Script Frenzy

For the month of April, I spent countless hours planning and writing the backstory for my second feature film script. Then, I wrote a 100 pages of a "first draft". Any writer, screen or novel, knows that writing a 100 pages in under a month, while working and being a family man/woman, is a difficult task. But I'm glad I had a looming deadline to kick me in the ass. Now it's time to go through countless rewrites. Here goes nothing.

Meanwhile, continue to enjoy my vlogs and other posts of short stories. More action, adventure, and shenanigans to come. Stay tuned!

Manscaping

This week, Mr. Monday N1ght took a rather new approach to shaving...

The Forbidden Dance - Finale

     After that night, Karl received many compliments for his extravagant party. He would host many more parties and gatherings. He received more prisoners who were artists and musicians. However, his dancing prisoners were sent to Auschwitz. Though Hess enjoyed their performance, he noted that they were too fat to perform great German dances, and too fat for Jews.

Anzeka was now responsible for the cooks and the house servants, but rarely saw Karl alone unless it was in passing. With more demands, Karl was too busy to speak to Anzeka, but he thought of her every day and she of him. One time, he thought he saw her smile when he passed her in the hallway, but her stare was directed to the floor so he was unsure. He was also too cautious now to go out of his way to find her when the Herrenhaus was silent from the prisoners’ bustle. He felt Hess’ eyes on him, even without him being there.

A year later, he was sent to Nuremberg as part of a planning committee at Congress Hall. Karl never had the chance to speak with Anzeka before departing. Once the Axis powers had fallen, the Americans and the allies liberated all of the prisoners. Anzeka was never reunited with her family. Eventually, she moved to Hungary where she married and had two children of her own. She even had grandchildren. Anzeka became a widow in 1989.

Karl had brief success in Nuremberg before it was taken over by the Allied powers. Though he was a non-combatant soldier, he was imprisoned for 20 years. Once released, he served as a consultant to various opera houses in Spain, Italy, Australia, and Argentina before settling in Brazil. He never married, never had children. Retiring in Sao Paulo, Karl hired an artist to paint a portrait. It was of a woman sitting on a crate; her face was pale, her eyes radiant and blue, her hair golden. And she wore a black wool coat. A portrait even the painter was almost too proud to sell to Karl.  

In 2002, Karl decided it was time to visit Weimer, Germany. He needed to go back for closure, for memories. As he walked up the road leading to the gates of Buchenwald, he saw an elderly woman wearing a weathered wool coat with two young boys, about six and five years old, rolling on the grass and wrestling close to her. The woman stood there looking at the gates, frozen. He walked to the other side of the gates and stood there, staring into the camp. He looked over at the woman every other moment. After a few minutes, he walked over and stood beside her.

“They say some of the finest parties were thrown here. You’d never know it from what is known about this place,” he mentioned congenially.

The woman remained looking forward, her blue eyes glossy and full of sadness. The boys stopped rolling around and walked up to the woman.

“Grandmother?” questioned the oldest boy in Hungarian. She patted the boy’s shoulder to let him know all was fine.

“Sprichst du Deutsch?” Karl asked the woman.

She nodded without a word. A hopeful smile creased on old Karl’s face.

“Bruckner was the music of choice here, you know.”

She nodded again, directing her gaze towards the young boys now gathered at her legs. With anxiety creeping through his body Karl asked, “Das kecke Beserl?”

The woman turned towards him, a tear fell from her right eye. A smile grew on Karl’s face. The woman reached out her arms and they embraced. He kissed the tear off her cheek. She felt his warmth. He felt her shiver. She put her mouth towards Karl’s ear; he could feel the warmth of her breath as she whispered,”Miene Liebe.”

The Forbidden Dance - Allegro Moderato, Second Coda

It was a three days before the big celebration. Karl moved through the house making sure the musicians were perfecting their pieces. Once, he took the baton and directed the orchestra through Bruckner’s Symphony No. 2 in C minor. The conductor kept rushing the pauses and Karl could feel the adagio being moved too fast. He could not resist anyway, he never turned down an opportunity to share his favorite composer’s art. He made sure the dancers were on step, he checked the menu and taste tested the food, he made sure the sculptures were finishing their works and were readily practicing with the blocks of ice he had sent in for the last month. He inspected every hidden corner of the house with a white glove and inspected the painter’s canvasses for accuracy of the portraits.

