Chronicles From The Future: The amazing story of Paul Amadeus Dienach

by Unknown

  George M. Papachatzis

  August 1966

  FIRST DIARY

  REMEMBRANCES FROM THE PAST

  December 2nd, 1918

  I have decided to write a bit every day so that I can tell my sad story, little by little, from beginning to end.

  During the first twenty-one years of my life, you would think I was the happiest person on earth. It’s been eleven years since then — eleven unbearable years. The only thing I am longing for now is some solace or something to keep me occupied.

  It feels like yesterday, those happy days of craving a never-ending bliss with Anna. It can’t be true that this love has had such a sad and irreparable ending, that Anna has been dead for so many years now, that everything has faded away. No, I can’t believe it. Nine whole years without her…

  “Why do you keep torturing yourself by thinking about all that?” they ask me. I understand. I need closure, but it is hard to find.

  You do not know. Our love was no ordinary love. We were still at school when we fell in love with each other. Since then I had been imagining her name next to mine.

  That man who brought destruction into our lives and sent her to the grave never loved her! He never considered Anna his one and only, like I did. He never saw anything in her eyes.

  When I was young, I would stare for hours through my window, which overlooked hers. And when the weather was foul, that is when I would not budge an inch from there! I saw the people hurrying along, smiling at the thought of a warm soup and a cosy bed at home while I was wishing that the weather would continue so that I’d have a better chance of seeing her.

  “What is Anna feeling at the moment? What does this colourless world look like through her eyes?” I would think.

  And when I saw her in the lamplight, holding her embroidery, my longing became a life goal vindicated, my salvation from loneliness…

  Only on holidays did I wish for good weather because a storm would lessen my chances to happen upon Anna and her family in the park. But still, I became nervous. I would have to greet her and it would be shameful for her parents to see me blush with embarrassment.

  How happy were the days that followed! Shortly before her brother left the city to study, I got to know him better. He invited me to his home and I went many a time indeed. I swear to God, my acquaintance with Anna was not the product of my own initiative. I never would have found the courage. Those who have loved purely and vigorously in their early adolescence are well aware of that and deeply understand it.

  In the early days, not even Anna had realised a thing; she merely looked forward to my next visit so that she could give me a different present each time: travel books or coloured pencils. I still remember the first time I saw her at church dressed in white. “How did her eyelashes grow so long all at once?” I wondered to myself. I also remember that during my last year in secondary school, all the margins of my notebooks were scribbled with her name.

  One day I couldn’t help myself and she noticed my teary eyes. We were in the drawing room with a huge book open before us on the table. Her mother was seated right next to her. I will never forget her gaze. It took the form of a huge question mark. It was so serious — too serious for her years.

  We exchanged not another word and quickly closed the book. Angry with myself, I wiped my eyes, hastily bid farewell to her mother and rushed out. I cried myself to sleep that night. I would be to blame if I never saw her again.

  Eleven days passed. Early one afternoon, on my way back home, I heard noises coming from the drawing room. I walked in and—who would have thought it?—Anna was there with her mother! Before I could gather my thoughts I had to greet the ladies. Anna was completely unabashed, like nothing was going on. A boy could never have disguised himself as well as she did! The visit had been her idea.

  Then it was my turn to go away for studies. I was absent for a year or two. By the time I returned, she had become a proper lady. The first times I saw her she did not talk to me the way she used to or look straight into my eyes. And my mind went blank, like a fool, unable to utter a few words to form a sentence. I blushed and answered her every question in monosyllables. But still, I was so happy…

  Now I go back to the places where I used to meet her again and again. What else is there for me to do so as to come to grips with my misery? While writing, my tears drop over the fresh ink, blurring the letters. It’s ridiculous—I know—for a 32-year-old man to cry like a baby. I’ve been told so many times by now, enough to know it very well myself. But please forgive me. I’m just a miserable man that has been through too much in life.

  Nobody knew about our love back then, no one except her best friend, Amelia. I had not even told my mother, my own best friend, my hero! How much has she been through herself, with my misfortunes and my sickness! And even now, on her deathbed, she is still my shoulder to cry on, instead of me being hers. I remember you, Mother, crying at nights and me not knowing what to do. I remember you going to her house to see her, during her own sickness, and her parents telling you there’s nothing else that can be done, no hope whatsoever. And they didn’t let you see her. They did not even let me see her.

  December 4th, 1918

  Our secret happiness lasted several months. I do not recall what season it was. Did other people talk about us? I don’t recall that either. The only thing I do recall is you. My every future plan, my every thought, my every hope was formed by you, and took your form.

  Then I was offered the position at that school. I took it as a good sign and was quite happy since I was financially independent and was able to see her every three months. Then another year passed. Her mother died. I had finally saved some money to start my life with her. She used to write to me saying she was very sad. I assumed that her mother’s recent death was the reason. I was mistaken.

