With a sigh, Gerlinde let herself fall back onto the bedcovers to stare at the ceiling until the damned clock struck eleven and the damned Amis would show up to take her downstairs for yet another interrogation. Why they even bothered, she had not the faintest idea. She was not going to start talking and besides, even if she wanted to, she had absolutely nothing of value to tell them. That leader of theirs, Morris (the only decent fellow among the lot, if she were entirely honest with herself) had taken it into his head that she knew of her father’s whereabouts when this was very much not the case.
In fact, when Gruppenführer Neumann wanted to tell her where exactly he was heading, she stopped him at once and, in her rational manner, explained that it was safer for her not to have such dangerous information, for the SMERSH agents were infamous for their third-degree interrogation techniques and even though she was undoubtedly very strong, she didn’t wish to run the chance of accidentally blurting something out under torture. The tears shone in Gruppenführer Neumann’s eyes. Dressed in civilian clothes, he cupped his daughter’s cheek for the last time, kissed her on her forehead with infinite tenderness and promised her that he’d be back, that he’d definitely be back for her as soon as it was safe, or that he’d send one of his loyal men but they would get her out of here eventually…
Flipping onto her stomach, Gerlinde clenched her jaw with stubborn determination and swallowed back tears. Her nimble fingers searched under the mattress until they caught the handle of her father’s SS sword that he had left to her for safeguarding – her, his daughter, and not her brother Götz who was still alive back then and still fighting somewhere near Berlin, outliving their eldest sibling Georg only by a few months. She clasped the cool metal firmly in her small fist. Just like she managed to protect it from the Amis, who “liberated” just about anything for souvenirs, she would protect its owner, with her own life. She would!
The Americans locked themselves up in Gruppenführer Neumann’s study to discuss their secret affairs behind closed doors. Left to his own devices, Tadek wandered around the house, peering into rooms but not quite entering yet. His hands were also held firmly in his pockets. He didn’t touch the heavy velvet curtains held by ornate tassels and neither did he approach the black, grand-piano which stood, seductive and beckoning, in the corner of what the English would call a drawing-room. It was in front of that piano that he stood the longest, caressing the onyx perfection with his gaze full of longing. How marvelous it would be to open its lid and touch the keys ever so gently once again, to let music soak him through like that rain outside, to surrender himself to its healing power…
Tadek had ogled it ravenously ever since his arrival here; wandered around its great, polished-to-mirror-perfection body, winding tighter and tighter circles until he closed onto it and finally gathered enough resolve to caress the lid with the tips of his fingers. It was thrilling and liberating and almost sinfully good, lifting the lid as though pulling the dress off a beautiful woman. His fingers hovered with uncertainty above the keys. Inside his chest, his heart was pounding with such force, he could hear his own blood beating in his ears.
“Don’t you dare touch it!”
He swung round at the shout and pressed himself into the piano – sheer camp habit, pressing oneself into just about anything at such German screams. From behind his back, half-a-scream, half-a-moan of protest of the keys. Before him, Gerlinde Neumann, Gruppenführer Neumann’s daughter, wrathful and full of cold fury. A Wagner’s Valkyrie, no less, ready to strike the pitiful human down.
Tadek forced himself to steady the breath that had caught in his throat and to step away from the piano.
He was a free man now.
He had nothing to fear from this child.
Much too late. She didn’t buy the act; he could tell by the mocking expression of her piercing, blue eyes.
“I know how to play it, if that’s what—”
“I don’t care one way or the other.” In a few steps, she crossed the room and slammed the lid of the piano with force. Once again, Tadek jumped. Once again, she regarded him scornfully. She despised weakness, that much was obvious. “It’s my father’s piano. It gets violated enough by those Amis who play their jazz on it but I won’t have you pawing at it, on top of everything else.”
She stood so close to him he could smell the faint scent of soap radiating from her simple white blouse. Frau Hanke did laundry twice a week and dried the clothes – her own, her young mistress’s, and the Americans’ – on several long clotheslines stretched in-between two cherry trees in the orchard. Not once had he seen Gerlinde help her.
Tadek tried holding her gaze but couldn’t and lowered his eyes to her breast pocket instead. In it, two distinct holes were still visible – most certainly from the badge which she wasn’t allowed to wear any longer.
He could have told her to push off and play anyway, just to spite her.
He could have physically pushed her; could have slapped her hard across her arrogant, noble face like he dreamed he would so many times before, in the camp, looking away from his superiors’ faces. Their gazes, he also couldn’t hold. The war had long ended but the invisible barrier, just like that
