Heidi Fischer - Swallow

Finally, and with a wistful sigh, he folded the sheet and handed it to Gabi. “Well, I suppose we should celebrate your success then. Helmut, go down to the cellar and get some champagne. You know which one.”

Helmut puckered his face at the general.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

With a crumpled brow, Helmut left the room and promptly returned with a bottle of Perrier-Jouët. It was not one of their best but most certainly drinkable and would be more than acceptable to Gabi’s adolescent palette.

The general disengaged the cork with exaggerated ceremony, allowing the mousse to erupt from the bottle and into Gabi’s extended flute.

She gulped a mouthful with sheer relief and offered her glass for a refill. “Papa, this tastes so good—I could drink the whole bottle.”

He replenished her flute with a reluctant sigh. “Too much of a good thing can only end badly,” he cautioned before sculling his own glass.

The next morning Gabi understood what too much of a good thing could do to the body. Her mouth was dry; her head was sore, and a queasiness kept her in bed far longer than usual. Vague thoughts drifted to their discussion from the previous night: “—take plenty of underwear… the food won’t be as good as you get here… make sure you eat enough… I’ll pack something just in case… be sure to write…”

Her head whirled with well-intended advice until her father’s words cleared the flurry.

“I promise to visit you at the end of the month.”

She yawned dismissively and snuggled into her feather bed. Like her years at boarding school, Gabi knew that there would be no visit from her father.

The taxi door slammed, missing Hilda’s foot by millimetres.

The girls had left Hans and Kurt to sleep it off while they made their escape and the boys were relieved that they had been spared the usual embarrassment that accompanied one night stands. They retreated to the lobby bar for a hair-of-the-dog drink and contemplated their next course of action.

“Never again,” Kurt groaned.

Hans squinted through bloodshot eyes. “You say that every time we get drunk.”

“No, not drinking. I mean Hilda. What a dud lay.”

Hans eyed him dubiously. “Who’s the dud lay? With the amount of alcohol you drank last night, I’m amazed you could get it up.”

Kurt chuckled. “Maybe you’re right.” His gaze followed the rear of an attractive waitress as she sauntered from table to table. The crashing of a glass tumbler on the tiled floor drew Kurt’s attention to the bar, where a red-faced kitchen hand collected the shards of glass like evidence at a crime scene. “She didn’t have any scars either,” he said before tossing back another shot.

“I don’t want to hear about your scar fetish.”

Kurt pushed the empty shot glass at the barman and pointed for a refill. “Did I tell you my little brother Heinz has been accepted into the flight school? God only knows how—dumb as dog-shit and built like a panzer .” Kurt downed the replenished glass, sucking in air between his teeth and coughing his satisfaction. “He should have joined the infantry. Anyway, he starts in the spring.”

Hans grunted something incomprehensible. His bloodshot eyes lifted to assess the state of his rambling sidekick. “Your turn to drive,” he mumbled, and he tossed the keys to Kurt and downed the last of his schnapps.

“Hurry up, Gabi, we have to go soon.” It was the morning of Gabi’s departure and Helmut scurried down the hall, bags in hand, so frazzled that he almost fell down the stairs.

Chef stood waiting by the front door, shuffling his feet and twisting a tea-towel. “Are you all right?”

Helmut adjusted his hold on the luggage, taking the opportunity to catch his breath and expel his troubled thoughts. “I just don’t understand how he can let her go to a military college. And why does she want to learn how to design and service combat aircraft, anyway? She’s a girl. She should stay at home and not live on a Luftwaffe base—it’s dangerous. What is the general thinking?”

“The general has his reasons,” said Chef and he relieved Helmut of some of the burden by taking a bag and placing it into the boot of the beige limousine.

At 8:30 a.m., the household staff assembled at the front door with rehearsed efficiency. They bid Gabi a heartfelt farewell and she embraced each one, leaving them with a kind word and a kiss to the cheek for they were more than mere servants to Gabi and she would miss them like family.

With a final wave, she stooped into the vehicle and settled against the window facing her adopted family, and a vague feeling of dread swept over her as the car pulled out into the driveway. Would she see them again? The war had been non-eventful thus far, and many believed that nothing would come of it. Was all the worry for nothing?

Gabi watched her father tug at his earlobe, only half hearing his words as he lectured her. They pulled up at the station entrance where Helmut carried her luggage to the train and placed the bags in front of the baggage car. Gabi gave Helmut a kiss and a hug goodbye, perhaps a little too long—his spectacles grew foggy. He returned to the limousine and promptly set about buffing the bonnet of the vehicle, although it already glistened, having been waxed and polished the previous day.

The general waited until a shrill whistle signalled the train’s imminent departure. He hugged his daughter with an intensity that neither had expected and as he drew her away, tears trickled down her cheeks, staining the collar of her tunic.

“Don’t worry, Gabi. We’ll see each other again soon,” he said.

She nodded, but the tears did not stop and it filled her with shame and self-loathing. Why must she always cry? Had she not arranged this all herself? “I’ll call you when I get there, I promise,” she said between sniffles, and she kissed her father one last time and climbed on board the train, taking a seat at a window close to where her father had been standing on the platform. But he was no longer there, and she pressed her face against the cool glass and watched his limousine drive away.

The trip to Fürstenfeldbruck took most of the day. Regular stops and delays prolonged the tedious journey but Gabi kept herself entertained with thoughts of what was to come, excited at the prospect of studying aircraft engineering but also apprehensive about the reception that awaited her at the academy.

It was early evening when Gabi finally arrived, tired and underwhelmed by the experience. She had missed the bus from the station to the academy and had been forced to trudge an hour down unfamiliar streets to a compound that reminded her of a labour camp, although in fairness, she did not know why it should look otherwise—it was a military training facility after all.

The main building was three stories high and resembled a big, ugly box. Surrounding this eyesore was a labyrinth of dormitories, workshops and bungalows. Several large hangars were visible in the distance. She walked to the main gate where a guard stood idly swigging from a flask. On seeing the young woman, he returned the bottle to his coat pocket and adopted a stiff, official demeanour with clipboard in hand.

“And who might you be?” he asked.

“Gabriel Richter.”

He looked down at his clipboard and smirked. “You look more like a Gabriele to me. Somehow, I don’t think you’re what they’re expecting. What are you studying here?”

“Engineering.”

“Mmmmm, impressive. Do they know that you’re a girl?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Don’t I look like one?”

“Very funny,” said the guard. “Fine, go in but I’ll escort you—I want to see this.”