1944 (in silence)

I miss the bombers she said. You think I'm crazy. But I discovered there are two kinds of fear; and only one can fill your cup, at a time. I prefer the fear I can hear. The other fear is much worse. When I'm here alone, the house is quiet. Just me and the clocks, ticking. And I know, I know no one is coming. Odd, don't you think, that in war, the greater fear is silence, absence, of the empty chair; or perhaps it is what fills that silence. The endless reliving of stories that will never change.

I had no answer and so we sat for awhile. In silence.

++++++

Tell me, who knows of your baby?

No one I said.

The father?

Dead. He's dead. Died in my arms. His life within me less than twenty-four hours. (pause) What do I tell his child.

Kathrin spoke in German: Ich liebte Ihren Vater. Wie er mich liebte. Und von dieser Liebe, ist diese göttliche Liebe, dort Sie. This is what you say.

I didn't need translation. Pulling out his journal, my hand shaking, I handed it to her. She ran her fingers over the blood stained pages, turning each with the same care she had shown Erich's letters. Nothing could be heard but breathing and then the turning of a page.

++++++

Come with me, she said. We will have a drink. Good German wine, not that french crap you've been drinking. They think they know how to make wine but their soil is too rich, produces lazy grapes. Here, take a sip. Let it sit, let the bouquet bloom. Inhale. As if roses. Nose and tongue, working together. One breathes wine as much as drinks it.

And so we drank, sipping, breathing, not another word between us. Then she sighed. Quite a luxury, this wine. Each time it passes my lips I feel grateful and guilty. I've drunk a lot since Walter died. But I've never been drunk.