He noticed he had not seen Anzeka since her breakdown. Deep inside, he panged for causing her such pain and igniting memories of torment. He felt she was avoiding him, which she was. The day after the incident, he had the coat taken to her bed. Each morning, he found it there, at the foot of the bed, unworn. Though the house was big, it was poorly heated. The cooks stayed in the kitchens at night for warmth and the other prisoners huddled together in beds, covering with the few coats that they had, except Anzeka.

Karl often patrolled the halls at night checking on the progress of the artists who worked through the late hours. One night, he passed by her room and saw her sleeping. She laid there in her day clothes, her shoes on, and just a sheet, shivering. When he was certain all of the other prisoners were asleep, he entered the room and stood over her. He watched her sleep and whispered down to her, “Be warm, miene Liebe.” He moved a lock of hair out of her face, caressing her cheek. For a moment, he sensed she stopped shivering.

New Year’s Eve finally came. Karl now felt the pressure as he was informed that amongst the elite officials attending would be the guest of honor, the maniacal Deputy Führer Rudolph Hess. He put more pressure on the sculptors, having them sculpt swans, castles, and a giant swastika. He rushed the painters to clean up the portraits. He had the cooks change the menus six different times with little satisfaction. The musicians and dancers were performing non-stop with little time to eat.

He finally found Anzeka hanging one of the finished portraits above a fireplace in one of the meeting rooms with three other servants. “I need these rooms cleaned every hour, not a dust in site. I’ll need the bedrooms cleaned spotless and have you remove all prisoner belongings. Take them to the basement. I will need vacancy should any of the guests choose to stay. Then, I’ll need you to arrange each room in uniform, precise. You have 12 hours,” Karl barked at Anzeka and the servants. She nodded and began to leave the room with the others in tow.

Karl grabbed her arm in mid-stride. The other servants stopped as well. “You three can go.” Anzeka stood frozen staring aimlessly forward. When the servants left the room, Karl moved his mouth close to her ear. She could feel the warmth of his breath and his lips on the micro-hairs of her lobe. “I wish for you to stay out of sight this evening. These animals do not deserve to see you, miene Liebe.” His voice was low and stern, but calm. She felt a different force through her body this time. It was now in her blood, filling her veins like molasses. Her body was warm and the muscles in her face relaxed. He released her arm and she floated away.

The night was a success. The guests were pleased with the music and dance, awed by the sculptures, and salivated over dinner. Heinrich Hackmann, an SS captain in charge of personnel, even sent for Karl to come over and meet Deputy Führer Hess. Hess congratulated him on his success. “Corporal Liebermann, you have made greatness here. You have a keen sense of art that is beautiful. But remember, Corporal; you can dress a rat in a uniform. You may even be able to teach it to dance. But it is still just a rat. And rats must be terminated.” Karl forced a smile and nodded, “But of course, Sir.”

Anzeka had done what Karl ordered and stayed out of sight. She remained in a storage closet inside the kitchen, adjacent to the ballroom. There was little room to move around, so she crammed herself amongst the other contents of the closet. She sat there on a box of potatoes with the coat wrapped around her shoulder and a bag of her other belongings for hours. She could hear the orchestra playing. She closed her eyes and thought back to the day she was in Karl’s office. The music was in fact moving to her but the sound of that deathly number, the number 9, shook her bones. This time the orchestra played Bruckner’s first symphony. She knew this from Karl explaining it to the musicians. It was the most moving piece she had heard during her detainment under F kommand. She thought back to warmer memories of dancing with her father as a little girl, standing on his feet as he waltzed with her in their living room, her mother smiling as she watched. Not a night passed that she didn’t wonder if she would ever see her mother’s face again. She knew her father was killed. This information passed down through the camps. Anyone that was sick before transport back in Kashau was shot on the spot.

