THE FLAVOR OF LOVE

Rudy loved Liesel.

* * * A FACT * * *
Rudy Steiner was in love with
Liesel Meminger.

There are many different types of love that I have had the pleasure of experiencing in my long line of work. I tend to regard love with the same tenderness and respect as I do colors. Each touch, each caress, each and every kiss held its own flavor of emotion and care. If assigned a color, this love would be a bright yellow.

* * * A NOTE ON THE * * *
AFOREMENTIONED FACT
Whether he knew it or not.

If you are unfamiliar with the color yellow, or the emotions it exudes, then my previous statement might confuse you. Yellow is a very fickle color, emotions ranging depending on its shade, hue, and tone. It can range from an outlandish, waxy shade of near orange, often found on furniture and clothing in the 1970s, to a cool and calm pastel, nearing the purity of white, one might expect to see on a bright summer day. It is, by far, the most peculiar color I have come across. This particular yellow, a very noticeable yellow, is often associated with happiness. More specifically fun.

Rudy's love for Liesel was a small, yet most certainly there, thing. It was the brand of love you would never notice until you dug through all the surfacing emotions that resembled a childhood friendship or a sibling dependency, down to the rawest and deepest emotions. It was rare, or very common, depending on your interpretation of the subject. I suppose that perhaps every child has felt this sort of love at some point during their playful expeditions. It was—not a desire, no where near that strong—but a want, perhaps. It was the simple urge to have this person there in your life. Almost motherly, but, again, not as strong.

As I said, it could, depending on how you looked at it, be either very common, or very rare. Most children have experienced a feeling similar, but very few manage to hold on to something that begins to innocently and small. Rudy just happened to be one of those lucky few.

* * * A THOUGHT * * *
Lucky might not be the operative word

I said before that I have experienced love in my work. That statement was probably read wrong by at least one person reading this, so let my clarify: I have never been in any type of love.

* * * ANOTHER CLARIFICATION * * *
That does not mean that
I haven't cared

Do not misunderstand my proclamation—I do, in fact, care very much for the many people I happen to encounter on my long line of work. I care remember every soul that I have touched, every name associated, and every look of fear, or shock, or surprise, or recognition. Very rarely do I see a look of affection or tenderness aimed at myself.

I also said I had the pleasure of experiencing love. In afterthought, this might not have been the most truthful choice of words.

I have seen love. Many times over and over. Thousands of thousands of times. I have seen it in last embraces, whether in a sad smile, a small squeeze of the hand, or in a soft kiss. I have seen it in the mourning that follow quickly after my job has been done: in the tears spilt, either silently or in loud wails and moans. I have seen it. Almost felt it, but never quite.

Very little of the love I've seen has been pleasurable.

There have also been the moments where the love has come only too late. I believe that is the love that a rather unlucky Aryan boy was presented.

I saw him only once before his time, but when his time came, he surprised me.