The Accidental Death of Lorelei

“Rain, rain, go away,”

“Come again some other day!”

A mild, early September drizzle tantalized the pale cobble pavement as a young girl skipped along a battered Cologne sidewalk. She bore the uniform of the Hauptschulen, her salmon school satchel dancing from side-to-side with each step.

As she walked, sporadic eddies of wind whirled between her legs, rustling the pastel bows on her stockings and sending a few scraps of paper airborn. The street, in fact, was practically submerged within a sea of black pamphlets. Bits of weather-worn paper clung to the side of every building, filling the already banner-heavy streets with additional propaganda-flavoured eyesores.

Two woman dressed in furs hurried past, their faces masked behind vixen tails. They spoke lowly, both muttering a nearly inaudible “Hallo” as they sauntered by. A crudely-drawn “HITLERJUNGE” poster that had been tethered to the side of a housing flat fluttered flirtatiously in the breeze, drawing the girl’s attention for a mere moment; though its meaning was quickly lost amongst the bustling street.

She eventually came to the corner and paused beneath an “Ariel” advertisement post, catching her breath against the thick Bavarian fog.

“Cold day, isn’t it?” a withered, hag-like woman muttered aloud, her cane cracking against the sidewalk as she hobbled along.

The girl nodded and rubbed her hands together.

It was a very cold day.


    Alexander Ivanovich strapped himself into the cockpit of his Lavochkin La-7. He coughed hoarsely into his hands before igniting the engine.

“Gotovyy,” he said.



The Accidental Death of Lorelei ( Part 2/3 )

    The girl was exactly two blocks away from her home.

It was not a glamorous house, by any definition. Small and boxlike, it had three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a shared privy with the neighbors. Even the cernuous rhododendrons, which hung beneath the window in a oxidized tin planter, seemed to elicit the same utilitarian hymn. For the girl, it was a ballad of orthodoxy. A foul, obtunding essence that smelled like rotting parchment and “sieg heils”.

As she made her way around the curb, the sound of leather school sandals clopping against the pavers caught her attention. With a knowing smirk, she began to walk a bit faster.


Before she could hasten her pace, a small, ruddy-faced boy of about eleven found himself beside her. He was grinning toothily, his lemon-singed bangs falling across his face in a greasy curtain, evidence of a soccer-filled afternoon.

“You heading home already, Sau?” He said, his grin still present.

    “Dinner’s soon.”

    “You have time for one game, don’t you? Come, Otto and Arthur are down at the-”

    “No.” The girl shook her head and waved him off. “Maybe tomorrow.”

    With a defeated look, the boy nodded slightly before backpedaling off into the shadows.

“Tomorrow, then.”


Alexander Ivanovich brought the mouthpiece  to his to his lips. He spoke hoarsely, his voice hardened by decades of tobacco smoke and hard liquor.

“Ruskie, reporting in. Expected to be over target by twenty-three-hundred.”


He lowered the device, setting it down on the console.

“Fucking Krauts, they won’t see us coming.”



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