"In here, ma'am," says Sergeant Bloch.
Gracia knows this room well, a salon for functions too small to require the base auditorium. Memory peoples it with a crowd of blue-coated figures, interspersed with the occasional civilian in tailored suit or dress, murmuring together before the rostrum. Today, however, only one man waits, lying silent in the open casket.
"Thank you," she says, guiding Elicia across the threshold.
She's explained that they've come to say good-bye to Daddy, so when she lifts her daughter up to see his face, Elicia chirps, "Bye-bye!" and waves as she always does. Gracia sets her back on her feet before his lack of response can puzzle her and catches the sergeant's eye. "Go with Uncle Denny now, sweetie," she says. "I'll just be a minute."
Elicia takes Sergeant Bloch's hand, but frowns at his heavy, mirror-polished boots. "Ssh!" she orders, rising unsteadily onto her tiptoes. "Daddy's sleeping!"
The door shuts quietly behind them.
Gracia has not seen Maes since he left the house that last night. The insignia of his posthumous rank glint on the breast and shoulders of his dress uniform, collected yesterday by Lieutenant Ross. His hands are folded formally, left over right, to reveal his wedding ring. His skin is pale beneath the careful application of foundation and rouge, his lips pulled taut across his teeth. He does not look peaceful, but tense and drawn, as if still troubled by cares he should have laid aside.
We'll be all right, love. We miss you - we miss you so much, but everyone's been so kind ...
His colleagues have arranged the funeral - the Führer himself sent Gracia a note assuring her of their support in this difficult time. Her neighbors have taken charge of the repast, cooking and cleaning and amusing Elicia while Gracia answers condolence calls. When the telephone falls silent, she has nothing to do but grieve.
(But there must be something ... just one more thing ... )
She touches his right sleeve, draped awkwardly in the absence of the weapons it once concealed, and gives it a twitch to settle it. Once put to work, her hands continue almost of their own volition, brushing lint from his jacket, straightening his collar, smoothing a stray lock of hair from his chilly temple ...
... and then she draws back, knotting her trembling fingers at her waist lest they shake him by the shoulders, biting her cheek until it bleeds to stifle a cry of Tell me what to do! Had he died in bed, she could have washed his dear flesh and laid him out in the parlor and watched sleepless beside him, unhindered by the stifling compassion of their friends ...
A knock sounds behind her. "Mrs. Hughes?" Lieutenant Ross's voice inquires.
In the hall Elicia proudly begins to count Sergeant Bloch's coat buttons. Schooling herself to calm, Gracia touches two fingers to her lips and brushes them across her husband's mouth. "Yes, Lieutenant?" she answers, turning toward the door.
It will have to do.