The Stolen Years. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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!”

      “Right again,” he agreed, throwing himself down in the soft bed of grass and closing his eyes. “Ah, this is wonderful. Sun, blue sky and no guns, no rats, no damp, no death. Just the scent of life.” He inhaled deeply, aware of her next to him, her knees clasped up to her chin thoughtfully.

      “It’s magical here, isn’t it? What happened to Franz, Mama and Papa seems unreal,” she whispered.

      “Don’t.” He leaned on his elbow and took her hand. “I know this will sound cruel, Greta, but you have to stop thinking about it.”

      “What a stupid thing to say,” she cried, snatching her hand away. “How can I think of anything else? I loved them. They’re my family.”

      “I know. But you have to survive.”

      “What for? There’s nothing left. They’re all gone. Dead. Murdered.” She pulled a wildflower raggedly from its roots. “What point is there to a life without those I loved?”

      “Do you think that is what they would want?” Gavin retorted. “Is that what Franz died for? For you to sit here, blubbering and feeling sorry for yourself?”

      “How dare you? What do you know about it? You haven’t lost your family. Perhaps, if it wasn’t for you, Franz might be alive.”

      “Perhaps. But I did what I had to do. An officer’s first duty when taken prisoner is to try and escape from the enemy. Franz chose to join me. I never asked him to.” He rolled over again and watched her. He’d seen this state of mind. He knew how it could end up. “You can’t give up, Greta,” he said in a softer tone. “I won’t let you. I promise I’ll help you get through this, as best we can.”

      “You?” She looked down at him disdainfully, pulling the petals from the wilted bud. “You’ll be off once you’re well. Don’t you want to go back to the war?” she challenged.

      “Of course. At some point I’ll have to get back, but I can’t go like this.” He tapped his leg. “And I won’t leave you on your own. I owe that to Franz. We both do.” He reached up and took her fingers in his. She hesitated, then allowed him to turn her hand about.

      “Do you play the piano?”

      “Yes.” She sniffed. “How did you know?”

      “Your hands remind me of someone I know who plays the piano, that’s all,” he said wistfully, remembering Flora playing at Strathaird, or on summer evenings in Limoges. It all seemed so long ago and so painfully nostalgic. “Will you play for me?”

      She looked away. “Perhaps. Let’s go back. You must be tired and I need to milk the cow.” She pulled her hand away and got up, rubbing the grass from the back of her skirt.

      “Cow?” Gavin exclaimed, following suit. “Where on earth did you find a cow?”

      “It was standing in front of the house the morning after we arrived. I was frightened someone might reclaim it and find us, but they haven’t, so I’ve adopted her. I’ve called her Gretchen.”

      “Then Gretchen it is. I’ll help you milk her. Maybe we can make butter.”

      “Do you know how?” Greta looked at him doubtfully.

      “Well, not exactly.” He grinned. “But I’ve seen Moira, our cook in Skye, do it dozens of times. Shouldn’t be too difficult,” he added nonchalantly, not about to be defeated. “Come on,” he stretched out his hand, determined to keep the smile on her face, “the only way we’ll know is if we try.”

      “You’re being silly,” she demurred, then took his outstretched hand. Suddenly the destruction of the war seemed far away and the warm summer morning was well on its way as they walked slowly back toward the Schloss, both conscious of the new intimacy that reigned between them.

      The days passed and they established a comfortable camaraderie. Summer ebbed gently into autumn and the leaves turned from green to red and gold, a beautiful mosaic among the dark pines. As Gavin’s leg improved, they took longer walks, although they never went too far, in case they should be seen by a chance wanderer.

      After some unsuccessful experiments, they finally succeeded in making butter, and Gavin was amazed when Greta took him down into the huge, dark cellars of the pavilion, where Baron von Ritter had stocked enough food for an army. There were sausages and hams hanging on large iron hooks from the heavy oak beams; huge, airtight canisters filled with coarse brown flour, sugar, condiments and coffee; heavy stone jars of pickled gherkins and onions; and shelves filled with whole cheeses. But that was not all. Greta showed him a passage that she said went under the forest.

      The wine cellar had also been magnificently stocked, probably before the kaiser’s visit, if the dates of the bottles were anything to judge by. Gavin, having spent part of every summer since early childhood at his uncle and aunt’s in Limoges, with occasional trips to nearby Bordeaux, knew good wine.

      October came and the nights grew cold. The leaves turned from red and gold to bronze, and each evening they lit the huge fireplace in the study, the smallest room in the house and the easiest to heat.