Das Schwarze Korps - Office L. Strumfelder

[§ Leberecht Strumfelder]

Office of Herr Leberecht Strumfelder, Senior Writer for Das Schwarze Korps

((This is a continuous thread that will act as the always open office of Her L. Strumfelder. He is always in whether he is or not and I ask that staff not close this thread as it can simply be entered and left at any time by any German member. That's sort of the gist of this. I'll ask a staffer to give CP after an encounter. I like to call this a running thread. If the staff think this may be a little abnormal they, of course, have the power to remove the thread.))

The well-furnished office took a bright tone as sunlight shown through the large windows of Leberecht's outer office. the curtains at the windows hung limply as if they had hoped to be used but were severely disappointed to not cover the clean windows. the light reflected off the three degrees that hung on the wall, written in old German script.

Plush, velvet furniture lined one wall with a tea table and a cart between them, closely placed to the wine cabinet. A carpet covered the centre of the floor and a tapestry covered the wall next to the door into the office, depicting the revolution of 1848. A quiet bustling carried in from the Berlin street outside the windows that kept life interesting as the middle-aged man sat at his desk brooding over paper with a quick pen and an even quicker mouth.

Black markings covered the papers strewn across his desk that were mixed in with a number of pencils and a typewriter that looked as if it had stepped out of the 20s. A phonograph was on an endless swirl of Bach, Vivaldi, and Schubert to the rear of the office. Sitting to the right of the desk was the waste-basket that was brimming with paper. It was indeed the living space of an artist, or at least a writer.

Herr Strumfelder sat crouched over his desk, quickly marking out words and punctuation in the future article for Das Schwwarze Korps. He had gone through so many drafts of the article, he could recite it from memory. And so, our heroic German soldiers saved the lives of many Frenchmen from the deviant homosexuals that are so often known to roam about Paris... It was a boring article to say the least, but important to the government. And what was important to the government was important to Leberecht when it came to writing for them.

All he could hope for was that he would be interrupted from this tedious paper hell--

[∬: Erhard Strumfelder]

Entering the large building that resembled more of a temple to the Nazi German media than anything else, Strumfelder secretly admired it, but wasn’t prepared to show it. The media were story spinners who could turn the most crushing of defeats into the most heroic of victories. They weren’t to be trusted in the Medics eyes. But his brother had gone to work for them a long while ago, and although he didn’t respect his brother’s career choice, he did respect his brother as a person. There was seven years difference between them, and subsequently, it had been hard for them to get close to one another. Even so, they were family, and Strumfelder had been in Berlin, attending to a very unfortunate man had lost many of his features when his tank had burst into flames after being hit.

Erhard hadn’t yet discussed his deformed features with anyone except people who had seen him. To his family and many of his men, he hadn’t changed. But right now, although some of his burned flesh was healing well, he would obviously be scared, and the missing eye the greatest of them. It was cold outside, barely five degrees above freezing, which made wearing leather gloves that bit more justified. Still, what did he care what others thought of him? They should be thinking about how to better compliment the state with their skills, not be judging a member of their elite.

His heals clicking along the tiled floor, Erhard headed for a small reception desk where an elderly man of at least sixty sat behind. As Erhard reached it, the man didn’t even glance up until Erhard loudly cleared his throat. “Ja, was ist es?” He said, staring at the eye patch. “Wo ist das Büro vom Herrn Leberecht Strumfelder?” Erhard said curtly, returning the hard stare. “Der fünfte Stock, dritter Raum auf dem Recht. Der Name ist auf der Tür.” The old-aged man answered. Erhard turned and headed for the elevator “Danke.”

A teenager stood inside, dressed in the garb of the former Brown-shirts; a Hitler Youth. A boring job as it was, taking all manner of people to their different destinations like a taxi driver, he smiled enthusiastically as the medic entered. Erhard believed the youth to be meddling in matters they had little knowledge of, but they were heading in the right direction in life. He took him to the fifth floor, marvelling at Strumfelder’s wounds, a if he taken them fighting great enemies of Germany, thinking about it, he supposed he had…

As he exited the carriage, the boy gave him a small, something Erhard found rather odd and disconcerting. Maybe it was the fact he was most likely to never be a father. And his wife and child, what was he to tell Leberecht if he brought it up? So many questions yet so few pleasant answers. He reached the door with Herr L. Strumfelder, Senior Writer engraved on a small brass plaque mounted to the door. Erhard could hear faint classical music playing from the inside. Erhard had never been a great fan of music; he rarely had time to relax, while brother seemed to love the stuff, much like their father did.

He rapped twice, before entering the room without a reply. “Guten Mogen, mein Bruder.”


