“See, you’ll get what you deserve.” The nurse waved a bony finger in front of Gabi’s face, and it took all of Gabi’s will to stop her from slapping this woman’s flat cheek. She walked to the exit to escape the annoyance.
“Where do you think you’re going, my young lass?”
“I’m going to London to visit the King, you old dragon,” Gabi said in perfect English. The room erupted with laughter, leaving the nurse flushed with humiliation.
Art stopped Gabi in the corridor outside the ward. “That was rather childish, don’t you think?”
Gabi wanted to poke out her tongue at this man who dared question her maturity, but she cast him a defiant stare instead. “Who are you?”
“Wing Commander Arthur Wilson.”
“Well, Wing Commander Wilson, what can I do for you? Another game of cat and mouse perhaps?”
He narrowed his eyes and a faint grin arched his lips. “You do realise that you’re a prisoner of war?”
“Yes, I know what I am. The question is, do you? This is an air base, not a POW camp. Why am I here?”
Art took her by the arm and led her from the building. “You should get back to bed and rest. I’ll arrange for other accommodation; you’ve caused enough disruption and I don’t think Nurse Taylor would appreciate any more cheek from you.”
Max sniffed the air and scurried out of his toolbox, past a near-empty bottle of rum and a photo frame of Gabi, before scampering along an extended arm and on to a man’s chest, sniffing the air again to catch a familiar scent.
“You miss her too?”
The little mouse’s big brown eyes twinkled as if he understood. Kurt heaved a deep sigh; he had never known such despair. With his family gone, the war all but lost, and most of all, Gabi missing in action, Kurt couldn’t shake the terrible sense of hopelessness. He dreamt of his love every night, unwilling to find relief with anyone else. His longing was strong and in the loneliness of his bed at night, his soul cried out for its mate.
They flew sorties infrequently as mechanical problems grounded more and more planes. Fuel was scarce and rationed to the point of indifference. He wasn’t sure what to do anymore. He wandered about the base aimlessly trying to be the commander in control, but the Luftwaffe was crippled beyond repair and Berlin no longer cared. Soon, the Russians would be at their doorstep and would either kill them or take them prisoner. He knew which one he would choose, and it wasn’t hard labour in a Siberian gulag.
Thoughts of Gabi never left him. Was she still alive and did she need him? Was he ever to see her again? Her birthday was coming and he couldn’t even write her a card. Gabi’s words came to him, cutting a deep and brutal truth.
“…not everyone can move on so easily; some people never stop loving someone that they’ve lost.”
He thought this was a stupid statement at the time but now he understood—he couldn’t face life without her.
Gabi could feel her waist thicken. The doctor had not mentioned her pregnancy, yet she felt nauseous. Her parachute fall could well have caused her to miscarry, but this did not seem to be the case. Still, she would wait a while longer before consulting with the doctor.
It would be about eight weeks now, give or take a week. Gabi ran her hand over her belly and marvelled at the thought of a baby growing inside. Was it a little girl or boy? She was sure that Kurt would want a little girl to spoil. Poor Kurt. He would be livid with worry not knowing where she was and giving everyone hell back at the base for it. How she had wanted to share her secret with him, but now it was too late.
Art had been suspiciously vague about her presence at the RAF base. She had asked him many times why she was there and not at a POW camp, but he avoided the question each time, saying only that it was best her presence remain confidential.
Her life on the RAF base was comfortable and everyone there kept a polite distance. Unlike a POW, she was permitted to wander the grounds as she pleased. Her quarters consisted of a spacious room with a double bed, desk, lounge, and coffee table. A bathroom was conveniently located next door. The library and recreation rooms were also close by; she had no complaints.
She would often talk with Art, exchanging personal details about their lives and loves, feeling a kinship that defied logic and circumstance. Gabi spoke of Kurt and their so-called engagement, recalling her father’s mortified reaction on discovering that his little girl was to marry ‘that peacock’. Art told Gabi that he was once married but his wife left him for a fish merchant. Apparently, they had been having an affair for a year before he caught them in the act, so to speak. It explained why they had fish for supper every other day.
Days blurred as Gabi settled into a boring routine that went one of two ways. On a good day, she would have ravenous cravings for all things rich and fatty. On a bad day, she would empty the contents of her stomach with violent seizures.
This morning was a good day. Gabi’s stomach rumbled impatiently as she queued for breakfast, the smell of porridge, eggs, sausages and, of course, the fatty lard in which all was fried, thick and enticing. She looked for Art but could not see him amongst the eclectic mix of English, Canadian and Polish flight personnel in the crowded dining room.
The cook handed Gabi her usual breakfast plate after making an effort to arrange the meal so it resembled a face, with two luminous egg yolk eyes, triangular toast ears and a thick, slightly burnt sausage smile. Gabi grinned and nodded her thanks to the friendly cook, whose face widened at seeing her smile. She had little reason to be happy, and it seemed to please him to see her face light up at this simple but well-meaning gesture.
She sat down at the table that she and Art shared most mornings, eating her happy face, taking a large slice of ear and eye and the corner smile, chewing her saturated breakfast with gusto and scanning the headlines of an out of date newspaper. Her eyes focused on a small article, barely the size of a playing card.
‘DRESDEN BOMBED!’
It went on to describe how between the thirteenth and fifteenth of February, over twelve hundred American and RAF heavy bombers had destroyed military and industrial targets in a series of raids in and surrounding Dresden. There was no mention of civilian casualties, but Gabi knew what such bombing statistics meant—this was no mere bombing raid; this was a campaign of annihilation.
Perhaps she had misread—it couldn’t be; they had bombed the wrong city. She reread the article, oblivious to everything around her except for the panic inside her head. Sobs rose and threatened to burst. She mustn’t make a scene. She had to get out, get away. She ran.
“Gabi, wait!”
Art weaved his way through the tables and chairs, stumbling over a bench before tumbling to the floor. A private stooped to help him back to his feet, but when Art looked up, Gabi was gone.
He searched the grounds of the compound until he was forced to report her missing. A search party scoured the base and in the late afternoon haze, she was spotted on a roof hiding where had once been a shadow, now exposed by a setting sun.
Art climbed the ladder, motioning to the others to stay away while he clambered onto the roof, taking a seat beside her. It was an uncomfortable spot and he squirmed in his seat to adjust his position. Seemingly oblivious to his presence, Gabi stared out into the sunset, her face a sullen mask that gave nothing away.
“What’s wrong?” He waited for her answer but she seemed lost in a dream or a nightmare. “The doctor spoke to me about your nightmares. He thinks that you may be suffering from shell shock.”
Gabi’s eyes flickered. “Shellshock? No—my nightmares started well before the war.” How she wanted to tell him everything, to unload the burden and confess all her fears. But she could not think beyond the present, beyond the fear most recent and disturbing.