  When that man appeared and asked Anna’s father for her hand in marriage, her father begged her to accept, lying to her about his financial situation. He kept pleading with her for months, bending her will little by little. Only after Anna’s passing did I learn the whole truth about how her father took advantage of her love and affection for him. Had her mother been alive, she would have sensed the pain in her heart.

  Even now Amelia speaks to me about how torn Anna was between making her father unhappy and shattering her own heart forever, knowing how much that would make her suffer. She would cry in her arms for hours and Amelia would urge her to leave home directly, but she could never take that step.

  Her mother’s last wish from her deathbed—that Anna obey her father—was pinned in her mind and defined her every move. And so, from a misconception of duty, she was consumed by the idea of sacrifice.

  One morning I received a letter from my mother. Anna’s brother had been looking for me. I met with him. He asked for my help. They still hadn´t managed to convince her to marry that man. “Have you ever thought about how you´re going to live, in what conditions? What do you have to offer her?” he asked me. I asked him to leave, cursing him, and then I went home and wept, for I had offended someone she so dearly loved.

  I managed to see her a couple of times. She looked happy. “Don’t worry, they can’t force me to marry him against my will,” she said.

  For the rest of my life—no matter how long that will be—the memory of her that night, the last time I ever saw her alive, standing in front of me, will always be fresh and vivid in my mind. She wasn’t sad. On the contrary, she was full of optimism. She was laughing. I couldn’t stop gazing at her. We were on “our” hill. I pressed my lips against her hair. Around us, only blossoming windflowers.

  “Enough for today... Let’s go back... I have to be home early,” she said. “Next time we’re here I’ll make a wreath of windflowers. Will you place it on my head?”

  “Promise me that I will see you again; that they’re not going to bend you.”

  “We will come here again,” she promised, “I swear to you that we’ll come back.”

  December 6t
h, 1918

  The damned pains never go away... The physicians ordered me to rest. What was I saying? Oh yes! One day my mother asked me to go on a trip. It took me a while to figure out why. It was the period when Anna was supposed to be married. Do not blame her…

  Anna died two years after the wedding. She had started losing weight. Her husband said that neither would she listen to anyone nor was she cautious about her health. The physicians had told them that she shouldn’t get with child. She died before she could nurse her infant…

  When I came back from the trip, I became a recluse for a year without any contact with anyone. My hair and beard had grown down to my chest. The only company I wanted was that of Amelia. Anna was ill, but still alive then. One afternoon in 1909 I heard a knock at the door.

  “Open up! It’s me. Amelia!”

  I ran downstairs and hardly gave her a second to catch her breath.

  “What happened? Is she dead? Tell me!” I asked as I shook her. Her eyes were red.

  “Listen to me! You have to come with me right now. She wants to see you.”

  Amelia told me Anna had been asking for me, especially at night-time. And she kept saying she wanted windflowers. But only today did her husband allow Amelia to tell me. Today, because the physicians said the end was very near. He wasn’t at home. He had purposely left so that we would not cross paths.

  The first thought that came to my mind was that I hadn’t seen Anna even once since her wedding. I could think of nothing else. We waited till nightfall. Their house was one of the finest mansions in the state. Amelia and I entered and went straight to her room. Anna was sitting up in her bed. Only sweetness had remained in her otherwise withered face. She was dressed in a silk robe and had arranged her long locks in her favourite hairstyle. The first word she uttered was my name. She smiled, expressing as much happiness as her face could still express. She stretched out her hand. I took it in mine and started kissing it.

  “You came, Paul! You came! I’m so glad you came! It’s good to see you one last time, now that the end is near… And since my husband allowed it…”

  I knelt down beside her bed and asked her to stop. I told her she would recover and everything would be fine. She kept pulling my hand towards her pale face and lips and sighing as if relieved.

  “The last time you saw her,” said Amelia, “when she swore she would come back, she really believed she could…” Anna nodded in agreement. “But then, she took a turn for the worse and she couldn’t. That’s been a burden on her soul since then and so she asks you to forgive her…”

  I forgave her with all my heart. I kissed her hair just like I used to and suddenly her face lit up with pleasure.

  We let her rest for quite a while and then she told me, “When I’m gone, I want you to visit our hill once in a while. The trees and grass might have something to share with you. Do not forget me. If you stay true to our love and don’t forsake me, I’ll never abandon you. I’ll be right by your side, Paul… By your side and my child’s. Whenever you need me, I’ll be there…”

  I escorted Amelia to her house and then went back to mine at midnight, overwhelmed by a strange mixture of pain and happiness. “What is this?” I wondered, “Why do I feel so confident that I will see her again?”

  On Wednesday night I saw her. On Sunday she was dead.

