The general removed his ornamented uniform and tossed it into a muddy ditch. He pulled on a pair of simple trousers and shrugged on a medical coat that had been left in the lorry. He unfolded a map on the seat, holding it some distance from his face and squinting to read its features. He would travel on the back roads to his first destination, Dresden, Kurt’s hometown.
The general drove for an hour before turning off down a dirt track, a canopy of pines shielding him from the sky. The gravel track was uneven and potted, forcing him to weave between the holes and slowing his progress. But the breeze that wafted through an open window was crisp as it blew across his face, and he it kept his senses keen and focused.
A gunshot cracked and he jumped in his seat. A Soviet ZIS-5 lorry sped past with gravel flying, a soldier hanging from the back, waving him to pull over.
“Stoy!” the young soldier shouted.
The general gulped and cleared his throat, willing himself into composure before bringing the vehicle to a halt. The soldier jumped down from the lorry and sauntered over to the driver’s side, a machinegun nestled on his hip casually aimed at the general.
“Vy atkuda?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I’m English… do you speak English?”
The Russian shook his head.
“I’m going to Dresden to deliver some bodies.”
The general’s English was thick but to a Russian, it sounded convincing enough. The soldier motioned to look in the back of the vehicle. The general jumped down from the cab and released the latch, allowing the soldier to peer inside. Although spoken in Russian, the soldier made it clear that he wanted to see what was inside the coffins.
General Richter climbed into the back, his arms and legs shaking so violently that he feared he would give himself away. He lifted a coffin lid, staring into the face of Kurt, his skin a shade of egg-shell, the fine-looking features of his face grief-stricken, a single bullet wound visible in his temple. The general knew all too well the anguish Kurt must have suffered to drive him to this; perhaps he had misjudged him after all.
The Russian’s expression remained unperturbed. He turned to the other coffin and gestured with his gun once again. The general hesitated. Could he face what lay inside? He had made a career from looking the other way—a strategy that had served him well during the Nazi’s rise to power, but today he had nowhere else to turn. He pretended to cough, doubling over in a fit of splutters that received no sympathy from an impatient enemy.
“Skoryeye!”
An order to hurry up accompanied by a jab from the Russian’s gun forced the general to face his fear. He opened the second coffin and gazed down at the body of his daughter, her facial features serene, as if asleep. Only the stark whiteness of her skin and the stains on her clothing where the bullets had found their mark betrayed her. The soldier observed the RAF uniform, nodded and dismounted from the lorry. A moment later the Russian vehicle was on its way, leaving the general alone in the back of the lorry.
The general’s eyes drifted over her, and all the while he held his breath. He would never hear her laugh or sing again, never hold her close to comfort her, never tell her that he loved her. His chest burst with a sob at the sight of a wound in her neck; his little girl had died a soldier’s death.
He removed the photo of Gabi in his pocket, slipping it inside Kurt’s jacket before replacing the coffin lids and returning to the front of the lorry.
By mid-morning he had arrived in Dresden. He drove down unfamiliar streets, aimlessly through the rubble and destruction, numb to the horror that had taken place not so long ago. A sign, bent but legible, caught his eye—it was Rietschelstrasse. He swerved onto the road, his pulse quickening at the sight of a terrace that had been spared.
He parked the lorry and approached the door, knocking loudly. A tall, gaunt man answered.
“Is this the Dorfmann house?”
The man nodded. General Richter extended his arm and they shook.
“My name is Max Richter.”
“Ludwig… why are you here?”
The two men stared at one another, Ludwig’s face devoid of all expression.
“I must speak with Frau Dorfmann. Is she here?”
Ludwig shook his head. “Dead, all dead. Kurt and I buried his mother and sister after the firestorm. I am the only one left.”
The general dwelt on the tragedy that had befallen the Dorfmann family and wondered why Kurt had mentioned nothing of this when they last spoke—how tragic his life had become….
“Forgive my bad manners. Please come inside.”
They sat in silence at the kitchen table. The room was full of dirt and debris, empty tins discarded where they fell, broken glass swept into a corner. Ludwig followed the general’s gaze as it perused the sorry state of a once immaculate household but offered no apology. The general rubbed his stubbled chin, shifting uncomfortably in his seat before speaking.
“I have Kurt’s body in the back of the lorry.”
Ludwig’s chest rose and fell. The two weary men shared a drink with few words passing between them. They sat and watched a cockroach as it scurried across the floor.
“Damned pestilence!” Ludwig slammed his glass down on the insect and shards exploded across the room. A splinter landed close to the general’s boot. He stood and kicked it under the table.
“I must go. What shall we do with Kurt?”
Ludwig rose from his stool and motioned for the general to follow. They moved Kurt’s coffin to a cart on the street, covering it with a quilt made by Kurt’s mother. Ludwig then bid the general goodbye, assuring him that he would take care of the rest.
Later that day, Ludwig pulled the cart to the cemetery and buried Kurt in a grave alongside his mother and little sister. He then walked down to the River Elbe and threw himself in.
Meissen was not far away. The general had one last task to perform: he would take Gabi home. He drove past the town and out into the Saxon countryside bursting with blooming fruit trees and multi-coloured field flowers, the air sweet with the scent of spring. The exhausted lorry travelled past the elm forest and up the driveway, dodging potholes and grumbling disapproval as it hobbled along the final stretch. The general glanced briefly at the old oak in the distance, imposing and steadfast as always—they would talk later.
He entered the manor and made his way to the kitchen where Chef was preparing a soup from vegetable scraps—parsnips, potato and a deformed carrot—while Helmut offered advice on how to instil some flavour. The general walked up to his old employees and embraced each one warmly.
“Have you news of Gabi?” Helmut asked, peering through spectacles that were cracked and held together with string.
The general’s shoulders sank, his gaze fixed on the pot of soup bubbling away on the stove. “Gabi’s outside.”
Helmut rushed along the corridor to the front of the manor, down the steps and onto the drive, but he saw no one in the vehicle so he called out for Gabi. The lorry stood silent.
The general and Chef followed Helmut, standing beside him and staring at the lorry.
“Where is she then?” Helmut asked.
The general spoke as if in a trance. “She was shot as a traitor.”
Helmut shook his head, fighting back tears. Chef sobbed openly, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes with a tatty tea towel.
They carried Gabi’s coffin into the manor and placed it on the desk in the drawing room. The general removed the lid and lifted Gabi, carrying her up the stairs to the master bedroom. Helmut looked on, his face ashen, his gangly, arthritic-riddled limbs trembling. He took the small pink cushion from the coffin—it was grubby; he would clean it.