George spends the next two weeks walking the length and width of the farm, and the land around it. With the cast on his leg now removed, he finally has the freedom to roam the open countryside, and for the first time in years, it feels good to have no life or death worries. The smell of death no longer lingers in the landscape; there are no bloated bodies lying exposed in the sun.
He takes the boys out and shows them how to set traps, remembering how Jenkins, his father’s Gamekeeper, did the same with him. He has them setting up traps for the foxes and minks in the area. He’s worried the two chickens they have will get killed and take away a large part of their diet—even if they do only lay eggs every other day or three. He tells the boys they’re responsible for the gardens; that they have to help with the weeding, turn the soil over after harvesting, and water the rows of vegetables with an old wooden bucket he finds at the water pump. He tells them they have to do the work the women are unable to do, because they’re young men now, and he can see them beaming with pride as he says it. There are potatoes, beans, peas, carrots, cabbage, squash, pumpkins, cucumbers, beets and turnips to care for—and everything has to be preserved for the winter. They have to clean up the used canning jars and have them ready for pickling—as well as getting the sauerkraut buckets ready.
Annette still goes to the hospital, but her visits are less frequent now, and less urgent—which is something Collette is quick to point out and credits to George’s arrival. Anastasia tells her it’s all relevant to the time of year—just like it is for everyone else who volunteers at the hospital. The doctors know it, she tells her, and besides, they need the supplies Annette brings home with her. She would know this if she helped out once in a while.
Collette looks at her sister with a frown, her knitted brow a line across her forehead. It’s the first time Anastasia has spoken up, in effect betraying Collette with her defence of Annette. It was better when she wasn’t talking, Collette exclaims, and then storms off. She takes the automobile and they run after her, afraid of what might happen if she leaves, or where she might go, but of course, nothing happens.
When she isn’t in the house doing Collette’s share of the work, Annette finds herself outside, helping the boys in the garden along with Anastasia and the Countess—hoeing, bagging potatoes, or carrying buckets of water. She helps Anastasia and the Countess pickle beets, and gets things ready for making sauerkraut. She helps the Countess care for Baltazzi as much as she can—between doing the laundry and helping Anastasia prepare dinner—and still leaves herself time to put the children to bed after dinner, reading to both them and Baltazzi.
When it seems there’s just too much for her to do and not enough time to do it, she takes herself outside and leans against the wall of the old stable, sliding down to sit on the ground and watch as the sun starts to set. The days are as long as the shadows, the winter snow a memory and nothing more. She’d found an old bag of her father’s tobacco hidden in the woodshed—she’s almost certain her father took it from the dead soldier they buried in the back—and she practiced rolling cigarettes with the same three papers until the day finally came when she could.
She lights her cigarette, watching the late summer sun slip and fall away behind the trees, sinking deep into the western hills and brightening the world around her with a brilliant stain of red, gold, and orange before falling into the deep, dark colours that finally give way to the dusk. She finds herself thinking about the past—about Vienna—while she waits, leaning against the stable. And why does she think about Vienna? Is it because she wants to hide from the present and the future? Or is she hiding from herself? There are always tears that come whenever she sits alone and lets herself think about everything that’s happened, and is happening around her, as she wonders what happened to the world they used to know.
She tries not thinking about the dying soldiers in their hospital beds, as much as she tries not thinking about the horrible wounds she dresses and changes on a daily basis; but most of all, she tries not to think about how she’s become so insensitive to the horror of it all. Sometimes, she tells herself she’s lost sight of the reason she’s even there in the first place. There are the overwhelming numbers they must all learn to deal with. And then she thinks of how she’s willing to hold a dying man in her arms and let him think she’s his mother, or his wife, and how the tears she spills for them are just as painful to her three days later, as they are three weeks later, three months later, and yes, even three years later. It’s proof to herself that she still cares, and no matter what she tells herself, or what Colette says, she still cares.
She looks up, wipes her tears and butts the cigarette in the dirt, and pulling the pouch out of her top she begins to roll a second cigarette. She doesn’t know where George goes during the day when he’s not here, and she doesn’t think to ask him. He always returns with something for them to eat though, and as long as there’s food, there’s nothing any of them will say about his comings and goings.
