#there was a long shot of a shell-shocked father carrying his dead daughter through town. knowing it was probably the actual little girl --

[foolsocracy]

Now having watched Frankenstein (1931) I find this really interesting. I didn't really expect the writers themselves to have watched the film; I assumed they saw it was a horror film released in Pete's time and included it with the bonus that the audience would know the story because its Frankenstein. It really aligns with the themes of spider noir though, so I'm second guessing myself.

I read Frankenstein a while back so I'm not as familiar with it as I once was, but I'd say its generous to say the movie is based off of the original novel. It hits some of the points but it really is different. I mean, in the film its Henry Frankenstein, not even Victor.

In the film, the monster is played almost-infantile. He reaches out towards light as if he could grab it. He plays with a little girl by a lake, throwing in flowers to watch them float like boats. When he kills her, it's an accident. How could he have known that she wouldn't float along with the flowers? Its Frankenstein and his assistant who are portrayed as monstrous. They lock him in the dark for three days. The intimidate him with fire and whips and fists.

Despite this, its Frankenstein who gets the 'good end,' while the monster is left to burn alive, pinned inside a wooden mill set alight by the townspeople.

Pete could have gotten nightmares from a number of scenes. Although I wouldn't personally say this is a scary film, there are definitely unnerving parts. There was also a different standard in 1931 for what was scary in film, plus Pete was already living a hard life at such a young age when he saw it.

Based on the panels themselves it is clear that Pete was scared of the monster itself (which is fair, the make up and costuming wanted him to be frightening). "I expected him to tell me there's no such thing as monsters," because no one in real life is a resurrected, looming... once-man-now-creature. (Just you wait, Peter). It's a more juvenile read of the film but Pete is a kid. Ben though, is a veteran, a socialist, has been around the block. He has the sense to analyze the film and interpret it differently. It is the men who find themselves with a capacity for senseless cruelty that are the monsters. That is exactly what the noir comics are about.

I really like that it's clear that Uncle Ben knows what Peter is about to learn. It also shows how much Pete has changed, just within the 1-2 years since he'd seen Frankenstein.

[firewoodfigs]

into each life some rain must fall 

Six times he stands before a grave in the rain, grieving. But this time, courage is reborn. [5+1 Things] 

read on ao3 

i.

Riza Hawkeye is terrifying. This is the first thought that crosses Roy’s mind when he sees her slicing up the carcass of a chicken (or is it a duck?) without even flinching. So when it rains that day, he doesn't think it’s necessary to find her, in hopes of passing her an umbrella. Truthfully, he doubts someone like her is even capable of catching the common cold.

Perhaps it’s childlike bravery, or sheer stupidity, but Roy decides to search for her anyway. He can think of many reasons why this is an awful idea. First, Roy knows he’s kind of good-looking, the same way he knows he’s sort of ingenious and incredible. But he also knows his aunt is paying a lot of money for his lessons, and that he’s here to learn; not to chase girls or get a girlfriend. Second, he knows from his sisters’ stories that the female imagination is capable of unimaginable things, and he most certainly does not want her, of all people, to get the wrong idea.

If word ever gets out about the little stunt he’s about to pull, his sisters would never let him live it down.

But thunder rumbles in the distance, and rain pelts down incessantly, relentlessly. It’s enough to make even a grown man shiver. So he jogs over to her school in quick strides, searching for a socially awkward urchin with messy golden hair and a terrifying glare.

Roy only manages to find her in the end, after what must have been hours of searching. She’s not at school, no. She’s kneeling in front of a tombstone with a bunch of wilted freesias and roses, staring blankly at the inscription written on it.

He says nothing, only lifts his umbrella over her grieving form and lets half of himself get drenched.

Miss Hawkeye glares at him when she finally notices his presence, but accepts the umbrella begrudgingly nonetheless. As she turns around to face him, he sees rivulets streaming down her cheeks, and Roy wonders if it's the rain or her tears.

She rubs her eyes impatiently. “It’s just the rain,” she insists, even though the umbrella shields her from the raging storm overhead.

ii.