The closet door flung open. She raised a hand to block her face from the blinding light. The orchestra crescendo grew louder. At the doorway was a silhouette of a tall, broad shouldered soldier. It was Karl. Anzeka stood up. He entered with a smile and closed the door behind him. “The cooks told me I would find you here.”

She directed her eyes to the floor.

“Do you know the name of this piece?”

She nodded.

“Do you know what Bruckner himself called it?”

She shook her head, eyes still looking down.

“Das kecke Beserl… The saucy maid.”

She looked up and into his eyes. She felt the warmth overcome her body again.

“I see you are wearing the coat,” Karl acknowledged. “Have you ever danced before, miene Liebe?”

She nodded, thinking of her father, again.

"I would like to dance with you." He moved carefully towards her, expecting her to recoil. He placed her left hand on his shoulder and grabbed her right hand gently. There was no room for movement, so he pressed against her body and began to sway. 

He inhaled the smell of her hair and closed his eyes, letting the music float through his body as he led her. She hadn't felt such warmth, such tenderness, such love. At least not this kind of love. It was passion, but sorrow all at once. Like yearning for a lost lover. Or one she would never have. As the symphony moved out of scherzo and into finale, Anzeka rested her head on Karl's chest. A tear fell from her right eye...

To be concluded... 

The Forbidden Dance - Allegro Moderato, First Coda

     The dinner to celebrate the New Year was to take place in two weeks. Karl was busy making sure all in his kommando were perfecting their works. He had the painters painting the finest portraits of the Führer. He also had the sculptors creating the finest statues and ice sculptures for the party. The musicians were practicing 16 hours a day and the dancers practicing their Viennese Waltz and Ländler. The dancers were falling behind and instead of showing them the proper technique of the waltz himself, he would have his subordinates—who detested the task of coming in contact with Jews—show them. He made sure only the finest art was on display for the evening. Although Jews were to perform German art, Karl was determined to show that the German arts could overcome degeneracy and still transcend into greatness.

He had confidence in his Jewish musicians. Karl would hold private concerts for officials throughout the autumn months for feedback. He chose the favorites; Beethoven, Bach, Wagner, and of course Bruckner. Karl was raised on Beethoven and Wagner, but discovered Bruckner in school. He fell in love with the composer’s masterfulness of slow codas and passages that swayed into the most romantic finales. This was how he found himself feeling for Anzeka.

Karl put Anzeka to work in the serving rooms where she was responsible for designing and rearranging them for different gatherings. In a month of her arrival, he put her in charge of all the house servants. He would always greet her in passing, stopping her for small chats. She only replied with head nods and hand gestures, never once speaking to him. To her, Karl was just another uniform, another oppressor of her soul, though he never dared to take advantage of her body. He kept her well fed and she now had color to her face.

During Rosh Hashanah, he allowed all his prisoners to practice their traditions. A month preceding the holiday, he had the musicians practice before dawn every day so that one could blow the shofar. This way the guards and officials would not notice what Karl was allowing to go on in the Herrenhaus. The day before the fast of Gedalia, Karl allowed the cooks and servants extra servings, especially Anzeka.

“I know this is less than how you intended to celebrate, but I hope that you are enjoying the observance,” he told her. She looked into her plate of fish and bread nodding her head, never once looking up.

“Thank you, sir, for having mercy on us,” responded a cook sitting next to Anzeka. Karl smiled, keeping his eyes on Anzeka’s vibrant gold locks and continued on his way.

As the cold season approached, Karl allowed four of his prisoners to go in a truck and collect warm clothing from piles in a nearby warehouse, under the guard of another soldier. Only two returned with a few coats and a bag of mismatched shoes. Outraged, Karl questioned the guard he put in charge of the detail. “Only two came out, Corporal,” replied the guard.

Karl went to the warehouse to inspect. He was told that only two had come in to collect the clothing. The other two looked too fat to be Jewish prisoners and were sent back to Auschwitz. He was enraged and regretted sending his lead cook and one of his best painters. “Under whose orders?” Karl wished to ask, but he knew that if he showed compassion for his prisoners, he himself would be jailed. Or worse.

