CHAPTER SIX
GERHARD MOUNTED THE rusty bicycle once again and pedalled it into the country road. Without the weight of Otto, the bicycle flew over the dusty road and his heart soared above it, knowing that before the sun set on the day he would be embraced by a family he had not seen since his last furlough, almost a year past.
He breathed deeply, appreciating the fragrance of a countryside he had once taken for granted. Never again. He closed his eyes against the brightness of the lowering sun. The piercing light created a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours on the inside of his eyelids.
The bicycle suddenly jumped when its front tire hit a stone protruding out of the rut in which it had rolled. Gerhard’s attention jarred back to the road, and he laughed at his carelessness. He fought to regain control before his journey diverted to the ditch running alongside the road.
Puffs of dust broke softly in the path of the bicycle’s tires. A small rodent darted across his path and into the ditch across the road, followed by the black-and-white cat that he had seen sunning itself on the window ledge.
Ahead, Gerhard spied the standard that marked him home: a square post, two metres tall, painted the bright yellow of the regimental coat of arms. He pedalled faster and took a tight left turn onto the drive that led up to the front of the manor house in which his family had lived for many decades.
He jammed the brakes and the bicycle skidded sideways. He dropped his foot to the gravel for balance and drank in the vision before him, sighing deeply. The white-stuccoed manor house stood nobly before him on its red brick pedestal, crowned by its red-tiled roof. I’m home.
Gerhard swung his lanky leg over the saddle and walked the old bicycle the remainder of the way to the front steps. He rested it against the house and pondered what was to come. Slowly, he took the stairs two at a time, pausing between the white pillars that framed the doorway.
Before he opened the heavy oak door, he reached above the lintel and put his hand on the Lange crest, feeling the grooves of the design press into his palm, his pulse defining the shape he knew so well.
“I’ve come home,” he said to it. “I’m safe.”
Then, as he had seen Otto do only minutes before, he put his hand on the knob and gently turned it until he heard the snick of the latch releasing. He stepped inside and closed the door quietly.
He stood still and listened, absorbing comforting sounds and smells. He felt the stress of the past months drain from him and searched for something inside that would make him normal again.
From the kitchen, Gerhard heard the voices of his mother and sister as they helped Cook clear away the dinner dishes. Red cabbage, potatoes and …
He sniffed again, dreaming of the possibilities. Beets. Bread. Farmer Schmidt’s sausage. How long had it been since he had seen, let alone tasted, such delicacies?
A clink of glass. Liquid flowed, mingled with a low hum of a non-specific tune. He smiled and took the few steps needed to reach the study. His hand on the door, he gently pushed it in as he removed his cap. “Hello, Vater.”
Although his voice was soft and low, it was enough to startle Michael Lange, who almost, but not quite, dropped the crystal brandy decanter. Michael spun around to see his son standing in the doorway.
“Gerhard! God be praised!” Michael replaced the decanter and rushed to greet his son. He held him at arm’s length, drinking in the sight of the young man and noting the ravages of war on his face. “It’s you! You’re home!” He pulled his son into an embrace.
Gerhard welcomed his father’s arms with the same ferocity.
“Mutti. Marie. Our boy has come home!” Michael shouted toward the kitchen. “Let me look at you again,” he said, gently pressing his son’s shoulders away from him. He blinked rapidly, hoping to recover his emotions before the women arrived. “Looks like you’ve had a rough go of it!”
Gerhard nodded.
“We haven’t heard from you in so long. We were beginning to fear the worst,” Michael said, leading Gerhard to the settee. “Sit. Sit. Have brandy with me.”
Michael poured two glasses and handed one to Gerhard. Brandy fumes filled Gerhard’s senses as the first sip burnt its way down the back of his parched throat.
“Gerhard!” chimed mother and sister as they appeared at the study doorway, their questions and exclamations creating a din of joy.
Gerhard rose to greet them. Each in turn welcomed him with hugs and kisses, reluctant to release him. Embracing each woman, he inhaled deeply the fragrance of home, wishing he could erase the deep worry lines marring their faces.