Master Hawkeye dies in his arms after begging him to take care of his daughter. He’s only twenty, halfway through the academy and still unacquainted with death. He’s too stunned to care about decorum and propriety and honorifics at the moment, and ends up yelling for Riza to come.

She appears a moment later, hair still a dishevelled, dampened mess; knuckles white from gripping the doorframe so hard. Her eyes are hollow and she’s too numb, too shocked to say or do anything as she stares at her father’s unnaturally still form.

For a long while, nothing he says seems to elicit any kind of response from her. It’s almost like she’s catatonic; trapped in another dimension where he can’t reach her.

He ends up taking care of the burial and the estate and everything else.

The funeral passes by in a haze. It’s a small, quiet affair. His master has never had many (or any, actually) friends to begin with, anyway, given his eccentricity and preference for seclusion.

Roy stays by her side before a gravestone again afterwards. It’s a sunny day. She doesn’t kneel this time; only stares quietly at the name engraved on it like it belongs to a stranger rather than a father.

To his dismay, he learns that, unlike him, she has no other living relatives or family to turn to. How lonely must it be, then, being trapped in this nondescript, deserted town all by herself?

So he offers her his contact details; his dreams and aspirations for the future as an excuse for them to maintain some semblance of a friendship. It’s probably closer to an acquaintanceship, given that they hadn’t really spoken much even during his stay at the Hawkeye manor. Either way, it’s better than being all alone, he thinks.

In exchange, Miss Hawkeye simply responds with a small, sad smile before asking if she can entrust her back to his dream; offering her own naive ideals and hopes for a better, brighter future.

And then, she unbuttons her blouse as soon as they return to the manor to unveil an intricate array begging to be deciphered. For all his brains and talents Roy can only stare, shell-shocked.

What the hell had his master done?

The sky begins to weep for the abuse she’s endured for the sake of bearing an alchemist’s legacy. But the misty rain can’t wash away the ink splaying out like blood on her back; the pain she must have suffered during the excruciating procedure.

“I’m sorry,” is the only thing he can say to break the silence that hangs over them like a death sentence, as he crosses the distance between them to ghost his fingers over the apology inscribed onto her back.

Miss Hawkeye offers him an impassive shrug. “It… it doesn’t matter,” she mumbles, but her shoulders are quaking and her hands are trembling as she grips on to her blouse for dear life.

iii.

The war finally ends. Rain descends from the heavens like drops of silver after what must surely have been hell on earth. A rarity, Roy thinks, where condensation in the air is caused only by blood, not water. A gift from the gods (do they exist?), perhaps. He lifts his palms heavenward, as if begging for the rain to wash away his sins; his scars and his very soul.

It doesn’t. A soldier like him now inured to violence and gore doesn’t deserve such a reprieve.

At the very least, though, the Hero of Ishval is grateful that it renders him useless. A hero. The title sits uncomfortably on his tongue, in his gut. He’s nothing more than a murderer; a monster, and he doesn’t want any medals of gold or glory emblazoned across his military garb. Not when they’re just symbols celebrating death and destruction.

Roy watches from the distance as a sorrowful silhouette with a familiar tuft of blonde hair kneels over a makeshift grave.

“An Ishvalan child, shot and left to die on the roadside alone,” she explains reverently with a forlorn smile, when he inches closer to ask whether it’s a fallen comrade.

He swallows thickly. God, if only he’d kept his ugly mouth shut back then. Then maybe she’d still just be shooting birds and rabbits and antelopes. Maybe she’d still be making chicken soup for dinner now (imagining the smell of cooked meat is enough to make him nauseous). Maybe she’d still be stuck in the raffish countryside; in that countrified, eerie manor all by herself.

Being alone, he thinks, is still infinitely better than being surrounded by cadavers in a deluge of blood-stained sand.

The… sniper (The Hawk’s Eye leaves an awfully bitter taste in his mouth, like he’s biting a bullet) clenches her fist when she’s done, before asking him for the impossible.

“I have a favour to ask of you, Mr. Mustang,” she begins. “Please burn and crush my back.”

