The moonlight barely penetrated the narrow lancet windows of the medieval Bohemian church. Small candles dimly lit old frescoes depicting saints. The church was quiet and deserted, except for an elderly priest who was dosing over a book. The door opened almost silently, letting in an icy wind. A young man lingered in the doorway, as if considering his next move. He stepped in, closed the door behind him and walked up the aisle straight to the altar, the sound of his footsteps echoing from the stone walls. The snowflakes that sparkled in his blond hair melted, leaving footprints on his white coat. He held a long canvas package, and as he knelt before the altar, he placed it down and unfolded it to reveal an ancient sword. Upon the sword were engraved words that glistened in the candlelight. The young man folded his hands, bowed his head to the side, and looked up at the crucified Christ above the altar.

“So, here I am.” He spoke quietly in English with a slight German accent. “You know, this time I did everything I could.” He fell into a thoughtful silence before speaking again. “I ask only one thing of you – take care of them.”

I was born in Western Germany on a cold, rainy day in October 1986. My mother once told me that she had to travel to the hospital all alone in the pouring rain that night, as my father was at work – as usual. He was always working, day and night. His days were spent at the timber works, and at night he worked as a warehouse operative. Of course, on such a schedule, he didn’t have time for his family. As for my mother, she wrote for the local newspaper, giving tips on how to build relationships or grow gladioli. She was a perfect example of how you can give advice without actually being a specialist in anything. In our family, everyone was on their own. We were not even a family in its primary sense, just a collection of people under one roof.

It’s no wonder I became a troubled teen. I wasn’t a brawler or a drug addict, oh no. I studied well and came home on time. My “problem” was that nobody knew how to communicate with me. People around seemed so boring that I stayed silent most of the time, simply not understanding why anyone would bother to discuss such mundane things as weather, football or a film they watched last Sunday. In a way, I was a rebel, as I didn’t give a damn about public opinion. I was living in my own world by my own rules. I did what I wanted, the way I wanted.

The only person who could tolerate me was Sunny. His real name was Robert, but nobody called him that, not even his parents or teachers. I don’t remember how he came to be known as Sunny. Maybe it was because of his red hair and freckles.

Sunny pretended to be a pacifist and always avoided conflict. It was so important to him that everyone adored him. And people did adore him. He was positive, friendly, a ray of sunshine in this grey world. But I knew that this was only pretense, the mask he wore.

Nobody understood his relationship with me. It seemed to outsiders that we had nothing in common, but that wasn’t so. Our imaginations ran wild together, which troubled his parents. They scolded him, put him under house arrest, banned him from hanging out with me, or watching TV. My parents, on the other hand, had little interest in my life. Nothing was said as long as I came home before dinner, or at least before breakfast.

We lived in a small house in the suburbs at the edge of the forest. There, Sunny and I spent our childhood. At dawn, we would ride our bikes into the woods to our homemade hut filled with dishes, blankets and even food. We’d make a fire and cook fish that we’d caught in the Danube. Once, after reading “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” we built a raft to journey down the river, but it fell apart after a couple of miles. It was a miracle that we managed to get back to the shore. I remember being afraid of the water for at least a month after that.

Thinking back, we did many crazy things. We dared each other to jump off the roofs, and always seemed to have skinned knees and elbows. We rode our bikes like madmen trying to find out who was the fastest. We hunted birds with catapults. Once, Sunny took his father’s air rifle, and we shot a thrush. It was so small, so defenseless. I still remember that first acquaintance with death very well, and that uncomfortable feeling of pity and frustration. Why? Just like that? For fun? But I didn’t find it funny. It seemed too cruel. We buried the thrush and never hunted animals again – at least not together as children.

Sunny was undoubtedly the leader, but I tried to keep up. Looking back on those days, I realise that he was always walking a tightrope. Always tempting fate. I wonder what were his chances of growing up.

When we were a little older, we started playing football in the school playground with other guys, but I found it boring. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really interested in kicking a ball. I much preferred sitting on the rocky shore of the hazy Danube early in the morning and dreaming about the future.

“When I grow up,” Sunny told me, “I’m gonna become an archeologist like Indiana Jones.” His eyes glistened as he spoke. “I will search for artifacts and have adventures.”

My dream was that in a couple of years I would find a job and move away from my parents, start making money, buy my first car and someday marry a beautiful girl. Life would be as it should be, ordinary and simple. Such naivety! Sunny’s head was always in the clouds, but I remained firmly on the ground. I was convinced that miracles would never happen to those who were waiting for them. I could only rely on myself and was almost ready to live a long and boring life like my parents did and their parents before them, and their grandparents, and so on to Adam, or whoever we descended from.

Time passed by, and when we were fourteen, we fell in love with the same girl. Her name was Anna and she came from Berlin. She was fostered by her grandfather after her parents died in a car crash. Anna’s life was tough, but she didn’t give up. She was always smiling. I still remember the cloudy winter morning when she first walked into our class. She seemed to come from another world. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, her big blue eyes were shining and her sandy-coloured curls were covered with snowflakes. And her smile. I would have given anything in the world for her to smile at me.

Sunny was the first to befriend her. One day at break, he sat down at her desk, and they started laughing about something. It upset me so much that after class I caught him in the school playground and nailed him to the wall, ready for a fight.

“Leave Annie alone. Find some other girl.”

“But I like her,” he replied. He pushed me slightly, but I continued to hold him by his jacket collar.

“I like her too.”

“You will never be good enough for her!” Sunny said as he pushed harder so that I almost lost my balance. “You will never amount to anything.” He pushed again. “You’d prefer to suffer alone than ever say a word to her!”

And then, for the first time in my life, I hit him. With my fist. On his face. He was taken aback and looked surprised. But I was still furious and struck him again. Only then did he hit back. His first blow reached my jaw, the second caught me somewhere near the eyebrow. We both fell, fighting each other with varying success until we were both exhausted. Sunny was the first to give up. He sat against a wall, breathing heavily. His jacket was torn and missing one button, the blood dried on his split lip. I guess I looked no better. My jaw was starting to hurt – I guessed he broke it.