Three and a Half Minutes

by Caroline Fyffe

  Just as Helene had predicted, several high-pitched screeches echoed from down the hall. Coincidentally, at the same time, the door to the study opened and the men appeared. Camille was just bringing her wineglass to her lips.

  Upon seeing her, they both stopped mid-stride and smiled. She felt her face flush.

  “This is our friend, Pfarrer Christove,” Wolfgang said. “And Camille is our new houseguest.”

  Camille lowered her glass. “Actually, we’ve met.”

  “You have?”

  Father Florian grinned. “Yes. Twice.”

  His eyes smiled into hers and his voice was a mixture of humor and something else, atonement? His helmet dangled conspicuously from his hand as he stood next to Wolfgang, his lean frame a contrast with Wolfgang’s stouter, more muscled physique.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Wolfgang, answered. “Helene mentioned to me that you had gone to church with Günther this afternoon, and of course you’d go over to St. Elizabeth’s and meet Pfarrer Christove.”

  “Yes. I enjoyed it very much, Father,” she offered.

  She wanted to make up for treating him so poorly only the hour before. She was still in shock over the fact that this priest was indeed not only Günther’s brother, but her motorcycle assailant, and now, friend and confidant to her host and hostess.

  Another ear-splitting scream pierced the air. Sasha, dressed in her pajamas, darted from the hallway and ran through the room, hiding behind Father Florian’s legs. Her crimson face peered through his legs and her damp chestnut curls bounced with enthusiasm. She squealed and laughed nervously when she saw her mother in pursuit.

  When the distance between them had shrunken past Sasha’s comfort zone, she turned to make her escape, but Father Florian reached down and took hold of her arm.

  “Halt, bitte schön,” he requested. He restrained the child until Helene could catch her.

  Excitedly, Sasha gibbered off a conglomeration of sentences and words, none of which any of them could understand. She strained and pulled, trying to get away.

  “Nein, nein,” Helene scolded her daughter, and picked her up. Sasha writhed and cried. Then in a quick, fluid movement, the child reached back and struck Helene across the face, causing her mother to gasp in shock.

  All activity in the room stopped instantly and dead silence pervaded. Everyone stared in disbelief, especially Helene, whose face was frozen in surprise. Sasha knew immediately she had made a huge mistake and buried her face against her mother’s shoulder.

  Without a word, Wolfgang took the now quiet child from Helene and carried her off to her room with his wife following, her hand pressed to her cheek. The door clicked quietly behind them.

  Father Florian stood next to Camille watching the retreat of the three.

  He turned to Camille. “So,” he said, trying to relieve the tension.

  She smiled sympathetically and shrugged. “She must be overly excited with all the company in the house. Or, maybe she didn’t nap today. My daughter, Kristin, used to get totally wired and out of control if she didn’t get enough rest.”

  “Perhaps you are right. We will pray for that.”

  He took his coat from the closet and put it on, taking care to button it all the way to his chin for the ride home.

  “Father?”

  He stopped with his helmet halfway over his head, took it off, and lowered it.

  “Günther explained to me about Johann and what really happened the day at the train station. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for the way I treated you. You never even once tried to tell me what had actually happened. I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?” she asked softly.

  “There is nothing to forgive. I am only sorry that I scared you so badly.”

  They stood face to face, assessing each other.

  “Thank you,” she said, and slowly put out her hand. “Friends?”

  He took hers and held it firmly. “Of course.”

  Günther unlocked his door and threw his keys over to the side table as he crossed the threshold. Flocki appeared mewing tenaciously. She trotted to her empty bowl in the kitchen.

  “Patience,” Günther said, and pulled the shades closed. He turned on the kitchen faucet and let the water run a few moments before filling a glass. Next, he fed the cat and then clicked on his television. The news was just finishing, and Sports Report with Bryant Sanderson was on. Uninterested, Günther clicked it off and pushed the button on his answering machine.

  Beeeep.

