The Stolen Years

6

The Black Forest, Germany, 1917

Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, Gavin heard a voice speaking German, then shivering and pain took hold as he was slowly moved. He heard a woman’s voice whispering to him. “Not a word. Pretend you’re out still.”

Gavin closed his eyes once more and fell back into a semi-comatose sleep, too weak to think, haunted by Angus’s indifference, Flora’s smile and Annelise’s fear-filled eyes. Frustrated, angry dreams, where his twin became a different being to the brother he knew, were followed by soothing images of Strathaird, standing high above the cliff with the sea churning below.

The next time he woke, Gavin knew at once something had changed. He sniffed, eyes closed, recognizing the subtle scent of crisp, fresh linen and lavender. When he opened his eyes, sunlight poured through a window onto a bright patchwork quilt. Taking stock of his surroundings, he wondered how he got here. The room was low-beamed and filled with heavy, rich furnishings, relics of a past era. He felt weak, but the excruciating pain in his hip and thigh had subsided somewhat. He tried to sit up and winced. For some reason, his arm lay across his chest, bandaged and wrapped in a neat sling. This must be the hunting lodge, he decided. Franz and Miles must have brought him here.

After a while he heard footsteps approaching and warily closed his eyes, unsure of what to expect. It might be someone other than his friends, someone who believed him to be a wounded German officer. The door opened, followed by a whiff of delicate perfume. A soft, cool hand stroked his forehead, lifted a strand of hair, then touched his cheek. A woman’s voice whispered something soothing in English before straightening the sheet and placing two fingers on the inside of his wrist. Finally, curiosity won and Gavin squinted warily. He stared in surprise at a pair of bright green eyes and high cheekbones that reminded him immediately of Franz.

“Shh. Stay quiet.” The girl stood, looking sad and serious as she measured the beat of his pulse. Gavin watched, fascinated, as the sunlight brushed the golden strands of hair that cascaded over her shoulders down to her waist, glinting like a burnished mane. Her face was youthful, and he guessed that she was no older than sixteen. He swallowed, taken aback by her beauty.

“Your pulse is regular now,” she said in perfect English, laying his arm back on the quilt. “Don’t worry. You are quite safe here.”

“Who are you?” he asked, trying to sit again.

“Don’t. You’re still weak. I am Franz von Ritter’s younger sister,” she said. Leaning forward to assist him, she plumped the fat goose-down pillows before retreating a step from the bed. He noticed how slim she was, her gray skirt too big and the woolen sweater too loose.

“Is this the hunting lodge?” he asked, looking at her curiously.

“Yes. You’ve been here for almost a week.”

“Where are Franz and Miles?”

She hesitated, then gave a sigh. “Franz is dead, and Miles has been taken prisoner.”

“Dead?” Gavin sat up, shocked, then fell back in pain. “But how? When? It can’t be!”

She seemed suddenly frail and he leaned forward as best he could.

“Sit down. I don’t even know your name. But please, you must tell me.”

The girl reluctantly perched on the edge of the bed, twisting a handkerchief and speaking in a controlled voice, as if trying to suppress all emotion. “The car broke down, they went to get help.”

“I know that,” Gavin interrupted. “I hid in the woods.”

She paused, swallowed, then continued in a trembling voice. “As Franz was about to go and fetch you, he and Miles were intercepted by three army officials called in by one of the locals. I believe someone must have overheard Franz and Miles speaking to one another in English, otherwise it is incomprehensible that anyone would have suspected. But they did. It was impossible for Franz and Miles to keep up their disguise for long. They brought my brother before a military tribunal.” Her voice went hoarse and her hands trembled. “He was sentenced to death by firing squad.” She swallowed again, tears pouring down her cheeks, while Gavin remained in shocked silence.

“Out of deference to my father,” she continued shakily, “the Haupt Kommandant allowed Franz to see me and my parents before his execution. They brought him to Hanover before they killed him. It was in those last moments that he told me where you were. He said you had Mama’s hankie and told me where they had left you. He begged me to save you,” she whispered, choking on the words. Gavin’s hand covered hers, horrified. “He…he thought of you till the end. He said you were his responsibility.”

“My God. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” She turned on him angrily. “Sorry? Do you think that will bring back my brother? Or my father, who died of a heart attack shortly after? And my mother, who put a pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger? You say you are sorry? Perhaps if it wasn’t for you they could have got away. But no. He waited, did everything he could to save you, and now he is dead.” She broke down, buried her face in her hands and sobbed, as Gavin sat in helpless shock. He reached out a hand tentatively but, realizing he was doing more harm than good, he leaned back, eyes closed, incapable of assimilating the spectacle of Franz’s 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.”

“Greta?”

“Yes?” She turned back.

“Just…thank you.” He smiled, embarrassed. Her mouth softened and her lovely green eyes shone with unshed tears.