Translations:

“Wo ist das Büro vom Herrn Leberecht Strumfelder?”
~ Where is the office of Mr Leberecht Strumfelder?

“Der fünfte Stock, dritter Raum auf dem Recht. Der Name ist auf der Tür.”
~ The fifth floor, third room on the right. The name is on the door.

[§ Leberecht Strumfelder]

The moment Leberecht was waiting for finally came with a rapping of the door. He projected his voice across the room, "Komm." The door opened and a man Leberecht hadn't seen in years stepped through with a 'Guten tag.' Standing near the door was Leberecht's younger brother, Erhard. He had not seen his brother since the war had begun and he had only heard news when he went to München to report on the Slavic attack in the circus. He could still remember the words he had used in that article that made its way through the SS within the week along with the other bits of propaganda they received en masse on Wednesday.

The man that stood across the room from him was disfigured and nothing like the young boy Leberecht once knew. He stood up and walked over silently, "Guten tag, Erhard. Warum bist du hier?" the man standing before him in SS medics' garb was older, more dark than many an SS uniform that made its way into this office. The Bach that was going on at the back of the office was becoming incessantly repetitive now as Leberecht stopped. He smiled at his rother weakly and spoke in a quiet tone, "Komst du in, Erhard. Wir werde Wein haben. Sitzst von da."

He quickly walked back across the room and pulled the needle from the record and turned the machine off before walking back to the wine cabinet and pulling a bottle of 1897 Neuesbergen and two glasses. Speaking to his brother as he got up, he tried to converse with him while still normalising himself to the transformation his brother had taken. "So Erhard. Wie das gewesene Leben hat. Ich hoffe, daß die zweite Abteilung nicht zu stark auf dir gewesen ist. Ich hörte, daß du gerade die ältere ärtzlich Position dorthin kamst."

Carrying the glasses over, he set them on the tea cart and pulled out a corkscrew and began working on the wine cork. Doing so, he looked over and saw the one-eyed man that stood near him. It was a tragedy to say the least. Erhard had always been one of the most observant people he had known, though Leberecht would never admit it. In fact, he was surprised Erhard was the doctor and he was the writer and not the other way around. Time is a funny thing, as is university.

Leberecht finally uncorked the bottle and began pouring the 45-year-old wine into the two glasses on the cart. He lived quite a furnished life and made a good salary as a senior writer for the greatest propaganda machine in the empire. He had an immense amount of power, though he used it with great tact and wisdom. Sitting in his armchair, he awaited conversation with his younger brother.

Trnaslations:
"So Erhard. Wie das gewesene Leben hat. Ich hoffe, daß die zweite Abteilung nicht zu stark auf dir gewesen ist. Ich hörte, daß du gerade die ältere ärtzlich Position dorthin kamst."
~So, Erhard. How has life been. I hope the Second division has not been to hard on you. I heard that you just got the senior medical position there.

[∬: Erhard Strumfelder]

Erhard had never grown to like wine, no mater how much he drank it and how varied he tried to make his pallet. They said it was an acquired taste, the same why you acquire a like for sticking your hand in a fire... How could people drink this foul tasting vinegar?!

None the less, he took his brother’s glass and allowed himself a sip; it seemed to mean a lot to his older brethren and he was hardly the one to look ungrateful. His brother was doing much better than he thought he would be doing; a nice position in a powerful corporation, in a lovely room who’s content probably cost more than some people’s homes. Away from the lines and the hell of the fighting. It was a cosy life, one which Erhard admired yet was disgusted by.

He smiled slightly, sloshing the wine in his glass around as he took a seat on a velvet chair. “ Ich habe nicht gesehen, Sie in den Jahren, in Leberecht und in mir dachten, dass es nett sein könnte, zu sehen, wie mein edler Bruder im Leben voranbringt.” Maybe it was jealousy in Erhard’s heart, but his brother looked like the perfect example of a tired, and lazy German man. The sort who do very little for the world, and just watch the war from the sidelines, without feeling the fear and the danger. While his brother looked like he had barely changed, Erhard had lost an eye, and had his face disfigured terribly. He’d just lost his wife and son. His life was a mess, and the only thing he had to clutch onto was his belief in the Nazi German way. But it was people like his brother who did all the taking and no giving to the state.

Erhard twisted slightly in his chair and felt his pistol push into him, another little reminder. He hadn’t talked to anybody about his inside emotions over the past week, but making the decision if he should was proving hard. His best friend, his CO, had been transferred from his division, and his other close friend, had just lost his son at Erhard’s hands. Leberecht was the last person he could turn to.