She sees his shadow before she sees him—his long shadow always falls across her line of sight first—and she jumps up with a start, brushing the spilled tobacco off her dress. looking in his game bag to see if he has anything. He had nothing today. He has to go farther afield, he says, and she realizes the chances of him taking one of the boys along is even more remote. He pulls a broken trap out of the bag and tosses it onto the workbench. It’s difficult climbing up and down the mountain slopes with a rifle and small pack of food, he says—his back still pains him at the worst of times—so how does she expect one of the boys to do it, he asks?
“No one said you had to take them with you,” she points out to him.
“I like taking them with me. I like the company, and they're eager to learn.”
“Eager to kill something you mean,” she says with a caustic tone, and turns away, sitting on the wood pile and leaning against the wall again.
“Is that so bad?” George asks.
She watches as he hangs three traps on the nail in the post, and listens to them sing as she looks down at the ground. She realizes that he knows she needs these moments to herself, and he’s willing to leave her to her thoughts, for which she’s grateful. It’s because of the workload she’s taken on; Collette does little to help her anymore, and manages to get away with it because Annette’s willing to do her chores and let Collette do as she pleases. Anastasia’s doing more than her share as well, now that she’s recovered from her attack. And where does Collette go when she leaves? She has a lover somewhere, she tells herself.
She senses George looking at her, sitting with her elbows on her knees, her legs splayed open—not quite the lady the Countess would expect to see if she happened by at the moment—and she watches the setting sun play in her hair. He can see the first of the evening's stars twinkling in the distance.
“What if the war goes on for another three, or even four years?” she asks. “Don’t you think the boys will want to be a part of it? What if it goes on for another six, or seven years? Don’t look at me like that; you know it’s possible. The boys can’t wait to get out there now. Do you think it matters if Dieter’s sixteen, or eighteen years old before he’s sent out to fight?”
“He’s still a boy. They won’t let a boy go to war; not this war at least,” George says, looking up at the fading twilight. He drops into a squat beside her, taking her hand in his.
“You have to stop doing this to yourself. It’s eating you up with worry.”
“I have to go to the hospital tomorrow. We’re running out of supplies. We need flour, and salt. I don’t like going there anymore—I wouldn’t, if I didn’t feel I had to...but I have to. It’s getting worse though; they aren’t just coming in with wounds, they’re coming in because they’re sick. It’s the flu.”
“Maybe you’re doing too much?” he suggests.
“Too much?” she laughs lightly. “If I don't do it, who will? Do you want me to send Collette? How about Anastasia? The Countess?” She pulls a cigarette out of the bag and offers it to him.
“Then take me with you,” he adds gently. He sits back against the wall after the flare of the match, enjoying the taste of the tobacco. It’s been a long time since he’s had a cigarette.
“And don’t you have enough to do? We need wood for the winter. I don’t know how, but we’ll have to start chopping down trees and splitting wood if we want to keep up. I can’t expect you to drop everything and go with me every time I have to leave.”
“Why not?” he asks, breathing in a lungful of smoke and watching the blue cloud fade into the evening. She smiles and shakes her head carefully.
It is getting colder at night, and he watches the first hints of a new moon come up over the distant mountains, looking small and alone—looking like he sometimes feels—and he turns to look at her profile in the waning light. He picks up the tobacco pouch and offers her a cigarette.
“I like rolling them more than I do smoking them,” she says, shaking her head.
“Lucky for me,” he smiles.
“Whatever happened to that silver case you used to have? I remember you used to always have that thing in your pocket,” she smiles.
“I left it at home,” he says. “I didn't want to lose it. It gives me something to go home for.”
“What about your wife?”
“Why bring her into the conversation,” he grins.
She punches him playfully and he laughs, grabbing her arm before she can hit him again. He looks at her in the silence for a moment and she can feel the tension mounting between them, growing, and she tries to pull herself away from him. He holds her tight, looking at her, and she feels herself surrendering to him, melting under his gaze as he pulls her closer and kisses her.
She feels as if her head is going to explode. She wraps her arms around him and feels his hands on her, pulling at the buttons of her bodice with his hard, rough, callused hands. She bends back, letting herself fall to the ground as his mouth searches her body with a hunger she thinks will devour them both. She wants him. She needs him, she tells herself, and she puts her hands on his head and guides his mouth to her aching nipples, wanting to feel his breath on her naked flesh, wanting him to kiss them.
“I want you to love me George,” she says in a whisper. “Forever.”
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