When he returned, he distributed what he had to those he thought needed them the most. The coats were of little comfort as many had bullet holes, some with fresh blood on them. Most of his prisoners refused to accept. “I cannot take comfort in another’s belongings, sir,” a sculptor told him. “If I may, sir, pass this coat along to a younger prisoner who may find warmth in it.” Saddened by their grieving, Karl allowed the prisoners to do so. His goal was to keep his prisoners morale as high as possible so that they could translate their feelings into their art, most of which, anyway, was sorrow.

One woman’s wool coat in particular was heavy and barely battered. He had it washed and sewn. The next day when he saw Anzeka, he pulled her into his office. “Miene Liebe, I wish to give you this coat. Please, I would like for you to accept it.” She looked down at the floor without a word. Karl walked up behind her and draped the coat over her shoulders. She allowed him to help her put on the coat and button her up. They were now a breath apart.

When he finished buttoning her up, he grabbed her hands and took a step back. “Perfekt!” He smiled, looking for a response in her face. She looked up and met his eyes. It was the first time since she was detained that she felt another human’s sensitive touch. This sent a surge through her body from the tips of her fingernails to her elbows, up her arms and into her shoulder and neck, her face, and back down her body. It was the first time she felt such a force since her father last kissed her on her forehead before they left home. It was the first contact she had made with him and he noticed. “Miene Liebe, so you do have life left inside of you.” 

She drew her hands from his and returned her gaze to the floor. He saw tears begin to well in her eyes, magnifying her piercing blue eyes.

“Have you ever heard of Bruckner, miene Liebe?” 

She shook her head. 

“Oh you must! It is the most beautiful music that speaks to the soul.” Her stare remained aimless. Karl moved towards the phonograph next to his desk. He fingered through his records on the wooden, crimson shelf behind the desk until he found one of Bruckner’s, Symphony No. 9 in D minor. “Miene Liebe, this one you will love. It is one of his greatest symphonies, one that he had not finished. Yet, it is whole in its entirety. It is No. 9.”

He hastily put the record on and let the needle play. As the woodwinds and strings introduced the piece, Karl closed his eyes with a soothed smile on his face. He began to sway and motioned an invisible baton like a conductor. When he opened his eyes, Anzeka’s face was silently buried in her hands, tears escaping the crevices of her fingers. It was the first time he saw any emotion out of her. “What is it, miene Liebe? Does the music move you to tears?” She began to tremble uncontrollably, still standing in the middle of the room. He walked up to her and put his hand on her shoulders, trying to ease her. He yearned to hug her, to hold her in his arms. “Please, tell me. Why is it that you cry? Can you feel the emotions of No. 9?” Anzeka trembled in his hands. She began to heave for air and fell to the ground.

“No. 9,” he mumbled under his breath. He now realized the issue at hand, why the soul had now escaped this fragile body. He crouched down behind her rubbing her shoulder in attempt to ease her, in attempts to ease her mind, to ease the memories of her time before coming to the Herrenhaus. “Miene Liebe, please forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.” Anzeka stood up and began to unbutton her coat with force. Karl could see her blue irises slashing through the redness of her eyes. She could not take off the coat fast enough. “Please, don’t. I want you to keep it for the winter.” She threw the coat to the floor and rushed out of the room. Karl stood up staring at the door. “Forgive, miene Liebe.”

That night, he dreamt of holding her in his arms as they dance to Anton Bruckner’s Symphony No. 4 in E flat. What a tragedy it would be to become her thwarted lover. His father would give the order of his own son’s execution himself. But he dreamed of showing her the beauty that Bruckner could exhume, the beauty within herself...

To be continued... 

The Forbidden Dance - Andante

      Corporal Karl Liebermann was in charge of overseeing the privileged prisoners, the F kommando, who served in the Herrenhaus in Buchenwald. It hosted gatherings for high officials. It was a monstrous mansion with 26 rooms, a ballroom, 10 meeting rooms, a three-acre back lawn, and four offices. Corporal Liebermann was two years fresh out of training, but because his father was a Gestapo detective, he was given many exemptions as he quickly rose through the ranks. And he had taken advantage of his father’s pull as far as he could. He was allowed to turn down training to become a combatant SS soldier. Since he had studied arts and culture in the university, he was placed in charge of the Herrenhaus’s parties held for the Gestapo and other high officials on holiday. His expertise would assure the finest music, décor, and foods were served at the galas, especially when the Führer was to attend.