“Mein Leben ist eine Verwirrung, Bruder, und außerdem, habe ich keine Weise der Festlegung es. Cloris ist tot und also ist mein Sohn, wir entschied nie auf einem Namen. Ich habe keine nahen Freunde, und Sie sind das nähste Familienmitglied, das ich jetzt habe. Ich habe nicht einen Anhaltspunkt was, zu tun.”




Translations

“ Ich habe nicht gesehen, Sie in den Jahren, in Leberecht und in mir dachten, dass es nett sein könnte, zu sehen, wie mein edler Bruder im Leben voranbringt.”
~ I have not seen you in years, Leberecht, and I thought it could be nice to see how my noble brother is advancing in life.

“Mein Leben ist eine Verwirrung, Bruder, und außerdem, habe ich keine Weise der Festlegung es. Cloris ist tot und also ist mein Sohn, wir entschied nie auf einem Namen. Ich habe keine nahen Freunde, und Sie sind das nähste Familienmitglied, das ich jetzt habe. Ich habe nicht einen Anhaltspunkt was, zu tun.”
~ My life is a mess, brother, and what is more, I hvae no way of fixing it. Cloris is dead, and so is my son, we never decided on a name. I have no close friends, and you are the closest family member I now have. I have not a clue what to do.

[§ Leberecht Strumfelder]

Leberecht noticed Erhard was not drinking the wine that he was so delicately sipping at. He remembered, Erhard had never been one for wine. "Ich bin, Erhard traurig. Ich vergaß, daß du nie wine sehr teilweise warst. Verzeihe mir. Wurde du mögen noch etwas? Wasser? Wodka möglicherweise?" He stood up and set his glaass down, listening to Erhard speak.

"Ich tue gut, kein Zweifel, Erhard. Ich habe meistens politische Artikel für das Führer geschrieben, aber ich habe dankbar einige Zeit im Feld verbracht. Bewilligt, ist Kampf nicht ein netter Platz, zum zu sein, aber es ist besser als dieses Hölle Loch eines Büros. Ich sehe dich, einige Zeit auf dem Schlachtfeld verbracht zu haben. Ich habe von deine neusten Siege gehört. Durchaus der Mörserkommandant, höre ich." He smiled. The war had treated him well. He was becoming a little larger and his face was certainly ageing. The world had come crashing down to meet him without a purpose.

Again, as Erhard continued, Leberecht thought deeply, leaning against his desk, brushing papers out of his way to do it. His brother's words caught him short. He had come to Leberecht to get help of sorts. Finally, Leberecht felt the flair of life come through him again. "Ich bin nicht sicher von, wie man dich hier berät. Er scheint, daß du viel Kummer und viele Schmerz gehabt hast, die ich ehrlich nie erfahren habe. Ich kann dir eine Geschichte eines Kampfes jedoch erklären, den ich auf die östliche Frontseite sah." Maybe he was trying to impress Erhard with the fact that he had seen battle. He really didn't know why he was going to tell Erhard the story.

Trnaslations:
"Ich bin, Erhard traurig. Ich vergaß, daß du nie wine sehr teilweise warst. Verzeihe mir. Wurde du mögen noch etwas? Wasser? Wodka möglicherweise?"
~I am sorry, Erhard. I forgot you were never very partial to wine. Forgive me. Would you like anything else? Water? Vodka perhaps?

"Ich tue gut, kein Zweifel, Erhard. Ich habe meistens politische Artikel für das Führer geschrieben, aber ich habe dankbar einige Zeit im Feld verbracht. Bewilligt, ist Kampf nicht ein netter Platz, zum zu sein, aber es ist besser als dieses Hölle Loch eines Büros. Ich sehe dich, einige Zeit auf dem Schlachtfeld verbracht zu haben. Ich habe von deine neusten Siege gehört. Durchaus der Mörserkommandant, höre ich."
~I'm doing well, no doubt, Erhard. I have been writing mostly political articles for the Führer, but I have thankfully spent some time in the field. Granted, battle is not a nice place to be, but it is better than this hell hole of an office. I see you've been spending some time on the battlefield. I've heard of your most recent victories. Quite the Mortar commander, I hear.

"Ich bin nicht sicher von, wie man dich hier berät. Er scheint, daß du viel Kummer und viele Schmerz gehabt hast, die ich ehrlich nie erfahren habe. Ich kann dir eine Geschichte eines Kampfes jedoch erklären, den ich auf die östliche Frontseite sah."
~I'm not sure of how to advise you here. It seems you've had much heartache and much pain that I honestly have never experienced. I can however tell you a story of a battle I saw on the Eastern Front.