Twenty-Nine #2
“Not Karl,” Mutti sobs, mopping her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. “Not my boy. Anyone but Karl...”
“What the hell happened?” I’m suddenly angry. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”
Someone slips a cup and saucer into my hands.
“Have a drink, it’ll help with the shock.” Bertha’s voice, soft and gentle. “Come now.”
I do as I’m told but my hand is shaking so much I can barely lift the cup to my lips.
“I spoke with Hauptmann Winkler, just a few minutes ago,” Vati says; his voice is tremulous. Like an old man’s.
He takes a slug of whisky, or brandy, or whatever is in the glass Bertha hands him. He nods to Mutti to do the same. She gulps hers and coughs.
“He’d been on a routine training exercise, preparing for a test on aerobatic maneuvers,” Vati says, his features dropping as though pulled down by a great weight.
“He had to learn how to handle an aircraft at high speeds. It was good and clear this morning. A little gusty, but Karl had flown in more difficult conditions before. It was all going very well, but ten minutes into the flight, Winkler said, Karl misjudged the speed of a steep descent and was unable to pull out of it in time. He crashed the aircraft into the ground.” Vati takes a deep breath.
“He had multiple injuries, most seriously to his head. He arrived at the hospital in a coma. But the doctors were unable to save his life.”
“He crashed...” I say, processing Vati’s words. My ears still buzz. There’s a growing pressure in my chest.
“Why was he in the aircraft on his own?” Mutti asks, her voice rising. “I mean, he was inexperienced! What on earth were they thinking!”
“Shh, my dear, don’t upset yourself even more.
” Vati rubs his pawlike hand on her thin knee.
“He’d been flying for over a year. It was a single-seat plane.
A Heinkel He 51. According to Winkler, he’d flown one many times before and had impressed his superiors.
A bright future cut tragically short, he said.
The only consolation is, had he lived, his head injuries were so horrific it would have meant very severe disablement, so in the end, it was probably for the best.”
“For the best?” Mutti’s eyes are wild. She turns to Vati and begins to shout at him.
“Who the hell does he think he is, saying what was best for our son? It was that major’s fault our Karl is dead and he thinks he knows what’s best?
He probably told the doctors to stop trying to save him. He probably ordered them to kill him—”
“Hélène!” Vati says sharply. “You are overwrought. Hauptmann Winkler was devastated. I could hear it in his voice. You think he wanted to lose one of his most promising pilots in a stupid, senseless accident? Of course not.”
“Oh, Franz... how can I...?” Her eyes brim with tears again. “Not Karl...”
Vati stands slowly. He looks sapped of all strength.
“I’m going to call the doctor to bring you a sedative,” he says as he shuffles toward the door. “Look after her, Herta.”
I move to sit next to Mutti and slip her hand into mine. It’s limp and delicate, like the foot of a bird. I squeeze it, but she barely responds. She stares into space, tears sliding one after the other down her cheeks.
“I’ll take care of you, Mutti,” I tell her, trying not to think of Karl lying somewhere on a slab in an icy morgue.
The crushing pressure in my chest intensifies, threatening to squeeze all the air from my lungs and strangle my heart until it stops beating altogether.
K ARL AND I are in the treehouse. I can smell his cologne, clean and crisp, mingled with his own warm, oaty scent.
He smiles and the corners of his mouth fold up, revealing the white of his teeth.
His deep brown eyes wrinkle, just a little, at the edges and his skin is sun-kissed and glowing.
He turns slightly and I see the soft fuzz of baby-fine hair at the back of his neck.
“Let’s play Roman soldiers,” he says, handing me a wooden sword. “Whoever wins can be the emperor and the other has to obey their orders for the rest of the day.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, sulking.
“Why not?” He smiles at me, knowing exactly why, but he wants me to say it anyway.
“Because you always win. You’re bigger than me.”
“Then fight harder, and cleverer. It’s the cleverest who win,” he says, leaping up and tapping me with his sword.
I try to hit him back, but I can’t reach him because Karl is at the controls of his bomber.
I’m sitting behind him, but he doesn’t seem to know I’m here.
I try to shout his name. To warn him, but no sound comes from my mouth.
The plane is shaking violently and he is sweating, fighting to regain control.
It lurches and rolls, dropping fast. The engines roar.
I scream, silently. There is a stench of oil, gasoline, and hot metal.
And something else: sweat and impending death.
The ground rushes and then the dreadful crash and a screeching sound of metal being crushed.
I jolt awake. Stare into the darkness, sweating and breathing fast.
I switch on my bedside lamp and peer at the clock. Three-fifteen in the morning.
Karl is dead. The last conversation we had was that awful one, full of distrust and accusation. Karl was the center of my universe when we were children. Where did it all go wrong? How can I live with that dreadful exchange being our parting words?
Tears slide from the corners of my eyes, dripping onto the pillow. The room is so still and quiet it’s as if time has stopped and the world is no longer turning.
But the clock still ticks on my mantelpiece.
I turn toward Hitler’s portrait hanging above it. He looks smugly down at me, over his bristly mustache.
You did this. How could you let this happen to my beautiful, dear brother?
He stares back, his eyes stony black, arrogant and taunting.
This is your punishment, Jew lover. It’s all your fault, for consorting with the enemy. You chose the wrong path. You chose evil, and this is your reward.
But Karl was your perfect child. He gave you everything he had. His love, now his life. Not like me. Why didn’t you kill me instead?
We all know what happens to those who make a pact with the devil... A wry smile plays on Hitler’s lips.
A rush of heat and I cannot bear the sight of him any longer.
I’ve made my choice. No matter that Walter is leaving and will soon be married to this Anna girl.
No matter that I shan’t ever see him again.
He has taught me things I never understood before, but I do now.
You have lied, Herr Hitler. And Karl is dead. You bastard.
I run across the room, ripping the portrait from the wall, pulling out the nail and a chunk of plaster. I throw the picture to the floor and I stamp on the Führer, cracking the frame and pounding his head, grinding my heels over his eyes.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
Now I’m certain. It wasn’t God who sent him. It was the devil himself.
I shove the broken picture behind the wardrobe.