Karl was a tall, 20-year-old young man. His hair was thick and dark. His eyes animated and always smiling. He had thin lips, but the smile of an angel. He was beautiful man, to the point that his allure would have him mistaken for an officer. And he treated his prisoners with manners, short of full respect. That is, he would be humane to them as discreetly as possible.

He was given new prisoners at least once a month, twice if those he had were to underperform, became insubordinate and tried to escape, or became too ill to serve or perform. Yet, Karl’s prisoners were more than servants and cooks to him. He had more than 60 Jewish musicians, painters, sculptors, and other entertainers under his watch. It wasn’t so much their dignity he respected, rather their crafts. Some of their works were popular all over Poland, France, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and The Netherlands. He knew that an artist’s morale was important to transcend the best possible harmony and art. It was important for their lives.

An SS soldier brought her in on August of 1941. “Here’s another rat for your house. We call her, whore number 9. Make sure she is bathed before you let her roam these corridors,” scoffed the soldier.

“Danke. You may go now, Private… Hansier,” Karl replied as he sneered at the young soldier.

She was blonde with glossy blue eyes, but eyes lacking life. She was tall and had started to thin out from the malnourishment she endured for the last two months. But she had elegance, different than the other Jew women Karl had seen.

Her beauty mesmerized Karl. He was perplexed that such a fragile creature had survived what she must have gone through. She could not be Jewish, maybe she was a French POW. He asked her in French, “Mademoiselle, Are you a dancer or musician?”  She did not respond. “Do you speak French?” This she understood. She picked up small phrases from her time detained with French women POWs. Women used to pleasure camp guards. She shook her head but kept her gaze through him. 

“Sprechen Sie deutsch,” he asked in his native tongue. 

She looked down and nodded. 

“Good! Are you a musician or a dancer?” 

Keeping her eyes to the floor, she shook her head. 

“That is fine. We will find you a talent here.” 

Anzeka’s eyes closed in surrender. 

Karl assured her, “No, no, a real talent.” 

She remained silent. 

He continued, “But first, we must wash you. I am sure you are covered in filth from being with the whores… I mean, the French and Poles they had you with before sending you here, meine Liebe.”

She raised her head again upon hearing his last words, but did not look at him. My love? It had been so long since she felt the meaning of the word; love. Even longer since she had heard it. She was again looking through him, but could not help furrowing her brow. Was this his way of making a mockery of her? Two months of imprisonment, two months against her will to live, two months of escaping her body and surrendering it to the enemy. She was now a bruised soul without a body, without a mind, without a heart to love.

Karl ordered two house servants to take Anzeka to be washed. As he watched her walk away and a warmth overcame his body...

To be continued... 

The Forbidden Dance - Adagio

     Anezka came to Ohrdruf on the fourth cattle car train from Kaschau a week before it was bombarded. The Hungarian police had assisted German soldiers in deporting its entire Jewish population of 12,000 in a matter of days. Her memories of her beloved town were now a dream far from the conditions she now faced and the life she would be forced to live. German soldiers raided neighborhoods searching for gold, paintings, anything of value that was unacceptable and undeserving for Jews to own.

She was separated from her mother and father before being prodded into the cart. She feared the worst for her father as he had already began falling ill right before the early morning ambush. Supervising police officials refused him to be treated before the deportation. He was most likely in the infirm cart…if he even made the trip. Her mother had been pulled from her hand as they entered the train station, disappearing into the mass. There was no one with her now; just her memories, a broken soul, and fear.

The trek seemed like a travel into another world, another lifetime away. In reality, it was only a five-day journey packed in a cart with 90 other prisoners. The other people in her cart, though recognizable townspeople, were now strangers of the same fate. Some she vaguely recognized from her childhood, others she would forget, as many would not survive the dark and frigid transport. Her face soiled in tears, Anzeka struggled to keep warm. The only garments she was able to grab before being hurried out of her home were the night clothes she had on when she was pulled from her bed, her mother’s house shoes that were too small for her wide feet, and her father’s white overcoat he wore when he was practicing medicine.

