Alfons

Alfons


I have to admit- I never expected to meet anyone like Alfons Heiderich.

To come face-to-face with a virtual alter ego of my own brother was in itself shocking, but to fall in love with that very man?

It stirred up feelings in me; emotions, something I hadn’t considered actually allowing myself the liberty of having since I passed through the Gate. Some were utterly intoxicating; pleasant beyond belief. But they were overwhelmed by doubt, and the other frightening feelings that were at frightening as their opposites were intoxicating. Should I have been in love with, in essence, my brother? Was it, in any way, right?

Alfons knew all along, could sense my turmoil. He came to me, told me that no matter what I thought, even if I wanted it, he wasn’t Alphonse, and he never would be.

I loved him for that; his clear blue eyes showed nothing but understanding at my confusion, stoking my affecting into an even greater entity. Doubts lost their meaning as I lost myself in a love that was forbidden in this new world.

We were reminded often what would happen if we were even slightly suspected; men were beaten and brutally arrested right in front of us, pink triangles slapped roughly onto their coats. The rising “Fuhrer”, as some called him, I’d heard his name was Hitler, believed that homosexual people couldn’t fit in with the world. Alfons and I were forced to remain under his soldiers’ radar.

Alfons was never hesitant, though. He loved me, forbidden or not.

“All good things must come to end”. Is that the saying nowadays?

It’s true.

After a mere three years with Alfons, he left a note from his doctor on the counter.

Beyond the first sentence was hell. That horrid note confirmed the fears I had kept to myself. He’d always been coughing, always rubbing his chest; he also always shrugged it off. Allergies, or a cold. I’d forced myself to remain calm, to hold on to whatever scrap of naiveté I had left.

But that note.

That one little note blew any possibility of naïve thoughts away. It shattered my world. Alfons was sick.

Unbearably, terminally ill. I was going to lose my love.

Why? Why hadn’t he told me?

I didn’t say anything when he got home, just stayed sitting the way I had been, hands folded in front of my mouth, eyes half shut and studying the wood of our kitchen table. It was lying innocently next to me, face down,  just a scrap of paper, with no clues as to what was written on the other side.

Alfons went white, but didn’t say anything. And suddenly everything, everything, was clear. He hadn’t wanted me to worry. To try anything. I pushed up from the table and walked into his chest, waiting for the arms that enveloped me a second later. He was there, they said. He’d always be, no matter what.


And now I stand, looking down at his grave. The marker is hauntingly beautiful, like a freshly wrecked ship, bathed in the sunset’s light; it’s carved from pure white marble, the most expensive I could find, and I carved it myself. It’s been four years since he died, and I still think about him all the time. Every second.

And, just like every other day, I brush away yesterday’s flowers and place today’s lilies lightly at the foot of the marker. Then I turn and walk home, repeating the words in my head, just like always.


Alfons Heiderich
1907-1927
May You Reach The Stars,
And May I Join You.