Page 23 of Love in the Shadows

As they got closer to the checkpoint, she saw the bodies in a heap at the side of the road, like trash waiting to be collected.

“They never learn,” Gerhard said.

Johanna bit her lip until she tasted blood.

***

The dinner had been an all-right affair, and Johanna had thought of little else other than being back at the house with Astrid. The generalmajor was a pleasant-enough man, quite a bit older than Gerhard and charming, not at all how Gerhard had depicted him. They had talked about how this winter seemed colder than the previous, their Christmases past, in Berlin for them and in Dusseldorf for the Bauers, their children and the social engagements they’d enjoyed before the war. They had stopped short of any meaningful discussion about the war, of course, although Gerhard had mentioned with great pride Ralf’s imminent recruitment into the 12th Panzer Division, and Frau Bauer had mentioned with equal sadness her sons who were both fighting on the Eastern front.

Johanna had said nothing. She hadn’t been able to get the image out of her mind of the three dead men lying at the side of the road, and had struggled to eat while her husband had filled his belly. He had added very little to the conversation, addressing only the generalmajor, and glanced in Johanna’s direction even less.

The men had retreated to the drawing room after dinner, to drink brandy and discuss matters they deemed too important to be discussed in front of women.

Johanna wanted to go home.

“The war will be over by Easter,” Frau Bauer said as they sat at the table. She sipped her drink and drew down on her cigarette and became shrouded in a cloud of grey smoke.

Johanna stifled a yawn. She would rather they lost the war before it claimed her son. “Do you really think so?” She took a sip of wine and forced a smile.

“Well, Hans is absolutely convinced.”

“And what do you think?” Johanna held her gaze. “I’m petrified of losing my son,” she added, drawing on the sadness she’d seen in Frau Bauer’s expression when talking about her boys.

“If I can be honest,” Frau Bauer said. She looked up and Johanna nodded. She sighed and stared into her wine glass as if seeking answers. “Every day, I pray for it to end, Johanna. I want my sons back alive.”

At last, someone who talked from the heart. Johanna softened towards the woman, let her guard down. “I heard we’re withdrawing all along the Eastern front. Hopefully, they’ll both come home sooner than you think.”

“You have doubts that we’ll win the war, Frau Neumann?” The older woman drew down on her cigarette and let the smoke circle around her face.

“Some, yes.”

“Voicing an opinion that promotes uncertainty is a dangerous thing to do. We must boost morale, not destroy it, no?”

Johanna tensed and sipped her wine, uncertain at the twist in the conversation. Had she said too much and been drawn into a trap? “Morale is indeed fragile. I’m sure the spring weather will help. It must be hideous fighting in this cold.”

Frau Bauer looked at her quizzically. “I happen to agree with you, Johanna. I’m under no illusion that my sons would be redeployed, should they survive the Russian advances. We are trapped, are we not?” She drew down on her cigarette and exhaled slowly, then smiled. “Do you paint, Johanna?”

Johanna was taken aback by her openness. The only thing that might guarantee the safe return of their sons was an immediate end to the war. They were stuck, and all they could do was sit back and wait. “No, I don’t. Though I am a lover of the arts.”

Frau Bauer put out her cigarette and stood up. “Come and see my collection. Maybe it will inspire you.” She led Johanna out of the dining room and along a short corridor. “I used to paint more, but it is almost impossible to get hold of supplies now.”

The heady smell of oil and turpentine overpowered the small room that had been set up as a gallery. There was an easel in one corner with a canvas on it, jars and brushes on the floor, an abstract scene in the early stages of development. Other canvases on the floor leaned against the walls. None of them looked finished. Amongst the paintings that were hung up, she recognised immediately Picasso’s Bare Foot Child and Gauguin’s Day of the Gods. It seemed that some works of a degenerate nature were permitted for those in privileged positions.

“How did you get hold of them?” she asked before censoring herself to what might be perceived as an allegation of illegality.

“They were in a house we were stationed at, in Rennes, in forty-one. They were hidden in the attic. We were told that the owners had fled the house, leaving everything. I don’t know if that was true, but I had to assume they weren’t coming back and that whoever moved into the house after us, well, I thought they might be destroyed. Rightly or wrongly, and believing I could do something good, I felt compelled to rescue them.” Frau Bauer ran her fingertip along the gilded-edged frame of the Bare Foot Child. “It’s stunning, isn’t it?”

“It’s a Picasso,” Johanna said, because she couldn’t very well accuse her of stealing them, even though that was technically the truth. “What is there not to admire?”

Frau Bauer was watching her closely. “I am taking care of them until after the war,” she said. “I am not a thief. However, like you, I am a lover of the arts. I sense your despair at this war, and I share in your sentiment. God help us all if we cannot preserve what little culture the war has left us with, so our grandchildren may take it and breathe new life into it. I will find a new home for them once all this is behind us, a museum somewhere so that they can be properly enjoyed.”

The tension Johanna had been holding melted away. She wanted to hug Frau Bauer. She smiled. “It’s such a relief to know that some of us still care about these things.”

Frau Bauer sighed and gazed lovingly at the Picasso. “I pray that there are more people who care about our culture than do not.”

“Well, I for one hope you get to paint again soon.”

“Hmm.” Frau Bauer seemed lost in her musings.

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