His mother, Anna, stepped back, reaching up to touch the mark that would scar his forehead and forever remind him of the horrors of war that resided in his brain. “Bend down,” she said.
As he responded to her command, she stood on tiptoe to apply the time-honoured balm of a mother’s kiss to his wounded pate.
Cook stood behind them, grinning from ear to ear and ringing her hands in her apron. “Welcome home, young master!” She stepped forward in her turn and hugged him briskly. Suddenly embarrassed, she retreated to the kitchen, dashing an errant tear from her cheek.
“Enough from the three of you!” Michael boomed. “I’m sure Gerhard will have much to tell, but first, let him rest.” Turning to Gerhard, he suggested, “Finish your brandy, and then you can clean up.
“In the meantime,” he said, taking control of the moment, “perhaps you women can find some food for our boy? If we don’t get something wholesome into him quickly, his ribs will stick to his backbone.”
“Yes, yes. Of course,” Anna said. “Marie, come. Set a place at the table. Cook and I will bring some food. Gerhard, we’re so glad to have you home.” Looking about her, she asked, “Where’s your kit? Vater can take it up to your room.”
“I have no kit, Mutti. What you see is all I have,” he said, dismissing any further discussion on the matter.
“Look Vater!” Gerhard slouched wearily into the black, leather armchair worn with decades of use, raised his legs, and flexed his dusty boots. “I kept my boots, as you ordered. They’re a bit worn, but they’ve carried me a long way.” The heels of the well-used boots were worn thin enough to expose the horseshoe shape below, and several hob nails were missing from the soles.
“They’re filthy!” Marie exclaimed.
“Ah! Mutti. I apologize.” Gerhard said, looking abashed. “I should have removed my boots at the door. Too long in the field, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll help you.” Marie sprinted from behind her mother and bent to pull a boot. Gerhard flexed his foot to help her free it, and she giggled as she fell backward into her father’s waiting arms.
She giggled again as her loose, straw-coloured hair flipped forward and covered her face. She handed the boot to her father, brushed her hair from her eyes, and turned back to remove the boot’s mate.
Gerhard flexed his feet, great toes protruding from the ends of the worn socks, a contrast to the perfection of the old Spanish painting that hung above him. As he did so, his father examined the well-used boots.
“We’ll have these repaired before you report for duty again,” Michael said matter-of-factly. “You’ll also need new kit, and some better stockings.” He raised an eyebrow to the great toes. “I’m glad, at least, that you heeded the warning to keep your wits about you.” His look was solemn.
Gerhard lowered his eyes to his lap, remembering the friends he had left behind, and Otto’s ruined leg. When he raised his eyes to meet his father’s, he nodded. “Yes, Vater. I did my best, but sometimes I wonder whether my best was good enough.”
Marie waved her hand in front of her nose. “Phew! I think something else needs attention, too. I’ll run you a hot bath, Bruder, as soon as you’ve eaten.”
“Thank you, Schwester.” He dipped his head formally. “I’d appreciate that … very much. It’s been a while since I had a soak in hot water.”
Gerhard’s mother extended her hand to him, beckoning him to follow her
into the dining room.
“Mutti, I should change first. I’m too dirty.”
“No, Son; sometimes we have to make exceptions, and I think today is one of those occasions.” She linked her arm through his and held it tight, walking him into the dining room. Marie helpfully pulled his chair out.
“I feel like royalty!” he said, embarrassed to find himself the centre of attention.
“You are today, Son. Eat now. After your bath, we can visit more, if you’re not too tired.” Mother, father, and sister each pulled out a chair opposite him.
As Cook set a plate of food in front of him, he surveyed the dining room of his family home. “Nothing’s changed,” he muttered to himself.
The carved mahogany buffet and hutch stood where they had been since before he was born. Both were laden with porcelain dishes, silverware, and serving dishes inherited from previous generations of the Lange family. The table, large enough to seat sixteen, had been collapsed to host six. Its heavy, carved legs and high-back chairs grounded the room.