“There’s no way I can -” Roy replies immediately, almost yelling. How in the world could he burn her flesh, with the alchemy he’d learnt from her back?

“Please,” she says, begging for him to liberate her from the bonds chaining her to a deceased man so that she can be her own person. Just Riza Hawkeye, not the keeper of her father’s secrets.

“Damn it,” Roy curses under his breath. She makes it sound like it’s her fault for entrusting her father’s research to him. But isn’t he the one who had abused the power entrusted to him; defiled her trust, destroyed her hopes of everyone getting their happy ending somehow?

And yet... endings like these only exist in grand castles and fairy tales. Not in arid, scorched deserts, and most certainly not in their horror stories of ruthless murder and bloody genocide and endless strife.

If only he’d been a little less foolish back then. If only.

Roy relents.

iv.

Rain pours down in heavy, roaring torrents when he burns her back. Roy wishes it could fall through the roof somehow; douse the fire eating her at her flesh so he doesn’t have to hear her suppressed screams that come out as whimpers as she bites down on an old, ragged cloth. It breaks his heart to burn her, a friend he’s come to cherish and appreciate through all the hell they’ve endured together over bland coffee and stale bread.

But he does so anyway. Because it’s what she wants - no, what she needs. He lets the massive downpour swallow the sounds of their cries; lets the wind carry away the lethal secret that has killed hundreds (or thousands?) into the dark, endless void.

“It… it’s done,” Roy whispers breathlessly at last. He removes the burnt tissue carefully, mindful of her quivering frame before covering them with sterile dressings. Then, he gives her the painkillers he’d gathered from the apothecary, which she eagerly swallows.

He doesn’t dare meet her eyes while she’s still conscious, fearing that he’ll only see hatred swimming in them. How could she not, after all that he’s done? He wouldn’t blame her, to be honest. She has every right to, and he deserves every ounce of it.

Fortunately, the medicine kicks in quickly. Roy kneels before her half-lucid form as her eyelids begin to flutter shut. God, he wants to beg for forgiveness, but...

“I forgive you,” she murmurs sleepily even before he says anything, before finally falling into painless oblivion. Roy stays by her side, nervously close and gentle as he wipes her forehead with a cool, damp cloth to make sure a fever doesn’t develop.

Afterwards, he goes to her parents’ grave to beg them for forgiveness; to repent for all that he’s done to their daughter.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t fulfil your last wish, Master,” he cries, filled with regret that he hadn’t listened to his warning back then. The stones only stare back at him wordlessly. Self-reproach swallows him whole, the way squalls of driving rain completely engulf him.

A little less than a month later, Riza Hawkeye marches into his office, stoic and stalwart with an unrivalled expertise in guns and an unyielding duty to the living and the dead. He’s inclined to believe that maybe, just maybe, he can make the necessary reparations and restitutions with her by his side. And so he makes her his personal adjutant; gives her the right to shoot his back if he steps off the path.

It’s the least he can do after he’s defaced hers, after all.

“Will you follow me?” Roy asks apprehensively.

“If that is your wish, then even into hell,” she states, not flinching in the least. He wants to tell her that she’s already been through hell with him, and she doesn’t deserve anymore of that.

Instead, he grits his teeth and looks on ahead resolutely, determined not to let her down this time.

v.

Brigadier General Maes Hughes is buried on a relatively bright afternoon. The sun shines as birds sing and flowers begin to bloom. The spring sky shimmers overhead in a vibrant, cheerful shade of blue like it’s paying an ode to his sprightly nature.

And yet, the ceremony is distinctly somber: it’s filled with soldiers who aren’t allowed to break protocol and say their eulogies and prayers; a wife whose heart is torn asunder, who still yearns for him to return home, and a child who’s far too young to understand that he’s not coming back.

Colonel Mustang stands at attention as the soldiers lower his best friend six feet under. His stomach coils as his heart wrenches. He feels like throwing up again. A part of him wishes his body would stop behaving in this manner so that he can at least attempt to convince himself that this isn’t real; that it’s just a feverish dream which will be chased away by the morning light.

