For a long while, Leeburg remained by the stove, absorbing the warmth and smell of the kitchen. It was something he had missed. When he went to his room, he stood at the window, studying the moonlit scene. He was home, but he was still worried. The memory of Lucciano nagged at the back of his mind. He had hoped that the bonds of his home would protect him from his fears. He had hoped to continue where he had left off eight years before, but now he wasn’t sure that his family could help him.
It didn’t take Leeburg long to realize that he couldn’t turn the clock back eight years. The fears that he had suspected on his first night home were real enough. Nothing was the same as it had been, outside the walls of the Gasthof or inside, and no longer did the mountains give him a feeling of protection.
There was a general air of bewilderment and depression. They were a defeated nation, divided into four zones and occupied by four different armies. A country struggling to maintain its identity and recapture its unity. There was political uncertainty and economic difficulties.
When Leeburg took a second look, he saw that the walls of the Gasthof were not so white as he had believed. The black lettering was chipped and marked, the outbuildings in need of repair. It was the same in the town. The buildings looked shabby, the shops empty. The people were also different. There was no joy or happiness on their faces. They were anxious and uncertain, living in a vacuum with their own personal suffering.
Life inside the Gasthof was also different and so were his mother and brother. His mother still extruded a feeling of maternal warmth and love, but it was all directed now on his sister, Annalisa. It was almost as if her two sons had grown out of her reach as they had grown into manhood. Annalisa was her life.
Karl had become more masterful and arrogant, asserting his authority at every opportunity, as if making certain that from the very outset Leeburg’s return would not affect his position. Where once there had been a close bond of respect and affection between the two brothers, there was now a veiled barrier — and Frieda. She was at the heart of all the changes that Leeburg saw and he knew it. She had taken Karl’s affection from his mother and had made him jealous and suspicious. She manipulated her movements around the Gasthof like the curling trail of a fuse to a gunpowder barrel. One day there would be an explosion. It seemed inevitable.
As Leeburg’s mother had forecast, there were a number of callers seeking information. Leeburg was patient, as he was with those whom he met in the town, but the looks of disappointment on their faces gradually made him avoid contact with them as much as possible. The return of the menfolk was going to be a slow trickle, and there would be many gaps, for a lot had served on the Eastern front, and for them there was little or no hope.
Leeburg himself became engulfed in the mood of depression. He had been hoping that his return home would expel his own personal fears and conscience. He had been hoping for a miracle and there was none. He found it was worse than he had expected. The newspapers were constantly publishing photographs of wanted men, reports of denazification trials and war crimes investigations.
Lucciano hung over him like a hangman’s noose. And wherever he went he saw the Reitzer villa protruding above the trees, reminding him that there was still Erich Reitzer to think of. For three and a half years he had closed his mind to Erich Reitzer. Never breathing his name and ignorant of his fate. Now he had to accept the fact that Erich Reitzer did exist. That he could be right there in the valley, or he could return tomorrow. That he might still be alive, or that he might be dead. He couldn’t ignore him any longer.
It was Karl who first mentioned Reitzer’s name, two days after Leeburg’s return.
‘I understand they have still heard nothing definite about Erich Reitzer,’ he remarked casually at breakfast. To them Reitzer was the Erich Reitzer who had grown up with them, not the Major Reitzer Leeburg knew. Karl and his mother knew nothing of their differences. Leeburg hadn’t told them.
Leeburg made some remark intended to indicate his concern and interest, but he hoped the matter would be dropped. His mother suggested that he should visit Frau Reitzer. Leeburg said he would, but didn’t say when. So Reitzer was alive, he thought, or was he? Blast the man. Why couldn’t he have done something straightforward like being taken a prisoner? There had to be a doubt. But why?
Karl supplied the answer. ‘It is rumoured that he got away into Switzerland,’ he said.
Switzerland! It was possible, Leeburg thought. Yes, it was possible. They had had their backs to the Po Valley when he had been captured and Reitzer had connections in Switzerland. It could have been done.
