My face burned with shame and I turned my head to catch the lightly falling snow on my hot skin. I sighed. How could I feel this way about someone I had met only for an instant and who had barely touched me? The familiar yearning for a life of excitement rose within me, a life of my choosing, lived on my terms, outside the restraints and conventions of my social class and family. The war had opened doors to exciting possibilities never before available to a girl like me but my mother made sure I walked the rigid path of tradition. Those possibilities were so far out of reach for me, they may as well have been on the moon.
Part of the problem, I was beginning to see, was my engagement to Heinrich. I realised now that my life with him would probably remain as constrained and structured as he believed a wife of my station should be. We had been family friends since childhood and our mothers encouraged a relationship between us before we had a chance to discover if one would develop on its own. I had never felt that rush of meeting the person who would become my betrothed for the first time. Perhaps my attractions to the oberinspektor and von Stauffenberg were reactions to the idea that I had missed out on that rite of passage.
It wasn’t as though I didn’t have feelings for Heinrich, we had just discovered our love through friendship and familiarity. I knew I loved him with all my heart but part of me now consciously wondered how it would be different with someone you felt an instant attraction to.
I pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they surfaced, furious with myself for even thinking them. Thoughts of anyone or anything else were unacceptable and shameful. I was engaged to Heinrich. I was the luckiest girl to have a man with such a good profession, from a good family, who loved me as I loved him and who was my best friend.
Life slowly returned to normal for my family. Mutti was subdued and occasionally I would catch her lost in thought and knew she was thinking of Willi and Ludwig. She began to share memories of them with me, telling me stories of happier times when I was a small child. She seemed a little softer with me too, not quite so rigid and harsh, drawing me into spontaneous hugs, clasping my hand when I sat near her.
One Sunday, I finally persuaded her to leave the apartment and take a walk in the Englischer Garten. I knew the fresh air and exercise would do her good. Although the snows were now behind us it was still a brisk day and even in our long overcoats and gloves, we had to walk hard to warm up. Mutti kept up with the punishing pace until we stopped in the meadow, breathing heavily, our hands tingling pleasantly.
‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ I said, grinning at my mother. Her face now had a healthy glow, not the pasty, pinched look from weeks of being cooped up in the apartment. She smiled in return and nodded, pushing wisps of frizzy strawberry blonde locks from her face with a gloved hand.
‘Should we walk to the stream?’ I asked. I had brought my camera with me to photograph the change in seasons and brush up on my photography skills. You never knew when an opportunity to capture the perfect shot would present itself.
Mutti slid her arm through mine and we walked along the path, the sound of our shoes crunching on the dirt a rhythmical accompaniment to our thoughts.
‘The smell of the pines always reminds me of a holiday we took when you were little,’ said my mother suddenly. ‘We were still living in Düsseldorf and came to München to visit my grandmother Katarina. It was one of the few times your father suggested a short holiday together, just the five of us in the Alps.’
I hardly dared to breathe. Although I knew they had corresponded after the death of Willi, any talk of my natural father and our life before the divorce was rare. The breeze through the pines seemed to settle as if the trees also wanted to hear this story.
‘We motored down to Berchtesgaden from München. Already the scent of pine was noticeable as we travelled through the forests. We stayed in a comfortable guesthouse overlooking the town and the Watzmann. It was spectacular: the twin peaks of the mountain dusted with snow, the town nestled in the valley beneath it with the twin spires of the church, jutting out as if to mimic the mountain. Your father was well and happy there, breathing in the fresh mountain air, playing ball patiently with Ludwig and Willi – they weren’t yet school age – and pushing you in your baby carriage as we looked around the town.
‘We took a cruise on Königssee Lake and even the boys were fascinated by the majestic mountains that towered over us and the lone pine trees that sat precariously on the edges of the massive rocky cliffs. Of course, they soon tired of the view and your father took the boys to the edge of the boat to look for mermaids and pirate treasure. I can still see their little blond heads bent over the water, your father between them, holding them securely. I remember thinking how good it was to see him getting involved with the boys. I had seen that imaginative playfulness when we first met and it was something I loved about him. I was pleased that he was showing that side of himself to his boys, getting involved in their world.
‘The boat stopped at St Bartoloma’s chapel and while your father walked around the grounds with you, following the boys, I went inside. It was magnificent and, staring at the opulent gold-gilded altar, I felt moved to kneel and pray, thanking God for these happy days with my beautiful family and the return of my beloved husband.’
We continued walking in silence for a moment. I could see my mother struggling to contain her emotions – there was joy and grief etched across her face, her smooth skin marked recently by small lines around her mouth and eyes. I squeezed her hand in encouragement, shocked by the revelation that she had prayed to God to thank Him for her happiness – my mother had never struck me as being spiritual. If anything, I had come to believe that she had no regard for God. I could understand her bitterness. Her dreams of a happy marriage with my father disappeared and their divorce was difficult; she barely survived the scandal. Left penniless, wrenched from her children, now she had survived her two boys who were barely out of adolescence when they died in war.
My mother took a deep breath. ‘The following day we were picnicking in a meadow with the most perfect view of the Hoher Göll peak before us. I was the happiest I had ever been. The boys were playing on the edge of the forest, the soft breeze was sighing through the pines as it is now, you were crawling on the grass next to us and your father promised me that this was the beginning of a better life for us all. Ludwig had made a lion from a pine cone, the branches and needles strapped together, and he was beaming with pride as he presented it to us. It was sticky with pine sap. Your father picked Ludwig up and twirled him, telling him how proud he was of him, and tickled him. As Ludwig shrieked with joy, your father laughed without a care in the world. I really believed things would change for us then, that we had a chance to be happy. The scent of pine clung to my hands all the way home and reminded me of the joy we had rediscovered. Whenever I smell pine, it reminds me of that time.’
‘Oh, Mutti,’ I murmured, touched by her sharing of the memory with me. ‘That sounds beautiful.’ I leant my head against her shoulder.