But it’s real. It’s not a dream. Because Elicia, darling Elicia is crying for her father. “Why are you burying Papa?” she yells. “He has to return to his work!”

Roy only barely manages to stop himself from grieving aloud. Years of military training, perhaps. He continues watching quietly as the bugle sounds off in Hughes’ honour instead, and waits for everyone to leave before saying his piece.

Well, almost everyone.

“... Are you alright?” His Lieutenant asks.

“Yes,” he answers unconvincingly. “It’s… it’s a terrible day for rain.”

She looks up at the vast horizon above them, a pretty pastel pink with tender ribbons of lilac streaking across. “It’s not raining -”

“Yes, it is,” he whispers, before donning the military cap once more.

Thankfully, Hawkeye understands. She gives him a moment to grieve, not bothering with senseless platitudes or empty sympathies. A crow caws in the distance, calling for the departed soul of his friend as he stands, uniform dry but cheeks inexplicably damp.

“Let’s go, sir. It’s getting chilly here,” Lieutenant Hawkeye calls gently. Colonel Mustang nods and obliges, leaving his best friend behind in the setting sun.

Daybreak arrives once more, like clockwork. His eyes are raw and red and swollen shut as he mulls over the consequences of ditching work for the day.

Hawkeye turns up at his doorstep with freshly baked bread and a warm cup of coffee just then: the morning light that offers him a brief respite from grief.  

vi.

It’s pouring this time as he stands in front of Hughes’ grave. Somehow, it always does whenever he stands alive before death.

The sky and rain are like sackcloth and ash, Roy thinks, as it falls on his shoulders and shrouds him from the rest of the world in a sad, pearly grey. But he’s been so scared and frustrated and exhausted over the past few months - from losing his closest friend, to dealing with a government corrupt to its very core and an impending nationwide catastrophe - that it’s a welcome relief.

“It’s almost time, Colonel,” comes a gentle voice in the midst of the gloomy darkness.

The downpour gradually lessens into a soft drizzle.

It’s impossible to miss the scent of her, lavender and petrichor masked beneath gunpowder even in this graveyard reeking of death. And it finally dawns upon Roy then, why the time they’d spent apart had felt like an eternity; why it’d pained him so badly like someone was ripping his innards out. Because he loves her. He loves her so much that it pushes out through every fiber of his being; that he almost can’t contain the urge to kiss her; hold her, keep her in his arms forever.

Behind him, he hears her feet shift subtly. Her breathing is weary and slightly laboured. A well-timed reminder that she’s very much alive, not buried underneath soil like the other rotting corpses in this god-awful place.

Roy bites on his lips, hard, to restrain himself from crushing them on hers. They don’t need any more fires between them when they already have enough to extinguish.

But she’s here now, at least, and that’s more than enough. It’s enough for him to keep moving forward despite having buried a part of himself alongside the man he’d seen as a comrade, a friend and a brother. It’s enough for courage to be reborn; for him to face another day with strength and hope.

“Let’s go, Lieutenant,” he says at last, a genuine smile crossing his features for the first time in months. She hesitates for a moment before trailing behind him, footsteps quiet and steadfast. And when they depart the land of the dead (together) to meet the maelstrom awaiting the living he’s not afraid anymore.

[esprit-de-corps-magazine]

Mona Parsons: From Privilege To Prison: From Nova Scotia to Nazi Europe

(Volume 26-02)

By Andria Hill-Lehr

Nova Scotian Mona Parsons was born into privilege, and married a millionaire – not exactly preparation for the dangers of assisting the Dutch underground in World War Two. Parsons and her Dutch husband, Willem Leonhardt, helped Allied airmen shot down over the Occupied Netherlands to evade Nazi capture. For over a year their efforts went undetected. Then, traitors infiltrated the network. Willem went into hiding. Mona believed she could deflect suspicion by remaining in their home. That choice nearly cost her, her life in 1941, leading to a prison sentence, and ultimately a dramatic escape from Nazi Germany in March 1945.

