Chapter 20 - The Final Closure
The small,
unmarked white envelope arrived in the morning mail,
its plain,
nondescript appearance completely,
utterly hiding the heavy,
toxic emotional weight contained within its thin,
paper walls.
I sat alone at my large,
oak kitchen table,
the bright,
cheerful morning sunlight streaming generously,
warmly through the window,
illuminating the stark,
black ink of the prison return address stamped sharply,
boldly in the upper corner.
It was from Gero,
his handwriting,
once so elegant,
arrogant,
and perfectly controlled,
now appearing jagged,
frantic,
and deeply,
pathetically desperate on the harsh,
cheap prison stationery.
My father,
who was washing the breakfast dishes at the stainless-steel sink,
paused his steady,
rhythmic movements,
his sharp,
trained eyes immediately recognizing the official,
telltale stamp of the federal penitentiary.
He did not rush over,
he did not attempt to forcefully,
protectively snatch the letter from my hands,
because he knew that I was no longer a fragile,
terrified victim who needed constant,
vigilant sheltering from the ghosts of my past.
I took a deep,
calm breath,
feeling absolutely no fear,
no panic,
and no lingering,
debilitating anxiety as I smoothly,
efficiently sliced the envelope open with a small,
silver letter opener.
The letter was incredibly,
pathetically long,
spanning three pages of densely packed,
frantic scribbling,
filled entirely with his typical,
manipulative apologies,
his tearful,
hollow regrets,
and his desperate,
cowardly pleas for me to somehow,
miraculously forgive him.
He wrote about the absolute,
crushing misery of his iron cage,
he wrote about the terrifying,
violent reality of his daily existence,
and he begged me to write back,
to offer him a tiny,
single shred of the humanity and grace he had so violently,
ruthlessly denied me.
I read every single,
pathetic word,
my eyes scanning the pages with the cold,
detached analytical precision of a total,
uninterested stranger reading a boring,
irrelevant fictional story.
When I reached the very last,
desperate sentence,
I did not cry,
I did not feel a sudden,
sharp pang of misplaced,
undeserved sympathy,
and I did not feel any lingering,
hidden anger boiling in my chest.
I simply felt a massive,
overwhelming sense of profound,
absolute nothingness toward the weak,
broken man who had once terrified me so completely,
so utterly.
"What does the monster want,
Beate?"
my father asked quietly,
drying his large,
calloused hands on a white towel,
his voice steady,
calm,
and completely devoid of worry.
"He wants to know if I forgive him,
Papa,"
I replied smoothly,
standing up from the wooden chair and walking calmly,
deliberately toward the large,
stone fireplace in the center of the living room.
"He wants absolution,
he wants me to validate his suffering,
and he desperately,
pathetically wants to know that he still occupies a space in my mind."
I picked up a small,
long match from the decorative,
brass box on the mantle,
striking it sharply,
firmly against the rough,
abrasive stone until a bright,
hot flame roared instantly,
beautifully to life.
I held the corner of the frantic,
pleading letter directly,
unflinchingly over the hungry,
dancing flame,
watching with deep,
profound satisfaction as the cheap paper instantly,
rapidly curled,
blackened,
and turned into fragile,
worthless ash.
"I do not forgive him,
I do not hate him,
I simply do not care if he exists anymore,"
I stated clearly,
dropping the burning,
crumbling remnants of his desperate plea into the cold,
empty grate of the fireplace.
The fire consumed his final,
pathetic words completely,
destroying the very last,
lingering physical connection I would ever,
ever have to the dark,
terrifying nightmare of my past.
My father walked over,
standing tall,
proud,
and immensely strong beside me,
watching the ashes drift silently,
harmlessly up the dark,
sooty chimney,
a deep,
knowing smile touching his face.
"That is the absolute,
purest form of victory,
my beautiful girl,"
Thomas said gently,
wrapping his arm securely,
lovingly around my shoulders as we turned away from the cold,
empty fireplace.
I walked into the sunlit,
bright hallway,
scooping a laughing,
happy Leo into my arms,
feeling the solid,
unbreakable warmth of my incredible,
safe family surrounding me completely,
totally.
The story of Beate von Stein,
the terrified,
broken victim,
had been completely,
permanently reduced to ashes,
and the beautiful,
limitless story of Beate Brand,
the fierce,
unconquerable survivor,
May you like
had finally,
truly just begun.