I need grounding, he realized.
“I’m sorry, young master,” Cook said. “It is not the meal we would like to serve for you, but we have food rationing.”
Gerhard patted her withdrawing hand with reassurance. “It’s a meal for a very tired and appreciative monarch,” he joked, then solemnly added, “And don’t apologize. At least it’s cooked! We’ve had little to eat for months, and what we found was either shrivelled, weather-dried, rotten, or unfit for a dog. This is manna from heaven, Cook!”
Cook clapped her hands together, expressing delight that he appreciated so humble a meal, and returned to the kitchen.
A fork-full of red cabbage reached his lips before he lowered it again, licking his lips and inhaling the buttery aroma.
“I’m sorry,” he said to his attending audience, “I am so hungry and have eaten so poorly for a very long time. While I savour this wonderful feast, why don’t you tell me what’s been happening around here, instead of just staring at me.”
The four laughed together, and, as he ate his meal, they took turns telling him what had happened during his absence.
True to her word, Marie reluctantly excused herself from the table to run a hot bath for Gerhard when Cook brought a plate of sweet biscuits.
“We have no coffee or tea today. Brandy for all, sir?” she asked, deferring to Michael.
“Sherry for me, please, Cook,” Anna added to Michael’s nod.
“Just a small shot for me. Marie’s running my hot bath,” Gerhard said as his pushed his plate away. “That meal was the best I’ve eaten since my last furlough. When was that?”
Before he could calculate, Cook muttered aloud, “Ten months and nine days ago, give or take a few hours,” then disappeared into the kitchen with his soiled plate and cutlery.
A few minutes later, she returned with a silver tray of crystal glasses and two decanters, one of a deep-red Spanish sherry, and the other of amber French brandy, all seated on a starched, white lace doily.
Michael poured the liquor and passed glasses to his wife and his son. Gerhard pushed his chair away from the table, far enough to be able to rub his belly with gratitude. He dusted biscuit crumbs from his chin. “Thank you, Cook,” he said toasting her meal with his raised glass.
“Pah!” she spat, “wasn’t enough for a hungry soldier,” and scooted from the room again.
“It was perfect!” Gerhard said, raising his voice loud enough to follow her.
Turning to his parents, he continued. “I’ve eaten so little for so long. And, I’ve learnt through experience that it doesn’t pay to eat too much or too fast when a belly hasn’t had food in it for a while. I have seen many horrible things and heard the stories. Some of the city boys were so hungry that they mixed sawdust in their food to fill their bellies. Sawdust! Can you imagine what that would do to the gut! How desperate they must have been.
“I’m fortunate to have grown up in the country. I scrounged for food. It wasn’t always the best, but it was better than sawdust!” Gerhard’s calm voice was betrayed by the anger and frustration bubbling through his words.
He stood abruptly. “I should stop now.” He made a slight bow toward his parents and excused himself.
Michael and Anna shared owl-like expressions of surprise at Gerhard’s abrupt departure.
“War is a nasty business, as you well know, my dear.” Michael patted Anna’s delicate hand, saying, “I will speak with Gerhard tomorrow and see what I can do to help him.”
He leaned toward her and kissed her cheek, then took her hand and escorted her out of the dining room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“SIS?” GERHARD CALLED when he reached the upper level of the manor house and walked down the carpeted hall.
“In here!” Marie answered from the bathroom.
“Ah. Good. I was afraid I’d be too late, and the water would be cold.”
“No. See, the steam still rises from the water.” Marie closed the taps and brushed wilting strands of hair off her face as she turned toward Gerhard. “I’ve left just enough space for you to fill the tub, but not overflow onto the floor. I’ve even warmed the towels for you.” She pointed to a pile of towels on a nearby chair.
“I am so glad you’ve come home safe,” she said, reaching up to caress his furred cheek with the back of her fingers, still damp from testing the water. “I think you know what to do next,” she said, teasing him. He smiled his thanks at her and watched her close the door, leaving him alone for the first time since his arrival.
