death that played out in his imagination.
Slowly the girl’s tears subsided and she wiped her face with the hankie. “I’m sorry,” she gulped. “I know it isn’t your fault. But I can’t believe they’re gone. All of them. Just like that. I can’t believe it. And he was so brave, so heroic. He kissed my mother, he…he was the brave one, not me. He went to his death a hero, while we were all destroyed.”
“I’m privileged to have known him and called him my friend,” Gavin said, throat tight, watching her tear-blotched face. “What’s your name?” he asked, gently touching her hand once more.
“Greta.”
“I’m Gavin MacLeod.”
“I know. He told me in a whisper as we were kissing goodbye. He said, ‘Take care of Gavin, little one. I know I can count on you.”’ Her voice broke again and she twisted the damp handkerchief into a knot. “It was so terrible, but I knew I had to find you. I had made that final promise to Franz. I left by car the same day. They don’t know that I can drive, but Hans, our chauffeur, taught me. I drove to where Franz told me. I made sure no one was there. Sure enough, you were in the exact spot.”
“But how did you manage?” Gavin asked, amazed at her courage.
“I dragged you and heaved you into the car. You are quite heavy,” she said with the first trace of a smile.
He squeezed her hand. “How can I ever thank you, Greta? You and Franz saved my life. What a brave woman you are.”
“No, I’m not. It was not bravery. I was merely fulfilling a last promise to the person I loved most. He told me he will come back.” She shifted and sighed. “We used to talk a lot about metaphysics, about spirits and whether, if he died in the war, he could return to visit me as a soul. Do you believe that can happen?” Her face was childlike in its hope.
“I don’t know.” Gavin hesitated. “I have a cousin whom I love very much. She believes that people come back. She is convinced of it. Personally, I’ve never experienced it, though many of the soldiers in the unit said they were certain they’d seen men that they themselves had buried later rallying in battle. Whether it is the truth or just wishful thinking, I can’t tell you.”
She nodded, rose and sniffed. “You must be hungry. I will get you some soup.”
“Uh, I need to use the washroom,” he murmured, “but I don’t know if I can stand.”
Greta blushed. “Of course. Allow me.” She came close to the bed. Gavin heaved his legs over the side and tried to stand, but everything went black and he had to sit once more. The second time was better. “Thanks. I can probably manage if you tell me where it is.”
“I had better help you.”
“All right,” he conceded, as embarrassed as she was.
Slowly they made their way across the wooden floorboards, then painfully negotiated the corridor, Gavin leaning heavily on Greta’s slim shoulder. As they passed through arched doors, Gavin observed iron braziers and coats of arms, interspersed with boar and deer heads on the walls.
“This is the water closet,” she said, blushing more deeply.
“Thanks,” he replied, making a superhuman effort to stand straight and sound casual.
“I’ll wait for you here.”
“I’ll be fine,” he answered, sounding more confident than he felt. What if he couldn’t manage on his own? He entered the bathroom, sank down on the edge of the tub and tried to regain some strength. It took him nearly ten minutes, but he was finally able to open the door with a semblance of dignity. Greta stood by the window, arms crossed protectively over her chest, pretending not to notice. He felt a rush of pity. She had been through so much, and now she had him to contend with.
He felt stronger as they walked back to the room, and better able to observe his surroundings. The ancient suits of armor standing like sentries along the wide corridor reminded him of Strathaird.
“Is this place very old?”
“Only about eighty years old, though it appears older. My grandfather built it for a visit from the kaiser, who wanted to go hunting. Wild boar, I believe. But my father didn’t hunt. He lived most of his life in England—we all did—so it has been closed for many years.”
“Where are we exactly?”
“Well hidden in the heart of the Black Forest. The nearest village must be at least twelve kilometers away. Nobody ever comes here, except the odd hunter during the hunting season. Anyway, the men are all at the front, so we’re safe.”
“Won’t anyone look for you?” he asked curiously, relieved they had reached the bed.
“What? Look for the Englishwoman’s daughter, and the traitor’s sister? No. They are glad to be rid of me.” She gave a bitter little laugh that belied her young face.
“You can’t assume that. There must be someone who cares.”
“Only my aunt Louisa, but she lives in Switzerland. Lie down now. We’ll talk later, after I get your food.”
He lay back thankfully against the pillows, hating that he felt so damn weak, but relieved that Greta appeared calmer. The sun had gone, replaced by dark shadows that filtered through the diamond-shaped panes. The mention of food made him realize just how hungry he was and helped explain his weakness. He hadn’t eaten for days.
Sitting up despite the pain, he looked out through the window at a sea of leaves that stretched for miles, like a heavy green carpet dotted with golden spots. All at once the war and the recent tragedies seemed like a dream. Even Franz’s death seemed remote. He thought of Flora, tending the wounded, and wished he were with her and his parents, who perhaps believed him dead. He fiddled fretfully with the sheet, wishing he could turn back time, wishing he hadn’t left Annelise alone with Miles, wondering how long it would take him to get back to his platoon, where he could let them all know he was alive and well.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Greta, carrying a large tray loaded with a bowl of steaming soup, crisp fresh bread hot from the oven and a bottle of Moselle wine. His mouth watered as she laid it carefully on his lap, then she perched at the end of the bed, watching him, as he forced himself to take his time and maintain a semblance of good manners. Perhaps it was sheer hunger, but he couldn’t remember anything ever tasting that appetizing before.
“It’s delicious,” he said, wishing he could scrape the bottom of the bowl.
“Would you like more?” She smiled tentatively, a sudden sweetness lighting her features.
“What about you?” he asked, afraid there might not be enough.
“I’ve eaten. Don’t worry, there’s plenty. Father made a vegetable plot, and I shot a rabbit this morning.” She stood up.
“You’re an enterprising young woman,” he said, handing her the tray, “and a very brave one.” Their eyes met and held for a moment, then she busied herself with the tray.
“This war has made us all into different people.” She looked down and sighed. “I’ll get you more soup.”