  The caller hung up without leaving a message.

  Beeeep.

  Another hang-up.

  Beeeep.

  The machine clicked again and a voice said, “I want Johann back.” Bernhard, his voice gravelly and low. He slurred his words between heavy breaths. “Tell your brother to get him for me.” He hung up without leaving a number or place where he wanted them to leave the boy.

  Günther leaned on the counter and pushed his fingers through his hair. That was the last of the messages. He went to the cupboard and looked at the meager selection, realizing it had been some time since he’d been shopping.

  “No meat today,” he said as if he needed to be reminded. He pulled down a can of French onion soup and warmed it over the flame on his stove. Luckily, there was a section of a French roll left over from yesterday’s dinner that he’d wrapped up in plastic wrap. It was still soft.

  It was ten p.m. and still Camille felt edgy. She’d been trying to settle down, to relax after such an event-filled day. She blew on the hot tea she’d brewed in the empty kitchen and carried up to her room.

  Comfortable in the chubby, floral-patterned chair, she sipped her tea. She snuggled her feet under her robe-covered bottom and opened her journal to the first page.

  “My Disastrous Adventures Abroad.” She chuckled. Entry one was a recap of the dinner with Stephanie, Kristin, and her mother and how they’d tricked her into leaving her shop and taking such an extended holiday. The next summarized her first meeting with Branwell on the flight into Vienna. Entry three, the first day of school, and her near-miss collision with the motorcycle. She read that page again. Now that she knew Father Florian, it was actually pretty darned funny.

  She smiled, remembering how he’d looked when she’d dressed him down about scaring her to death. She picked up her pen to write the next entry into the journal when there was a light tap at her door.

  She knew it would be Helene. The woman looked tired. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I brought you a hot water bottle.”

  “Hot water bottle?”

  “It’s supposed to get very cold tonight. Your room stays a little on the cool side.” She went over to Camille’s bed and turned the comforter down. She fluffed the pillows and then lifted the blankets, unwrapped the towel from around the rubbery bottle, and placed it between the sheets at the foot of her bed. There,” she said smiling. “You will be glad it is there later on when the temperature begins to drop.”

  Her hostess meandered toward the door, straightening a photograph of the Tyrolean Alps hanging on the wall. She hesitated.

  Camille thought there must be something she wanted to say. “Helene?”

  Helene brought her tortured eyes up to Camille’s, woman to woman. Her voice was soft and barely audible as she said, “I’m sorry for the scene Sasha caused tonight. I hope she didn’t embarrass you too much.”

  Camille stood. She crossed the room and put her arms around her new friend. “It didn’t embarrass me at all. You’re forgetting I have a daughter of my own. Raising a child is not easy.”

  Helene hugged her back. “I don’t know what got into her,” she whispered unsteadily. “She’s been a handful lately, but she’s never hit me before. Or the other children.”

  They sat down on Camille’s bed side by side.

  “Perhaps she’s just tired, and got too excited with all the company. Did she nap today?”

  “She did, but not very long. She’s almost too old for napping anymore. I’m lucky if I g
et her to sleep for fifteen minutes.”

  Helene already looked a little steadier as they talked. Sometimes just sharing a problem was enough—even short of figuring out a solution.

  “Does she have any allergies that you know of? Did she eat anything new?”

  Helene slowly shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  They sat silently for a moment, thinking. “I’m sure it’s just a stage,” Camille said. That’s what her own mother always told her. “She was exploring her boundaries and got caught up in the excitement of the moment. She was sorry after she did it. I wouldn’t let it worry you too much since it’s never happened before.”

  And that was probably true. Some children were just harder than others. Hopefully it wasn’t a foreshadowing of what the Eberstarks had to look forward to with their youngest daughter in the years to come.

  Helene reached out and squeezed Camille’s hand. “Thank you for listening.” Absently she reached up and rubbed the cheek that Sasha had struck. “If you get cold during the night, there is an extra blanket in your closet.”

  “I’ve seen it. Thank you.”

  “Can I get anything else for you?”

  “Not a thing. I’m as cozy as can be.”

  “I am glad. Sleep well.”

  Helene began to close the door behind her.

  “Helene,” Camille called to her.

  Helene paused in the doorway, the little wooden sign above her head.

  “I’ll pray for Sasha tonight,” Camille said, surprising herself. It had been so long since she’d thought in those terms—about praying. Her mother was always praying for her and her friends and the world and anything else that needed God’s help, but the words felt strange crossing her lips.

  Chapter Twelve

  From the center of the bar, Camille pulled out a stool and sat down. She arranged her skirt around her legs comfortably, hooking the heel of her boot over the second rung of the bar stool as she crossed her legs. She was the first to arrive at Spatzennest, but that didn’t bother her. As a matter of fact, she was beginning to like this newfound feeling of independence.

  After the bartender took Camille’s drink order, she looked into the reflection of the opulent mirror. Six o’clock was early for European dining, so there were only a few patrons. Each table had a white draped tablecloth and a vase holding one large periwinkle flower. Alluring aromas of garlic and sizzling butter floated on the air, making her mouth water.

  She had her euros waiting when the bartender set her glass of burgundy in front of her.

  “Danke, sehr.”

  “Bitte, sehr,” he replied. He must have realized from her halting speech when ordering, that she was from the school. Surely Günther brought many students here. She saw a challenge in his eyes.

  “Wo kommen Sie her?” He asked her where she was from as he set her change on the bar next to a little Wedgwood bowl of cashews and peanuts. He picked up a glass from behind the bar and began to polish it with a white linen napkin.

  Camille sipped her wine for courage and then smiled, taking up the dare. “Ich komme von den Vereinigten Staaten.”

  This is exciting. She was actually keeping up with an easy, slowly spoken conversation.

  He smiled, patiently waiting for more. The glass went around and around in his hands. She could see he was well practiced at playing along with the students.

  One of the tapes she frequently listened to popped into her head. It had easy German phrases set to familiar tunes to make memorization and recall easy.

  “Ich bin Ausländer und spreche nicht gut Deutsch,” she rejoined effortlessly, without a single stumble, telling him she was a foreigner and didn’t speak German well.

  He nodded his approval of her statement and its intonation. “Nein, Sie sprechen sehr gut Deutsch.” He contradicted her, complimenting her skill. “Wo haben Sie Deutsch gelernt?”

  Liking him enormously for asking her the exact questions from her tape, she answered keeping her voice soft and unrushed, “In einem Abendkurs, mit Liedern und Gesang, in der Schule.”

  He chuckled when she told him she learned her German in an evening course, by singing songs, and at school. Well, that’s what the tape said. She couldn’t help but laugh at herself. The evening course part wasn’t exactly the truth, but it just popped out. Thankfully, a waitress called him over to the cocktail station and he left her with a wink and a promise to return.

  Somewhat rattled, Camille straightened the collar of her white blouse and retied the maroon sweater she had draped across her shoulders for warmth. She looked into the mirror to check her reflection and saw Günther standing behind her.

  He smiled when their eyes met. “I can see you are enjoying yourself.”

  She swiveled around, thoroughly happy to see him. His hair was combed back, still a little damp from a shower. He had a small grin on his face as if he had a secret.

  “I am. Here, sit,” she said, offering him the stool next to hers.

  “How long have you been waiting?” he asked, resting his hands on the bar top and looking around. “I hope not too long.”

  “Only long enough to order a drink and lose my appetite trying to make conversation.”

  He laughed heartily, his eyes darkening with pleasure.

  “That’s not true. I was listening. You did very, very well. I give you an A.”

  She could feel her face warming and she knew it had nothing to do with the wine she was sipping. She fought the urge to look away.

  The bartender was back. “Günther, my good man, what will you have?”