Three days later, Gavin felt better. The rest, good food and companionship had strengthened him considerably, and he woke up feeling energetic and ready to rise. Swinging his legs carefully over the edge of the bed, he dressed in an old pair of gray trousers and a jersey that had once belonged to Franz and headed slowly down the large staircase toward the kitchen, filled with new exhilaration. The strain of the escape, followed by being bedridden and catered to hand and foot by Greta, had been getting on his nerves. At least now he could be of some use.

He reached the kitchen, guided by the smell of freshly baked bread that had become familiar over the past few days, and stood in the doorway. It was low-beamed and cozy. Sparkling copper pots and bunches of herbs and dried flowers hung from the ceiling. A pretty vase of wildflowers that sat on the large wooden table, which was covered in a bright checked cloth, gave the kitchen a homey feel. Greta stood over the immense stove, her back to him, stirring a pot. He watched her, aware all at once of her lithe, slim body, which even the faded blue cotton frock and woolen jacket couldn’t hide, and her hair. That amazing hair, like a princess’s in the fairy tales his mother used to read to them as children, fell smooth and golden down her back.

He thought sadly of Franz, a man he barely knew, who’d saved him, and realized he was partly responsible for her. Perhaps if he hadn’t planned the escape, Franz and her family would be alive. And Annelise. Surely that should have taught him what uncontrolled reactions could end up causing? He moved silently across the kitchen and came up behind her, peering over her shoulder to see what was in the pot.

“Mmm, that smells good.”

Greta squealed in surprise and upset the pan. It clattered to the ground, the contents oozing over the flagstone floor in a thick white puddle at her feet.

“How could you?” she cried angrily, fists balled, lips trembling.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Gavin apologized.

“I don’t care how sorry you are. Look at the mess you’ve made!” she exclaimed. “You’re as thoughtless as Franz—” The words died on her lips and she began to tremble. Without a second thought, Gavin stepped over the spilled porridge and put his arms around her, holding her close, soothing her until he felt the shaking stop. Then, gently, he stroked her hair and neck, easing her head against his shoulder and wishing he could give her back what she’d lost.

He gazed angrily over her head at the bright autumn morning through the open window, so serene and far removed from the horrors they were experiencing. He kissed the top of her head and whispered to her as he would a child, while birds twittered and a plump gray squirrel scuttled up a branch. It was impossible to believe that, not many miles away, war was causing such endless grief and destruction. He stroked her hair tenderly, feeling her body against him, trying to keep the inevitable reactions under control. She was so brave, yet so vulnerable, and he raged at her life being so bitterly devastated almost before it had begun.

He felt her stir and eased his arms. As he looked down into her face, he became aware that these were the true casualties of this absurd war. The women, the children, the too young and the too old. He was only seventeen himself, but he felt and looked so much older. The past eighteen months of trench warfare had marked him forever. The naive boy who left Scotland now possessed more experience than most men encountered in a lifetime.

But he pulled himself together and showed none of his thoughts. Negativity was a killer. The trenches had taught him that. “Come on, Greta. I’ll clean it up later. Would it be safe to go for a short walk? I would love to go outside. You could show me around.”

She stepped back, gulped, then nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“Don’t be sorry. You had every reason to be upset, and I’m a damn fool for having surprised you in the first place.” He gave her a winning smile. “Let’s put it behind us and get outside. It’s a beautiful day, and I haven’t seen real fresh air for nearly two years.”

“All right.” She gave him a shy, tremulous smile, then slipped off her red-and-white flowered apron before heading through the kitchen door.

Gavin stood back and looked at the exterior of the hunting pavilion, a heavy structure built of stone and dark wood that was almost medieval in style, its gothic windows and thick walls reminiscent of a fortress. They walked through the overgrown gardens that stopped abruptly at the edge of the forest, trampling over weeds, daisies and grass that stood knee-high, and headed toward two stone benches shrouded by damp moss and clinging ivy. Beside them was a chipped Italian fountain with a dry spout that housed a family of toads.

“I’ve never seen toads in a forest before,” Gavin remarked, picking up a stone to throw at them.

“Don’t.” Greta stopped his hand. “That’s their home. They’re happy there. You have no right to hurt them.”

“That’s true,” he conceded, realizing how indifferent the war had made him. “Come on. Let’s run to the woods.”

“Run? You can’t run,” she exclaimed, her laugh girlish.

“Of course I can. It’s just a silly leg wound. I’m fine.”

“Really?” She arched an eyebrow. “Let’s see.”

With that, she set off, her long, full skirt billowing and hair flying like a young palomino’s as she set off toward the trees. Gavin followed her but knew he couldn’t make it. Damn. Would it never get better, he wondered, then laughed as Greta looked back triumphantly. He threw up his arms in a gesture of defeat and limped to where she’d stopped, flushed and breathless, conscious again of stirrings in his body that were becoming difficult to deny.

“There. You see? You’re not well yet. You have to take it easy, and I have to make sure that you do. Why, you shouldn’t even be walking around like this!”