Frieda entered the room, interrupting Leeburg’s thoughts and putting an end to their conversation. Karl always became less communicative and more sullen whenever she was around. On this occasion Leeburg welcomed her intrusion. Reitzer was a subject he wanted to keep to himself. But as they sat in silence, thoughts of Reitzer raced through his brain. He could see the wild look on the man’s face. He could hear Reitzer shouting at him again.
Suddenly the room became oppressive. He had to get out into the open. He gruffly excused himself and went outside. For a while he stood breathing in the crisp, fresh air. The sky was a clear blue, the snow a pure white. It had a reassuring effect. He looked up at the mountains and remembered how he used to go skiing, high above the trees, whenever he had a problem. How it used to help. He would do it again, he thought. He would go far away from people, where he didn’t have to be sociable or be reminded of the past.
But when Leeburg later carried his skis through the town to the track behind the Post Hotel, he saw Frau Hestler and he knew he just couldn’t pass her by, no matter how he felt.
Frau Hestler was an elderly, frail-looking woman, small in stature, but her appearance was deceptive. She was a mountain woman from a farm high up the valley and such people have to be strong, physically and mentally, to survive. Frau Hestler was no exception. She had three sons, but only one had returned from the war. One had been killed in the desert, and her youngest son, Franz, was a prisoner of the Russians. Franz had been a contemporary of Leeburg’s and like Leeburg he had been studying for a place at the University.
Frau Hestler was pleased to see Leeburg. There was no envy or false pretence about her greeting. Her pleasure was genuine. She talked impassionately about her sons. She had heard from someone who had come all the way from Zalsburg to see her that Franz was alive, but he had been sentenced to fifteen years labour in a lead mine in Northern Siberia. He was one of thousands who had been sent to this part of the Russian continent on minor and often trumped up charges. To Frau Hestler all that mattered was that he was alive. She didn’t expect to see him again, as she was now an old woman, but one day he would return, and the Russians might even release him before the end of his sentence.
Leeburg felt deeply sorry for her. Little did she realize that her son would never return. Even if he survived the ill-fated trip to the place of the mine, he would be dead with lead poison long before he completed his sentence.
‘I am very pleased, Paul, that you have been one of the fortunate ones,’ she said as they parted. She was the first person he had met who had said that to him with conviction. Frau Hestler had meant it.
The words stuck in Leeburg’s mind as he climbed the track. Fortune in the minds of many had become a simple issue of East or West. If you had fought in the West you had been fortunate, if you had fought in the East you had been unfortunate. If you were captured by the Americans, British or French you were fortunate, if you were captured by the Russians you were unfortunate. Leeburg thought of his own service career. If it was only an issue between East and West, he thought, then he had been fortunate — very fortunate.
For six months Leeburg had stayed with the Mountain Warfare Training School near Munich and when he had passed out as a Sergeant instructor he had been posted to a similar school in Norway instructing the occupational troops how to live and fight in the mountains.
Leeburg liked Norway. It reminded
him of his home. The mountains were not so sharp, and the valleys much wider, but there was the same white, crisp freshness of the snow in the winter, the same greenness of the grass in the spring, and the same warmth of the summer sun. He felt he would have liked the people, also, if he could have got to know them, but the camp was isolated in the mountains and there was little opportunity, or encouragement, to meet the people who lived a life very similar to what he had been used to.
Norway had been a good posting, he thought, as he climbed through the trees, very good. Yes, he had been fortunate.
Leeburg’s remaining good fortune had been partly due to his commanding officer, Oberstlieutenant Kruger, the man responsible for the training of the occupational troops in mountain warfare. Troops which were earmarked for the Eastern front. Kruger had been a prominent explorer and mountaineer before the war and had a passionate love and respect for the mountains, more so than he had for human frailties and weaknesses.
