Gabi hid in the shadow of a stone memorial, her eyes seeping their sorrow. Kurt watched for a time, mesmerized by the depth of her grief that now flowed freely. He approached her tentatively, wondering if he should embrace her and tell her how sorry he was. That would be the right thing to do. Instead, a tepid voice asked, “Do you need a lift?”
Gabi’s gaze pierced through Kurt. She shook her head and spoke, her voice serene, barely audible. “Why couldn’t it have been me? I can’t live without him.”
“Yes, you can. You’ve done it before; you’ll be fine.”
Gabi looked at Kurt as though he were a stranger. She left him standing in the shadow and joined her father and Hans’s family. They said their farewells and Gabi and her father disappeared into the black limousine.
He watched, alone; a memory from long ago but clear as spring water rose to the surface. Kurt, a rough and tumble five-year-old, had fallen over and grazed his knee so badly that his mother wanted to take him to the doctor. She praised his bravery, for he did not cry—he did not shed a single tear. So she bandaged the wound herself, telling him that it would leave a scar and she kissed the wound with tenderness before sending him off again to play. But Kurt did not feel brave on that day when he loved his mother more than anything else in his world. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to cry, he simply didn’t know how.
Kurt looked on as the Grosser Mercedes-Benz 770 drove away. It was a fine vehicle, the latest, top of the line model. Gabi’s father certainly knew how to feather his nest with style.
The limousine pulled up at the front door of the manor. The rain had cleared and the wind had died down, leaving only stillness and a crisp, clean scent. Gabi did not move but stared vacantly out the window.
The general placed his hand on hers. “Are you all right?”
Words, just words… Gabi said nothing. She removed her hands from her father’s clasp and left the car, crossing the courtyard with slow, even steps.
“Gabi, where are you going?” he asked.
More words. She turned to her father but stared into the emptiness. “Just for a walk, Papa. I won’t be long.”
The general knew where she would go to ease the pain. He left her to her grief and walked into the manor, making his way to the drawing room and a stiff drink.
Seeing Gabi today in her suffering for a love lost brought back an ache that he had buried long ago, but it worked its way to the surface like a festering splinter. Twenty-one years had passed and for the most part, he and Gabi had coped without Mary. But there were times when he missed his wife, and Gabi needed a mother and today was such a time. Such a pity his sister was not of sound mind and could not offer Gabi comfort. He finished his drink and buried himself in his paperwork.
She wandered through the fields where autumn crocus flowers beckoned to be picked and admired. As was her ritual, Gabi snapped their stems and weaved a dainty posy that she placed on Saxon’s grave. She stood under the oak, its outstretched limbs almost naked, inviting another memory of love to be immortalized. Taking a knife from a concealed pocket in her boot, she began Hans’s epitaph, carving into her heart and soul. The ground lay covered in a pool of red, the old tree shedding its autumn leaves like drops of blood. This was how she would share her beloved oak with Hans.
That night, Chef boasted goose was on the menu. After years of war, it was a treat that had Helmut salivating each time he passed the kitchen door. Gabi understandably had no appetite but agreed to join them for dinner. Times had changed and now only Helmut, Chef and Tante Helga still lived on the estate so when Gabi and her father were home, all five dined together as family do.
Helmut set the table with the fine cutlery and Meissner porcelain while Chef attended to the meal preparations. The general headed down to the cellar, returning with a wine bottle in need of de-cantering. The wine filtered into the crystal vessel in a translucent, ruby cascade, leaving thick sediment behind at the base of the bottle. It was one of his best wines, a mature vintage that required no breathing; it was already rich and mellow and perfect to an educated palate.
They sat down to a dinner they hoped would lift spirits heavy with woe. Familiar aromas tantalised the senses as modest bowls of roast vegetables, semolina dumplings and gravy were placed on the table. Chef sheepishly stuck his head out the kitchen door, signalling to Helmut to come and join him. A moment later, they crept back into the dining room, platter in hand. The goose, covered with a silver cloche, was placed in front of the general. Helmut glanced at Chef for reassurance before slowly lifting the dome to reveal what could have been mistaken for a small duck. Stunned into silence, the gathering stared at the gosling until a snigger from Chef released all emotion and tears and laughter poured out onto the table.
“What is it?” the general asked, stooping low to examine the bird. “Have you roasted us a pigeon?” He carved the goose and placed a tiny portion of meat on each plate.
Tante Helga shoved a morsel into her mouth, savouring the flavour as if it were beluga caviar. “I had no idea pigeon tasted so good.”
The general rolled his eyes and winked at Gabi. She responded with a feeble smile, reassuring her father that she would be all right.
The following morning, the general returned to his war duties and Gabi returned to a life without Hans.
March 1944
It was March seventeenth, Hans’s twenty-seventh birthday. Gabi exhaled her despair after yet another restless night’s sleep, dreams of her beloved vivid and unsettling. It had been five months since his death and she hadn’t moved on. She was living a life in limbo, waiting for something or someone, she did not know. All she knew was that her soul mate had left her forever, and her world would never be the same again.
Before the funeral, Gabi had asked for Hans’s pillow, unwashed, just as it had been when he last slept in his bed. It was sent immediately to her wrapped in brown paper and tied with black ribbon. How she wept into his pillow, his scent so strong and real that she was certain he was still alive. It took many months for the familiar smell of aftershave, hair cream and masculinity to fade, but it lingered.
Kurt also received a package shortly after the funeral. It was from Hans’s mother. Gabi recalled watching Kurt unwrap the keepsake and was sure she saw a glint of a tear in his eye when he held his old buddy’s temperamental watch. Kurt never spoke of Hans again.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, she stroked the pillow and pressed her face deep into its softness to smother her chronic sorrow. Was she becoming like her dear but tragic Tante Helga, living without hope after losing love? Life after Heinz had been difficult, but with time the hurt had faded to a fond memory and she was open to love again. Hans was that love. But unlike Heinz, she could not let go of her love for him, its bond so strong that it tore at her core and closed her heart to hope. She now understood why her aunt was as she was and it filled her with dismay. Things must change, she told herself, for sleeping with a dead lover’s pillow was insane.
Gabi dressed and made her way to the hangar, determined to rid herself of the melancholy. She would fly to where Hans’s fighter plane had been shot down and where he had fallen to earth. Perhaps then, she might accept what her heart and soul could not.
Karl, the chief mechanic, cleared his throat and spat before hauling open the hangar door. It creaked painfully and he shuddered. “Goddamn door.” The door jammed and he shunted it along with his shoulder. A figure walked across the yard, catching his eye.