dearly that
they ruined the colour.

So really, it was blood.

There was one suspect.

One child.

And one dead parent.

The Second Unexpected Thing…

“Well, what do you want me to do?” a few German policemen were discussing the
murder. “We can’t revive a corpse.”

“Well,” was the response, “we can’t just leave them like this, can we?”

The tall one was losing patience. “Why not?”

The smallest one was nearly damned. He looked up at the tall one’s chin and cried,
“Spinnst du?! Are you stupid?!” The abhorrence on his cheeks was growing thicker by
the moment. His skin widened. “Come on,” he said, traipsing over the snow. “We’ll carry
her back if we have to. We’ll notify you at the next stop.”

“Saukerl don't you speak to me like that.”

A huge argument broke down, but in the chaos lay a young boy - someone who had
respect, a kind heart, and even in his darkest times would stay positive. My favourite
victim…
How may this affect the Second World War? Well, that child? He is Otto, who also is the
one on the box, but most importantly: he is me.

Where are my manners? I nearly forgot something else.

The second thing about me? Well (you might have imagined) I am also a god. The god
of death. You may be confused, but think of it this way: I am Satan, but better of course.

What do gods do? The opposite of what I do. I just play with people for fun. I just make
their heads explode and their hearts implode. Gods - gods help the world sustain
balance. Of course, no god will intervene in World War Two because - because well you
made it happen. It’s your fault. I did nothing but I’m amused at your playing.

Back to the “Relevant” Topic

Next is a few years before the war. Otto was nearly 22 when this happened. This time, I
had come for a man of perhaps twenty-four years of age, you could never know for
certain. It was a beautiful thing in some ways. The plane was still coughing. Smoke was
leaking from both its lungs. When it crashed, three deep gashes were made on the
earth. Its wings were now sawn-off arms. No more flapping. Not for this metallic little
bird.

That plane, although it didn’t seem like much, was about to get me in a lot of trouble.

You see, gods have this thing where you can play with people, have fun destroying, or
helping, the world you made. But the thing is, not everything is perfect. Even for gods.
We gods need a vessel, and the rules state: it must be someone pure.

Either purely evil, or good, you can own their body as a puppet for your life. Now Otto,
my boy Otto, was purely good. Even though I loved Germany and he hated Mein Kampf
he was pure. The only pure person I’ve seen in my life.

Now back to the plane:

After a small collection of minutes, the smoke exhausted itself.

There was nothing left to give. A boy arrived first, with cluttered breath and what
appeared to be a toolbox. With great trepidation, he approached the cockpit and
watched the pilot, gauging if he was alive, at which point, he still was.
Otto arrived soon. Years had passed since the death of his parent, but I recognised him.
He was panting. From the toolbox, the boy took out, of all things, a teddy bear. He
reached in through the torn windshield and placed it on the pilot’s chest. The smiling
bear sat huddled among the crowded wreckage of the man and the blood. A few
minutes later, I took my chance.

The time was right. I walked in, loosened his soul, and carried it gently away.

Another fun story:

Ending: