by Peter Rimmer
“Well, Melina. Here he comes. A whole entourage of the faithful. The taxi from the station is full of young officers. Was that why you smartened yourself up? You knew who was coming. Oh well. Better play the gracious host. Hope you are right. If the RAF has been destroyed, how come they just managed to drop bombs on Berlin?”
“Erwin says the Führer is going to bomb London. That will finish them. Once we start bombing central London the British will surrender. How many in the taxi, Father? I don’t want to be seen at the window like a schoolgirl, Gabby. Oh, this is so wonderful. Erwin has come home for a visit. Now everything will be all right. Please be nice to him, Daddy.”
“There’s not much else I can do if I don’t want the Party on my back. At the moment they do seem to be winning.”
“Don’t you want us to win the war?”
“Of course I do. The quicker it’s over the better for everyone. Everyone in the world.”
“That’s more like it, Papa,” said Melina, going up to him at the window and giving him a hug. She looked out of the window onto the wide gravel driveway where a taxi was disgorging its passengers. Then she saw Erwin looking up at their window and waved, both of them smiling at each other, their happiness meeting through their eyes.
Klaus watched them, sick to his stomach. They were all bomber pilots and navigators. Boys rather than men. Joking and laughing with each other, the Luftwaffe uniforms little different to the one he had worn as a young pilot in the air war over the trenches. They were just the same. Fighting for the Führer this time instead of the Kaiser, the brainwashing little different to his own. A man not for his country was always labelled a traitor. Good advice when speaking against the policy of the country was never tolerated. Looking at them smiling and laughing, not a care in the world, young men together enjoying their camaraderie, Klaus knew he had been a fool. Instead of arguing with them when they took him away to Berlin in 1938, he should have agreed with everything they said. The rest of the male members of his family were right, including the boy down below who had given both his parents so much worry. The old saying came to his mind, ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’.
His old adage of staying out of the way, staying out of politics, had not been a success. She was right, of course. His eldest daughter at seventeen was right. If Adolf Hitler won the war and conquered the world for Germany no one in their right minds would care to question his methods or whether he was morally right to do what he did. All the great heroes in history had started as thugs. The British hated Napoleon; the French still thought him a hero. You just had to win to get people’s respect. For a good many years Napoleon had been a winner until the Prussians sided with the British at the Battle of Waterloo, knocking Napoleon off his pedestal, the irony not lost on Klaus as he watched his son, the pilot, with pride.
The German tribes were once again on the warpath, who was he to complain? The French had been greedy at Versailles, rubbing the collective German nose in the manure. Now Germany had marched into Paris, no one was demanding reparations anymore, after they had attacked the coal mines in the Ruhr as if Germany was some common debtor who had reneged on its debts. Maybe the French greed had got them what they deserved. Maybe Hitler had no alternative but to restore the military might of Germany, but building arms behind the backs of the Allies until he was powerful enough to fight. Maybe if the victors had been more magnanimous they would have left Germany with another alternative. Sometimes bitter enemies became friends.
With a weary heart at man’s stupidity, Klaus unclasped his hands from behind his back, turned to his family and smiled. Then he crossed the big room that overlooked the terrace above the driveway and walked out to meet his son; whatever the Hitler Youth Movement had done to indoctrinate the boy, Erwin was still his son, would always be his son.
“All we have to do is beat the British,” he said as he passed through the open door. In the flash of saying his thoughts out loud he had a picture of Harry Brigandshaw in his mind. The smiling, concerned Harry Brigandshaw who had flown a flying boat to Romanshorn to see if his old friend had need of help.
Downstairs, all the boys saluted him. Formally, one by one, Klaus shook their hands.
Servants, all smiling, were unstrapping the pile of suitcases attached to the back of the taxi, the driver helping instead of sitting in the cab. Everyone was in good humour, the autumn day warm on their backs, pigeons calling as if to welcome the four young men. Bergit was waiting for them on the terrace, the girls standing just behind their mother eager to get a good look at the young officers. Klaus swallowed hard, feeling as old as the hills. One of the men made them all laugh together; his wife, the girls and the boys. The suitcases went into the old house followed by the rest of them.
Erwin had kissed his mother on the cheek, no sign of the rudeness the boy had shown three years before when he stormed out of the house and walked the miles to the station, leaving for the Hitler Youth Movement to finish his education and later place him, a trained pilot taught by his father, in the Führer’s Luftwaffe. On the beautiful summer’s day in their ancestral home it was as if nothing had ever been the matter. Klaus wondered how many other times in history the youth of his line had come home before going into battle.
When they all came down twenty minutes later Klaus was still standing on the terrace in the sun, wondering what had happened to estrange him from his son. Had the boy anything to do with the three men who had forced him into a car and driven him to Berlin after the seventeen-year-old boy had walked out of the house a year before? Were the Nazis coercing anyone who they thought disagreed with the policy of the Party, who failed to do what they were told without thought or question? Had his uncle, General Werner von Liebermann, played a part? Did it matter now, standing in the sun looking at the boys and girls dressed in riding clothes ready for a romp in the forest, not a care in the world, seeing only what was right in front of them?
The men looked even more like schoolboys than before when they were wearing their uniforms. Melina was slapping her shapely thigh with her riding crop, making the gesture blatantly sexual without knowing what she was about, the instinct built into her mind by nature, Klaus hoped. Gabby, at fifteen, knew the boys, by the look on her face, were thinking of more than her company for a ride on a horse. Everything was in the immediate present, nothing they said in the future or the past. No one had asked if he wanted to go with them. He was the ‘old man’ they deferred to, who had flown in the last war, a man they showed respect. They had likely not thought he would like to go riding.
Bergit came out of the house to see them walk across to the horses, saddled ready for them, the grooms holding the reins of the horses, all smiling. His wife had the same look of resignation on her face. They were both being left out. Neither was expected to join in the fun. The older generation had had their fun.
“Did he say anything?” Klaus asked when his wife came to stand next to him.
“Not a word.”
“They all seem happy. Comrades in arms. I remember it well. At that age they all think they do nothing wrong.”
“No wonder Melina was all of a jump. It all happens so quickly. Was it the same with us, Klaus?” She looked up at his face, trying to smile.
“Different but much the same. They looked a nice bunch of boys. Why, suddenly, are they here?”
“That I did get out of our son. To quote our Erwin, ‘We’re going to bomb the hell out of Britain until they stop fighting the war and agree to our terms this time.’ They are going to bomb the cities after Berlin’s air raid.”
“Rest and recreation before the big battle. They did that to me before I was sent to my squadron in France.”
“That’s where he’s going. To a bomber station somewhere in France close to the English Channel. Poor Harry. Is Anthony old enough to fly?”
“Not yet. Maybe they had the sense to go to Africa.”
“It’s going to be over soon. That’s the good part. Civilians won’t be able to stand up to cons
tant bombing.”
“They show off every line of their bodies in those damn riding clothes.”
“Who?” said Bergit sweetly.
“Melina and Gabby.”
“We have pretty daughters. You should be happy.”
“I hope you’re right. That it’s over quickly. That the RAF is out of the fight. Whoever wins the battle for air supremacy will win this war. You can take the whole German Army to the English Channel but if you don’t command the air you will never get across. If our dive-bombers can hit the ships of the Royal Navy with impunity, the Luftwaffe will sink the British fleet before it can interfere with the landing of our troops.”
“They’ll surrender before we have to invade.”
“If we command the air. How long are they staying with us?”
“Two days. Make the best of it, Klaus. Let bygones be bygones. Those boys are the future of Germany. It’s out of your hands. You did your bit when you had to.”
“Not very well. You forget Harry shot me down.”
“I thank God every day that he did. That you were captured. That you were unable to fight and get yourself killed, Klaus von Lieberman. Why don’t we take the dogs for a walk? It’s a lovely day. It’s all going to be all right. You’ll see. He’s a lovely boy. They all see sense in the end.”
“It all seems so far away.”
“Long may it seem that way. We don’t want a war in Bavaria.”
Jürgen Mann, the second pilot, caught her eye the moment Melina von Lieberman swung up onto her horse, flooding her with a rush of desire that caught her off balance. For the first time she was not in control of her eye contact with a man. The man’s look was that of lust tinged with aching sadness making her usual snooty look in return impossible. Once she was caught looking at him with her own desire she was lost. Very few young men came to the von Lieberman estate, none in the uniform of a German officer or the riding habit of a gentleman. In Switzerland at her school for girls there was only Monsieur Montpellier, Françoise’s father, to keep under control and he was too scared of his wife to take it further than a look. There was no doubt now in Melina’s mind that she was ready for a man, the combination of Jürgen Mann and the rhythm of the horse setting her on fire.
When the horses were given rein they tore away down the forest path. No one thought of danger, whooping as the trees flashed past, the horses enjoying the ride as much as the rest of them. Gabby, Melina saw out of the corner of her eye, was holding on for dear life, a mix of fear and excitement etched on her face, her hands white on the reins, her knees dug hard into her horse’s flanks.
Erwin was a length in front, the first to jump the trunk of the tree fallen across the path. One after the other they took to the air, adrenaline pumping, the boy for a moment out of her head. Then he turned in the saddle, his balance perfect above the crupper, and smiled.
When the horses were blown, the group of horsemen and women collected under an oak tree for them all to catch their wind. None of them had ever been happier in their lives.
“You ride well, Melina. Erwin said you were good on a horse. My word, it’s like an aeroplane, feeling the animal’s power between my legs. When the war’s over I’ll take you up in my aeroplane. Christmas. By then we’ll be country gentlemen again. Even Erwin. He loves the Party for what it’s doing for Germany but he doesn’t want to go into politics.” Melena watched him dismount, mesmerised.
They were all laughing again. There was thick moss on the ground under the tree. They all dismounted after Jürgen, letting the horses move away to graze the grass in the glade between the trees, where the sun had given life to the grass. The reins fell over the heads of the horses, trailing in the grass. There were birds high in the oak tree none of them could see, only hear. In a moment Melina was sitting next to him on the soft moss, their backs to the tree, side by side.
“This is so beautiful,” said Jürgen, the sadness of his first look now mirrored in the tone of his voice. “The trees and the forest.”
“Did you grow up on a farm?” she asked softly.
“Oh yes. Many acres. I could never live my life in a city. Erwin likes Berlin, I don’t know why. All the noise and dirty smells. Can you hear the owls at night calling to each other? Sometimes at home when the moon is up you can hear the foxes bark. Now that’s something. Birds and animals calling in the night. Do you think birds and animals love each other, Melina? When you kill a fox, does the family mourn his death? Feel sorrow? Wonder where he is? Miss him? Do birds fly together because they are happy together? Happy to be in their flock among friends? I’ve wondered all my life.”
“Are the horses all right? Won’t they go off on their own?”
“Then we walk home, you and I. May I touch your hand?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to die before I have time to love. Don’t tell Erwin I told you that. He’ll think I’m soppy. Not fit to fly an aeroplane over England.”
“Have you flown over England?”
“Not yet. I’ve never been to England. I just hope I never have to land there before we win the war. If we all stop talking we’ll hear the pure sound of nature, not all the sounds of man.”
“How long have you been a pilot, Jürgen?”
“Not very long. None of us have except Erwin. Can I hold your hand, Melina?”
“Yes.” His hand was soft like a girl’s.
“That’s so good. Makes me feel safe. I’ll remember the feel of your hand. I know I’m silly. Not tough like the others. None of us are tough like Erwin. I could stay under this tree forever holding your hand.”
They were alone. The others had gone to look for Gabby’s horse that had trotted away between the trees. A rabbit came out from its hiding place in the bracken and had a look at them. By then, Melina had made up her mind to comfort him. To comfort the brave man before he went off to fight. To love him only for a night, if that was all life had to give them.
“Stay awake tonight, Jürgen. I’ll come to you. You’re so brave. All of you are so brave. We can hold hands in the moonlight and listen for the bark of a fox.”
“Will you, Melina?”
“Don’t tell Erwin.”
“Everything is so short. Suddenly everything is so short.”
“When you hear me imitate the hoot of an owl, call back to me like the owls. Leave your door ajar so I know where you are. Are you close to Erwin’s bedroom?”
“Next to him.”
“He must never know. No one must ever know.”
“I’ll lie awake waiting for the hoot of an owl.”
“When you hoot and hear me reply, you’ll know it is me. They are easy to imitate when you have lived here all your life. I can hear them coming back. Stop holding my hand.”
They both tried to find a moment with Erwin alone. To talk to him. To explain. To wipe out the silence of three years. Only Melina had received her letters, most of them kept to herself. Bergit knew Melina was as proud of Chancellor Hitler as she had been of the Kaiser. Asking Melina for information about her son had mostly ended in an argument. For Melina, whatever Erwin had done was always right. Gabby, two years younger than Melina, four years younger than Erwin, had not felt the same influence, the extra age difference keeping them apart. By the time they went into dinner, Bergit understood. He was never going to allow them to talk privately, always making sure not to be left on his own giving his parents a chance to dig up old wounds.
“He doesn’t want to talk to us, Klaus.”
“What’s there to say?”
“He could apologise to his mother.”
“I don’t think so. The Party never apologises. I’m still a member, whatever they did to me. Uncle Werner made sure of that. They want us all to conform. My guess is someone told him to keep his trap shut. Not to bring up the subject. That I was now a faithful Party member. What he thinks is another matter. I’ve caught him looking at me a couple of times. A wary look. A look of knowing more than I do. At that age we all think our
parents are dinosaurs. That we know what’s best. We all want to change the world at that age, thinking we know better. The world just stays the same old mess, generation after generation. We get born, grow old hopefully, sometimes gain a little wisdom and die the same way as our ancestors. The world will always be the same. Nature is far stronger than us. Nature dictates who we are and what we do. Some call God nature. I don’t think it matters what we call what has made us so long as the species survives. That’s what we leave behind. Our children. Not some great new way of governing ourselves that makes everyone nice to each other. Mother and son included. Leave him alone, Bergit. He’ll talk to us when he’s ready. There isn’t any point in starting an argument right now. Anyway, I’m hungry. What’s on the menu for dinner? Don’t tell me. Roast lamb with your homemade mint jelly. Roast potatoes that are pre-boiled. Dumplings. Sauerkraut on the side. A big, sherry-filled trifle Harry Brigandshaw’s mother showed you how to make on our honeymoon on Elephant Walk. Erwin’s favourite supper.”
“How on earth did you guess, Klaus! The way to a man’s heart is always through his stomach. Especially a boy’s.”
“He’s a man, Bergit. Nearly twenty years old.”
“Which makes me feel old. May I take your arm and go into dinner?”
“Of course you may.”
“Isn’t it wonderful to be happy? Gabby’s growing up. Just look at her.”
“It’s the way the boys look at her I don’t like.”
“Are fathers jealous of their daughters?”
“Of course they are. If any of those boys tried to touch them I’d likely want to kill him.”
“And then they get married.”
“That’s different. They go through a church; God blesses the union.”
“Then we have grandchildren.”
“Please, Bergit. I feel old enough around the boys as it is.”
“None of them have turned twenty-one.”
“How do you know?”
“You can still see the dew behind their ears. Enough talk. I’m hungry. Did you open the red wine, Klaus?”