The smell was what affected her the most. Five days of suffocating in the middle of the cart with little air or light, five days of other persons’ body odor, five days of human urine and feces, five days of not knowing, five days of death. Her father being a doctor, had always instilled in her to have good hygiene, and her mother always kept a clean home. Anzeka was not used to such conditions. How much longer could she bare this filth? How much longer would she wonder about her parents? How much longer could she live through the agony?

When the doors slid open, the dawn’s rays flooded the cart and blinded the prisoners. The clammy morning air rushed their lungs, many coughing forcefully as their bodies remembered what it felt like to breathe.

“Everybody out, Now!” shouted a frail, thin man who entered the cart. His facial structure was defined deep into his skull, every bone and muscle identifiable on his thin face.

“Men to the right. Women, children, and the old to the left,” shouted another man. He was taller but equally thin. He stretched his arm out pulling on the coats of the prisoners as they hurried off the cart. His arm…it looked more like a tree limb on the last days of autumn. It was just there; lifeless and cold, flesh pulled on bone. Both men wearing striped shirts draped off their shoulders and pants many sizes too big.

Anzeka was finally pulled from the sea of bodies. She turned around looking for her mother, her father, any face she could find comfort in. Maybe she had been crammed in the same cart with her parents or a close friend and had not known. She was pushed towards the left with the other women and children. The cries screeched out as families members were once again torn apart. She looked around some more, hoping someone’s eyes would recognize hers. But they were all the same, distant and fearful. She was able to see the last prisoners exit the cart and then the two men begin to drag out the bodies of the old, weak, and of the dead.

She was filed into a line where the prisoners were to be evaluated. Heads turned in all directions looking for loved ones. Mothers and wives fell to the ground in cries for their husbands and sons.

Gunshots rang for those daring to escape the crowd. The lines moved fast. Anzeka saw she was not too far from the German soldiers in the front evaluating the new arrivals. As the prisoners were looked over, they were dragged in different directions. Some mothers were allowed to be with their children, others belting out mercy not to be separated. It was now her turn for selection. She found herself in front of a man with a white overcoat much like her father’s.

 

He was tall, dark haired, with a scholarly mannerism about him. He was dangerously handsome. How could it be that he could be part of this ugly army of murderers? She stood at attention looking through him. He smiled and whispered to another physician next to him who scribbled on his clipboard. “You are very beautiful for a Jewish girl,” he told her. “How old are you?” His voice was something harmonic. Soothing compared to the moans and screams she had endured for those five days, yet it sounded final.

Without making eye contact she replied, “15.”

He grinned at the SS officer next to him holding a rifle at the ready, “Put her in the F kommando.” He motioned his head to have her taken away. As the officer pulled her away the beautiful man yelled back, “Halt!” His body did an about face and he marched up to Anzeka, “Though you are an exceptional beauty of your species, my dear, you are still a dog. And dogs do not practice medicine. Take off that coat.” The officer ripped her father’s coat off her shoulders. She gave resistance but eventually was stripped of her father’s last embrace. It was the last thing she had to remember him by, the last piece of love from him that she owned.

She would later come to know this beautiful devil was the infamous Dr. Mengele, “The Angel of Death” himself. The officer clubbed her in the back of the head, threw the coat to the mud, and hauled her off to a truck full of other young women huddled in the back...

To be continued...

The Flicker

Ok, you guys. I am editing some more posts for your reading pleasure. Some more "Banana Hammocks", but also some drama, and even an action piece... the finale to "Ninjas Are From Japan".

But for now, enjoy another skit I wrote... THE FLICKER!

I'd Hit That

Ok, folks. Still taking a hiatus from Banana Hammocks as I'm waist deep into this comedy shit. Plus I'm participating in this month's Script Frenzy (100 pages of script in 30 days). So while I'm having fun writing and shooting, bask in the fruits of my labor...