  “Sean. Good to see you,” he replied, pointing to Camille’s wineglass. “The same.”

  Stena von Linné entered and took the seat next to Günther. Seated between the two women, Günther swiveled his position so he wouldn’t have his back to either woman.

  “Guten Abend, Herr Christove,” Stena said in her naturally sultry voice. She took her time with every syllable as if each was an intimate friend. “I’ve been looking ahead to this evening with anticipation.” She ran her hand slowly down his arm.

  He nodded.

  “Hallo, Camille,” she added, allowing a few moments to pass so her greeting to Camille fell after the fact.

  “Stena,” Camille replied. With Günther blocking her, Camille couldn’t see much of the young woman. At that point, several other students appeared and Günther suggested they move to the table he’d reserved.

  He picked up Camille’s wine glass and carried it along with his as they followed the maître d’ to a big round top table next to the window, set up for nine. It had a beautiful view of the street and a fountain across the way.

  “Unfortunately, a few of the others won’t be here tonight,” Günther said as they seated themselves. “Branwell is not feeling well and Hanna and Niclas have other plans.”

  Stena appeared after a trip to the ladies’ room. She swished closely past Günther and Camille couldn’t help but notice the sheerness of her body-hugging white dress, impudently displaying the outline of her thong underneath.

  No menus were offered, for Spatzennest served only house specialties that the waiter rattled off too quickly for Camille to understand. Most of the others looked a bit confused too. Stena, on the other hand, was questioning the waiter in German, laughing and flirting candidly.

  “I will summarize for you,” Günther said. “There is a grilled pork medallion dish served with rice and butter Gemüse, that, as you know, are vegetables. Very tasty and healthy for those of you who are conscious of that kind of thing. Maultaschen, which is a German ravioli filled with vegetables and well-seasoned meat. It’s exceptional and I recommend it highly. Käsespätzle, an egg noodle dish covered with a thick cheese sauce and sautéed onions. Forelle Blau, a fresh blue trout sautéed in a lemon butter sauce, is served with vegetables and boiled potatoes. And last, but not least, Wiener Schnitzel and Bratwurst.”

  Everyone ordered an entrée and a drink. Bread and butter were delivered to the table an
d Camille took a piece, broke it apart, put a small bite into her mouth, and the remainder on her bread plate.

  “Scott, would you please tell us something about yourself so we can get better acquainted,” Günther said when everyone looked content and settled.

  Scott Wilkins, the bald-headed man from Canada began. “I’ve lived in Beaumont, Alberta, Canada, my whole life. I’m a semi-retired contractor, divorced, and want to spend some of my hard-earned money while I’m still young enough to enjoy it. I have a son and two daughters. My grandparents, on my mother’s side, came to America from Stuttgart in 1898.”

  Camille could tell he was totally comfortable talking about himself and would probably go on for half an hour if he were given the chance.

  Günther held up his hand and stopped him. “Sehr gut, Herr Wilkins, thank you.” He looked at Angie Dirabelle, giving her the go-ahead.

  “I’m seventeen years old and live in Ravello, Italy, on the Amalfi coast. I have two brothers and two sisters. I am the middle child.”

  Angie Dirabelle’s long dark bangs, streaked with honey-blonde highlights, hid her right eye entirely. Her silver hoop earrings swung softly as she spoke, almost caressing her shoulders.

  “My family comes from a long line of lemon farmers. We make Limonchello. I’m taking this class for extra credit to graduate early.” She smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, Fräulein. I have enjoyed the Limonchello from your region and can say it is the best that I’ve ever tasted.”

  The waiter was back with a full tray of drinks for the table. He passed them around and asked Camille if she’d like another glass. She shook her head no.

  “Herr Larroux, you are next.”

  Konrad Larroux, the man Camille figured to be in his mid-thirties, was sturdily built, with medium-length brown hair and brown eyes. His large features made him stand out, but in an attractive sort of way.