The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day. These days filled Matthaus' mind with thoughts of his childhood home in Rostock, with the wafting scent of his Mutti's freshly baked pumpernickel mixing with the salty sea air that drifted up from the harbour. Matthaus didn't miss his Mutti, although he knew he ought to. With a bowl of cereal in one hand and the other rubbing his tired eyes, Matthaus shuffled to the table and sat down heavily. The table was covered in stains, and the cheap dining chair, in desperate need of repair, groaned under his weight. Matthaus had never been a morning person. His younger brother Emund had always said that he wasn't worth talking to until midday but Matthaus had always thought that Emund wasn't worth talking to at all. When they were young, Emund asked their Mutti why the ocean was blue. Matthaus had smugly called him a fool, he knew that the ocean was not really blue. On the surface, perhaps. But underneath the ocean knew better.
Despite the warmth of the day outside the room was dank and cold and possessed the familiar sense of emptiness. Matthaus lived in the emptiness, and every day he found it harder to fill. Matthaus switched on the radio. Propaganda. War and Jews, Hitler. Or rather, Mein Fuhrer. An uncomfortable feeling crept in to Matthaus' stomach and he fumbled to switch off the radio. The absence of sound was sudden, and it swallowed him whole. His heart thudded and his brain pounded with a thick and heavy pulse. He wiped his hands on his pants, abandoned his cereal and shuffled hurriedly back to his bedroom. The only clean shirt he had left was a sweater he had bought last time he visited Rostock. It was once white, but time and ill treatment had turned it an ugly shade of brown. It was made from the scratchy fabric that reminded Matthaus of elderly ladies. He fondly remembered the storm that had hit the harbour the day he bought it. It had streaked in like a grey mouth snarled with wind, like a shredded howl, rendering the land into a dark, unchartered coast. The bay had turned black. For centuries, ships had broken themselves against the teeth of that coast. Even as he thought of it Matthaus felt the storm. Thunder shook the house, the remaining daylight dipped and then, with a rogue gust of wind that shook the door, it was raining heavy and loud. The storm fell on the houses around him and smashed through the silence. Ricocheting rain clashed with high pitched howls of wind that made Matthaus' stomach churn. Despite their destruction, he had always loved storms. The irony of this thought did not escape Matthaus, and he laughed shrilly. Another clap of thunder shook the door and Matthaus backed in to the corner of the box that was his bedroom. His Mutti hated his house. She said it made her feel claustrophobic. Matthaus found the size of his house comforting, but he said nothing. He often disagreed with his Mutti but he never showed it. He began to wish he had. Matthaus brought his shaking hands up to cover his ears, desperately trying to block out the chilling sounds of the wind. The thunder now seemed to be shaking his whole house and the rain pounded on the walls. Matthaus squeezed his eyes shut and did his very best to look as small as he could. He had always been good at being invisible, ever since he was a child. It helped him avoid trouble. With a tremendous clap of thunder, the door fell from its hinges and the floor rumbled. The storm suddenly seemed very distant, like a far off air raid siren. Matthaus thought back to the abandoned bowl of cereal on the table, to the stack of dirty dishes on the sink and his simple, boring life and wished things had been different. He thought of his Mutti, of his brother, of the great cliff in Rostock that stood strongly, swallowing ships and the poor sailors on board. He thought of the ocean, with its calm blue exterior and it no longer seemed grand, but rather cruel and underhanded. Bile rose in his throat, and he lashed out hysterically at the injustice that made his blood boil. With one last howl of wind that shook Matthaus to the core, the storm stopped, and then they were upon him.
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