The general gently placed Gabi on the bed. She was wearing RAF clothing, stained and ill-fitting. He would not bury his daughter dressed as a traitor. Making his way to her bedroom, he returned with a Luftwaffe uniform. He removed her clothing and sponged his daughter’s body down.
“It won’t hurt anymore, my little soldier,” he whispered and his eyes drifted down over the slight mound of her abdomen and he dwelt on what might have been; the little one would have called him Opa and he would have bounced his grandchild on his knee just as he had done with Gabi a lifetime ago.
He carried Gabi down to the drawing room where Helmut had finished lining the inside of the coffin with some curtain fabric of rich burgundy velvet and replaced the princess cushion after sponging and brushing it clean. Her body was returned to rest.
A butterfly fluttered over the remains of the garden, once manicured and splendid, now sadly lost to neglect. Untamed ivy had claimed the urns and statues, the lawn a meadow of dandelion and thistle. Helmut had long given up on the roses, leaving them to fend for themselves. Only the vegetable patch was still tended by Chef, whose futile efforts to prolong its usefulness had left it sparse and infertile.
It was noon on a warm, sunny day in May. General Richter walked to the stables to find a spade and ambled up the hill to the oak tree where they had buried Saxon. He recalled how tenderly she had wrapped the dog in a blanket and placed him in the grave, tending to it with flowers and a prayer. And how she loved the old oak, to lie beneath its branches and watch the clouds drift by.
He studied the cracked and undulating earth surrounding the tree, a partially exposed but robust root system restricting his options. Settling on a plot littered with brown acorns but free of obstruction, he dug deep and hard, the sharp edge of the spade cutting into the dry soil like a dagger to the heart.
Not long after the general’s first cut, Helmet appeared shovel in hand. The two men worked in turn, excavating the soil, resting and watching the hole widen and deepen with each exchange. Finally, when the tree cast a lazy shadow to the east, Helmut cast a studious eye over the grave’s dimensions. He bowed his head and sobbed; the task was complete.
The two tired men took a moment’s solace in the shade, reflecting on the many carvings that adorned the tree’s vast trunk. Helmut ran his finger over the inscription Gabi had carved on the day of Hans’s funeral—Hans—My Love… My Life and smiled sadly.
The general looked up at the canopy of the old tree, catching the sun as it flickered through swaying branches. “You have seen much over the years. Tell me old oak, is it ever worth it?” The oak stood silent, and the general nodded. “I thought so….”
He and Helmut wandered back to the manor, picking field flowers that grew in abundance like never before.
The twilight sun still glowed in a blushing sky when the general, Chef, and Helmut carted the coffin up the hill to the oak tree and lowered it into the grave. No eulogy was said, no words were spoken. The general, so overcome with grief, simply stared down at the coffin as Helmut and Chef filled in the hole.
He listened as clumps from a spade laden with misery pounded down on the wood and with each thump, his heart cried out. The bouquet of flowers was placed on the mound and a crudely fashioned wooden cross cobbled together by Chef was hammered into the ground. It read ‘Gabriele Richter 30.3.1922 – 7.5.1945.’
The general stood at the grave for an eternity, mourning his loss. What had he been thinking? He had failed as a father to protect his little girl—his selfish, immoral ambition to blame for deserting her time and again. Emotions flowed in waves of fear, denial and regret, his exhausted conscience eventually succumbing to indifference. But then a voice from deep within spoke with clarity so pure that his soul wept.
How could anyone commit such a heinous crime? What possesses a human being to inflict such pain and horror on an innocent child?
The general recognised the voice immediately—he and Yuri were the same.
The news bellowed from the radio—Germany had surrendered. Helmut also had an announcement to make: the cellar was barren. But Chef found a stash of Chateau Margaux Vintage 1900 in the larder that Helmut had forgotten to catalogue and rack and so, with liberal glasses of cabernet and an over-sized beer mug in hand, they settled themselves at the kitchen table and toasted to the end of the war and Nazi tyranny.
They reminisced about the Germany of old, of good times and loved ones and for a fleeting moment they forgot that Gabi was no longer there; she was in the room sharing a wine and laughing with them, rocking in time to Chef’s humming of Hänschen Klein as wine slopped from their vessels without care.
The general downed the final drops from his glass. “I must do something before it is too late. Please excuse me.” He left Helmut and Chef at the table and the two men refilled their vessels and replenished the meagre food platter with shards of cheese that had come from a neighbouring dairy farmer who bartered all he had left to fund his escape from the approaching Red Army.
What remained of the cheese was assessed and dealt with systematically. A less than appetising sliver of mould was cut away from the wedge of Gouda, and it was decided that the remnants of the Limberger be disposed of altogether, for it smelt well beyond its normal rankness. But the smoked cheese passed inspection and was placed on the platter with stale bread, a few walnuts and a jar of pickled gherkins.
The general eventually returned, clutching a bundle of red textile that he placed on the table and resuming his therapy, sifted a mouthful of wine through clenched teeth.
“This Chateau Margaux could have done with at least another twenty years.” The general eyed his two employees from behind a glass, half empty. “What do you plan to do now?”
“I’m not sure,” said Helmut. “Perhaps I’ll stay here and see what comes.”
Chef shrugged and took another deep swig from his mug.
“Will you take some advice?”
“Certainly, General,” said Helmut.
“Please, all my friends call me Max.”
Helmut and Chef looked at one another, their eyes glistening.
“After all, how long have you both been here at Rittergut Grosse-Eiche—twenty years?”
“It will be coming up to thirty years,” Chef said “For me at least. I think Helmut started a year before.”
“That long…” The general reached for the walnuts, selecting two and pressing them together in his hands. The hard shells cracked and scattered over the floor, leaving Chef and Helmut momentarily bewildered. The general then brushed his palms clean and continued. “The Russians will lay claim to the east. Flee to the west tonight; the Americans will be more forgiving. Pack only what you can carry easily and take this.”
He unfolded a red scarf of high quality that had been worn only once, revealing precious items of jewellery. “You will need this to bribe your way to safety.”
Helmut studied the hoard. He removed his cracked spectacles and rubbed his eyes with curled fingers. “And you, Max, what will you do?”
The general sat quietly, taking another swig from his glass and swilling it around his mouth before swallowing. Chef refilled his mug and took a gulp, wiping his sleeve across his stained lips and burping his satisfaction.
“Come with us,” Chef said.
“No, I will stay here at Manor Grand Oak. This is my home, it was Gabi’s home; I shall not leave her again.”
An unnerving breeze whistled under the kitchen door, sending a chill down the backs of the three weary men. The veil of darkness would soon lift to reveal yet another day in purgatory.