  January 17th, 1919

  This morning, at 8:40, was the two-year anniversary of my revival. It was at that time that I opened my eyes and was myself again. I remember it was snowing. My mother was on the floor next to me, crying tears of joy. “What happened?” I asked her. I received my answer from our family physician: “Well, it was about time you woke up! You’ve broken every record!”

  Apparently it was some kind of lethargy. I had been asleep for a fortnight.

  The physician, wearing a fancy tie, was trying to cheer me up. Not only did he not succeed but, instead of a smile, a grotesque grin spread over his face.

  As the months went by, I began to feel better. I took heart. In the end, man can get used to anything…

  “Now that you are familiar with my case,” I told the physician once, “I don’t need to fear being buried alive…”

  January 23rd, 1919

  It’s the fourth misty, cloudy day in a row. What can one do in this weather? No friends come to visit me anymore. I’m reading a history book. Since primary school, history has always had the power to sweep me away. I remember thinking back then that we were all born in a certain place and era out of mere coincidence. We could have easily been born in a completely different country, culture and even century, with completely different friends, occupations and sweethearts. But we wouldn’t be able to know any of the things that were to happen later, that is, now.

  I’m trying to read, but I’m pushing myself. Back then I used to truly engage with what I was reading. Not anymore. Today, my loneliness has reached its deepest depth.

  February 8th, 1919

  I started seeing the priest again. He never pressured me to talk and that eased my mind. Amelia had explained to him that I needed time. He respected that. That’s why I went. He said he liked talking to me. I did as well. The conversation with him was always very interesting. He had a positive way of thinking and clear judgment, free of prejudice and stereotypes. His mind was robust and bright.

  I stared at his library. He had almost everything: from the mystics of the East and the Ionian philosophers to the modern philosophers of Western civilisation.

  “I see you staring at these worthless books,” he told me as if he could read my mind. “Do not expect great things from them. I’ve read them all. I know all that’s been said by the brightest minds of all times. But I will never feel the power that true love has to raise you to the highest point of knowledge. I’ll never experience a love like that.”

  He turned to me. It was the first time that he, such a discreet and considerate man, had made an allusion to Anna, albeit indirectly. He was looking to me for help, for insight. He was hoping to feel what love is, even vicariously.

  “She told me she’d be with me, that I’d feel her close to me from time to time. It’s been ten years since then. Never, not once, have I had a sign from her. You tell me then, Father, how is the concept of the imperishable soul that you preach about reconciled with the absolute lack of any communication with those who loved us so?”

  “If you’re looking for shelter from the moments of pain, I have nothing else to offer you other than faith — any faith. But let us focus on you. And I’m talking to you as a brother, not as a priest. If I were you, I would not place my hopes and future in this promise. All these years you’ve been consumed with overthinking at the expense of your mental health. Why? Do you consider this healthy or right? Have you not had enough experience to know that one should not rely on unrealistic expectations? You need a sign? Why should Creation reveal its secrets to you? And why, with the sole excuse of a lack of signs, do you discard them altogether? And how are you sure that they haven’t been revealed to you, but found you too blind to notice or understand them?

  I had no counter argument. We sat there for a while opposite each other without speaking and then we left.

  That night I prayed after a very long time. I asked the Lord to calm me and show me that my doubts were unjustified. Nothing. But then I cried. I managed to cry! Could that have been the sign I was looking for?

  February 24th, 1919

  The thought that I could leave this life, leave once and for all, was very attractive in the beginning. So many people disappear every day, people of every age. Nothing can be ruled out. Suicidal thoughts, however, did not cross my mind. I do not know if my mother or my cowardice was to blame, or rather a pure selfishness created by that open wound in my heart.

  The possibility alone, however, comforted me. I was vaguely looking forward to breaking the ties. If she’s gone, I’m going with her. As simple as that. That was the thought. And she’d be waiting there for me, unchanged, and everything wou
ld go back to the way it was.

  SECOND DIARY

  3 years later

  (the diary Paul Dienach wrote when he came out of his second coma)

  THE AWAKENING

  July 16th, 1922

  The preparations for the trip, along with all the forgotten things I decided to get rid of, showed me the way to my old library where, hidden behind the rows of books, was the diary I had kept for three years, from December’18 to February’21. During my illness, some friends had been taking care of the house, especially after my mother’s death. Last night I sat there, leafing through it, occasionally skimming over some of its pages. Reading between the lines I rediscovered, for a moment, my old self, whom I had long lost somewhere amidst all the unbelievable things that had happened to me in the meantime. I re-experienced that guileless emotion with such a genuine, pure thrill, inhaling that pure scent of loyalty to the one and only love of my life. Something so rare. I knew back then that it was an exercise in futility, but still, I could not do otherwise.