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“Why did they have to bomb Dresden? It was such a beautiful city; it had no military significance. I don’t understand. You’ve won the war. We all know it’s inevitable. Why destroy a city full of refugees?”

“I know what happened to Dresden.” Art looked into his open hands, as though they held the answer. “We did it because we could. All humanity is lost in the madness of war.”

Gabi’s eyes welled. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Kurt was in Dresden visiting his family that day.”

She waited in hope, wanting to hear Art tell her that Kurt was all right, that they would be together again.

But the words did not come. She watched Art dig into his jacket pocket.

“I meant to give you these sooner but forgot.” He handed her the Knight’s Cross medal and photo wallet. “I’ve had a look at the photos—I hope you don’t mind.”

Gabi took the medal and wallet, her palm grazed so it bled.

“You’ve hurt yourself.”

“It’s nothing. I always scratch when I’m upset.”

She flipped the medal in her palm, over and over like a thought going nowhere, before standing and hurling it across the yard. It clattered against a tin roof and slid into the gutter. She squatted, rocking back and forth to soothe herself.

Art looked on helplessly. He pointed to the wallet. “Which one is Kurt?”

Gabi ran her hand over its leather, worn and scuffed at the corners where a few stitches had come undone. She wondered for a moment if her sewing skills were good enough to mend it herself. Probably not, for she had never taken an interest in needlework at home or at boarding school and would certainly make a mess of it. She unfolded the leather jacket and gazed swimmingly over the first photo, smiling at the image.

“This was Heinz. Dear, sweet, huggable Heinz. He was my first love. We were in flight training together. He was Kurt’s little brother.” She ran her finger across the image to wipe away a smudge. “We had such fun together. He was killed in action in North Africa in May ‘41.”

She flipped to the next photo and her eyes twinkled.

“This was Hans, my…” The word stuck in her throat, and she coughed it clear. “He was my fiancé.”

“You called me Hans in the lorry.”

“You look a bit alike.”

Gabi thought back to their first encounter above the skies of Neuenhaus. “Did you know that you and Hans had a stoush once? Apparently, you almost blew him out of the sky.”

“Really? What was his name?”

“Philipp, Lieutenant-Colonel Hans Philipp.”

Art had heard of him but could not recall a specific dogfight. “He must have been a brilliant pilot to survive a contest with me.”

A faint smile crossed her face. “Yes, he was. And he was also humble, just as you are. It will be almost a year and a half since I lost him. I still miss him so.” She turned to the next photo.

“Ah, now this is Kurt—fighter pilot number three—handsome and courageous but also known for his arrogance and self-centeredness.”

“Otherwise known as ‘the peacock’?”

“Yes. But he is not as he seems. He is like an oak tree that sheds leaves to scatter where they will but with roots that anchor him to the soul.”

The last photo was a distinguished figure in full dress uniform.

“My father…”

“Is he still alive?”

“I think so… but not for long.” Another wave of sadness washed over her tear-stained face.

“Why do you say that?”

She gazed over the featureless air base, white-washed to splendour by a shimmering twilight. “He will either commit suicide or be hanged as a war criminal.”

March 1945

Life on the RAF base was lonely. Gabi spent much of her day wandering around the base, desperate for the company of others. Sometimes, there would be an exchange of words, comments about the weather and such, forced and awkward small talk that left her feeling even more isolated and alone. She understood why; she was the enemy and no doubt, most at the base would be resentful of her presence there. Occasionally she chatted with the cook, a good-humoured character who liked to laugh, especially at himself.

“I can make any meal taste like cement, especially dessert,” he would joke. Unfortunately, Gabi had to agree; his desserts were awful. She offered to make crumb cake one day.

“It would be a pleasure to watch a young filly like you sashay around my kitchen,” he said, eyeing Gabi as if she were a cupcake.

Gabi spent that afternoon in the mess kitchen happily preparing cake mixture, slicing persevered fruit and greasing baking trays while Cook looked on, so entertained by her efforts that he neglected to stir his cauldron of soup and in so doing guaranteed a less than savoury meal for that night’s supper.

“Where did you learn to bake?” he asked.

“Our chef back home taught me. He used to say that every hausfrau knows the way to a man’s heart is a good cake.”

That night, a queue stretched from the dessert counter to the far wall.

“What’s with the queue?” Art asked one of his crew that stood waiting in line.

“That Jerry’s made crumb cake for dessert. I’m up for seconds—it’s delicious… makes up for that muck we had earlier.”

Art looked over to the kitchen where Gabi dished out servings, waiting his turn and watching as she went about her work, offering the smallest dollop of cream and a more generous mound of jelly on the side. But by the time he made it to the counter, the crumb cake was gone. Art’s face drooped like a dejected puppy and Gabi shrugged at him, but her eyes flashed mischievously and she stooped under the counter.

“I’ve saved you a piece.”

He accepted the plate heaped high with cake, jelly and cream and for a fleeting moment when Art winked his appreciation, she thought of Hans and her heart ached.

* * *

The Fatherland was withering. Food was scarce and what was available was used to feed an insatiable monster. Civilians starved with only vague memories of bountiful times to fill their empty stomachs. General Richter could not grasp how things had come to this. What had they all been thinking?

He watched the people of Germany die, he saw his homeland crumble into ruin, he waited to hear from his estranged daughter. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Gabi since that day and now she was MIA. Her twenty-third birthday was upon them and his heart sank at the thought of not being with her. He dwelt on the last words Gabi said to him.

“You have no conscience. Yuri killed himself because he couldn’t face what he had done. But you, you dine out, drink and laugh with the other generals. How do you sleep at night?”

How things had changed. He no longer socialised with the other generals—those days were long gone — nor did he sleep at night. But was Gabi right? Did he really lack a conscience?

Then what was this nagging voice, like a parasite feeding beneath the skin, maddening and unresponsive to his scratches, relentlessly reminding him of the horror that he had inflicted and taunting him that he could never make amends with the dead, nor seek forgiveness from the living?

He had not always been troubled by this voice. All through his youth it had remained silent for the most part, allowing him to do as he pleased and profit where he could. Its silence had been to his advantage and he had prospered. But now, the voice spoke and he could not argue against it for it spoke the truth—he owed humanity a debt and God would see to it that sooner or later, he would pay.