At first, Mona thought this was another intimidation tactic, but what she heard shook her badly. The two British flyers whom she and Willem had sheltered had been caught in Leiden. Though Richard Pape made a desperate attempt to tear up his diary and his code book and flush them down the toilet, (as he dramatically described in a book he wrote later, scooping the unflushed pieces out of the toilet and eating them as the Gestapo broke down the door) he neglected to exercise the same precaution with one damning piece of evidence against Mona. In Pape’s pocket was Mona’s calling card. On the reverse was the name of Virginia Tufts Pickett, and the address in London where she was living at the time. Mona had asked Pape to contact Virginia, so that she could let Mona’s father in Canada know of her contribution to the war effort. But Mona’s message was never delivered, and the Gestapo acquired the evidence that directly linked the British airmen to Mona.

During her interrogation, Mona also learned that other members of the little network had been captured. Numb with shock, she listened as she heard the names of people she knew read aloud with others she didn’t recognise: Bernard Besselink, a farmer; Jan Agterkamp, a journalist; Frederik Boessenkool, a teacher; Jan Huese, a businessman; Harmen van der Leek, a professor; and Dirk Brouwer. The thought briefly flickered in her mind that the Gestapo were lying, that the people named had not been arrested, but that the Gestapo were hoping that upon hearing their names, she might betray something. But, she realized, they couldn’t have known the name of the British airmen unless they’d captured them.

The cold terror that started in the pit of her stomach and rapidly engulfed her told her that this was not a Gestapo ruse, and that the arrests were all too true. She gave no outward sign of fear, instead feigning boredom at the unfamiliar names and offering incredulous chuckles when told of the alleged involvement of people she knew. She asked for a cigarette in a bid to buy time to calm her nerves. Lighting it without a tremor, she inhaled deeply, and stared steadily at the interrogating officer. Calmly, she asked him why, if he thought he already knew so much, he was persisting in asking her questions for which she had no answer. Her ploy worked. Angered at Mona’s refusal to be intimidated, the officer ended the interview and tersely ordered that she be returned to her cell. A prisoner she might have been, but she was also a strong-willed woman. And her captors had to admit, even if not to her, a degree of grudging respect for her strength.

ESCAPE 1945

So rapid was the Allied advance into the area around Rhede that a notation in the War Diaries indicated that the military were scrambling to produce maps of the battle zones because they changed so quickly, so frequently. Consequently, Mona and Wendelien’s planned escape to Holland was altered by the Allies’ ever-changing battle plans. The Canadian infantry had been busy liberating northeastern Holland in late March and early April, and the Canadian Armoured Division re-entered Germany to take Meppen on April 8. From there, the Armoured Division set a course for Oldenburg. In the meantime, fighting became particularly vicious after the Polish Armoured Division crossed the Küsten Kanal in an area only a few kilometres from Rhede.

On April 14, 1945, the fighting around Rhede moved closer. The bump of artillery, which had been daily background sound for Mona and Wendelien, became the buzz and roar of shells exploding in their midst – “shells were bursting all around, tanks rattled by the front door and machine guns were being fired from the corners of the house.” The Polish offensive and Canadian efforts sent the Nazis into a rear-guard action. Artillery shells began bursting in the fields as farmers, their families and labourers scrambled for cover. The milchräder’s wife grabbed some food and bedding, and herded her children into the basement. Mona favoured taking her chances above ground to being in the close confines of a cramped, dusty cellar, which reminded her too much of prison. She remained on the main floor of the house until the farmer emerged to check on the battle’s progress during a brief lull. He went outside to speak to a German soldier and offer him food. In a flash, an artillery shell passed within a metre of Mona’s head and landed nearby, exploding on impact and sending a plume of earth skyward. Mona flung herself on the floor before she could see what happened to the farmer and the soldier, and decided that the cellar was preferable to the ground floor of the house if the next shell landed on the building. Joining the rest of the family in the cellar, Mona huddled in a corner on a mat while the battle raged over their heads.