Leeburg more than measured up to the standards Kruger had set for his instructing staff. In fact in Leeburg, Kruger saw some of the qualities that he had come to love in his own son. He was honest, open, hardworking, with a genuine love of the mountains. Often Kruger would take Leeburg with him exploring the mountains and preparing routes and exercises for the troops who came for a three week period to their camp.
The relationship of mutual respect saved Leeburg from following in the wake of the men he had trained to the snowy wastes of the Eastern front. In the winter of 1942 when the call had come from the High Command for suitable recommendations for officer training Leeburg’s name had been referred to Kruger by the Divisional Commander.
Kruger would have recommended Leeburg without hesitation had it not been that he had just heard from his wife that his son, Franz, had been reported missing at Stalingrad. Kruger had doubted the wisdom of the Eastern campaign. The news of his son’s fate convinced him of the senselessness and futility of their Eastern venture. To send Leeburg there would be to add another cross to the frozen waste. Kruger didn’t even approach Leeburg. He sat on the communiqué for a period of time and then referred it back as unsuitable.
But Leeburg’s good fortune could not last forever. In 1944 Kruger was himself posted back to Germany to the mountain school in Bavaria to train special S.S. Regiments. Leeburg returned to Germany with him, but only for a short period. The sands were running out fast. Every available soldier was needed at the front. The training camp had to be run by the absolute minimum of staff. Kruger could hold Leeburg no longer. But he still had a certain amount of influence. A Mountain Division had been formed to help the 12th Army defend the northern plains of Italy. Kruger saw to it that Leeburg was posted to this unit.
Leeburg had always known that a return to a fighting unit was inevitable. To be sent to a Mountain Division in Italy was more than he had dared hoped for.
Leeburg gripped his ski sticks and stuck them into the snow and climbed the slope. Frau Hestler had been correct when she had said he had been fortunate, he thought, but only partly correct. She didn’t know about Reitzer or Lucciano. Neither had he when he had received his posting. That treat was still in store for him. And if she did know, he thought, would she still think he had been fortunate? Because Leeburg didn’t.
When Leeburg cleared the trees he had the whole white expanse of snow to himself. It glistened and sparkled, reflecting the afternoon sun. Beneath him was the valley with the sun’s shadow gradually creeping towards the town. It was a scene which never failed to inspire him with its beauty.
But as Leeburg stood, absorbing the scenery, the loneliness and silence seemed to bear down on him like a mantle of depression. He suddenly felt afraid and guilty. There was to be no escape from Lucciano. Not even up there with the mountain peaks, which had always been so friendly.
He decided against climbing any higher and turned to start his run down. As he did so, he saw three figures appear over the skyline. He watched them traverse the side of the mountain leaving a trail of fine, white, powdery snow behind them. One of the figures fell, but picked itself up again and followed in the trail of the other two. They did a wide traverse and came across the snow face from the other side.
In the front was a slim red cloaked figure. The other two looked like soldiers. Leeburg watched them with interest. They were fine skiers. They turned from their traverse and came straight towards him, their skis riding over the imperfections of the surface. The red cloaked figure came swishing past him and slid to a halt a few metres away.
It was the girl that Annalisa had told him about. She stood waiting for the other two to join her, her face aglow with the exhilaration of the run. She looked at Leeburg and waved her ski sticks. Leeburg returned the greeting. When the other two joined her, he saw that they were French soldiers. Before they had time to invite him to join them, he had pushed himself forward and was twisting his way down the track through the trees.
When he came to the nursery slopes there were several skiers about. He passed quickly through them and on to the road, where he took off his skis and set off for the Gasthof.
The town was busy, both with skiers and townspeople awaiting the arrival of the afternoon train. Again Leeburg hurried through the streets, not wanting to meet anyone he knew. But when someone called out his name, he had no alternative but to stop and reply. He turned and looked into a tall, elderly man wearing a threadbare overcoat with an upturned astrakhan collar covering his face. On his head was an astrakhan hat which had seen better days.
‘Hullo, Paul,’ the man said in a sharp, firm voice. ‘I heard that you were home.’ He pulled open the collar and Leeburg saw the birdlike features of his former school master, Otto Beck. He went up to him and shook his hand.
