They were dismissed after the final salute. Gabi was the first to walk away, picking up her muddy hat and striding to the mess hall as hastily as the sludge allowed. Pinke, who sat in the car waiting for Hans, jumped out from an open window and ran after her, springing about her feet.
“Go back, Pinke. Please, go back.”
The devoted dachshund bounded about her ankles, splashing mud on her trousers as she jumped. Gabi sighed—how she would miss her little dackel bed warmer. She picked up her furry confidant and walked over to Hans. Without raising her eyes, she held the adorable, but grubby dachshund out in front of her.
Hans took the little dog, holding it at a distance so as not to soil his coat. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Gabi ran to her quarters, leaving Hans and his guilt standing in the yard.
Walter knocked on her door. Nothing. He carried a tray of bread and cured meats accompanied by a drink and mail. Gabi had not made an appearance for lunch or dinner that day, and Walter thought that she must be hungry. Turning the knob slowly, Walter let himself into the room. Gabi lay on the bed, her back facing the door. He placed the tray down on her dresser and stooped to see if she was awake. Her eyes were closed, her breathing deep and steady; she was fast asleep.
Walter saw her severed pony-tail in the bin. A torn photograph of Hans lay beside her. He watched her sleep curled up on the bed and shook his head; she had put herself through hell last night. They all knew how much she loved Hans; she didn’t deserve this—she was always honest and open with him. But Gabi was tough and knew her duty; she would bounce back, he was sure of it. He snuck out of the room, hopeful that Gabi’s heartache would pass quickly.
It was dark. Gabi leaned out of bed, fumbling for the switch. The room illuminated to show a clock face telling her it was half past five in the morning. Had she slept that long? She reached under the sheets for Pinke and felt nothing. Realization hit hard. It hadn’t been a nightmare—Hans was gone.
Gabi hauled herself out of bed and sat at her dresser. A tray of food, now dry and unappetizing, had been left some time ago. A letter lay wedged under a plate and Gabi examined its postmark; it was from Tunisia. She opened the envelope and pulled out a postcard of a camel in the desert. On top of the camel was a badly drawn picture of a cat; a hand-written caption read ‘Hot, Exotic Pussy’. Kurt had written to wish her a happy twenty-first birthday. He had remembered and her eyes twinkled with sentiment. How she missed him.
She looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror—damn mirrors; they were everywhere, mocking her. But Erich was right for once: she looked terrible. Her father would have said that she looked like a scarecrow. She sat and glared at the ghoulish figure for some time before taking action. The scissors still lay where she had flung them the night before, but this time they would not be abused.
Carefully, Gabi cut the jagged edges of her hair straight and combed it flat as best she could. She would apply some make-up too; bright red lipstick to show everyone that she had moved on. Her mind wandered back to the source of her distress. Hans would be in Holland now sleeping in his bed. Would he lose any sleep over her? From what she saw the previous night, she doubted it. Hans had already moved on. By transferring to the western front, he had secured himself a promotion as wing commander and would be even more popular with the ladies. She sighed. Never again—she was through with love.
April 1943
The motorcycle pulled into the driveway, accelerating hard on its final stretch towards the manor. She had flown to an airfield close to Meissen from Nikolskoye in Russia and acquired a motorcycle for the short trip home. The general stood in the open doorway drawing on a cigar.
“Papa, you beat me home.”
Gabi swung her leg back and stepped a few paces away from the bike, greeting him on the lower step with an embrace wracked with sorrow. The general held her close but frowned at his daughter.
“I’m so happy to see you, but you look so thin. Have you been eating? And what’s happened to your hair?”
Gabi said nothing, clinging to him like a barnacle to a rock, unable to look her father in the eye. The split with Hans was still fresh—not yet a month had passed—and her heart ached like an open wound.
“I’m so sorry, my little soldier,” he said. “I know how much you loved Hans, but there is no point dwelling on it; love plays many hands, not all of them fair.”
She released her stronghold, emotional but calm.
The general pointed to a vehicle parked in the driveway. “Did I tell you that I’ve got a new Mercedes? It’s a 320 Cabriolet D—very special… only eight of them were built, you know.”
“That’s nice, Papa.”
He scoffed at her dismissive manner and glared down at the motorbike. “I don’t like you riding that thing. It’s too dangerous.”
“And my Messerschmitt is safer?”
The general shook his head and tittered. “You’re right—I don’t know what I was thinking.” He wrapped an arm around his daughter, drawing her close. “Come inside—Helmut and Chef can’t wait to see you. Apparently, they’ve been working on tonight’s dinner all week. We’re all looking forward to spending some time with you.”
“I could do with a drink,” she confessed. “That, and a hot bath.”
Jägergoulash with sauerkraut, boiled potatoes, onions and sour cream accompanied by the traditional basket of coloured, hard boiled eggs were on the Easter menu. Gabi wondered where Chef had acquired the venison; it had been years since she last saw deer on the estate. Chef mumbled something about road-kill that Gabi thought best not to pursue; Chef’s cooking tasted every bit as good as Gabi remembered and that was all that mattered.
They ate their fill of goulash accompanied by liberal glasses of red wine, inviting Helmut and Chef to join them for a drink. By midnight, Gabi was drunk.
“Papa, come sing with me.” She launched into a verse of Hänschen Klein, Chef and Helmut drinking and rocking in time with her off-key performance.
Tante Helga sat slumped in an armchair that Helmut had moved to the dining room to save her walking any distance to her next meal. She snored in time to the singing, amusing the general no end. Taking a final swill from his goblet, he shook his head at his inebriated daughter and chuckled.
“Time for bed, little soldier.” He removed the empty wine glass from Gabi’s clasp and drew her up to her feet.
Gabi fell back on her seat, sniggering childishly at nothing in particular; perhaps it was just the hilarity of life after a few too many.
The general smiled. “You’re enjoying yourself now, but tomorrow will be another story.” He scooped her up and carried her to her bedroom, Gabi cackling all the way.
“Papa, where are we going?”
“To the Federball.”
“Will you dance with me?”
“Not tonight—maybe another time.”
“Hans won’t dance with me anymore,” she said, “but Kurt’s a good dancer. Perhaps he will dance with me?”
The general grunted his disapproval. “Get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“I love you, Papa. Don’t ever leave me,” she whispered before drifting off to sleep. He covered her with an eiderdown quilt and left his little soldier to her dreams.
Life at Fliegerhorst Deelan in Holland was comfortable. There was plenty to eat and drink, the compounds were spacious and well-appointed, and a bevy of pretty girls was always available to keep them entertained.