Gabi dismounted and walked a few paces, stretching out to touch the tree’s rutted truck, etched as a memorial to love. She ran her finger along the grooves that her father had carved, initials enclosed in a lover’s heart that was faultless in shape and pure in sentiment. Apparently, her parents had loved each other deeply for the short time they were together. Her father had never remarried and Gabi took this as testament to his devotion, although she suspected that he still enjoyed the company of women for he spent far too much time in their apartment in Berlin to be on his own. At forty-three, he was still relatively young and handsome and would be a fine catch for even the most finicky woman.
She wandered through the lush grass where wildflowers still bloomed—cowslip, autumn crocuses and a few late poppies and cornflowers that she picked and pressed into a small posy and placed on Saxon’s grave. He had died when she was twelve, and she had cried until her eyes were so puffy that she could barely see. Her father dug Saxon’s grave—this she could remember—but he did not stay long after the burial and did not help her arrange rocks to mark the plot or place any flowers. And he did not visit the grave at Christmas with her when she would blanket the ground with spruce branches to keep her dear friend warm through the cold months.
She sat down beside the grave and submerged herself in thoughts of flight and fantasy until Spitz lost interest in the lush grass and ambled away. “Get back here—you naughty boy.” Gabi stroked his sticky coat, pulling an apple from her pocket and slipping it into his mouth, listening to the crunch as he chewed and savouring his pleasure as if it were her own.
They rode back to the stables where she brushed him down with his favourite goat’s hair brush; soft and smooth, just the way he liked it. In the distance, a male voice was calling. It was Helmut, and he sounded uncharacteristically excited. Gabi walked into the courtyard to greet him.
“Gabi, its’ come—the letter from the flight academy.” He held the envelope high above his head, waving it like a prize before handing it to her.
Gabi’s eyes widened; it had only been a few weeks. Tearing the envelope, she scanned the letter and her eyebrows arched.
“Tell me, have you been rejected?” Helmut asked.
“They want me to take an exam in Meissen at the town hall on Friday.”
That Friday morning Helmut drove Gabi to Meissen, a sizeable city renowned for its porcelain and historical ties to the House of Wettin, a dynasty that ruled Saxony for over eight hundred years. He dropped her at a neo-gothic building with a steeply pitched roof in the traditional Saxon style. It was the Rathaus, a pivotal place for all things of state significance. Helmut wished her well, reminding her that he would return at 3 p.m. This would give Gabi plenty of time to explore her favourite shops and arcades, and no doubt make a few purchases along the way.
She inquired at the registry and was directed to a large room crowded with desks, row after row like stitches in a knitted scarf. Taking a seat nearest the exit, she gazed about the room, observing a clock on the far wall, willing its arms to move faster. Her senses were keen, and she could feel a draft sweeping along the floor that chilled her ankles. Dust wafted along rays of light that filtered through grimy, glass windows and dankness hung in the air from cracked, mouldy walls that shed their layers of plaster and paint in an ugly state of neglect.
Such a poor impression warranted action, and Gabi’s thoughts turned to how she would go about complaining to the mayor. Knowing that she lacked the maturity and diplomacy warranted for such an undertaking, she concluded that her father should raise the matter with the mayor and made a mental note to speak with him that night. Her fingers strummed on top of the desk, drawing a scowl from a girl to her right. Probably a nursing recruit, Gabi thought and she smiled back at the girl and sat on her hand to avoid any further hostility.
At precisely 10:00 a.m., the examiner commenced calling names and handing out papers, moving about the room with efficiency and purpose. He made his way over to Gabi, who in her enthusiasm on hearing her name called, almost fell from her seat.
The examiner cast a suspicious eye. “Engineering?”
“Yes, that’s right.” She took the test paper, avoiding his eyes, and promptly commenced the task at hand.
She had two hours to complete the exam. Mathematics, physics and some basic comprehension demanded her attention for an hour, followed by another thirty minutes to check and re-check her answers. For the remaining half hour, Gabi fiddled with her pencil and doodled love-hearts and aeroplanes on a spare sheet of paper, overlapping them in an eclectic medley of nonsense.
The examiner appeared, standing over her shoulder to review her artistic effort.
“Did you find the exam too hard?” he asked.
She blushed and handed him her paper before scrunching her drawing into a ball and shoving it deep into her pocket.
Gabi’s mouth ran a marathon that night over dinner. She told her father, who had returned from Berlin for the weekend, all about her day in Meissen. She raved about the amazing books on aircraft at the bookshop, the smart pair of black riding boots with big brass buckles she had purchased with birthday funds, the delicious bienenstich she devoured at the konditorei by the river and the Shakespeare play ‘Macbeth’ she wanted to see.
But she did not tell him about the cute soldier, all dimples and gangly legs like a sprightly colt, who had stolen a bunch of daisies from a shop window box for her. Nor did she raise the issue of the walls within the town hall, for it no longer seemed that important and her father would probably say that it was none of their business anyway.
The general listened, amused by his daughter and the passion she poured into her tales of trivia. “I recall something about an exam?”
“Exam? Oh, yes… it was too easy.”
He downed the last of a wine that was to his liking, swilling it between cheeks to extend its length and finish. “Oh Gabi, don’t be too overconfident—it’s not like St. Georges. You’re competing against males, you know. Besides, it’s not feminine to be cocky.”
November 1939
“Now that’s my kind of dog—humps anything and everything.”
“There’s something wrong with you, Kurt,” Otto snapped, shaking his leg violently to dislodge the amorous canine.
Minke hung on in keeping with his obstinate dachshund temperament until Otto peeled him away by his collar.
“This dog needs some training,” Otto continued. “Damn. Look! He’s left a wet patch.”
“Don’t complain. Any loving is better than none.” Hans knelt on one knee before Minke, one of two squadron mascot hounds. “And you—you’re a bad boy.” He shook his finger in mock discipline and the dog’s tail wagged playfully.
“See, he knows what feels good.” Kurt stooped and lifted Minke to his face, allowing the little dog to lick his nose and lips. “You know, I need my boots polished. Can I borrow Minke this afternoon?”
Laughter filled the room as it often did when Kurt was around. He had a natural knack for comedy and enjoyed drawing attention to himself as all narcissists have a tendency to do.
The Poles had surrendered a month earlier and the German fighter pilots were stationed at Frankfurt, where life on the Luftwaffe base was mellow—at least for now—allowing the young pilots to indulge in their favourite past-times: drinking and women.
Hans Philipp and Kurt Dorfmann were buddies. They met at gliding school some years ago and attended the Luftwaffe flight academy together, remaining the best of friends. Hans was a twenty-two-year-old second lieutenant, average looking in build and complexion with dark hair and brown sympathetic eyes. He was well liked by his comrades for he was fair and conscientious and could always be relied on to do what was right. Kurt was the same age as Hans but he was neither fair nor reliable and was self-serving in all that he did. He had a reputation for playing the scoundrel and beguiling women with his pale blue eyes.