I Pray That You Forget Me - Chapter 5
‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.
read more chapters on luna kofi
I don’t really want to disclose much about my husband to that woman. The landlady remained unaware of my feelings.
“Oh, that makes sense! I thought he looked like a teacher.”
Whether Brigitta’s intention was mocking or not, it wasn’t entirely untrue that he looked like a teacher. Johann was affluent and tidy, and his demeanor was more suited to holding a book than an ax.
“But what did Rize do for a living?”
“Well…”
“You were a nurse.”
It was only recently that I recalled Johann’s words. Brigitta’s sharp intuition about my hands, supposedly belonging to those that had done dirty work, was eerily accurate.
“If it had been known that you were a nurse, you might have been drafted to the front lines. So when people ask, you should say…”
“I was a housewife.”
Brigitta’s joyful expression at my statement made it seem like she was no different from mine.
“Do you remember your parents?”
The landlady asked with concern.
When I said I was a housewife, my statement made it seem like I had recovered my memory. Whenever someone asked, I replied that I had lost contact with my parents after the air raid, but in reality, they are still alive.
“We cannot meet them now. I’m truly sorry, but I cannot tell you about your parents.”
Judging by Johann’s words, there seemed to be more into it.
“Mrs. Bauer, there’s a letter from the front lines.”
The uncomfortable conversation was interrupted by the postman, who appeared every other day. But at that moment, the landlady’s frozen expression looked uneasy.
Since the war broke out, postmen were like messengers of death to people. The postman, who had probably seen that frozen expression many times, deliberately announced the letter with a nonchalant attitude, shaking it as he called out.
“It’s Mr. Bauer’s handwriting.”
Upon hearing that it was not a notice of death but a letter from Mr. Bauer, the landlady happily rushed over with anticipation.
“Thank you, Mr. Hoover. May the grace of God be with you today as well.”
The landlady not only expressed her gratitude with kind words but also offered the postman a freshly milked glass of milk. Then, as soon as he left, she carefully tore open the precious letter she had been holding close to her chest and handed it to me.
“Rize, read it quickly.”
I have no memory of myself. However, the rules of the world, where fire is hot and snow is cold, and the rules of society, such as going to an air raid shelter when an air raid alert sounds, are still there.
It seems that the way my hands remember how to play the violin is akin to these rules of society.
“To my beloved wife, Heike. I’m currently in a bunker, thinking of you and the children as I write this letter.”
Reading and writing were also among the rules of society that I remembered.
In the countryside where there was a lot of illiteracy, the ability to read and write was a rare talent. Those who did not know how to read and write had to ask literate neighbors or people like us who came from the city to read and write letters for them.
Johann earned a modest income not only through farm work but also through letter writing. I wanted to contribute to our small savings by doing the same, but for some reason, Johann did not allow it.
“My whole body is itching to see you. From the day I return, you must give up walking on two legs. You’ll have to crawl around like a b***h on all fours, howling, and you won’t be able to get out of bed…”
I stopped reading the letter abruptly.
‘Is he talking about hitting his wife?’
Should I keep reading this or not? I looked around in confusion, and the landlady, who had been listening with teary eyes, was now blushing.
‘I probably shouldn’t read further, right?’
What kind of man sends such terrifying words through a letter to his wife, who is struggling alone to protect their property and children? The landlady seemed to have lost her composure.
‘But why is she suppressing her laughter?’
Come to think of it, the other women, who had been listening with solemn expressions all along, also had faces trying to hold back laughter. Then, suddenly, one person burst into laughter, and they all erupted into a hearty laugh.
“Oh my, Mr. Bauer is still in his prime.”
“Isn’t he determined? I should have my son fix the bed before my husband returns.”
“Oh, do you need to do that? If the bed breaks, you can just do it on the floor.”
Ah… it wasn’t about hitting. I felt relieved but also embarrassed for misunderstanding Mr. Bauer, whom I didn’t even know. The landlady blushed with surprise.
“Honey, my legs are itching so much I could die.”
The landlady responded to the letter as if facing her husband, then sighed deeply.
“Ah, these days, even watching a bull riding a cow flips my stomach.”
“Then did you ask Mr. Kohler to scratch it for you yesterday?”
The landlady gave a look to the upstairs lady, as if to say she shouldn’t bring up such things again.
At last night’s festival, not all the couples who quietly disappeared after getting drunk were married. Although it involved infidelity, with men being scarce and everyone enduring the hardships of war, there was an atmosphere of turning a blind eye to each other.
‘Is the relationship between men and women in bed really that important?’
Longing for it as if starving when unable to, and feeling completely satisfied after, is desire similar to appetite? From what I’ve heard and seen so far, it seems to be the case.
Thinking about it, it felt even more peculiar that Johann and I shared no such relationship at all.