Before he heard the final snick of closure, the door popped open again, and Marie peeked in. “Will we see you downstairs again this evening?”
Gerhard felt a fatigue in his bones. “Do me a favour, sis? Tell them I’m too tired. I’d like to go straight to bed.”
“Of course! Sleep well, my brother. We’ll see you in the morning,” Marie responded before she scooted through the door and hugged him hard. “I’m so glad you’ve come home,” she whispered, then made a hasty departure, leaving her brother in peace.
Gerhard inhaled deeply, clearing his senses. The humidity permeated his clothes as he peeled them off.
In the mirror hanging on the back of the door, he noted his thin reflection. “Scrawny” was the word that came to mind. He was confident that a few weeks of field work and good food would make his body whole again, but he wondered about the rest of him.
Will I ever be truly normal again? Can I return to the front yet again? Perhaps Otto was right. Maybe Emma is the one to help me mend my broken spirit.
He dipped a toe into the water and withdrew it quickly. The heat was a welcome distraction. He tried again, slowly immersing one foot into the water until it burnt up his calf. He shifted his weight into the tub and repeated the same process with his other foot until the burning passed, and he watched small bubbles form and depart from the dark hairs on his legs.
He braced himself, lowering his body into the tub. He knew the next part would not be pleasant. After all, lower extremities were not meant to be boiled. He also knew that once he was seated, the worst would be over.
He felt a shiver run through his body as his skin prickled, adjusting to the extreme temperature. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and let the heat invade his weariness, soothing his body and soul.
Gerhard inhaled the steam once more, trying to detect the scent that filled the room. Opening his eyes, he spied a jar of lavender-coloured bath salts and knew it to be one of Marie’s creations.
Marie had a knack for making fragrances from ingredients she sourced near the manor. She found pleasure in experimenting with soaps and candles, even biscuits and cakes. She used roses, rosemary, basil, and thyme. Whatever piqued her curiosity. He knew she enjoyed experimenting.
The bath salts tickled at his body and the lavender made him drowsy. Gerhard closed his eyes again and surrendered to the bath.
His thoughts returned to Emma. She is pretty, pleasant and capable. Could I ma
ke her happy? Would she accept a proposal, if I made one?
The last time he and Otto had been home on furlough, they had worked in the fields. She had brought them a basket lunch. They had spread a blanket under a tree near the stream, and shared bread and sausage.
In the months that they had been away fighting, her body had changed, and that day he had noticed. She was still slender and youthful, but she had acquired the graceful curves of a woman.
His thoughts took a side-step, recalling that Marie had changed, too. She is no longer the little girl I swung in the hallway on the day my orders arrived.
Reclaiming his thoughts, he remembered the picnic with Emma and Otto under the gnarled sycamore tree by the stream. Emma had set out the food and dishes as if she were the lady of a manor. Otto and Gerhard had said little. While they helped set out the meal, she had filled the silence by telling them how she had prepared it.
Dipping her chin, she retrieved items from the basket, and looked up at him through the chestnut veil of her hair, her hazel eyes shy and uncertain. He had wanted to hook his fingers around that veil and expose her creamy cheek. His fingers had twitched, resisting the impulse.
The water cooled around Gerhard while his memories warmed with visions of Emma. His body began to simmer with desire.
Abruptly, he sat up, smacking the water with the flat of his hands, causing water to splash over the side of the tub.
This is crazy. I have never had an intelligent conversation with her. How could I even think of marriage when I don’t know who she is? Desire is not enough! Fool! You’ll never know her unless you make the effort. And how will she handle your nightmares? You can’t even do that!
He moaned at his stupidity, slapping his forehead for emphasis, and winced painfully from the impact to his healing head wound. He slid under the water trying to clear his mind.
Pools of cornflower blue and peace invaded his musings. Nora! Oh, God, I must find Nora first! I could never make an offer to Emma so long as I have thoughts of Nora spinning in my head. His pulse raced recalling their encounter, her soft voice, her confidence, and her unusual blue eyes. He shot upright, out of the cooling water.
The Crest Page 4