‘Herr Beck,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you again.’
‘Well, don’t look so surprised,’ Beck scolded him. ‘You didn’t think they had sent me off to fight as well?’
Leeburg smiled. Otto Beck had always had a sharp, caustic manner, but he had been a good teacher. ‘I don’t know what to expect these days,’ Leeburg replied.
‘In that case, my boy, you will never be disappointed. Come walk with me back to my house. There is someone I would like you to meet.’
Leeburg momentarily thought of refusing, but his old schoolmaster took hold of his arm and led him to the street where he had always lived in a small, picturesque, wooden house. But like everything else that Leeburg saw, the house had lost a lot of its appeal. The woodwork, which once matched the snow with its whiteness, had a dirty, grey appearance. Inside, however, the atmosphere hadn’t changed. There was still the heavy, ornate furniture, the book cases, the photographs and the ornaments. In one corner the stove gave off its reassuring heat. Only the carpet looked more threadbare.
Otto Beck ushered Leeburg into one of the seats. Leeburg watched the old man take off his greatcoat and put on an old, woollen sweater. He was now well over seventy years of age, with features which reflected his many years. He went to a cabinet and brought out two small glasses and a bottle.
‘My niece, Elka, gets me a bottle occasionally,’ he said. ‘From the French. It is good brandy.’
‘Your niece?’ Leeburg asked.
‘Yes. She lives with me. She has done so for the last two years.’
‘Is that who you want me to meet?’ Leeburg asked. He accepted the glass.
‘To your return,’ Beck said.
‘And to your good health,’ Leeburg added.
The brandy tasted good. It flowed into the body and gave off its heat.
‘Yes. I would like you to meet her. She will be home presently. She went skiing with Lieutenant Dubois.’
‘Fraulein Gerhard?’ Leeburg asked.
‘Yes,’ Beck said, nodding his head. ‘Have you met her?’
‘No,’ Leeburg replied. ‘But I have seen her. My sister pointed her out to me. And I saw her on the mountain about an hour ago.’
‘She is a nice girl, Paul,’ Beck said. ‘She works for t
he French authorities, but she is wanting to go to university.’
‘Is she the little girl who used to come and stay with you before the war?’ Leeburg asked.
‘You remember her? Good. She is my younger sister’s daughter. Her father used to lecture at Vienna University.’ Beck sighed.
Used to! Leeburg hadn’t missed the reference to the past tense, but he didn’t want to channel the old man’s conversation on to his brother-in-law.
‘She will be good company for you,’ Leeburg said. He was beginning to wish he had refused the old man’s invitation. He knew his former teacher was going to pry into subjects which Leeburg had placed at the back of his mind.
Beck put his glass to his lips. He looked like a wise old bird, Leeburg thought, and recalled that he had thought that about Beck before. In fact as he looked at him he realized that Beck had always looked old. It was only his jacket and other clothes which added the years to his image.
‘And what are you going to do with yourself, Paul?’ Beck asked. It was one of the questions Leeburg had expected.
‘I have not made up my mind yet,’ he replied.
Beck let his head rest against the back of his chair. ‘I always thought you would make a good teacher,’ he said studying the ceiling. ‘Perhaps even come back to this town.’
Teacher! It was what he had been planning to do, but now he couldn’t think about it. Not with Lucciano in the back of his mind. He felt a sudden flush of conscience.
‘That is what Elka is going to do,’ Beck continued. ‘She hopes to start next year.’
‘I am twenty-six now,’ Leeburg sighed. ‘Another four years and I will be thirty.’
‘Still young,’ Beck said casting Leeburg’s remark to one side.
Leeburg quickly finished off his drink. He didn’t want to discuss his future with his former teacher, or anyone. He stood up. ‘I must be going, Herr Beck,’ he said.
Beck looked disappointed. ‘I am very sorry you must leave so soon,’ he said.
The Fallen Eagles Page 4