When at last the assault stopped three days later, Mona and the farmer’s eldest daughter were sent out to view the damage. The first sight that greeted them was the farmer’s feet sticking out of a ditch. Near him was the soldier, also dead, a sausage still clutched in one hand. The child began to wail and ran back to the house to get her mother. Mona and the farmer’s widow struggled to carry the farmer’s body into the house. They had only just laid the corpse on the floor when Allied soldiers went through the town, telling the occupants they had 40 minutes to clear out of the area and get over the border into Holland – about a five-minute trip away…. 

As Mona travelled through Holland the extent of the devastation of the Dutch countryside began to have an impact. The country was just emerging from the Hongerwinter of 1944-45, precipitated when the Nazis cut off food supplies to the Dutch nation as punishment for its dogged resistance to Nazi occupation. And the battles between advancing Allies and retreating Nazis had laid waste to the countryside. Rotting carcasses of livestock dotted the fields, hulks of military vehicles were strewn along muddy roadsides. In some places, corpses of soldiers and civilians lay amid the rubble and ruins of what once were homes, farms and villages. Those left alive were as thin and ragged as Mona herself. For the first time, Mona felt defeated and wondered if there was any point in returning home. Would her house even be standing? What had been Willem’s fate? How many of her friends would still be in Laren? She stopped to rest near Vlagtwedde, at a farmhouse in the midst of what had obviously been a battle zone, just a few kilometres from the Dutch farmhouse where she had heard stories of heroic Canadians fighting to liberate the country and bring food to a starving nation.

Exhausted, she tried to ask for a drink at the farmhouse. “I tried to remember my Dutch, but it was hopelessly mixed with German. The people looked hostile, until I assured them I was a Canadian married to a Dutchman – then they couldn’t do enough for me.” She managed to communicate that she needed to find Allied troops, and the farmer’s brother, aged 64, proudly produced a bicycle (one of the few not confiscated in the mad rush by the Nazis to leave the area) and offered to take Mona to what he believed were Polish troops.

The first soldier Mona saw was loading a truck. She approached him hopefully, and with as much confidence as she could muster. A once wealthy woman used to dressing in the height of fashion, Mona now carried only 87 pounds on her 5’ 8” frame, was filthy and clad in shabby clothes, with only filthy bandages on her feet, having discarded the wooden clogs because they had chafed her already tortured feet. The soldier responded gruffly when asked if he spoke English, doubtless cautious because of warnings about Wehrwolf [a Nazi initiative to encourage women to befriend Allied soldiers, steal their food and weapons and, if possible, kill them]. But his brusqueness quickly changed to amazement at hearing that she had escaped from a Nazi prison and then walked across Germany. His suspicion was raised again, however, when she claimed to be Canadian. Where in Canada was she from, he wanted to know. When she replied that her home was in a little town in Nova Scotia called Wolfville, an expletive escaped his lips and he nearly dropped the box he was holding. He told her his name was Clarence Leonard of Halifax, and that she had just met up with the North Nova Scotia Highlanders.

Since arriving in Holland, Canadian soldiers had seen the effects of starvation and years of deprivation on the Dutch people. But little did any of them expect to find a Canadian woman in such condition, who had lived the experiences she had. Mona was greeted by fellow Canadians who eagerly shared their rations with her, treating her to white bread with honey and plum jam, and hot tea – her first since the cup she’d been given in the Amstelveense Prison just prior to her transport to Germany in March 1942. During her incarceration in Germany, the only drinks she’d had were water and, occasionally, ersatz coffee. The other gift she remembered for the rest of her life was from a young soldier who had received a care package from home. In it were some Moirs chocolates (in those days manufactured in Bedford, Nova Scotia). He’d savoured each one, making them last as long as possible, but when he found a Canadian woman in their midst – and a Nova Scotian, no less – he gave her the last three precious chocolates to remind her of home. After years of deprivation, they were more precious to her than any jewels or finery she’d possessed. She did not gobble them up, but cradled them in her palm for a while, inhaling the rich, chocolatey-sweet scent. When they began to melt, she put them in her pocket in order to save them and savour them little by little. In an attempt to follow the precautions necessary in a war zone, the soldiers asked her to wait for the arrival of an officer. But when she declined, they did not persist. Their instincts must have convinced them she was telling the truth. After receiving more clean bandages for her feet, she set out again.